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The Winter Soldier had been created with a certain aversion to speaking out of turn.
He has, however, recently been readily informed by multiple parties that, as he is no longer under the jurisdiction of a certain cephalopod-worshipping cult, he is allowed to do as he chooses and speak how he likes, when he likes. This proclamation had soon after been disproven after his words had somehow caused one of Stark’s employees to leak fluid from her eyeballs and hyperventilate into her palms.
“You can’t go around telling people that they’re expendable meat shields, Buck,” Steve had said soon afterward, eyes bright and imploring.
He’d grunted and shrugged the all-American paws off of his shoulders. “Free speech is a lie,” he’d said. “I want to go back to the Motherland. The Soviets let me call people expendable meat shields.” His gaze had been fixed on the ground. A guy can only stare into those baby blues for so long before he starts paying his taxes and singing the Star-Spangled Banner.
Steve had sighed in that signature way of his and said tiredly, “I love you, Bucky.” He always does that when they disagree, and the conversation is often over after those words were uttered like an unwitting benediction.
Bucky had given him the finger.
That was three days ago, on his one-hundred-fifty-second day of living with the Avengers in Stark’s giant skyscraper. He hasn’t spoken to anyone since.
Except for Steve. Steve can always make him talk with those stupid eyes of his.
He remembers Steve, but he doesn’t talk about it anymore because Steve gets sad when Bucky remembers things wrong. But the color of his eyes, the way his lips twitch when Barton trips over his own feet on the way to the refrigerator, the texture of his hair, the hard set of his jaw when he’s got some hair-brained idea in that ever-concussed head of his - it’s all so achingly familiar that it draws Bucky to his presence like the moon orbiting the earth.
Steve sets a plate in front of Bucky where he’s slumped around his coffee mug at the counter. Bucky peeks out at it through the strands of hair covering his eyes and shielding Steve from his morning-induced misery. Steve insists that going to bed and waking up at the same time every day is healthy, but all it really does is make Bucky want to eviscerate things with his favorite knife, which is apparently not conducive to his “journey towards recovery.”
Which is another prerequisite to his continued existence: therapy.
“Pancakes,” Steve announces far too cheerfully. “Your favorite.”
He grasps the fork and nudges the fluffy flapjacks. Sniffing the air, he relents. They smell delicious, and pancakes are his favorite.
Steve smiles as he watches Bucky wolf down his breakfast, picking away at his own pancakes with an annoying amount of self-control.
“You have a session at ten this morning,” Steve says after swallowing a bite that he had politely chewed with his mouth closed. A glob of syrup falls onto Bucky’s chin. “After that, I have briefings to attend until this evening, so you’ll be spending the day with Sam.”
Bucky pulls the neck of his shirt up over his face and hides like a misanthropic turtle. The fabric sticks to his face where the syrup had dribbled from his lips.
He hears Steve sigh again. “C’mon, Buck, Sam’s a great guy.”
Sam is, objectively, a great guy. He rescues baby birds from busy sidewalks and puts them back up in their nests. He smiles and laughs and doesn’t say things that make people lose control of their bodily functions. He doesn’t remember things wrong. He doesn’t make Steve sad.
Bucky hates him.
“You’ll have loads of fun,” Steve lies. Bucky slumps in his chair.
“Bucky.”
“...”
“Bucky, come out of your shirt.”
“...”
“Please, Bucky?”
“...”
“Your pancakes are getting soggy.”
“...”
“We can watch John Wick: Chapter 2 if you agree to spend the day with Sam.”
Steve is clearly at his wit’s end. He’d hated the first movie. Slowly, Bucky emerges from his shirt-fortress, peeking out of the neck hole because he really wants to watch John Wick. And also, he feels a little bad for Steve.
“I want mini donuts,” he says.
Steve nods. “I can get some to share while we watch the movie.”
Bucky sighs, pretending to weigh the pros and cons of the decision. He already knows that he’ll do it; it’s not Steve’s fault that he can’t be left alone, and the whole movie-and-donuts thing sounds really good.
“Fine,” Bucky says.
Steve smiles like Bucky’s hung the moon and the stars and everything in between. “Thanks, Buck,” he says warmly.
Bucky grunts. “Whatever,” he says, and shoves an entire pancake into his mouth.
The things he does for this idiot.
***
Sam is very, very human in a way that Bucky doesn’t think he will ever understand. Sam is always eating foods that he says will be good for his body, drinking fluids, exercising, imparting knowledge. He seems to thrive on listening to people, on helping them.
And on talking.
The man never shuts up.
“Hey there, Grumpy Cat!” Sam says, looking Bucky up and down in a manner that vaguely reminds Bucky of General Smirnoff from Hydra and also Joey Tribiani from the TV show Steve likes to watch with the disembodied laughter (which he doesn’t like) and the New York accents (which he loves).
Bucky hisses at him.
“Bucky, behave,” Steve says, but he isn’t really paying attention, typing something into his phone. “I gotta go, you gonna be okay?” Steve looks up, meeting Bucky’s eyes. And Bucky can see that he’s a little worried, a little anxious, a little frazzled. So he smiles and nods.
“Sam and me, we’ll be fine,” Bucky says.
Steve smiles before he leaves, and it reaches his eyes, which means that he’s happy. Bucky made him happy.
At Sam’s place. Ugh.
“So,” Sam says. “I was thinking we could head over to the park, walk around, maybe play some croquet.”
Bucky is very good at croquet.
“Fine,” he says.
Sam raises his eyebrows. “You gonna wear that?”
Bucky looks down at his attire. He is wearing a black shirt under a black jacket, and black jeans. He is not sure why Sam finds his clothes unappealing.
“It’s hot out, man,” Sam says.
Bucky scowls. “I am capable of withstanding temperatures of over one hundred degrees Fahrenheit in full tac gear. The sun doesn’t got nothin’ on me.”
Sam shakes his head. “Whatever. Bring a water bottle.”
“Fine,” Bucky says. He brings a water bottle.
***
As all things with Sam inevitably do, their trip to the park eventually goes to hell in a handbasket.
It starts out surprisingly okay. Bucky takes off his boots and socks, hides the knives hidden there, and walks around in the green grass, letting it prickle through between his toes. It’s pleasantly cool in the shade, and warm in the direct sunlight. A gentle breeze sweeps through the trees, making the green leaves dance. Sam sets up the croquet game. Small groups of people walk around here and there, but none of them get too close. It’s okay. It’s good.
They play the game, and Bucky beats Sam’s ass as he always does. He’s a sniper for fuck’s sake, he knows how angles work. Sam glares at him and says things, always talking, but Bucky is able to tune him out and bask in his victory. Then,
“What’s up with your hand, bro?”
Sam can hem and haw about his attire all he wants, but the long sleeves are useful, and Bucky wears them for a reason. He tucks the left hand into his pocket and turns to face Mr. Acne-Redhead, who is eating a hotdog way too close to Bucky’s face. It has mustard on it, which is disgusting.
“Nothing,” Bucky says, because his therapist says that avoiding conflict is a good thing to do. Bucky is not accustomed to avoiding conflict; he had been very good at creating it whilst under Hydra’s command, and given Steve’s chaotic disposition, he reckons he’s been dealing with conflict his entire life.
Mr. Acne-Redhead leans in, his mustard breath wafting over Bucky’s nose. Bucky grimaces. Mr. Acne-Redead squints, peering closely at Bucky’s face.
It makes him rather uncomfortable, though he doesn’t take the time to think about why that might be. He takes a step back, but Mr. Acne-Redhead pursues him like a very impolite dog.
“Holy shit dude,” Mr. Acne-Redhead says, “You’re the fucking winter soldier. ”
Bucky knows that he is the winter soldier. He doesn’t find this fact revolting like Stark does, or saddening like Steve does. It’s who he is (was?) and he’s fine with that. But ever since he’d come to live with Steve in Stark’s tower, it had brought a lot of attention his way. Unwanted attention.
Sure enough, the people around them in the park all perk up like a bunch of startled prairie dogs. Mothers bring their toddlers in close, and a group of young men back away slowly. Others stare and point.
“Hey, man, back off,” Sam says, coming up by Bucky’s shoulder too little too late.
Sam is still talking (he always fucking talks), but Bucky doesn’t know what he’s saying. He can feel the people around him staring. It’s like being cornered, all the stares pointed at him; he’s been cornered before. It’s never fun.
He can feel his muscles tensing, his heart beating faster, his mouth going dry, his mind going blank. This can’t happen, not here, not now.
“We’re leaving,” Sam says, taking Bucky by the arm and dragging him away.
“But the croquet,” Bucky says, voice cracking embarrassingly when they make it to the car.
“It’s fine,” Sam says. “I’ll come back for it later.”
His heart is still pounding in his chest far too fast.
“I won,” Bucky says weakly.
“You sure did,” Sam agrees. He’s not joking and talking anymore; his voice sounds angry. Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever heard Sam this angry before, not even when he stole the last chocolate cupcake that Sam had been saving.
They go back to Sam’s home in the tower, with all of the classy music records on the wall and the strange chaotic cleanliness that seems to be the natural state of the place.
“Drink some water,” Sam orders (Bucky’s good at following orders), and he goes into the other room. Bucky hears snippets of a muffled conversation too faint to comprehend. He drinks his water and waits.
“You okay?” Sam asks when he comes back into the room.
“Sure,” Bucky says easily, frowning. “Are you?”
“They shouldn’t have done that,” Sam says. “Just because of your prosthetic, they shouldn’t have-”
He cuts himself off, eyes going shiny, and holds a hand against his mouth for longer than Bucky thinks is generally socially acceptable.
“Sam,” he says.
Sam closes his eyes.
“Sam,” he pauses. “Sam, it’s okay.”
Sam breathes deeply in through his nose and exhales. It’s a breathing exercise, Bucky recognizes, like the ones his therapist had taught him.
“I’m sorry,” Sam says. “I… lost a friend recently, and the situation just really hit a nerve.”
Bucky frowns. This is usually when he’d make a joke or a jab at Sam’s expense, but he doesn’t. He thinks about Steve, tries to figure out what he would do in this situation.
The words taste bitter on his tongue. “Would you… like to talk about it?”
Sam shakes his head, wipes a hand underneath his eye. “Rich was part of a support group I ran back in D.C.,” he says. “He’d seen some things overseas, had PTSD really bad. He also had a prosthetic.”
“Like mine,” Bucky realizes.
Sam smiles softly, not his usual bright grin. “Not exactly. But, uh, Rich wasn’t going so good, was really struggling with flashbacks and living with a disability and stuff. He talked a lot about how self-conscious he was about his prosthetic. And he, uh, he died a couple of weeks ago. Suicide.”
Bucky frowns. No words come to mind; he doesn’t know what to say.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and he finds that he means it.
Sam nods, holds his hands over his eyes for a few long seconds, then smiles. “Thanks, man,” he says.
They’re quiet then, and the silence quickly becomes awkward.
“Wanna watch The Exorcist?” Bucky asks.
Sam laughs. “Maybe not,” he says, “But there was this movie called Deadpool that my sister saw, she said it was good. We could give it a shot.”
“Fine,” Bucky says.
They settle onto Sam’s couch with a bowl of potato chips and popcorn and watch the film.
Bucky finds that his day with Sam, despite being eventful, maybe wasn’t so bad after all.