Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bucky (2:51 pm): What do you think about cats?

Bucky (2:54 pm): Just wondering.

Sam looked down at his phone with apprehension. He had a bad feeling about this.

Even though he and Bucky lived together in their shared small DC home (Bucky had admitted while the two of them were visiting Delacroix that, after finishing his list of amends, he couldn’t take living in Brooklyn any longer; it was all wrong, he had said, from how he remembered it to be, and Sam had hardly hesitated before quipping about gentrification and then inviting him into his own home that was theirs, now), the other man wasn’t one for talking.

Sam could barely get him to carry on a conversation face-to-face, and he certainly couldn’t over text. He could count the number of times Bucky had texted him back on one hand (most of which had been emergencies having to do with missions, anyway), and the amount of times Bucky had texted him first was exactly zero. Until now.

Now, the number was up to two, with some ominous-ass texts about cats that he had sent about three hours ago.

So, yes. It was slightly concerning, and he had a bad feeling. 

Not because he didn’t like cats. Sam, in general, liked animals. Sure, he was more of a dog person, if he had to choose between the two — when he was a kid, he and Sarah had had a golden retriever named Rusty, a loyal old dog who had seen Sam through late elementary school all the way to his sophomore year of college, so of course he loved dogs more, with that background. But he didn’t mind cats.

What he minded, however, was Bucky being concerningly vague and weird. Even if Sam was very much used to him being the latter.

With a sigh, Sam made to respond, thumbs hovering over the phone’s keyboard. He didn’t have anything better to do, anyway. 

He was heading back home to DC from a brief mission that had been over and done within minutes, but that he had been flown all the way out to middle-of-nowhere Montana for. It had just been some kid in a shed with stolen alien tech that he hadn’t known what the hell to do with, and had put up exactly nothing of a fight. 

Bucky had tried to come with him when Sam had gotten the call, but he had had therapy late that morning with his new shrink, so Sam had convinced him to stay home. Which was just as well, because after Captain America’s five-minute ‘fight’ — if it could even be called that — he had been bombarded by the press for half the day, something he knew Bucky would’ve hated. 

But maybe it would’ve been better to get him to come, because then maybe he wouldn’t be sending cryptic texts “just wondering” about Sam’s pet preferences. 

When he couldn’t figure out a good enough response to type out — what did he even say to that? Respond normally and pretend like Bucky texting him wasn’t weirder than the mad scientist-alien combo bullshit Sam had shut down just a few hours ago? — he decided to call instead. 

The phone rang six times before Bucky finally picked up. 

“What’s all this about cats?” Sam asked before Bucky could say anything. 

His question was immediately answered for him as he heard a very loud, very unhappy animal yowl in the background, followed by Bucky cursing and water splashing vigorously. 

Sam closed his eyes and rubbed at his temples with his free hand as Bucky swore. 

“Motherfuck —,” 

“Barnes.” Sam’s voice was weary. “Please don’t tell me there’s a feral cat in our house.”

Bucky growled irritably into the receiver, seemingly having put the phone on speaker and setting it on the counter or something. Sam could hear more distressed cat noises and splashing water, and assumed Bucky must’ve wrangled it back into the tub.

“It’s not feral,” Bucky said eventually, voice raised over the cat’s screaming. 

Sam sighed. Loudly, and with as much disapproval as he could muster.

“Look, I found it in the trash, okay?” Bucky defended, and Sam could hear the scowl in his voice. “What else was I supposed to do, leave it there? It’s got fleas and shit — I went to the store and got this soap for it to get rid of all that, and it was really nice until — fuck!” 

There was a splash, and a loud hiss, and Sam thought the cat must’ve lashed out with its claws and scratched him as Bucky swore again. Sam wondered how he and Steve had possibly been friends, what with how much colorful language the man used.

“Cats hate water,” he said dryly. “That’s common knowledge, Buck.”

“Never had one,” Bucky grumbled. “But it seemed nice enough. Now it’s being a psycho.” He paused. “Guess we got that in common.” Sam snorted at that, grinning despite himself and the situation at hand. 

Over the phone, the cat’s hisses turned to pitiful, sad mews, and it was Bucky’s turn to sigh loudly. “Sorry,” he said, very softly; Sam thought he wasn’t meant to have heard it. 

He remained quiet as Bucky murmured to the cat, soothing it, more gentle than Sam had ever heard him. He imagined, in his mind’s eye, Bucky kneeling beside the bathtub, using careful hands to wash the cat clean of dirt and grime and bugs. The wholesome ideal of the image was ruined by the fact that Bucky was washing dead fleas down the bath drain, but whatever.

After a long few minutes, Sam heard the water being drained over the phone’s receiver. The cat’s unhappy noises, which had continued despite Bucky’s attempts to calm it (though it wasn’t screaming, so Sam supposed he must’ve been doing something right) tapered off, and then —

“You little shit,” Bucky said, at the same time Sam broke his silence to ask disbelievingly, “Is it purring?”

“It’s a nice cat.” Bucky’s voice was doubtful, though — and nearly drowned out. The cat’s purring was loud as a motor, raspy and happy, even though, just minutes before, it had been hissing and howling up a storm, lashing out with claws as if Bucky was trying to drown it instead of helping wash away its fleas. 

That certainly reminded Sam of someone, and he laughed as he said so.

“It really is just like you, huh?” He joked. “You’re all pissy and scratchy whenever anyone tries to help you, too. And you’re from the 40s — I wouldn’t be surprised if you had fleas at some point —,”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Bucky grumbled, cutting Sam off, but there was humor in his resigned tone. The cat meowed, and Bucky let out a huff. “I’m gonna dry it off,” he said decisively. “It really needed that bath, though. I thought it was fuckin’ gray — that’s how damn dirty it was. Didn’t expect it to be white.”

He almost sounded scandalized, and Sam laughed. 

“That’s what my ma said the first time I brought Riley home,” he quipped, “and what Sarah said about you.”

“Shut up,” Bucky said, but he was laughing, too. “What do you think of cats?” He asked, then — just to put off having to piss off the cat again, Sam thought, even though he was surely getting his shirt soaked through by sopping wet white fur. 

“Well, I’m more of a dog person,” he admitted. “But I don’t mind cats.” Sam paused, then — realizing where Bucky was going with this, the meaning of his original texts catching up to him. 

“What, you want to keep it?”

“I found it — I found her in the trash, Sam!” He sounded almost scandalized. “I can’t just put her back.”

Sam sighed. “I wasn’t saying — whatever.” He ignored the fact that Bucky apparently thought he wanted him to toss a cat into a dumpster with no short amount of exasperation. “Look, I’ll be home in a couple hours, alright? Then we can talk about it.”

“Okay, yeah,” Bucky relented. Over the receiver, the cat hissed, seemingly as Bucky brandished a towel. Sam closed his eyes again, rubbing his temples for what he was certain wouldn’t be the last time that day and letting out another heavy sigh.

“That cat had better actually not be feral, Barnes,” he warned, “I’m not above kicking you both out.”

Bucky laughed, and hung up. Not a minute later, a notification made Sam's phone vibrate in his hand.

Bucky (6:07 pm): [Image Attachment]

Bucky (6:10): Did not mean to send.That. How do I save my pictures to the Clouds?

Sam ignored him, and, wary, clicked on the photo.

He was greeted with a close-up photo of a white blur, completed with teeth, attacking the camera. 

He stared at the barely-discernible blur of a cat, and wondered what the hell was waiting for him back home.

Chapter Text

The cat was smaller than Sam had expected.

It — she — was a tiny thing, really. Sam thought she must be a kitten; her entire body nearly fit in the palm of Bucky’s metal hand, though her legs and tail dangled from between the vibranium fingers. She was pure white — Bucky had done a good job washing her despite her very vocal protests, it seemed like, since there wasn’t a trace of grime or dirt left — and had fluffy fur sticking up every which way, still slightly damp at the tips. She was a nice-looking cat, too, with a narrow head and wide ears that were pricked up in curiosity.

Bucky had been sitting on the floor of the living room when Sam had walked in. He had been tossing a scrap of crumpled-up paper towards the kitten, who had been chasing it in circles. She had frozen mid-pawstep when Sam had walked in, shockingly blue eyes wide and huge. Bucky had scooped her up, and she had started to purr instantly, loud and rumbling despite her tiny size, rubbing her nose against his metal fingers. 

That had given Bucky a sort of deer-in-headlights look that he still wore as Sam eyed him appraisingly, crossing his arms over his chest.

“That certainly is a cat,” he said tiredly, once again seized by the urge to sigh loudly. 

“I’m calling her Alpine,” Bucky told him. His voice was decisive, leaving no room for argument, as if he knew Sam didn’t really have a good reason for not letting him get his way with this. 

Even so, Sam gave him a doubtful look, and then did sigh, loudly. It wasn’t that he really had a strong preference one way or the other, but given that he had been first introduced to Alpine by her screaming bloody murder, he was a little skeptical.

“We’re really . . . keeping her, then?”

Bucky shot him a scathing look. 

“She was in the trash,” he growled — again, did he think Sam was urging him to throw her back there, or something? — and then stalked over to their small wooden kitchen table, sitting down in one of the chairs and still glaring at Sam as if he had committed one of the seven deadly sins by asking a fully reasonable question. The cat — Alpine — kept up her loud, motor-like purring, climbing up Bucky’s sleeve and curling up in the curve of his neck and shoulder, licking his cheek.

“She could have rabies. Don’t let her lick you, man, Jesus,” Sam groaned.

Bucky fixed him with a blank stare for a moment. “Animal-born illnesses don't affect me, just like any other illness,” he said, very matter-of-factly. Sam stared right back at him. For a moment, he contemplated asking for him to expand on that, but decided against it.

“You know what? I don’t think I wanna know.”

Sam sat down at the table beside Bucky, leaning back with a grunt; he hadn’t taken any hits on the mission, but even still, he was aching, and was grateful to at least have changed out of the Captain America suit and into comfortable sweats on the quinjet. 

“Look,” he said, firm, getting Bucky to glance up, “if we’re keeping her, we gotta take her to the vet, I’m serious. Looks like she’s a kitten; she’ll need vaccines, to keep the fleas away. And rabies, and everything else. Maybe you’re a super soldier, but I’m not, and neither is she.”

Bucky still looked apprehensive, brow furrowing. He glanced at the little cat on his shoulder, then back up at Sam.

“Now?” His voice was wary. Sam winced; Bucky hated doctors, and he guessed that that extended to veterinarians, too.

“Now now — it’s, what, 8 pm? They’ll all be closed, and that cat’s had enough excitement for one day.” Sam shook his head, giving Bucky a sympathetic, almost apologetic look. “But as soon as possible, yeah. She needs it, buddy.”

Bucky sighed, looking put-out. “I guess,” He muttered, gaze wandering back over to Alpine, who was rubbing against his cheek. His expression softened. “Yeah, okay.”

“We can go in tomorrow,” Sam said decisively. “Today’s mission cleared me for the rest of the week, and I think there’s a clinic down the street next to that coffee shop you like.”

Bucky hummed, pulling Alpine from his shoulders and back into his arms. He scratched the top of her head, achingly gentle, with his vibranium fingers, and glanced back up at Sam after a moment. “How did that go?” He asked, referring to Sam's mission — Sam let him change the subject, not putting up an issue about it. Hopefully, Bucky would still agree, however reluctantly, to a vet appointment in the morning, despite the prospect of doctors and needles.

“It was fine. Good, I guess. Nothing eventful, really; I was in and out in six minutes,” he told him. Sam stood as he spoke, pouring himself a bowl of cereal — Bucky usually made dinner whenever Sam was on solo missions, but obviously, he had had his hands full, so Sam didn’t mention it, even if he really could go for some home-cooked spaghetti bolognese right now (who knew that someone from the 40s could cook like that? Steve hadn’t even been able to make boxed pasta without fucking it up somehow).

“Honestly, I think they just wanted Captain America doing something to get good press,” Sam added after a moment, “‘cause — knock on wood — there haven’t been any, y’know, worldwide catastrophes for me to lend a hand towards recently. Not that I’m complaining, but.”

Bucky huffed a laugh at that, and rapped his metal knuckles against the table. “Sorry I wasn’t there,” he said dryly, but there was some sincerity there; Sam knew Bucky always felt antsy, when he went on solo missions.

“Don’t be,” Sam dismissed, shaking his head. “Really, man.” He sat back down with his food and casually steered the conversation towards Bucky. “If you wanna talk about it . . . how did your therapy session go?” 

He always had to take caution, asking about Bucky’s sessions — but, Sam noticed, he seemed relaxed, holding Alpine to his chest and petting her gently. And to Sam’s surprise, he didn’t even hesitate before answering, and as far as Sam could tell, he was answering honestly.

(Maybe keeping the cat was one of Bucky’s better ideas, after all.)

“It was fine. She’s still a hell of a lot better than Raynor,” Bucky said. He had been seeing his new psychiatrist, Dr. Kelly, for a couple of months now, weekly. She seemed good; Sam had met her a couple times, when picking Bucky up for some reason or other. She had been kind. Her eyes, a deep brown, had been soft, with an empathy in them that Raynor hadn’t had an ounce of.

“Bit of a low bar, there,” Sam commented, keeping his voice easy and open. Bucky nodded.

“Yeah. I feel like I can actually — talk to her, y’know?” Bucky shrugged. “Today, it was — well, we — we talked about a lot of shit. She got me talkin’ about Steve. About when I . . . remembered him, for the first time.” He was petting Alpine as he spoke, fingers trembling slightly. Sam gave him a reassuring look, even as Bucky averted his gaze. In Bucky’s arms, Alpine meowed, and he smiled a little, emotions passing over his face.

“Well, it was — it was a lot,” he finished eventually. “So then, it was — it was nice. To have something to do after.”

“I’m sure,” Sam said. “You said you found her in a dump?” Sympathy twisted at his heart at the thought, just as he was sure it had twisted Bucky’s — more so, given everything Steve had recounted to Sam while they were searching for the Winter Soldier, about how many alleys Bucky had rescued him from back in the day.

“I heard her crying,” Bucky told him. “She was stuck at the bottom of a dumpster, in an alley I always pass on the walk home. In between some apartments. I waited there for a while — figured her mama cat would come get her — but she didn’t, so I brought her home. Only left her for an hour to go get that soap, ‘cause she was covered in fleas, but otherwise, she’s been with me the whole time.” 

Bucky frowned slightly, glancing down at Alpine, who purred. “I think she might think I’m her ma,” he said dubiously, and Sam snorted in laughter.

“Are you at least a cat person?” He asked, raising a brow. “I know I said I’m not, really, but what about you?” Bucky shrugged, scratching Alpine under her chin as she rubbed happily against his hand.

“I’ve never had a pet before,” He answered, leaning back in his chair and snatching a soggy Mini Wheat from Sam’s bowl, crunching loudly and ignoring his reproachful look from across the table. 

“My sister brought home a puppy from a box on the street corner once, but my ma was quick to get rid of it. That was the closest I ever got at home. In the army, there were lots of dogs. And horses. One of the guys in my unit domesticated a rat in the trenches.” Bucky smirked at that. In his mind, Sam was picturing Ratatouille set in the 1940s instead of the 2000s. “But I’ve never had a cat, or really even been around ‘em.” 

“You certainly seem to have taken well to being a mother.” Sam’s voice was dry and amused. Bucky huffed, rolling his eyes. In his arms, Alpine meowed happily, and then decided to climb back up Bucky’s shoulders, balancing on the place where flesh met metal and beginning to knead her paws into his shirt. Bucky stiffened, eyes going wide, just as blue and startled as the kitten’s had been.

“What — why is she doing that?”

“It means she’s happy, Buck,” Sam told him. “That’s what cats do, when they’re happy.”

Bucky stared at him for a full minute, then looked up at Alpine, then back over at Sam. His blue eyes were glistening, and Sam suddenly felt as if he were intruding on some private moment — the moment when Bucky realized that if something as innocent as a kitten could be happy around him, could be happy because of him, could love him . . .  then anyone could.

“She likes me,” Bucky said quietly after several minutes of silence save for Alpine’s purring. He was smiling, just a little. It was a good look on him, and Sam smiled, too — though it was hard not to, with the little white ball of fluff purring as loudly as her little lungs would allow, kneading a pattern into Bucky’s shoulder.

“Except when you bathe her, apparently,” Sam quipped, lightening the mood, and Bucky’s smile grew.

“Except then.” He hesitated for a moment, and when he spoke again, his words were quiet, like a secret. “I like her, too.”

“You’re goin’ soft on me, Barnes,” Sam teased. Bucky’s smile dipped into a scowl, but there was amusement spelled out across his face, and his expression was happy as Alpine turned to rub her nose against his cheek, whiskers quivering with her purr.

“In your dreams, Wilson,” he shot back — and Sam thought he must be dreaming, because James Bucky Barnes was not someone he thought he would ever see pulling a kitten gently from his shoulder and into his arms to kiss the top of its head, and yet here he was, doing exactly that.

It made something in his chest ache.

He had never seen Bucky look so openly comfortable besides when he was sleeping — and even then, there would be a crease in his brow, a frown on his lips. Now, he was smiling so openly, his expression cast in a glow of soft happiness. 

It reminded Sam of Delacroix, as he and Bucky had watched the sun go down, sharing a couple of beers. Bucky had looked over at him, face cast in sunlight, and had said, softly, “I’m glad we’re here”. Sam had smiled at him, not feeling the weight of the moment until later, and had responded easily, “So am I, Buck”. Bucky had smiled back, and the sight of it had been warmer than the rays of the setting sun shining across the horizon.

It reminded him of fleeting moments like that — fleeting moments where Bucky was happy.

Sam could get used to him looking like that less fleetingly, he thought. Bucky had one of those smiles that truly was contagious — mostly because it was so rare, and because you knew that when he smiled, it was genuine.

And to get used to it . . . maybe he could get used to the cat, too. Who knew.

If she made Bucky smile like that, maybe the white fur that would surely coat their furniture in no time and the ridiculous money it would cost to take her to the vet and get her all of her cat things and the testing of his sanity when she would undoubtedly screech bloody murder in the middle of the night — would be worth it. 

Well — somewhat. Maybe.

First, though, they'd have to survive their first trip to the vet.

And Sam didn't know who would put up more of a fight — Alpine, with all her ferocity and spunk whenever she was being made to do something she didn't want to do, as demonstrated with the bath, or Bucky, whose doctor-related trauma was enough to make any therapist want to quit on the spot. But, he supposed — as he was once again seized with the urge to rub his temples and sigh loudly enough to rival the volume of Alpine's purring — that he would find out.

Chapter Text

There was never any question that Sam was going with Bucky to Alpine’s vet appointment the next morning. In fact, he had been the one to schedule it first thing upon waking up. Thankfully, there was a slot open for 10 in the morning that same day, so that they could get it over with quick and easy. Hopefully. 

Realistically, things were never quick and easy when it came to Bucky, but a man could hope.

Bucky was on-edge about the whole thing, which was predictable. Sam was somewhat surprised he had agreed to it in the first place, especially with how he found him in the morning. 

Bucky hadn’t slept. That wasn’t out of the ordinary; he didn’t sleep, or had disturbed sleep, more often than not, both before and after moving in with Sam. But his insomnia, and his nightmares, had been getting better recently, which was what made it slightly concerning — as well as the general circumstances of it all. 

He had been sitting up straight in the half-light of morning filtering through the windows on the floor of the living room, eyes fixed on Alpine, who was sleeping curled-up in a little ball on the couch that would surely have a patch of white fur against the dark cushion when she got up. 

He had been unmoving. As stiff as a statue — or a soldier.

It had taken Sam, who had found him there when he had gotten up to get himself breakfast and call to make the appointment, walking over to him and greeting him with a murmured “Mornin’, Buck,” for Bucky to jolt and notice him at all, as if he were being snapped from a state of dissociation. Which, in all honesty, likely wasn’t far from the truth, if the glazed-over, faraway look in his eyes was any indication.

“Did you sleep at all, man?” Sam had asked, keeping any and all judgment out of his voice, not that there would have been any there to begin with. Bucky had looked up at him for a moment, eyes shadowed, and then went back to watching the kitten, who was sleeping, peacefully unaware, tail curled over her nose and whiskers quivering a little with each breath she took.

“What if she has nightmares?” He had asked after a moment, and he had sounded so sad that Sam’s chest had twisted.

“Why would she, Buck?” He had asked in return, and Bucky had sighed.

“She was in the trash,” he had said, rather miserably. “Behind apartments. With people in them. I’ve been thinking about it all night, Sam.” Bucky had looked back up at him again, and there was something devastating in his eyes that almost hurt to look at. “Someone must’ve put her there — someone bad. Must’ve hurt her. And — just look at her.”

His gaze had gone back to Alpine, his voice cracking a little. “She’s so little,” he had murmured. “They could’ve hurt her bad.”

“Maybe,” Sam had conceded, and it had been a struggle to keep his voice even. “But then . . . if that’s what happened, wouldn’t she not trust anyone? Any people?” He had spread out his hands, a ‘ just think about it’ sort of gesture. “And she’s been very trusting to you.”

Bucky had shrugged, somewhat helplessly. “Maybe she was used to it,” he had mumbled. “People hurting her.”

Sam had been at a bit of a loss of what to say to that, and joking that he thought Alpine could probably hold her own seeing as she had given a super-soldier just trying to bathe her a run for his money seemed insensitive. So instead, he had made pancakes, with chocolate chips, and that had seemed to help, although Bucky had been very put-out to learn that he couldn’t share them with Alpine, who had been begging for a bite with huge blue eyes and little plantitive mews at his feet since the moment she woke up.

Presently, Bucky’s disappointed expression had turned into one of intense anxiety and stress. He was clutching Alpine tightly to his chest, sitting in the passenger’s seat as Sam drove them to the vet’s clinic. His leg was bouncing rapidly, and his gaze was distant, somewhere faraway. 

Sam glanced over at him every few moments — frankly, he wouldn’t be surprised if Bucky hurled himself out the window. Thankfully, the kitten in his lap was preventing that.

“This’ll be quick, buddy,” Sam told him firmly as they pulled into the parking lot. Bucky’s breathing hitched; he clenched his jaw tightly, and Sam prompted him again. “No one’s gonna mess with you, I promise. We’ll be in and out.”

“Yeah, okay,” Bucky muttered lowly, but he was still practically oozing with anxiety as they walked into the lobby and were guided into one of the exam rooms by the kind-faced receptionist. Luckily, no one had recognized them; Bucky certainly looked different from the Winter Soldier everyone knew, anyway, especially with his long sleeves and gloves covering the most memorable part of him, and most of the time, when Sam was on TV, he was wearing a mask covering half of his face. Thank God for the small mercies, he supposed.

Alpine didn’t look frightened at all, with her wide-eyed curiosity as she angled her little head to look all around the small room they had been taken to, with an examination table and a cabinet to the left, as well as two wooden chairs in the corner. 

Neither of them sat down, though; Bucky was standing rigidly in place, holding the cat to his chest with his arms wrapped around her as if she was going to suddenly explode, and Sam was right behind him in case he lost himself in his clear panic.

Maybe this had been a bad idea. Though, Sam supposed, it would’ve been worse if he had suggested taking her to a shelter; rows of cages would’ve been just as bad for Bucky’s PTSD (the PTSD he still kept on insisting he didn’t have, because, well — he was a soldier from the 40s, so Sam supposed that that, at least, made sense). 

And Alpine was good for Bucky; Sam could tell. They just needed to get through this, and then Bucky could go back to watching her sleep and petting her until his clothes were covered in white fur.

“You good, man?” Sam asked quietly, shaking his thoughts away. Bucky nodded stiffly, but still startled visibly when the door opened and a young woman wearing dark-colored scrubs came in, a stethoscope around her neck and a smile on her face.

“Hi, there!” She said cheerfully. She kept her voice soft, though, gaze fixed on Bucky, and Sam had a grateful suspicion that the receptionist must’ve told the people in the back that the man holding the kitten looked like he was about to have a panic attack right there and then. 

“I’m Katie,” she said. “I’ll be getting a couple things from your kitty before Dr. Kurtz comes in. I’ll just take her weight and temperature, then check her senses — that’s all I need from her.”

She held out her hands towards Bucky, who hesitated for a long moment before handing over Alpine, who meowed in protest. Sam saw Bucky’s hands clench, and, to his trained ear, heard the light whirring of his vibranium arm. Sam took a step closer, making his presence known without touching, and watched Bucky take and let out a shuddering breath as the technician — Katie — weighed Alpine and quickly, swiftly took her temperature. 

“Looks like she’s around three pounds, and normal temp!” Katie said, keeping an even and reassuring but still cheerful tone. She checked Alpine’s ears, eyes, and mouth briefly — “From her weight and the lack of staining on her teeth, I’d say she’s just a few months old, maybe three or four,” — before handing her carefully back to Bucky, who gave her a jerky nod and went back to holding Alpine close, the kitten grumbling and growling with annoyance in his arms. Likely from having her temperature taken. She, understandably, hadn’t liked that bit.

“Okay, thank y’all!” Katie smiled at them both, and Sam gave her a grateful look and a nod in return. “Dr. Kurtz will be with you shortly.” 

She nodded back to Sam, gaze flitting for a moment over Bucky, and then she was gone, and the room was silent save for Bucky’s rough, uneven breathing.

“This is a little stressful, huh, Buck?” Sam asked softly, as Bucky held Alpine close. Bucky’s head swiveled around, and he glared at him, blue gaze steely, sharp as flint.

“No.”

Sam rolled his eyes, sighing. “You don’t like doctors, man, I get it,” he said, working to keep the exasperation from his voice. Bucky and Steve shared that in common — making him fed up with their shitty self-preservation skills, their determination to not let anyone know when they were hurting. Bucky kept glaring at him, but there was some distant emotion in his eyes as his gaze slipped down to look at Alpine, who had relaxed once more in his arms, purring and rubbing her chin against his arm.

“I don’t —,”

Before Bucky could speak, the door opened again, to another woman in the same scrubs. She was older, wrinkles around her kind hazel eyes, curly dark hair streaked with gray pulled up in a messy bun. 

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she said, her voice aged but soft. “My name is Dr. Kurtz. I hear we have an Alpine here today for a check-up and vaccinations?”

Bucky nodded stiffly, not saying anything and taking a small step back as Dr. Kurtz entered the room and closed the door behind her. Sam spoke up for him. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “We found her —,”

“I found her,” Bucky interjected suddenly.

“Oh, so he speaks!” Sam gave Bucky an exasperated look, rolling his eyes when he got a glare in return. He wanted to be irritated, but he found himself grateful that Bucky was at least not on the verge of panic anymore. For now, at least; the doctor hadn’t brought out the needles yet. “He found her in an alley.”

“In a dumpster,” Bucky muttered. “She was in one.”

“I see.” Dr. Kurtz nodded solemnly, wrinkled brow knitted sadly. “That’s a far too common thing to see, unfortunately, especially in big cities like this one — abandoned or stray kittens and puppies, and not just that, but older dogs and cats. Their populations grow too high, too fast; it’s difficult to keep up, and that’s why it’s so common.” She gave Bucky an approving nod. “You did good, rescuing her. She’s young; she wouldn’t have made it long on her own.”

Bucky looked up at her for a moment and shrugged, shoulders a little less stiff. “I couldn’t leave her there,” he said. “Wasn’t easy, though, I guess. She had a lot of fleas.” He paused, and then, as if it were vital information (which, given that he had barely escaped it with his life, Sam thought it might just be): “I gave her a bath.”

Dr. Kurtz hummed in approval. “With flea removal soap, I assume? She looks clean.”

“Yeah.” Bucky nodded. “From the pet store.”

“Well done, there.” Dr. Kurtz smiled, amusement in her voice as her gaze dropped to the kitten in Bucky’s arms, who was watching her with suspicion, little white tail flicking; she took after Bucky, Sam supposed with weary fondness. “I don’t assume she liked that very much, did she?”

That actually got Bucky to breathe out a huffing laugh, and he shook his head. Sam thought he might even have been smiling, as Alpine wriggled in his arms. “No,” he said, “no, she did not.”

“She probably won’t like any of this very much, either,” Dr. Kurtz said. Her voice was suddenly soft, gentle, and Sam was amazed at how the tension had eased from Bucky’s shoulders just from a couple minutes of talking to her. He had a sneaking suspicion that, before this job, she might’ve worked in a job similar to his at the VA. “But, just like that bath you gave her, it’s necessary to make sure she’s healthy.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, and he actually sounded like he believed it, despite his continued apprehension. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Okay.” Dr. Kurtz smiled, then looked down at the chart in her hands, her voice taking on a more professional note. 

“So, it looks like we have three injections today. Rabies, FVRCP — which protects against most viral infections — and then a blood test. We don’t usually blood test kittens, but since she was a stray, it’s just to check and make sure she’s not sick with anything — though she looks fairly healthy to me. That’s just to be safe. We’ll also do a topical deworming vaccine, and send you guys home with flea and tick medication.” 

She looked back up at the two of them. “Does that sound good?”

Bucky had gone a little stiff again, so Sam answered for him. “Yes, thank you,” he said, and Dr. Kurtz nodded, disappearing behind the door for just a moment before reappearing with multiple sets of needles. Bucky’s tension had come back fully, and not even Alpine nudging at his chin with her nose could get him to relax, eyes staying glued to the tray.

“Do you have to do it — like that?” He asked the doctor, who gave him a kind smile. Sam noticed her gaze flicking down to his neck for a moment, no doubt taking note of the dog tags and making the connection of his wariness to something to do with the field. Newfound understanding passed over her expression, and she looked back up to meet his gaze with sympathy in her eyes.

“Needles are how we inject most of the vaccines, unfortunately,” Dr. Kurtz told him gently. “You’re welcome to step out if you need to; I’m sure your partner could stay with your kitty here.” She smiled at Sam, whose cheeks burned slightly. Bucky cleared his throat, red-faced as he glanced back at Sam for a moment, before looking back down at Alpine in his arms.

“No, it’s, uh. It’s fine,” he managed eventually, and Dr. Kurtz nodded. 

“Alright, then.” 

She put on a new pair of gloves, picking up one of the needles, and Sam saw a shudder run through Bucky’s shoulders. He moved forward and slowly put a hand on his shoulder — which probably didn’t help with the partner assumption, but to hell with that. Bucky was tense under his palm, flesh shoulder hard-set. Sam gave it a squeeze — a silent, I’m here.

“I’m gonna ask one of you to hold her at the table for me,” Dr. Kurtz said gently. Sam was grateful; he thought if she brought someone else in to assist, Bucky would be at the end of his rope. 

Assuming he wouldn’t want to be close to the needles, Sam dropped his hand and moved forward, resigning himself to getting white fur all over his dark brown jacket. But Bucky shook his head, holding her protectively to his chest.

“I got her.” His voice was quiet and a little shaky, but still certain, and Sam nodded. 

He stepped back and watched as Bucky, so very gently, lowered Alpine down to the examination table, holding her steady. Dr. Kurtz gave him a reassuring look, and then, very slowly, injected the first vaccine — rabies, she had said — on her lower right leg, and quickly, before Alpine could start thrashing, injected the other into her front right leg. She did the deworming next, quick squeezes of liquid along Alpine’s back and shoulders, and then drew back quickly, giving both the kitten and Bucky a moment.

Alpine was growling and grumbling, but otherwise was fine. When Dr. Kurtz went back to draw blood, though, she started to struggle, yowling and hissing loudly. Bucky was trembling as he restrained her in place, Sam could see it. He stepped forward once more, and placed a steady hand back on his shoulder. I’m here.  

It was over before it had begun, and Dr. Kurtz drew away with her signature smile.

“All done!” She said cheerfully. “Alpine did great, and so did both of you.” She was looking at Bucky as she said it, and after a moment, he nodded jerkily. Dr. Kurtz was still smiling, but it was sympathetic, and her voice was gentle. 

“You guys are good to go after they check you out up front. We’ll call you within the next couple of days to update you on the results of the blood test, and they’ll give you that flea and tick prevention at the front desk, too. I’d like to see her back here in a couple of months for another check-up, so we can schedule that when we call you.” 

She nodded to them. “It was nice to meet you both, and of course, your kitty, too. She’s in good hands.”

“Thanks,” Bucky said quietly, having picked Alpine back up fully, holding her against his chest.

“Yeah — thanks. Really,” Sam added on. His hand was still on Bucky’s shoulder. “For all of that.”

“Of course,” Dr. Kurtz said sincerely. She gave them both one last smile, then left them alone once more.

Sam gave Bucky a minute before he asked again, softly, “You good?” Bucky wasn’t trembling anymore, but his head was slightly bowed, and his breathing was a little unsteady.

“Just — yeah.” Bucky let out a long, shuddering breath; he had mentioned, a few weeks back, his therapist teaching him breathing techniques. He had scoffed at it, then — “I think I know how to breathe, that’s what I told her, I don’t need someone telling me how to”, he had said — but Sam thought he was certainly making use of it, now.

“I don’t think she likes doctors,” Bucky added, turning and presenting Alpine to him. 

Sam had to laugh. Alpine’s ears were flat against her head, whiskers quivering with indignation, and she was letting out a low, constant growl — all the while, kneading her paws into Bucky’s gloved hands. God, she really was his spitting image, especially with her white fur practically covering Bucky’s black shirt.

“That might be true, but . . . Dr. Kurtz helped her, though, Buck.” Sam’s reminder was gentle, but not too gentle that it would set him off; he accepted gentleness rarely, and when he did, it was in moments of panic, not in moments like this, where he was coming back to himself from that panic, and already defensive, already sharp-edged. “It’s like she said. Remember how much Alpine hated that bath you gave her? But it got rid of the fleas. It helped. It’s the same sort of thing.”

“Yeah.” Bucky let out another breath, growing steadier. He stood hunched for a moment, holding Alpine close, and then straightened up, locking eyes with Sam. His blue eyes were wide and almost guilty; not so sharp-edged anymore. “Sorry, Sam.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, buddy,” Sam assured him, patting his shoulder gently, not letting his surprise or, God forbid, his sympathy at the apology show. “Hey, if you wanna wait in the car, I can check us out.”

“Really?” Bucky’s eyes softened. He pet Alpine gently with his gloved vibranium hand, and she purred, nuzzling into his palm. Bucky smiled, and when he spoke again, his voice was quiet and grateful. 

“Thank you, Sam.”

“‘Course, man.” 

Sam gave his shoulder one last squeeze, then held the door for him as they walked out. Bucky quietly slipped out of the lobby with Alpine while Sam hung back to pay. The receptionist seemed to vaguely recognize him, with that squinty-eyed where do I know you from stare he had come accustomed to, but he distracted her by letting himself be talked into ridiculously expensive kitten food, which he bought alongside the flea and tick medication and the appointment bill. Thankfully, the Captain America gig paid well, as long as he at least stayed on semi-good terms with the government. 

Sam hung back, stalling for a few moments to give Bucky as much time alone as he needed before he walked out to the car and slid into the driver’s seat.

Bucky was fiddling with the radio knobs, switching to a jazz station, and as they drove off, the music filled the silence — the silence, save for Alpine’s complaining meows, and Bucky’s murmured apologies to her that Sam pretended not to hear.

Chapter Text

It had been Bucky’s suggestion to stop back at the pet store he had gone to the day before after their appointment, for a litter box and toys and other things (“I did some Googling last night,” he had said, very proudly, as Alpine had purred in his lap and Sam had tried very hard not to laugh). 

He had brought up the idea over breakfast, and Sam had agreed — but after the appointment, he worried that Bucky might not be able to handle another place with people. Bucky seemed to disagree, stubbornly reminding him to stop there and then insisting on it when he had hesitated, and so Sam had sighed and driven them there. He was coming to realize, after the past couple of days, how much of a sucker he could really be for the other man. It was endearing, if a little exasperating, but when was Bucky not those things?

Sam offered to stay in the car with the cat while Bucky went in, but Bucky had told him that you could bring animals into the store (“I saw a man with a snake, Samuel, I think a cat will be fine,”), so they both wound up going in, Bucky carrying Alpine. He hadn’t let her go since they had left the vet’s office. Just as with the bath, she didn’t seem to harbor any ill will towards him for the shots, rubbing her head happily against his gloved hand and gnawing on his covered vibranium fingers with sharp little teeth. 

Thankfully, the store had only opened an hour ago, and was still fairly empty — Bucky’s stubbornness aside, he was still visibly on-edge as they walked inside, and Sam could see him relax as the only other person there was the tired-looking cashier on his phone. 

Sam followed Bucky as he perused the shelves, and worked not to laugh at the man’s affronted noises at each price tag — Steve used to do the same thing, baffled by the skyrocketed prices since the 40s, where everything was just a few cents. Good times, Sam was sure, besides literally everything else happening in the world during that time. But hey, at least a leash for a dog probably hadn’t been fifteen dollars.

“What do you think her favorite color is?” Bucky asked abruptly while closely scrutinizing the rows of collars on a shelf in the cat aisle. Sam gave him a disbelieving, are you kidding me right now look.

“She’s a cat, Buck.” 

“And you’re no help,” Bucky huffed. He ignored Sam’s laughter as he let Alpine sniff each; somehow, Bucky concluded that her ‘favorite’ was the blue one (she had batted a paw at it — Bucky had grinned at Sam in triumph, and Sam hadn’t had the heart to tell him that it was just because it had a little loose thread sticking out), and he then proceeded to get only blue toys, blue food and water dishes, and even a blue litter box, even though it was three dollars more expensive than the plain gray one.

Sam was the one stuck with carrying everything as Bucky carried the cat — but he found that he didn’t mind, not at all. 

Bucky looked — he looked animated. He looked excited. His face lit up with each new thing he found as Alpine purred in his arms, and he beamed at the sound. He looked happy, in a way Sam had never seen him look, save for the fleeting moments of it flashing across his face. 

One day with that cat, and it was already less fleeting. 

So, yeah. Sam would gladly lug around pounds of litter and a ridiculous amount of blue-colored toys, if only to keep that smile on Bucky’s face.

Bucky did close off a little bit again as they checked out — the cashier, a young man who seemed like he hated his job, made small talk regardless of his stony expression, and Sam could tell that it was making Bucky twitch — but for the most part, he seemed okay. They listened to the same jazz radio on the drive home, exchanging only light conversation, and then worked together when they got home to set up Alpine’s litter box and toys and food, though Bucky did most of it. 

As they finished, Sam sat down to recline on the couch with the TV on while Bucky squinted at the instructions on the flea and tick medication and applied it as Alpine grumbled, and then gave her a treat as a reward. Sam looked over to him, and Bucky glanced up at the same time, and they both smiled.

It felt painfully domestic.

“So, just to make sure — we’re definitely keeping her?” Sam asked, just to mess with him as Bucky sat down beside him on the couch, leaving Alpine to play with a (blue) toy mouse on the floor. Bucky shot him a scathing, unamused look, and Sam laughed.

“Kidding, man, kidding. It’s good to see you happy,” he said earnestly. “I wouldn’t take that from you.”

For a moment, Bucky looked taken aback, almost uncomfortably so, his eyes going wide with that deer in headlights look. “Thanks, Sam,” he replied after a moment, clearing his throat and averting his gaze, his cheeks slightly pink. 

There was a sudden abrupt little meow from beneath them, and they both looked down. Alpine was pawing at Sam’s sneaker, tugging at the shoelaces and pulling with her sharp little teeth, kneading at the tip of his shoe with tiny claws.

“Hey!” Sam exclaimed, without reproach. He reached down to pick up the little cat with gentle hands. She blinked up at him with eyes that matched Bucky’s — huge and blue, wide and shining — and then her whiskers quivered, and she began to purr. Beside him, Sam could practically feel Bucky’s grin.

“She likes you,” Bucky told him. Sam nodded seriously.

“She has good taste,” he said. “Though — she likes you, too, so maybe not.”

Bucky laughed at that, rolling his eyes as he reached over to pet Alpine with his vibranium hand. He had taken off his gloves when they had gotten home. Alpine purred louder, rumbling against Sam’s palm, and rubbed her head against Bucky’s metal fingers. He smiled, and it stayed — not fleeting.

It felt painfully domestic — and painfully right.

The pair wound up watching TV for a little while, Alpine remaining in Sam’s lap, Bucky leaning over to pet her every once and a while. 

They weren’t two episodes into the new season of British Bake-Off when Bucky, tired from his lack of sleep the night before, drifted off on the couch, head leaned back, legs sprawled out on the footrest. He snored, just once, subconsciously clearing his throat, and Alpine perked up at the noise. 

She sat up, stretched, and rubbed at Sam’s hand as if in a little good-bye before padding across the couch to curl up on Bucky’s chest, closing her eyes as her little whiskers quivered happily. She was a little white ball of fuzz against his dark shirt and pants, and Sam smiled at the sight. He took out his phone and snapped a photo — he stared at it for a moment, at the peaceful moment it captured, and then sent it to Bucky's number, typing out a couple of texts with a soft expression before going back to watching TV. 

He was grateful, he reflected, to have this domesticity — this strange but welcome feeling of things being right, for once. Things hadn’t felt so peaceful for him since that morning in DC when Steve Rogers had run up beside him, called out “on your left”, and changed the trajectory of Sam Wilson’s life until it had led him to right here, right now, in his and Bucky’s home, with a little kitten purring on the sleeping super-soldier’s chest. 

It was painfully domestic, painfully right — and also, so painfully, ridiculously ludicrous. It was painfully ludicrous that he, Sam Wilson — born and raised in Delacroix, Louisiana, ex-vet and counselor, just a normal guy living out of Washington, DC until Captain America had come to him for help — was looking over at James Buchanan Barnes, the 106-year-old ex-Hydra assassin, sleeping on their shared couch with their fucking cat, and thinking that it nice to see him so at peace. 

But — it was. It was nice. Because Bucky deserved peace, after everything. And, in all honesty? Sam thought that he did, too, and so did Alpine, the kitten from a dumpster who had been making Bucky’s smiles a little less fleeting, and who had somehow brought both peace and chaos into this strangely new domestic life of theirs that Sam really could get used to.

He left Bucky to sleep after a little while, going out to pick up dinner for them, and by the time he came back, the other man had just woken up; he was petting Alpine, who was gnawing at his metal thumb and purring happily, and smirking at his phone.

"In your dreams, Wilson," he said, echoing his words from the day before, and Sam just shook his head.

"Keep tellin' yourself that, Buck."

Sam (1:14 pm): [Image Attachment]

Sam (1:15 pm): You’re going soft on me, Barnes.

Sam (1:22 pm): It’s a good look on you.

Chapter Text

Slowly but surely (and, really, maybe not even that slowly), Alpine became a part of their lives. 

Sam — not as begrudgingly as he may have been at first — ended up really liking her. Not because he suddenly developed an all-encompassing love for cats, but rather because she really, truly helped Bucky, in every way he could be helped. 

He was so much more relaxed, with her. He smiled more — and less fleetingly. He slept easier, with her curled up in the crook of his flesh arm, her purring in time with his breathing. He was happier, visibly, and it was damn good to see. 

But of course, as with everything, it wasn’t all good, and Sam was irritated to be woken only a couple of weeks after they had taken Alpine in by a shrieking mrrow right beside his ear that he recognized immediately from a particular phone call. 

He shot awake, blinking the sleep from his eyes. On his nightstand, his clock read 3:41 AM in glaring red letters, and Sam fixed a look onto the little white cat sitting at the edge of his bed, eyes shining in the half-light of his cracked-open bedroom door as she blinked innocently.

This was why he was a dog person. 

“What?” His voice was rough with sleep, reminding him that he should be sleeping. “Go bother Bucky.”

At the name, Alpine’s tail lashed. She rose to her paws and stalked up to him until her nose was inches from his face, and then she screamed, before leaping grandly off the bed and beginning a rapid series of meows, running to and fro towards the door and blinking imploringly at Sam, whose internal alarm was beginning to go off, loud as the cat’s panicked noises.

Bucky. 

“I’m coming,” Sam said as if she could understand him, all of his initial irritation disappearing in an instant. He stumbled to his feet, following her down the hallway to Bucky’s room; his door was ajar, and Sam pushed it all the way open — only to find Bucky curled in a ball on the floor in the corner of the room, blanket strewn across the floor, panting, ragged breaths loud in the silence of the dark.

“Buck —,”

“No,” Bucky snarled. His head jerked up, his shadowed gaze meeting Sam’s in the dark. He seemed to curl impossibly tighter in on himself, eyes darting from Sam to Alpine, who was staring at him, head tilted to one side. Bucky’s expression contorted. “Get away,” he spat.

“Okay. Okay, Buck,” Sam soothed. He took a step back, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender and crouching down to Bucky’s level. Alpine made to move closer, and Sam lowered his right hand to halt her as Bucky jerked away. 

He had some idea of what had happened to get Bucky into this state (he had worked with PTSD-ridden veterans for years, and hell, he had been one himself; he recognized this, this panic, this frantic pain), and he began to murmur gentle reminders — that it was the early hours of the morning of April 8th, 2025; that they were in their shared home in Washington, DC (a long way from Russia); that Bucky was okay, that he was safe, that he was free. With a cat.

“What happened?” Sam asked a few moments later, when he had gotten Alpine under control, and Bucky had marginally relaxed with help of his words. Even still, across from him, Bucky shook at the question.

“Nightmare,” he forced out eventually, spitting out the word like it was poison, and Sam thought that this reaction was more visceral, more pained, than his reactions to nightmares usually were — Bucky was one to suffer in silence. “Woke up, didn’t know where — where I was. The cat —,” His gaze found her again, and there was despair in his eyes. 

“I pushed her away,” Bucky whispered, saying the words as one would a confessional: guilt and shame weighed heavy in his voice, and his whole body seemed to shudder with them. “I almost — I could’ve — nearly hurt her — might have —,” He swallowed audibly. “I hurt her.”

Sam understood immediately, any and all of his confusion clearing in a single moment. He looked down at Alpine in his arms, who looked up at him with huge blue eyes, squirming in his hold unhappily; clearly wanting to bolt to Bucky. 

“You didn’t hurt her, Buck,” he said after a moment, keeping his voice gentle, soft, earnest. “She’s fine, see?” He picked Alpine up fully, holding her up, and Bucky stared, almost disbelievingly, as she wriggled, reaching her paws out towards him with a series of meowing noises. 

“You didn’t hurt her; you might’ve spooked her, sure, but she sure as hell ain’t mad at you. She loves you, man.” Sam gently placed Alpine down, and the little cat immediately bolted for Bucky, rubbing herself along his vibranium arm and purring loudly. Bucky remained stiff, frozen, but there was something close to soft hope on his face. He was trembling.

“You saved her from the trash,” Sam reminded him gently. “I think she understands more than you think about having a shitty past, man. But you didn’t hurt her — I promise you, she was fine, ‘cause she came into my room and screamed at me to come help out your sorry ass.” He smiled reassuringly, and with some amusement. “She can be an annoying little shit when she wants to be — really taking after you, huh?”

Bucky let out a strangled sound in the back of his throat at that, something between a laugh and a sob. He slowly picked up Alpine with both hands, cradling her to his chest. Her purring grew louder — the motor-like rumbling that Sam had gotten used to, the past couple of weeks — and she rubbed her face against his, making him smile. That time, it was fleeting, but that was okay. It wouldn’t be, Sam knew, in no time at all.

“C’mon, buddy,” he said, standing and clearing the room in a couple of strides, holding a hand out to Bucky, who looked up at him for a hesitant moment (as he always did, before accepting help) and then took it, letting Sam hoist him up.

“Wanna talk about it?” He asked. Bucky shook his head. “Okay. Wanna go back to sleep?”

“Think I’m just gonna stare at the TV until it’s time to actually do shit,” Bucky said, with that dry, flat humor of his that always made Sam slightly nervous, but amused all the same. 

“You want some company?”

“Nah, you can go back to sleep,” Bucky said. “‘sides, I got some already, don’t I?”

They both looked down at Alpine, cradled in the crook of Bucky’s vibranium arm, purring loud enough to vibrate across the metal. 

“You sayin’ she’s stealing my place as man of the house?” Sam asked seriously, and Bucky grinned. That time, his smile stuck around. 

“You said it, Wilson, not me.”

And so Sam left him in the living room, an old rerun of a football game playing muted on the TV, and when he emerged the next morning at a reasonable time to find Bucky asleep despite what he had said with Alpine curled protectively on his chest, ears pricked and eyes sharp with alertness — well, then that was something that he could smile at, too.

After that night, there was a shift. Not in Bucky — in Alpine.

It was almost as if she viewed Bucky as her kitten. 

Sam thought it was hilarious, but also, endearingly sweet. She would climb up onto his shoulders and lick his face with determination until he laughed; she would nuzzle her face against his cheek and purr so loud, Sam would be able to hear it from across the room. 

She would curl up in the crook of his vibranium arm, and remind him without so many words that he wasn’t a killing machine anymore, but that he was someone who could be gentle. Someone who could do more than wring the life out of things, but rather, bring life into them, just like when he had saved a little kitten from a dumpster, had gently, tenderly washed fleas from her even as she had screamed and scratched, had faced his fears to bring her to a doctor and then to accept her love back in exchange for his even though it was so clearly so painstakingly hard for him to do.

And despite himself — Sam found himself loving her, too.

(And yes, by proxy, Bucky. But that was a whole nother can of worms — one a hell of a lot more complicated than, surprise, you’re a cat person. So, y’know. That could wait for later to unpack in its entirety.)

Sometimes, Alpine was a little shit — knocking things over for no reason, screaming for no reason, scratching things for no reason (the leg of Sam’s dinner chair was shredded). She hated water so bad, she would practically run up the walls when someone so much as turned on a faucet, nearly giving Sam a heart attack every time he was just trying to wash his hands and it turned out she had been hiding behind the toilet (something that happened more than you might think).

But also . . .

She helped Bucky through the worst of his panic attacks, his PTSD episodes, when he wouldn’t let Sam come anywhere close. She would hiss and paw at him whenever he was hiding an injury after a mission, until he would begrudgingly relent and let Sam help him. She started coming with him to his weekly therapy appointments, and Bucky had confessed to Sam that she really did help. 

She was a constant reminder to him that he was James Bucky Barnes, no longer the Winter Soldier, but instead a man capable of gentleness and compassionate care. 

She was definitely worth it — more than just somewhat, despite Sam’s initial doubts.

Alpine was good to him, too, to Sam. She helped him on his bad days — during thunderstorms, or whenever he was thinking about Riley a lot. It was like she could sense when he was upset, and she would come to him, looking up at him with those big blue eyes and meowing plaintively before jumping up on his shoulders and kneading her love into his skin, purring all the while. And it was because of that, and because of everything she did for Bucky, that he liked her — he really did. Loved her, even.

He wouldn’t’ve thought he ever would, that first day when her screaming mrrows had nearly ruptured his poor eardrums. But he did. He liked the little white cat who got Bucky to smile, who got him to laugh, who got him to be happy. 

Frequently happy. No longer fleeting.

Frequently happy — all thanks to a dumpster kitten.