Chapter Text
James Barnes has a recorded kill count higher than the population of most small countries. He has killed mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, politicians, scientists, inventors, journalists, spies, informants, mechanics, celebrities, any number of law enforcement and, most recently, his own captors.
Yet here he stands. In a heavily air conditioned lobby, straining to keep the pen from slipping in the new (old, his mind whispers) signature he's been copying down from online historical forums. The woman behind the counter (Debbie, her name tag ruthlessly reminds him besides it's glittering pink cat's paw sticker) smiles again as he pushes the clipboard away, the last of the paperwork done. She leans forward in her chair, pilled red staff shirt stretching as she snatches the papers and, rather than finish logging his information, begins to speak. "We don't get a lot of veterans in here, you know. Most prefer the therapy dogs, those pretty trained golden retrievers." her voice is low in a manner of confiding in him, her fleshy fingers tapping in emphasis against the plastic clipboard. He can picture snapping each of the digits before she can even think to scream. Her long nails are painted pink. They match the sticker on her name tag. He… he has no idea what he's supposed to do in this situation.
"But you know-" oh. She's still talking.
"Y'know, I always thought it was these dogs that might help sum of 'em more. Not all of them, of course, but these dogs," she nods her head emphatically and doesn't stop. He's reminded of a bobble-head. "These are good dogs. And they've been through a lot too. And sometimes, that means more to people than the ability to sit down and be nice all the time. Sometimes you just need someone whose not quite okay either." Her eyes, a muddled greenish-gray framed by smile lines, are suddenly glinting, considering as they turn on him. His throat feels dry. Somehow he wants this woman to stop talking even more so than before. She smiles again, bright and airy, and reaches a hand over to pat at where his own has been clenching the countertop since she began to speech. "I'll go get Fred to bring you back to look at the pups. You just let us know if you find anyone you'd like to take out for a walk, alright sir? I hope you find who you need." she finishes with a grin, and something about the gesture tugs a string in his brain and makes him think of clomping up brick steps and opening a door to the smell of tomato soup and the view of an apron tied in a lopsided bow and
"You 'right there son?"
It takes everything he has not to crush the man's throat in his hands, feel his hyoid crumble between his fingers, but he restrains it. Just barely. Of the many things he's been learning lately, explaining your knee-jerk reaction to strangers surprising you is killing them doesn't go over very well. Who knew.
Fred, a wiry, dark old man, was peering down at him in concern. Bucky jerked his head up and down, hair fringing into his eyes, before looking back up at the man. He didn't seem entirely convinced, but after another long look Fred deemed him relatively sane and led him through the squeakily-tiled halls, past rooms helpfully labeled "Cats", "Food", "Aprons" and finally, "Dogs". His guide paused again, looking at Bucky from over his shoulder. "The dogs, they get mighty loud when we come in. If it gets to be too much, you just leave yeah? I won't be offended or nothing." Fred invoked the impression of a dried fig, wrinkled and insubstantial. Bucky could pin the man's boney arms behind his back in .5 seconds, have his head smashed through the glass window of the kennel door in under a full second. There is a long pause. He jerks his chin again, a nod. Fred grins. His left upper canine has a gold filling.
When he opens the door, a cacophony of noise washes over them. When they step in and the first dog sees Bucky, they go silent. One by one, like a row of dominoes, the dogs quiet until all that remains is the sound of their panting. Fred gives a low whistle, shakes his head. Claps a hand on his shoulder and says, smile in his voice "What I wouldn't give for a skill like that some days. You ever think about volunteerin' here, I'll fill out all the paperwork myself."
Something about the clear distraction attempt it is, the absolute sincerity in his voice, makes the corners of his mouth twitch up. Just for a moment. But it's a moment too long, judging by the way he sees Fred smiling wider and it takes more time to slam his expression back down than the facial abnormality (the smile, his mind goads) ever did in the first place. He squares his shoulders. Walks off down the aisle of cages without direction, feels Fred's hand slip away from it's position. Doesn't look at anything but the dogs.
There are a lot. Black and white labs, hounds, a shivery Pomeranian, too many Pit Bull mixes to count. Some are just thrown in for good measure, it seems- there's a Cocker spaniel poodle mix named Coco, whose curly black nub wags defiantly up at Bucky as the dog pants beneath a ridiculous afro of fur. There's a pureblooded Siberian Husky named Marley, whose curled up in the corner of his cage and does nothing but blink slow, electrically blue eyes at him. There's one intriguing girl named Moet, whose clipboard says she's a basset hound sharpei mix, who gets one look at him, gives a wheezing sort-of snort, and trundles back on her stout little legs to go lie down in her blankets.
There are plenty of interesting dogs in the shelter, all of the deserving of good homes. But just as Bucky is about to turn around - it was stupid to come anyway, what was he thinking, he could barely take care of himself, let alone another living organism - he hears a single, solitary bark. The first one since he's stepped into the room some twenty minutes ago.
At first he figures it's another pit mix trying to test his boundaries, see how he'll react. But when he turns, it isn't a bull-head or pointed ears he sees. Instead, there's curly yellow ears, floppy but perked to attention, set above bright blue eyes and a panting mouth. It's a Golden Retriever, Bucky realizes, sitting perfectly still in the center of his cage, looking directly at Bucky. When they make eye contact (and why is the dog's eyes blue? He could've sworn there was some genetic reason why the couldn't be. Something about huskies and x-chromosones, he thinks.) the dog barks again, just once, and lifts a single paw to bat at the latch on his gate. Bucky's about to walk over, take a look at the dog's sheet, when the dog's paw catches on- well, on something in the mechanism and the door swings open, allowing the dog to step out (rather smugly, if you asked him) and pad over to the two men, happy as you please.
"Is he supposed to do that." If Fred is surprised to hear the question, he's not half as surprised as Bucky is to be asking it. But Fred, who'd been previously blinking rapidly, his mouth agape, just laughed disbelievingly and shook his head. "That he most certainly is not. Now how'd you get outta that cage son? Betcha thought you were you real smart too, waiting till ya had an audience and everything."
The dog, who'd simply been sitting on the floor, monitoring their conversation, now said nothing. The only indication he knew he was being talked about the was the lazily wagging tail, whipping spare dog hairs about on the floors. Bucky crouched down, and didn't even have to gesture before the dog rushed forward and snuffled all over his face, his neck, his shirt. 'Even whuffled into one ear, leaving an odd, wet sensation, before the dog leaned back, licked a long stripe along his cheek and squirmed his neck towards Bucky's free hand- the metal one. Bucky froze.
Most animals disliked the arm. This statement included humans: they did not like the jarring sight of it, or it's cold mimicry of flesh. Their glances would invariably slip away, their face would constantly hover between pity, fascination and horror. Why other animals didn't like it, he wasn't sure. Maybe the sound of it's machinery simply unsettled them. Maybe the cool metal, absorbing heat that should be and substituting frost, disconcerted men and squirrels alike. Or maybe it just separated the humans from him. If he wasn't human, he wasn't safe, and he could be anything.
Whatever reasons the majority of the squirrels in Central Park had formed an organized militia against him, this dog seemed to be unaware of any of them. Eventually getting the memo, he cautiously raised his hand, threaded it through the soft curls of fur, and pet down along the dog's back. The retriever gave a whuff of approval, burying it's face closer into Bucky's sweatshirt (and, Bucky distantly noticed, buried his cold, wet nose into the fabric) and continuing to wag his tail like it was going out of fashion. After a couple more long strokes down his spine, Bucky, emboldened, decided to try and scratch behind his ears. The dog froze, made a noise in it's throat, and then melted into a puddle on the floor.
"What did I do." He asked immediately, trying not to let his tension undercut his words too much but what had he done. Had he pinched a nerve? Was the dog doing into a seizure or comatose state? Could he haggle the shelter into letting him pay the medical bill?
Fred, who'd been silent during the entire exchange (save for the broad grin on his face), snorted a laugh for a moment before realizing the boy was completely serious. "You did nothing son, that dog's just shameless for belly-rubs." He assured, stuffing his hands back into his sweatpants' pockets, leaning up against the side of the corridor. Bucky's wide, confused eyes turned back to the puddle of fur at his feet, which was starting to whine and bat at his hands, a clear invitation of keep going why the hell did you stop. Bucky complied.
Fred, finding it harder and harder to stop smiling, announced to no one in particular "I think I'll go get Debbie started on the paperwork for Cap' here, yeah?" A single bark and a quiet, but no less sincere "Yes." came back. The thumpa-thumpa of an enthusiastic tail hitting the ground, though- that lasted all the way till he left the room.