Chapter Text
Whenever Bucky’s apartment got too quiet, he walked. On the streets of Brooklyn, he was just another guy. It helped that people tended to avoid eye contact in general these days, not like when he was growing up on the same streets. Back then, people looked at you and gave a nod when they passed. Sometimes, they even said “hello.”
He zipped up his jacket to ward off the chill of the February air and ran a hand through his hair. It was getting too long again. Soon, he’d either have to cut it short himself, or grit his teeth and go to a barbershop or salon. He couldn’t stand the buzz of the clippers, or having another person hovering around his head, behind him, with sharp instruments.
It made every inch of his skin crawl. The last time he went to get his hair cut, he gripped the arms of the chair so tightly, he broke one. That ended up being a very expensive day.
He wasn’t particularly fond of the long hair. It got into his eyes and mouth, and when he looked in the mirror, he saw the Winter Soldier staring back at him. Having short hair wasn’t much better. The face looking back at him reminded him of the man he would never again be. It reminded him of all he’d lost.
The short hair required much more frequent upkeep, which meant scissors or electric clippers. So, for now, until he felt like it was a good enough day that he could force himself into a barber’s chair, he was letting it grow.
He picked up food from his favorite Korean barbecue place and headed back home. Food was one of the few joys he had these days. He’d been deprived of its pleasure for 70 years, subsisting on a nutrient concoction Hydra made him guzzle and the cocktails they’d pumped through his veins.
Fortunately, his metabolism meant he could indulge in culinary pleasure as much as he liked. Unfortunately, it also meant his food bill was outrageous.
He decided to take a different path home, veering into an old neighborhood, one full of memories. So much of it had changed over the last 80 years that little of it was recognizable.
He passed an alley. His ears picked up a faint whimper. An echo from the past stopped him, something familiar tickling his brain. These two buildings…he knew them. He glanced at the street name. This was the same street—the same alley where he’d found Steve getting pummeled by a guy twice his size on the day before Bucky shipped out to England.
The buildings were different now, having been remodeled and refaced, but this was the place. He glanced inside the alley, catching a glimpse of something white on the other side of the metal dumpster. A stray dog, no doubt.
A blocky white head peeked around the dumpster, hanging low with dark eyes that studied him apprehensively.
“Hey, boy.”
A thump-thump of something hitting the dumpster came in reply—the wag of a tail.
Bucky took pity on the creature and opened his bag. He remembered what it felt like to be on the streets, the gnaw of hunger in his belly. He grabbed a few pieces of beef from his container and tossed them into the alley. “There you go. Hope you enjoy it. It’s fresh.”
Closing the container back up, he resumed his journey to his apartment. A few moments later, he heard the soft patter of feet behind him.
Uh-uh.
He turned and eyed the dog, which immediately stopped following him, tail wagging low and steady, head slightly bowed as though he were wary of coming any closer. A pang of sympathy twisted in Bucky’s chest as he took in the dog’s condition. There were old and new bite marks around his face, his ribs were prominent, his right front leg was gone, and his ears were cropped so poorly, it had to be a home job.
He knew a little something of what it was like being on the receiving end of that kind of brutality, but still….
“Look, Pal, I’m pretty sure I can’t have you in my apartment, even if I were in the market for a pet.”
The dog tilted its head upward and sniffed. Its wagging tail picked up speed.
Bucky sighed as he met those dark, hopeful eyes. The dog was thin and in poor condition. He wouldn’t last much longer on the streets by himself but taking him home was out of the question.
-000-
The woman at the shelter seemed nice enough. Her face melted with sympathy when she looked at the dog, and she said all the right things. Still, Bucky felt as though he were betraying the creature.
Being locked in a cage was no way to live. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be for long.
“What are his chances of adoption?” he asked her after she handed the dog to a tech who coaxed him through a metal door.
“We’re a no-kill shelter,” she said, handing him the surrender receipt with the dog’s animal ID. “We only euthanize for health or behavior reasons. He’ll be assessed, and if he’s suitable to be placed up for adoption, he’ll be here until he gets adopted. We also have a network of foster homes, so dogs often get to spend some time in a home environment.”
Bucky took a breath and nodded, his eyes going to the door where the dog had disappeared. “If he’s determined not to be suitable for adoption….?”
She looked up at him, her expression matter-of-fact but her eyes betrayed a certain fatigue. Still, when she spoke, there was compassion in her tone. “If the dog has aggression issues, sometimes we reach out to rehabbers, but those spots are rare. If we cannot find a place for him, he’ll be humanely euthanized.”
He’s a vicious animal. He should be put down. Bucky blinked at the memory. Berlin. Guards talked, and with his enhancements, he heard more than he wanted to.
He didn’t want the dog’s last days to be in a cage. “If you’re going to euthanize him, can you contact me before you do?”
She nodded, her fingers flying over the keyboard. “I’ve made a note in the system. What’s the best number to reach you?”
He rattled off his cell phone and thanked her. With a final glance at the metal door, he folded the printout and stuffed it in his pocket as he left the building.
-000-
Bucky spent the next couple of days in his routine. His only friend in the world was Sam, who was currently off on a mission with Torres. As Bucky made his way up the stairs with his laundry basket, he thought about the absurdity of his life. He’d survived over and over again when he shouldn’t have, and for what? All he was doing was taking up space, breathing air, and trying not to fuck up and hurt someone.
He wasn’t doing a great job with that. He and Steve had been two sides of a coin. They’d started out so different. Everything went right for Bucky and poor Steve got the short end of the stick, but he never once gave up. Then he got the serum, and it was like the coin flipped. Whatever Bucky touched turned to shit. That mission on the train. The next seventy years. Two years on the run. The Avengers torn apart. Thanos. The Blip.
Steve.
He couldn’t blame the guy for leaving. Bucky had trashed Steve’s life, and there was nowhere for either of them to go after Thanos. Tony was dead. If the Avengers continued, Bucky sure as hell couldn’t be a part of them, and Steve couldn’t spend the rest of his life carrying the burden of Bucky’s sins.
At least one of them got their happy ending. If he thought of Steve back in the 40s, building a life with Peggy, living through the fifties and sixties and getting to experience all the things he missed and desperately wanted, it lifted some of the heaviness in Bucky’s chest.
The edges of his mouth curled upward as he thought about it. That little punk from Brooklyn finally got the woman of his dreams and the life he always wanted…after fighting Nazis, androids, and aliens.
What a life you led, Steve. Your Ma would be proud.
He made it back to his apartment and headed toward the bathroom in the hallway. He kept a dresser at the end, set the basket on the floor, and busied himself putting away the few clothes he had. Sam kept telling him he needed to diversify his wardrobe, but there wasn’t much point in that. The only places he went were restaurants and grocery stores, and restaurants were almost always take-out these days. He hadn’t eaten lunch with Yori since….
He closed his eyes as RJ’s face haunted him. Don’t go there.
A hot shower might help. It was another small pleasure he could still enjoy. After decades in Siberia getting hosed down with ice-cold water, he would never get tired of the feeling of hot water drumming against his skin, loosening his muscles, and easing the stiffness of what remained of his left shoulder.
In the bathroom, he caught his reflection in the mirror. The eyes staring back at him were older, no longer bright and full of confidence like they used to be when he was in his 20s. They were filled with shadows. Sam was right. He did have a creepy stare.
The hair cascading around his face made him look even more intimidating. He studied the reflection, dipped his chin a bit, and assessed the guy in the mirror.
The Winter Soldier.
He took a breath and ran a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face. I am no longer the Winter Soldier. I’m James Bucky Barnes.
Whoever the hell that was these days.
His phone beeped, and he pulled it out of his pocket to see a text from Sam.
Mission wrapped up. I’ll be in your neck of the woods tomorrow. Wanna get a beer? Maybe food, too? I’ll buy the beer, not the food, not with your appetite.
You’ve got to nurture friendships, his therapist had said. He was trying, but lately, even that seemed to be pointless. Sam was a good guy with his own life, and in some ways, whenever they were together, it felt like the only thing holding them together was the ghost of their mutual friend.
For a brief moment, after the Flag Smashers, Bucky thought maybe he’d find a purpose in life, making sure the legacy of the shield continued and watching Sam’s back, but Sam didn’t need him. He spent much of his time training Torres, fighting bad guys, and playing politics.
No one wanted the former Winter Soldier in the mix. The liability was too great. One wrong move, and he’d be in the center of the next PR disaster. They didn’t want to risk another John Walker incident.
He read the text again, his fingers hovering over the phone, and finally texted. Sure. Sounds great.
There. He’d done the thing he was supposed to do, like a normal human being. He could meet a friend for beer and food, smile, tell a few jokes, and pretend to be a guy who hadn’t killed almost everyone he’d ever met…
He’s a vicious dog. He blinked back the memory, and the stray dog came to mind. He hoped it was getting food and medical care. His phone was still in his hand, and he typed in the shelter’s website. It had a listing of adoptable dogs. He went there first, but after scrolling through a few pages of photos, there was no sign of the white dog.
He clicked into the stray dog section and there, on the second page, was the white dog, looking curiously at the camera, head slightly bowed, tail a blur.
-000-
“Why didn’t you want to go to Izzy’s?” Sam studied the menu in the Terriyaki place. “I’ve been wanting to try it since you mentioned it.”
Bucky kept his eyes studiously on the menu, though he’d be ordering the same thing he always ordered. “I’m not going back there.”
“Oh?” There was a note of suspicion on Sam’s tone. “Why?”
Bucky took a breath and raised his head, giving Sam a long look he hoped would be enough to end that line of conversation.
“Okay.” Sam leaned back and raised his hands. “I can take a hint.”
Finally. Bucky exhaled some of the tension that had been building up. The waitress came and they placed their orders. She was already used to his—a double order of teriyaki chicken over rice with a side of noodles.
They chatted easily after that. Sam mentioned what he could about the latest mission, which wasn’t much, but talked about Torres and how well he was doing in his new role with the wings. The conversation drifted to Sarah and the boys. Bucky found himself relaxing even further. It was nice to be part of their lives, even if vicariously.
He didn’t have much to add to the conversation, so when Sam asked about what was going on with him, he lied and said he was planning to do some traveling, see a few of the sights he missed. It was easier than admitting he was nothing more than a body taking up space in society.
Sam asked him what sights he wanted to see, so he thought more about it. The Grand Canyon. Yosemite. Yellowstone. There was a place in Death Valley that supposedly had the best sunrise in the world. It was warm there, and he liked it warm. That would be nice to see.
Maybe a road trip wasn’t such a bad idea, after all.
They were just about finished when Bucky’s phone rang. He pulled it out and checked the number. It was the shelter. His throat went tight as he answered. “Yeah?”
“Mr. Barnes, this is Katie from the shelter. You dropped off a stray Pit Bull and asked to be notified if he wasn’t being put up for adoption.”
Shit. “Yes, I did.”
“He’s over his three-day hold, and he hasn’t passed his evaluation. He’ll be euthanized tomorrow.”
Euthanized…a fancy word for killed. Not that he blamed them. He understood they had to do what they had to do. It’s not like they had unlimited shelter space. “Why didn’t he pass?”
“He’s aggressive toward other dogs. A sweetheart with people, though. We think he was either fought by someone or got into some scrapes on the street. He’s got quite a few old and new scars. Given his breed, we can’t adopt him out with that aggression. He’s quite stressed in the kennel environment here, with all the barking dogs. Are you wanting to reclaim him?”
“How long do I have to decide?”
“If he’s not reclaimed by the end of the day, he’ll be euthanized tomorrow to open up kennel space.”
What the hell was he going to do? His apartment didn’t allow pets over 20 pounds, and the stray dog was most definitely over 20 pounds. Why was he making this his problem? The dog didn’t belong to him.
Except that he had taken it off the street and turned it into the shelter. He’d been on the streets, running for his life, trying to survive and avoid capture.
Damnit.
He took a breath and squeezed the bridge of his nose, glancing at Sam long enough to see the curiosity in his gaze. “Okay. I’ll be there. What’s the latest I can get him?”
“We close the adoption counter at five.”
“I’ll be there before then.” He hung up and pocketed his phone.
Sam leaned forward and raised an eyebrow. “What’s that about?”
“You wouldn’t happen to know anyone who wants a slightly crazy dog, would you?”
-000-
After a stop at a pet store, Bucky headed to the shelter with Sam—who looked far too smug when he said, “After spending two years trying to find the world’s biggest pain-in-the-ass stray, I have to see this for myself, just in case this dog gives you half as much trouble as you gave us.”
Bucky finished the paperwork at the front desk, glancing at the name someone had entered into the system. It was based on his color. Well, he couldn’t fault them for being unoriginal given the number of dogs that went through their system.
The metal door opened, and the white dog appeared, straining at a tenuous shelter slip lead, hacking as he pulled toward Bucky, rear end wiggling and tail going like it was propelled by an overjuiced motor, occasionally slipping as he overbalanced due to the absence of his right front leg.
“Thanks.” He swapped out the shelter slip leash for a martingale collar the pet store employee had recommended and clipped a blue leash to it.
“A tripod, and a Pit Bull? Well, that’s just too perfect.” Sam looked at the dog and then at Bucky with wide eyes as a smile blossomed on his face.
“Why is that perfect?” Bucky leveled his best glare at Sam, who had the good grace to stop smiling and look as though he were reconsidering his words.
“You know,” Sam tilted his head toward the dog. “He’s got a missing limb and he looks like he was probably used to fight, and his breed, they’re used for that, I mean, it’s not his fault, of course, but you can probably relate to one another.”
Bucky had to admit that, on the surface, there might be some similarities between him and the stray, but he did his best to look insulted. “You’re comparing me to a dog?”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Well, your nickname is White Wolf!”
Another strange coincidence. Bucky had to smile at the irony of it all, and Sam visibly relaxed.
“You’re messing with me, aren’t you?” Sam shook his head and grinned again. “Wouldn’t it be something if we could round up a metal arm—or rather, leg—for him? And he’s white! We have got to name him Winter.”
This was getting ridiculous. “Not gonna happen.”
“Well, you’ve gotta give him a name. You’re a pet parent! Congratulations!” Sam leaned forward to pet the dog, but it jumped up a little too enthusiastically and almost head-butted him.
Bucky smiled. Good dog.
He’d have to find a responsible home for the dog and somehow figure out how to keep him on the down-low in his apartment. That wouldn’t be easy, considering he’d have to walk the dog several times a day for potty breaks.
What had he been thinking?
The dog jumped on him next, getting white hair all over his dark clothes. He sighed and brushed as much of it off as he could. Why couldn’t he have run across a black stray dog? It would’ve gone so much better with his wardrobe.
“You’re lucky I’m here,” Sam said, walking with them out of the shelter. “There’s no way you’d get this dog home on your motorcycle, but I’m not sure the rental company is gonna appreciate white dog hair in the car.”
-000-
They trudged the dog and supplies up the stairs for the sake of stealth. Sam carried the dog bed and a bag of supplies, while Bucky managed the dog in one hand and a bag of food in the other. Fortunately, there was no one in the hallway on his floor, so they made it into the apartment without anyone noticing.
Sam deposited everything on the floor and Bucky let go of the leash.
“Don’t pee, please.” He’d given the dog ample opportunity before entering the building and got him to mark a few trees. Bucky hoped that was enough for now. He had no idea whether the dog was housebroken.
He really hadn’t thought this through.
The dog meandered around the sparse apartment. Bucky had upgraded his pile of blankets and sheets to a mat that was more than sufficient for him and didn’t take up too much space in the studio apartment. The mat was currently rolled up next to the yellow loveseat, and the dog hovered over it, sniffing intently, making crescent-shaped movements around it.
“Don’t you dare!” Bucky took a step forward. The dog skittered away, head hung low. A pang of guilt twisted in his chest and he eyed Sam, who was shaking his head softly.
“You have your work cut out for you.” Sam patted him on the shoulder. “Good luck! I gotta head out.”
“Thanks for all your help.”
“Don’t mention it.” Sam hovered in the doorway. “Let me know how it goes.”
Then he left, and Bucky was alone with his new three-legged roommate.
“Okay, so, there are some rules.” Bucky set the dog bed in the corner of the room. “This is yours.” The bed was thick and soft, much better, actually, than the mat he was using for a bed. “Don’t pee on it or chew it up, please. These things are ridiculously expensive.” He still couldn’t believe he paid fifty bucks for a dog bed.
The dog sniffed the bed, then started digging at it.
“Hey! You ruin that, you get the floor.” He kept his tone lighter than he had last time, not wanting to risk startling the dog again. “Are you hungry?” He wasn’t sure when the dog had eaten last. “The lady at the pet store guilted me into buying some ridiculously fancy high-end food that’s probably more nutritious than anything I’ve put into my body, so I hope you like it.”
He fished the dog bowls out of the bag and set them near the bed, then got the scoop and opened the bag of kibble. The stuff smelled like fish. Great. His entire apartment was going to smell like fish.
He put two scoops into the bowl. The dog went for it immediately, scarfing it down so fast that Bucky was worried he might actually choke. The canine hacked a few times, but in seconds, the bowl was clean.
“I’m glad you like it.”
Why am I talking to the dog like he understands English?
With a grin at his own silliness, Bucky resealed the bag and slid it into the kitchen.
He had a few hours to kill until it would be time to turn in, so he grabbed a couple of slices of leftover pizza from the fridge and opened a beer. He set himself down on the loveseat with the plate on his lap and turned on the TV.
The dog hopped up next to him. He still reeked of the streets and shelter, which meant, damnit, that he’d need a bath.
“Oh, no you do—” He grabbed his plate almost a second too soon, twisting it away as the dog made a play for it. “Stop!” He put enough oomph into his tone that the dog backed off but sat there staring at him with wide, beseeching eyes. A line of drool hung from one of his jowls.
Gross.
“Off.” Bucky pointed to the floor. When the dog didn’t budge, he gave him a gentle push.
The dog hopped down and sat on the floor facing him, eyes fixated on the pizza.
“That’s not gonna work on me.” Bucky leaned back and found something to watch, steadfastly ignoring the dog’s unrelenting stare.
When he finished his pizza and beer, he gave another long look at the dog. He couldn’t delay any longer. The dog needed a bath.
“Come on.”
Tail wagging, the dog followed him down the short hallway into the bathroom. There was a tub and shower combo with a hose that would things easier. The dog was a bit wary going in, but with a little encouragement, complied. Bucky grabbed the hose and started the water, settling on his knees and keeping the spray away from the animal until it was warm enough to be comfortable.
He didn’t have dog shampoo, so he’d have to use his own. He hoped that was fine. He doubted it could do much harm.
He found out quickly that the dog wasn’t a fan of water. The moment he turned the gentle, warm spray onto the dog, his three feet slipped in chaotic panic as he tried to escape.
“Okay! Okay!” Bucky struggled with him, trying to avoid the dog slipping on his one front leg and ending up taking a header into the porcelain.
It would be a miracle if he didn’t end up getting bitten. He kept his metal arm in the forefront just in case.
The dog gave him no signs of wanting to bite, but he very much wanted out. The hose was rolling around in the commotion getting everything, including Bucky, soaked. He got a face full of spray at one point.
“This is enough.” He turned off the water and sat there, dripping, while the dog eyed the doorway. “Look, you need a bath.” He hoped a gentle tone would work. Maybe if he got some more food, he could bribe the dog. “Stay.”
It was stupid to think that would work. The moment he got to his feet, the dog leaped over the edge of the tub and skittered past him, leaving a trail of drips and wet footprints.
“Shit!” Bucky followed, finding the dog in the living room. “Don’t you dare!”
The dog shook, sending a spray of water in every direction.
“I swear to God….” He was an idiot. What was he thinking bringing home a strange dog? He’d never had a dog before. The closest he’d ever gotten to having pets were the goats in Wakanda.
He went to the fridge and grabbed a slice of pizza. He picked off all the topics and threw them in the trash just in case there was anything a dog couldn’t have. The bread, cheese, and sauce were probably safe enough.
Were dogs lactose intolerant?
He sighed as he eyed the creature that had been living off discarded food. If the garbage he’d been eating hadn’t killed him, a slice of pizza sure as hell wouldn’t. He headed back to the bathroom, waving the pizza near the dog’s head as it followed him.
The pizza made things a hell of a lot easier. Bucky worked quickly, offering pieces of culinary goodness every few seconds. He worked the shampoo into the dog’s coat, and after a minute, the dog began to relax, even tilting his head back when Bucky scratched behind the ears.
Gently, Bucky worked his hands over the old and new scars. He found a scab from a fresh wound under the dog’s jaw and eased his touch. Once all the suds were gone, he grabbed his towel—the only one of two that he had—and, with a grimace and a groan, used it to dry the dog as thoroughly as he could.
“At least you have short hair.” Thank God for that.
He let the dog dry out on the new bed while Bucky watched more T.V. When it came time for bed, he rolled out his mat, got his pillow and blankets, and, after re-directing the dog to its own bed a few times, he settled in for sleep.
He was barely falling asleep when the tip-tap of feet echoed against the hard floor. “Go back to bed.”
A moist, cool nose pushed into the back of his neck.
“Hey.” He batted the creature away.
And promptly found himself with a face full of tongue. “Stop!”
He rolled away, unable to stop the bubble of laughter as the dog persisted. “Fine!” He relented at last, patting the floor beside him and shifting onto his back. “The mat’s only big enough for me, though, so you’re getting the hard floor.
With a sigh, the dog plopped down next to him, close enough that one side of his body was in contact with Bucky and set his blocky head on Bucky’s shoulder. It felt…nice. The dog’s warm breath pooled in the crook of his neck. Within minutes, he was asleep.
-000-
He was strapped to a table. The buzzing of the saw was loud in his left ear. One man hovered at the head of the table, two more were on his left. Another observed near the doorway.
His heart raced. He could barely get air into his lungs. He struggled, but the metal clamps held. The drugs made everything strange. His body felt like lead, his head like a bag of sound.
His vision was reduced to the rotating saw. It would cut into him. He could feel everything. He would feel everything.
There was something wet on his face, the faint smell of fish, and a pressure on his chest.
He opened his eyes with a gasp. A pair of dark eyes set in a white, blocky head peered down at him, and then the wet thing came again. A tongue.
“Ugh.” He groaned, sitting up and running a hand over his damp face. He grabbed the sheet and wiped off, and as the dog leaned into him, pawing at his chest, Bucky brought his right hand up and ran it over the soft, white hair. “Thanks.”
The dog draped itself over his lap, the presence reassuringly solid and warm.
It took him a while to get back to sleep. The nightmares always left him rattled, and in the dark hours of early morning, the loneliness was sometimes too much. He stared up into the darkness and listened to the dog’s soft snoring. He shifted onto his side, and the dog stretched out against him. He draped his arm over the dog and rested his forehead against its warm neck.
Soon, he was asleep, and the nightmares left him alone.
-000-
Bucky’s awakening wasn’t the most pleasant. A wet, slobbery tongue catapulted him to consciousness. He groaned and turned away from the dog, blinking against the darkness. It wasn’t even close to dawn. He grabbed his phone from the arm of the couch, where it was plugged in, and glanced at the time.
3:49 a.m.
The dog pawed at him and whined.
“Okay, okay.” Buck sat up and stared at the dog. “Do you have to go to the bathroom?”
He really hoped this meant the dog was housebroken. If so, that was a pleasant surprise. He had no idea how to housetrain a dog. “I’m getting up.”
It made him wonder about the dog’s background. The shelter hadn’t found a microchip, and no owner had come looking for him there. The ears were an obvious home crop job, so whoever had him before were assholes.
Maybe the dog changed owners? Maybe, at some point, the dog had been in a home. He’d likely never know.
He got to his feet and threw on a shirt and pants, then grabbed the leash and snapped it to the dog’s collar. The bag from the pet store was sitting on the wood chair near the kitchen, and he fished out the poop bags.
This was going to be fun.
Given the early hour, he shouldn’t run into anyone. He opened his door, and sure enough, the hall was quiet. He made his way to the street. They walked a couple of blocks. The dog’s leash manners were atrocious. He pulled and gagged against his collar, and while he might have presented a challenge to anyone else holding the leash, Bucky had no problem holding him.
The dog was underweight. His shelter paperwork had put him at 45 pounds. He probably had another 10 pounds to gain before he was at a healthy weight. Bucky had carried around 48 pounds on his left side for decades, and the dog weighed less than that.
His vibranium arm, of course, was both lighter and more functional. He’d always be grateful to Shuri and T’Challa—his chest twisted at that loss—for giving him the prosthetic.
Finally, the dog did his business. Both. That was a relief. Bucky cleaned up after the dog—which was gross but apparently the law these days—and headed back to the apartment.
“Good boy.” The dog looked back at him with a grin.
-000-
When morning came, he decided to get an early start on a few errands. He wasn’t sure how often the dog would need to go to the bathroom, but he had to figure out something soon. He couldn’t hide the dog forever.
His apartment had a rear balcony with a fire escape. He decided to do one more potty trip before he left and took the back way out. Unfortunately, the dog wanted nothing to do with going down the metal stairs. Bucky couldn’t blame the dog. Paws weren’t designed for that kind of climbing.
“You know, you’re a hell of a lot of trouble, Pal.” Bucky lifted the dog in his arms and trotted down the steps.
He headed east, going a different route, hoping the dog would do his business quickly, but when a Jack Russell Terrier and its owner—a girl who looked barely out of her teens—came round the corner, everything went to hell.
The Terrier started it with a growly bark, puffing his chest with all the attitude of Steve when he was five-foot-four and taking on guys twice his size. The counter-reaction was instantaneous. If Bucky hadn’t kept a good hold of the leash, things would’ve gotten bad real fast.
“Hey! Hey!” He yanked the leash back, pulling back the rabid hyena suddenly on the other end of his leash. The girl took off in the opposite direction.
Everyone was looking at him. The stray he’d barely gotten to know was fixated on the retreating dog, barking and growling with high-pitched sounds that Bucky imagined a Tetradactyl might have made. The dog hopped back and lunged forward a few times, and Bucky noticed the collar was too loose. The dog almost slipped it, but before he did, Bucky scooped him up and headed back up the stairs to his apartment.
By the time he got inside, the dog had calmed down. Breathing heavily from the sudden adrenaline rush, Bucky looked down at the dog. The shelter hadn’t been exaggerating.
“You’re an asshole.”
The dog was panting, whining slightly, gaze flickering to the balcony door.
Bucky wasn’t sure what the dog’s story was, but the scars indicated he’d seen a few fights. Whatever his history, he obviously had an issue with other dogs. Maybe it was fear. Maybe he’d been attacked a few too many times. Or maybe he was just wired that way.
Whatever the cause, potty time was going to be a hell of a lot more complicated.
“I gotta go to the store.” He poured some kibble into the dog’s bowl and rolled up the bag, shoving it into the corner next to the cabinet. “If you pee in here while I’m gone, I won’t be happy.”
Bucky grabbed his keys and headed out. The pet store down the block was probably just opening. He needed to get better equipment for the dog. Maybe a harness, something he could grab and something the dog wouldn’t keep choking himself on. Some books on dog training wouldn’t hurt…
What was he thinking? He wasn’t keeping the dog. This wasn’t his project.
He had to find a home for the dog. Maybe a rescue. Something.
The young lady behind the counter of the boutique shop smiled at him when he entered.
“Hello.” He put forward his friendliest smile. “I’m uh…fostering…a dog. He’s a puller. I need something for him. Maybe a harness. Something secure and strong.”
“Of course!” She headed toward an aisle. “How big is he?”
“He’s about 45 right now, but he’s gonna have to gain a few pounds.”
“Are you looking for a no-pull harness?”
They made those? “I guess so.”
“Here’s one I recommend because it’s a Y-shape in the front. That’s better for the dog’s gait.”
There was a selection of harnesses packaged individually in hard plastic. They came in three colors—black, red, and blue. He picked a couple of the blue packages. One seemed to be the right size, according to the dimensions, and the photo of the dog on the package was a Boxer. That was close enough.
“Do you know of any rescues in the area that work with Pit Bulls?”
She nodded. “I do. I think they mostly run full. I can write down their info for you at the counter.”
“Thanks.” He followed her back to the register and paid.
She scribbled down the name of a rescue organization. He stuffed the paper in his pocket and, with an appreciative smile, headed out.
His next stop was the corner store. He got a bag of groceries, then picked up a breakfast burrito from the mom-and-pop shop. He didn’t want to be gone too much longer since he wasn’t sure how the dog would do by himself.
The dog who had a name, he reminded himself, even if the shelter gave it to him and he probably didn’t respond to it. But he wasn’t keeping the dog, and whoever ended up with him might want to give him another name.
He made it back to the apartment quickly. That was one thing he loved about Brooklyn. So much of the area was walkable.
When he opened the door, the stench of fish almost gagged him. It took his brain a moment to process what he was seeing.
“Oh no.” He sighed and closed the door.
The dog bolted up to him, tail wagging happily, belly so big he looked like an oversized wormy puppy. There was kibble all over the floor, and the bag of dog food was in tatters.
He should have seen this coming. It’s not like he could blame the dog for this one. Still… “You really are an asshole, you know that? I could’ve let them kill you, and this is the gratitude I get?”
The dog jumped on him, grinning, tongue hanging out the side of his mouth.
Despite the mess, Bucky couldn’t help but smile. The dog was ridiculous. What had he gotten himself into?
He grabbed the broom and dustpan and set to work. As he cleaned, the dog licked up a few pieces of kibble, but it was obvious he was stuffed. He wasn’t looking forward to picking up that load once it came out the other end.
He hated to throw out all the dog food. It was a new bag. He salvaged as much of it as he could, rounding up a plastic storage bin from the hall closet to put most of it in. The bits that were dusty or soggy he threw away.
“I might as well try the harness on you.” If it didn’t fit, he’d have to exchange it. He didn’t want to take the dog out for a walk without it.
He grabbed the package and went to the kitchen. The dog followed happily, tail wagging. Bucky grabbed the scissors from the kitchen drawer. Suddenly, there was a chaotic cacophony of nails scratching the wood floor, and Bucky looked up to see the white dog skittering across the room.
“Hey…” Bucky followed, scissors still in his right hand.
The dog was sheltered on the other side of the yellow loveseat, trembling. When Bucky approached, the dog leaped onto the loveseat and over the other arm, then vanished into the hallway near the bathroom. Bucky followed but stopped at the beginning of the hallway. The dog was in the corner near the far wall, partially obscured by shadow.
“It’s okay.” He looked down at the scissors in his hand.
His stomach did a somersault. Fucking assholes. If he ever found out who had harmed the dog, he might have to violate the doc’s second rule.
He gave the dog space, moving into the kitchen and placing the scissors back in the drawer. He remembered what it was like to be in that place—encountering something that threw him back to a dark time, the sense of not being safe, that any second someone would walk through the door and….
He went back to the hallway and sat on the floor, his back to the wall, leaving enough space that the dog could get by if he wanted, but being visible.
“Hey, there, buddy, it’s okay.” He kept his voice low and gentle. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”
The dog stayed put, the sound of its panting loud in the quiet apartment.
“You know, they gave you a name at the shelter. Alpine. I thought it was a bit unoriginal at first, but I like it.” He did, surprisingly, even though he didn’t have the best association with the Alps.
He talked to the dog for a while, but Alpine gave no sign of moving. Finally, Bucky got to his feet and went to the loveseat. He grabbed the remote and turned on the television, keeping the volume low, and settled on watching the news.
About half an hour later, he heard the soft tapping of the dog’s nails on the wood floor. Bucky kept still, casual, only glancing at the dog out of the corner of his eye. The white figure approached slowly, and when Alpine slinked onto the small space next to him, Bucky smiled.
A moment later, a snout nudged its way beneath his elbow. He lifted his arm and the dog slid beneath, laying its blocky head on his lap.
“I know how you feel, Buddy.” Bucky gently stroked the dog’s side. “I’m not a fan of sharp things around my head, either. I didn’t mean to scare you, but now I know. No more scissors.”
Alpine twisted until he was lying upside down on Bucky’s lap, his belly exposed.
“You like this?” Bucky gave the dog a few belly scratches, and Alpine stretched appreciatively. “You like the belly scratches, boy? Oh, you’re such a good boy. Yes, you are. How are you even this cute?”
Why the hell was his voice doing that?
