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Bucky Barnes didn’t like pet stores.
It was always too crowded, too cheerful, too much of everything. Bright fluorescent lighting buzzed overhead, reflecting off neat aisles stacked with pastel-colored packaging and dog bones with a faint smell that made his nose crinkle. There were kids running around, a small dog barking at its reflection in a mirror, and some cheerful pop song chirping over tiny speakers. He stood awkwardly near the entrance, his arms crossed over his chest like a shield, trying to ignore the overwhelming scent of artificial bacon and catnip.
He’d only come along under protest. Yelena had “asked” him to accompany her along with Bob, meaning she pestered him for what seemed like forty-eight straight hours until he gave in just to shut her up. Something about needing a new harness for her guinea pig, which still had no name, and how “grumpy past-murderer soldier men needed to be reminded that joy is a thing.” He suspected she’d done it on purpose, forcing him out into the world, but he couldn’t quite summon the energy to be mad about it. Not really.
While she disappeared into the harness area with Bob tagging behind, humming along to the song playing overhead, Bucky lingered near the cat enclosure, more out of boredom than curiosity. The cats inside were all curled up or pacing behind glass, largely uninterested in the customers around them. He was about to turn away when something soft and silent brushed against the heavy tread of his boots.
He glanced down.
A snow-white cat sat at his feet.
She looked up at him with unblinking blue eyes, her fur plush and bright against the dull concrete floor. She wasn’t part of the display – no tag, no collar – and she didn’t seem particularly bothered by the noise around them. She just stared, as if taking full measure of the man towering over her.
Bucky didn’t move, unsure of what to do. Most animals didn’t like him; the moment was either too tense, too quiet, or too wrong. But the cat stepped closer and, to his stunned disbelief, gracefully pawed at the tip of his boot.
“Where the hell did you come from?” he muttered, glancing around.
No answer, of course. Just a low, steady purr vibrating through his shoe as the cat made herself comfortable, curling into a warm ball and resting her chin against the edge of his shoelaces. She didn’t flinch at his vibranium arm when he tried to gently scoot her off; she simply swatted at the fingers and pressed in closer, slightly licking his hand in return.
He wasn’t exactly planning on adopting a cat that day.
But when an employee finally came over and recognized the feline as “Alpine,” a temperamental rescue that had been returned twice, something inside Bucky tightened. Apparently, she didn’t warm up to people easily: being aloof, distant, and stubborn most of the time.
“She’ll come around if she likes you,” the girl had shrugged, then blinked when she saw the cat purring in Bucky’s lap. “Huh. That’s– new.”
Later, he walked out with a cat carrier, a bag of litter, two kinds of dry food (because he didn’t know which was right), and a white cat who seemed to be completely content with the day's developments. Though Bob and mostly Yelena were an earful on the way back, constantly nagging and bugging him about his “soft-spot for animals” and how “she was right with bringing him along because he’d never get this experience again.” He rolled his eyes but ultimately let out a soft hum, watching as Alpine sat in her carrier like royalty in a chariot, blinking slowly at him the whole ride home.
Living with Alpine was a quiet lesson in patience.
She was independent, often ignoring him entirely in favor of napping in whatever sunbeam she could find. But when Bucky had a nightmare, when the ghosts of Hydra clamped their icy grip around his throat and the old torture echoed in his bones, she was there. Not in a loud, needy way. She simply appeared, leaping onto his chest or curling against his side, a silent anchor. Her purring drowned out the screams in his head, and her warmth reminded him that he was here. Alive. Home.
He didn’t tell anyone how much she meant to him. Didn’t have to.
They figured it out on their own.
It’d been a lazy Saturday evening for Bucky, he’d done nothing all week besides researching the best care for Alpine he could function with. He was on the floor, leaning against the wall with Alpine sprawled across his lap, her fluffy white body rising and falling with quiet breaths. His mind had drifted, unusual, but not unwelcome. A muffled buzz on his phone failed to reach his ears, his focus steady on Alpine. In the soft light of early evening, with the sounds of the city muffled by old windows and Alpine’s purring reverberating through his ribs, he felt still. At peace.
Then the buzz came again – louder. He gently moved Alpine off his lap, shuffled sideways, and reached for his phone to analyze the messages carefully. When he read Yelena’s text, “Group dinner. Don’t fight it. Bring the cat,” he stared at the message for ten solid minutes. Then he reread it, sighed, fed Alpine, and got dressed like a man heading into battle.
They were meeting at some safehouse apartment that Val had “loaned” them for decompression purposes, which meant no surveillance, no debriefing, and no missions. Just walls, food, and a group of unstable heroes trying to learn how to be people again.
Alpine traveled in a sleek grey carrier, silent and unimpressed. She only meowed once, and Bucky couldn’t tell if it was encouragement or judgment.
The safehouse smelled like burnt garlic bread. Yelena was in the kitchen, stirring pasta with an aggressive intent. Bob sat quietly on the floor beside the couch, legs crossed, his attention drawn toward a nearby window where Ava stood. Her arms were folded as she seemingly took watch, like anyone who neared would be a hazard. And on the couch–
“Oh god,” Bucky muttered.
Alexei and John were in the middle of a very intense arm-wrestling match. The table between them groaned under the pressure. A beat. Then the table cracked clean down the center, and both men went sprawling onto the carpet.
Dinner was weird. Chaotic. Too many overlapping conversations, too much laughter, and food that was only mostly edible.
But no one fought.
Well, no one bled.
And when the plates were cleared and the noise finally softened, Bucky found himself sitting on the floor beside Bob, Alpine draped across both of their legs like a peace treaty.
Ava sat nearby, sipping something he couldn’t make out, her posture finally relaxed. John and Alexei had moved on to comparing combat stories, while Yelena had slouched herself on the couch, her legs dangling off one end.
Bucky leaned back against the couch, exhaled slowly, and let it settle in: The noise didn’t bother him.
For once, it wasn’t too much.
He didn’t know why he chose them, but they were like another completed piece to his scrambled puzzle of feelings.
Alpine purred louder, a low hum leaving Bucky’s lips.