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Bucky walks over the threshold on the balls of his feet, silently, as if he were afraid of setting something off. The room is plain, with unadorned cream walls and a simple bed with simple white sheets and a simple comforter. A lamp on a bedside table, a small chest of drawers across from the bed. Pristine.
He immediately feels dirty. He clenches his fists and wants to leave, to fight his way out and get away from this room with its untainted walls and sheets and comforters and soft rug.
Instead, he turns to face Steve, who is leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. “Tony didn’t know what you like, so he just gave you something… modest. You can add things, of course.” Steve speaks cautiously as he tries to gauge Bucky’s reaction. His arms are crossed in a weak attempt to appear casual, but his right foot is tapping the ground and he has that wrinkle in between his eyebrows he gets when he’s concerned, a solitary line that stops before his nose, deep and worried.
What do I like? Bucky can’t remember.
“Thanks,” is all Bucky says. He tucks a strand of hair behind his ears and faces the chest of drawers, reaching out his right hand and pulling open the top drawer smoothly. It’s already been filled with clothes. Functional, comfortable, nondescript. He traces the logo on the inside of an undershirt. Fruit of the Loom. The cluster of grapes and the apple and the other fruits that make up the logo are the only splashes of color; everything else in the drawer is white, black, gray. Unnoticeable.
Steve clears his throat. “Look, I know I pressured you into moving here, but… you don’t have to,” he says gently.
“But you want me to.”
Steve shifts his weight and comes off the doorframe. “Of course I do, Buck. But it’s your choice.” He really means it.
Choice. Funny word. Not something Bucky has heard in a long time. Not something Bucky has made in a long time. A word brimming with opportunity and autonomy and freedom. He looks up at Steve. “I’ll stay.” He doesn’t register the words are coming out of his mouth until they’re already said, and then he thinks about regretting them but decides that time will come later.
Steve smiles so widely Bucky thinks the sides of his mouth will wrap around his head and meet in the back.
-----
He can’t sleep. Again.
The bed is too soft. The mattress digs into his back, pressing into his nerves and stabbing his spine. The pillow is too downy and sinks too easily when he rests his head so it covers his ears and envelops his skull. The bedsheets are too white and he thinks about how easily they’d stain with blood, bleeding through the fabric onto the mattress and onto the floor, seeping onto the fluffy carpet.
He stares up at the ceiling, his eyes following the fan as it whirs in a circle, round and round again, unending. He can just make out the blades slicing through the cool air, but can hear the sound of the fan without a problem, a low, insistent hum. It becomes louder, burrowing into his eardrums and wiggling into the crevices of his mind. Vwoom. Vwoom. Vwoom. Angrier. The fan keeps whirring. More urgent, more grating. He plugs his ears with his fingers, but he can still hear just as clear, so he unplugs them. Vwoom vwoom vwoom. The blades keep getting faster. His eyes keep following them. Louder and louder. He tries to close his eyes, but they stay open, mesmerized by the plane’s propellers.
No. No plane. Fan. There is a fan on my ceiling.
He frowns and narrows his eyes. Vwoom vwoom vwoom goes the plane. Fan. He can hear something in the distance, a command. He tries to listen harder.
He makes out a voice rough with years of smoke and abuse. It’s saying, “Jump!” somewhere far off. “Move your asses! Go go go!” He can see a mass of bodies rush out and jump into the air. Vwoom vwoom vwoom.
Bucky clenches his right fist. There is a fan on my ceiling. Someone screams and there is a storm of bullets.
“When the plane lands, you must hurry. There is only a short window of time.” A German voice, thin and high. But speaking in Russian. “Vy menya panimayete, soldat?”
“Gotovy soblyudat,” he hears himself say, somewhere in the distance. He sounds detached. His mind is foggy except for his directive. He can hear the propellers drowning out his own thoughts.
No. There is a plane—a fan—there is a fan on my ceiling. There is…
The German voice laughs. It’s changed, become wearier. “A little different than the last time you were here, no? It’s been a while. Same idea, better execution.” A small man, with a tuft of graying hair, sagging, fat cheeks and round glasses. Bucky thinks he’s talking about the plane, but he tries not to dwell on it because he shouldn’t think. “New mission. Simpler than the last time, but just as important to finish.” He can’t remember the last mission, but Bucky feels himself give a curt nod and picks up a sniper. There’s blood underneath his fingernails.
New mission. No. No mission. No mission. There is… on my ceiling. There’s something on my ceiling. Ceiling. What’s on my ceiling? Ceiling. I’m in a room. No plane. No plane. Bedroom. Bed. New York. New York City. No mission…
“There is a fan on my ceiling,” Bucky whispers.
-----
He wakes up at 4:30 am sharp. He doesn’t need to look at his newly-bequeathed phone to know the time. Force of habit. Always 4:30, always wide-eyed and ready, always alert. He can never go back to sleep. Especially not here, with these soft inviting sheets and warm comforter and smooth pillows. So he slides out of bed, pads across the carpet and out the door, into the kitchen. The small tour Steve gave him yesterday has already been ingrained in his mind: exit routes, weapons, strategical points. The kitchen.
He switches on a light, which flickers to life, dimly illuminating the room. The refrigerator is buzzing slightly. He walks over to the floor-length window and stares out hungrily, absorbing the scene playing out beneath him. The sun has not come up yet, but New York’s streets are already bright and chatter reaches him, even as high up as he is. Laughter and tears and everything in between. Someone is walking a dog, both woman and animal bundled up in heavy coats, even though it’s not that cold. It’s March. March 9. Practically summer. A man pushes a stroller and yells in his Bluetooth. Someone is setting up a pretzel cart.
He turns his back on them and opens a cabinet by the fridge. Pop-Tarts. Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Cocoa Puffs. He frowns and shoves aside some Lucky Charms, revealing a yellow box with a vaguely familiar image on it. CheeriOats. No, no—Cheerios. He frowns more deeply and pulls out the box. “Cheerios,” he murmurs as he sets it on the counter and shuts the cabinet. CheeriOats was a better name. But CheeriOats also reminds him of home and his mother and Rebecca and everyone left behind, so he pushes it out of his mind.
He is beginning to open the box when he hears a creak. Steak knives, top far left drawer near the fridge. He reaches and swiftly pulls out one, feeling the rough handle against his calloused skin. Natural. No one has entered the room, but he can tell they are near. Another creak. Then a voice comes from a shadowy room down a hallway to his right. “Hey, uh, I don’t think stabbing me is going to make you any friends.” Male, steady voice. “Might get you off on the wrong foot.”
I’m holding a knife.
Why am I holding a knife?
4:30 am, Avengers Tower.
Don’t need a knife.
Put the knife down.
Put the knife down.
He slides the knife back into the draw and shuts it with a soft clank, drawing a shaky breath. The figure steps out of the shadows and advances towards him until his face is thrown into the light. Barton. The archer. Still in his pajamas and with ruffled hair, clearly at ease despite almost getting gutted. Barton walks closer and holds out his hand across the island, and when Bucky grips it hesitantly, he notices it has no sweat on it. Calm. Collected.
“So, you’re Bucky.”
Bucky nods slowly as he releases Barton’s hand. He means to say sorry but stays quiet instead. Barton plows on.
“I don’t normally see anyone up this early,” he remarks, maneuvering himself around the island and towards the fridge.
“Um, habit,” Bucky murmurs as Barton grabs a pre-packaged smoothie. Mango Tango, a garish orange. Then Barton grabs a carton of milk and sets it on the counter near Bucky.
“People who eat cereal without milk are monsters,” Barton explains, opening his smoothie and walking back to his room. “Nice to meet you,” he calls over his shoulder. “Don’t try to kill anyone else.”
-----
“I heard you met Clint.”
Bucky nods. He waits for Steve to mention how Bucky almost embedded a knife in Barton’s skull, but nothing comes.
Bucky’s standing by his window, watching a pigeon on the building opposite take a shit. Steve is leaning against the doorframe again. Bucky can hear voices drifting in from the other rooms. Three males, two females.
“Tony, Clint, Bruce, Darcy, and Natasha are all out there,” Steve explains, ticking the names off on his fingers. “Darcy works for Jane. Jane is a Nobel-winning scientist and Thor’s girlfriend.”
“Sounds like a boring life.”
Steve laughs. He looks down and shrugs his shoulders when he laughs, and his blue eyes sparkle. Bucky remembers that. He can see that without looking. Bucky opens his mouth to say something—
“Steve!” calls a woman from the other room. Bucky hears footsteps coming down the hallway towards his room and he turns around as a pale face framed by dark brown hair appears in the doorway. Her blue eyes widen in surprise when she sees Bucky. “Oh!” she exclaims. “I totally forgot you were here. I just had seen Steve walk down here earlier so I followed him.”
Steve steps back from the doorway and the girl takes a step into the room, unfazed. Bucky shrinks into the corner instinctively, pressing his back to the wall. “Uh, Buck, this is Darcy,” Steve says, smiling at them both. Bucky tries to imitate him, then decides best not.
Darcy holds up a hand to wave, then addresses Steve. “Tony wants to prove you’re wrong about something. I was sent to fetch you,” she says. She turns around and looks at Bucky. “You can come too, if you’d like.”
He doesn’t, but thank you for asking anyway.
-----
“Stark doesn’t like me.” He says it baldly, lets it float in the room before him. His back is to his window and Steve is sitting on a new black chair.
Steve rubs the bridge of his nose. “I know.”
“Do you know why?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not gonna tell me.”
“Right.”
“You want me to figure it out by myself.”
“Yes.”
“That’s bullshit.”
Steve sighs. “Yeah.”
-----
2:34 am.
He’s reaching out and pulling tendrils of smoke back to him, trying to form something solid.
Your name… Your name is James. James Barnes… Bucky. James Buchanan Barnes. You’re a soldier. You were… In the army. You were something? A sergeant. Yes, a sergeant. You were a sergeant. Your best friend is Captain America. Steven Grant Rogers. The edge of the cool kitchen counter digs into his palm. You were taken by Nazis. Hydra. You… You were taken by Hydra… Zola. Arnim Zola. He made you… You killed… His shoulders heave. You’re okay now. You’re okay now. It’s not your fault. It doesn’t… It doesn’t matter anymore. Of course it mattered, who the fuck was he kidding? It’s not… You have—you had—a sister with brown hair like you. Becca. Rebecca. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes—
His knees give out and hit the cold floor with a crack, sending shockwaves throughout his body.
“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes,” he whimpers. The words are foreign on his tongue, forced. “You… are the fist of—you used to be… You’re not…” His brain feels fuzzy and he slaps himself across the cheek with his right hand. Again. Again. Harder. Again. His cheek stings and he knows there will be bruising later. “Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. You’re okay now.”
The words sound hollow.
“You’re okay now,” he repeats softly, bending his head so his hair obscures his vision. “You’re okay now.” His quick breath makes the sweaty strands in front of him flutter.
He hears footsteps approaching. Not soft and practiced like Barton or Romanoff, too heavy to be a female, not bothering to muffle his steps. Bucky silently straightens and slips towards his bedroom—
“Oh, shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you.”
Banner. Soft-spoken, hesitant, heavily apologetic. Bucky freezes and turns around. “You didn’t,” he mutters.
Banner flips on a dim light. “Sorry, I just, uh, wanted some more coffee.” He jerks an empty mug up into the air and shrugs. “Lots of science to do.”
Bucky nods in agreement, though he doesn’t really know what he’s agreeing about.
Banner rubs his bloodshot eyes underneath his glasses as he sets his mug down on the counter with a clunk and plugs in the coffee machine, which grumbles angrily to life. He pauses. “You know… it helps sometimes if you write things down,” he mumbles.
A “what?” slips out before Bucky can pull it back, stuff it down.
Banner looks sheepish as the coffee maker begins to rumble. “I, uh, overheard you.” He sees Bucky open his mouth and quickly overrides him. “Look, I don’t know or care about why you are out here at, uh”—he pulls his phone out of his pocket, checks the screen and slides it back in his pants—“2:40 in the morning, so you don’t have to explain. I get it. Trust me.” He smiles bitterly and pushes a button and coffee begins to fill his mug, the smell wafting over towards Bucky’s shadowy hallway. “All I’m saying is, sometimes it’s nice to have a list. Something tangible.”
-----
“What’s this?” Steve asks, grabbing a sheet of paper from Bucky’s bedside table.
“A list.”
Steve sets the paper back down with a soft “oh” of realization.
“Banner suggested it.”
“That makes sense.”
Bucky doesn’t say anything.
“You should add George.”
Something tickles the back of Bucky’s brain. He tries to grab it, but it floats away from his fingers. “Who…”
Steve grabs a pen from the bedside table and turns away, scribbling down the name. “Your father.”
-----
“Do you want me to turn it off?”
Bucky is taken aback. “Um, no, I was just—I just wanted a glass of milk.”
Romanoff turns from her position on the couch to face him. The only light is from the glowing TV screen illuminating the back of her head and he can barely make out the outline of her face. “Are you gonna heat it up?” she asks.
Bucky frowns. “What?”
“Are you gonna heat the milk up? It helps you go to sleep.” She’s talking from experience. He hears the undercurrent in her voice. He hears something else too that he can’t quite pin down. He tries to pry open a loose floorboard in his brain but only manages to make it more stubborn and fixed so he stops and lets it rest.
He is silent for a few moments, straining to make out her features.
“I don’t know how,” he mumbles. He feels pathetic, like a helpless child. His skin prickles with shame.
Romanoff slithers off the couch and walks towards him silently. “All you have to do is put it in the microwave,” she says, resting her elbows on the counter and cupping her chin with her palms. She doesn’t think he’s stupid. There’s a note of teasing in her voice. But not malice.
So he pours himself a glass of milk and puts in in the microwave for half a minute, punching the button helpfully labelled “ADD 30 SEC.” He takes it out, sips it, puts it back in for fifteen more seconds. He makes sure to open the microwave before the timer goes off and its incessant beeping wakes up the rest of the occupants of the tower. He turns back to Romanoff but she’s gone back to the couch, legs curled up underneath her. He can see the bridge of her nose and just discern red hair tickling her neck.
“If you want to watch, sit down, don’t just stare,” she chides, not moving her gaze from the screen. A man with a camouflaged face rises slowly from the water, steam swirling around him. Music steadily swells in the background as the figure swims towards shore.
“No, I… I always need to know the beginning of the movie. Otherwise…” He doesn’t know where he’s going with this thought and gestures vaguely around him, milk sloshing in his glass.
Romanoff cranes her head to look at him. “So, you’re a snob,” she concludes, and he hears a smile in her voice.
He almost laughs. “Yeah, I guess.”
She turns back to the screen as he leaves.
-----
“It’s your birthday tomorrow,” Steve says casually as he leans back in the not-as-new black chair.
“Oh.”
“Did you realize?”
Bucky opens his mouth, closes it, opens it. “Maybe. I… I think part of me did.”
“What do you want to do?”
Bucky furrows his brow. “I…”
Steve waits. He’s all patience.
Pause.
“What did I use to do?”
“Go dancing with girls and get just drunk enough to have a good time, but not have a horrible hangover the next morning.”
Bucky shakes his head. “I don’t… I don’t think I want to do anything.”
“That’s fine.”
“Maybe… maybe a cake. With ninety-nine candles on it, because I’m old as fuck.” He smiles. “A chocolate cake.” I like chocolate, he remembers.
Steve smiles. “That sounds just fine.”
-----
Bucky rhythmically drums his fingers against his thigh as he stares into the gaping freezer, deciding between rocky road and mint chocolate chip. He tentatively stretches out his arm towards the mint chocolate chip, feeling the cool air of the freezer raise goosebumps on his skin.
“I’d go with rocky road, personally,” Stark says from behind him. Bucky slams the freezer shut and turns to face Stark, whose left hand is shoved in his pocket. His right is restrained by a cast, the reason he’s not off fighting Doom with the team right now.
“Oh, did I startle you?” Stark asks, sounding like he doesn’t care what the answer is. “Thought it’d be impossible to do so, since you’re a super assassin and all.”
Bucky doesn’t move, but his shoulders tense and his breathing tightens.
Tony stares at him. “You know, you’re nothing like what my father made you out to be. He talked more about Golden Boy Cap than you, but you were there. He said you liked to flirt with girls, grab a beer, crack jokes.” His syllables are short and angry. “You”—he jerks his head towards Bucky—“are just making my water bill go up.”
“I still like beer,” Bucky mumbles.
Stark snorts. “That’s, uh, very funny.” He brings out his phone from his pocket and begins tapping away with his uninjured hand, still keeping eye contact with Bucky. “Hey, did you ever meet my mom?” he says suddenly.
Bucky feels the walls start to close in on him. A trap. His eyes begin to dart around the room, examining all the surfaces and objects nearby he could use to escape. He goes to move when suddenly a picture is projected into the space in front of him, blonde hair, green eyes, pretty even with wrinkles around her eyes and mouth.
“This is her,” Stark continues. “Great lady. Real great. Had to be, to rein in my dad.” He smiles angrily and minimizes the projection. “Ring any bells?”
Bucky brings his gaze back to Stark, shakes his head. “Should it?” he asks quietly.
Stark shoves his free hand and phone back into his pocket and rocks on the balls of his feet. “Are you—are you serious?” he says incredulously. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Bucky backs up until his spine hits the fridge. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do. Two years ago he would have crippled Stark with ease, aiming for the injured arm and using the kitchen cutlery to kill him, but two years ago is not now. Now, Stark doesn’t move, but keeps staring at him, drilling into his eyes. Bucky grips the handle of the fridge with his right hand, veins white against his knuckles. His mouth is dry and he can’t form words.
“Alright, RoboCop.” Stark’s words are almost snarls. “I’ll tell you why Maria Stark’s face should be familiar to you. Because you murdered her.”
Bucky’s hand falls limply from the refrigerator. He feels like he should be screaming or crying or something, but all he does is stare at Stark as the memories click back into place, the feeling of the bones of Howard Stark’s face crunching under his fist, wiping the blood from Maria Stark’s neck on his pant leg as he walks away. But he doesn’t yell or sob, he just watches Stark’s neck vein pulse with rage as his lip begins to curl.
“Do you even care?” Stark growls. “Do you even give a damn?”
“Of course I give a damn,” Bucky replies, and it’s true, he does give a damn, but he can’t bring himself to react with anything other than numbness. Not apathy. Disconnect. He hates himself for it.
Stark scoffs and Bucky sees the outline of his knuckles through his pocket.
“Don’t,” Bucky says softly, pleading.
“Don’t what?” Stark’s voice is tight and coiled.
“Don’t try to hit me. You… It won’t work.”
Stark pulls his fist out of his pocket and slowly loosens it, one finger at a time, painstakingly. His gaze is unfocused as he examines his knuckles, his shoulders slump forward and his breath shakes. “Why don’t you care?” Stark says faintly, not so much angry anymore as disappointed and broken.
Bucky can’t answer. He just walks past Stark and back into his bedroom.
-----
“What the hell, Tony?” Bucky could clearly hear Steve’s voice through the wall, even if he didn’t have his ear pressed against it like a petulant teen trying to overhear his parents.
Tony doesn’t respond quickly enough, so Steve barges onwards. “You can’t do shit like that. What were you thinking? Jesus. You were trying to provoke him, weren’t you?”
“I was trying to get some ice cream,” Tony responds levelly.
“Stop lying.”
“Judging by the way he reacted, it didn’t affect him at all.”
“Holy shit, Tony, you are acting like a child. Jesus. You don’t think he’s gone through enough? Could you not have handled this like an adult? What did you expect? No—hold on, I know. You expected to finally have someone to blame for all your issues. But you know what, Tony? That wasn’t him and you don’t have anyone to blame but yourself.”
But it was me.
“He killed my mom,” Tony says, so quietly that even Bucky’s enhanced ears have to strain to hear it.
“I know.” Steve sighs and Bucky can practically hear him deflate. “I know, Tony. But you can’t… God. I can’t believe you.”
“You know you can.”
Steve sighs again.
“I’m sorry, Cap.”
“Me, too.”
-----
Stark nearly jumps out of his skin when Bucky taps him on the shoulder. He yelps and the screwdriver he was clamping between his teeth falls to the ground with a clatter, and the whirring of electronics suddenly ceases. “Shit,” Stark mutters, clutching a hand to his heart.
“Sorry,” Bucky mumbles, grabbing the screwdriver and gently replacing it on the table.
Stark says nothing, but watches Bucky warily. His eyes, Bucky notices, are almost identical to Howard’s: same shape, same deep chocolate color, same intellect sparkling behind the guise of lazy narcissism.
Bucky speaks first. It’s stilted, pained. “Your dad, um… your dad remembered me.” He exhales slowly through his lips as he gathers his thoughts. “He… he called me ‘Sergeant Barnes’ before I… and… I didn’t even blink. Must’ve, uh, must’ve been pretty fucking awful to be killed by a ghost.” He absently curls his metal fingers into a fist and touches it with his right hand. Cold. “I know Steve said it wasn’t me who did that, but…” He shuts his eyes. “I still did it. And I remember them now. I remember every little detail, every damn thing.” He angrily unclenches his fist and rubs his eyes and opens them again. “But I just… I did… I hurt so many people and it gnaws at me every day but… I can’t explain it. There’s a, a disconnect. I have the memories, but I can’t link them to me now. Maybe because if I do then I’d go crazy.” He bites his lip. “I don’t know. I just—”
“I’m sorry,” Stark murmurs, interrupting Bucky.
Confusion flits across Bucky’s face. “What—”
“Because I had no right to do what I did. None. And, honestly, you showed more moral character the other day than I have in my entire life.” Stark smiles bitterly and grabs his screwdriver. “I can now see why you’re friends with the Star-Spangled Man with a Plan.”
Bucky clears his throat and trains his gaze at the ground. “You can’t hate me any more than I hate myself.”
“Oh, is this a competition now?” Stark asks, raising his eyebrows. “I love competitions. They fuel my ego, ’cause I always win. Especially self-hatred competitions.” He turns back to whatever he was tinkering with and resumes fiddling with the gadget. “Hey,” he says, clearing his throat, “you know, if that metal arm of yours ever acts up, I’ve been told I’m very good with my hands.”
-----
“Do you know Natasha speaks Russian?” Steve asks one day as he eats a panini.
“Da.” Natalia. Natalia speaks Russian.
“Oh. Wait—wait. You knew?”
“Da,” Bucky repeats.
Steve looks incredulous. “What?”
“I know.”
“How?”
“I remembered.”
“Wait,” Steve begins, throwing his hands up, “Buck, hold up for a minute. You—you remembered?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you gonna tell me about it?”
“Nyet.”
Steve sighs and shoves the remainder of his sandwich in his mouth.
-----
He hears Thor before he sees him, so he is ready when he feels a strong hand on his shoulder. Thor’s footsteps are confident and heavy, not clumsy, but rather fearless since nothing in this tower can pose a threat to him. Probably nothing in this realm can pose a threat to him. Bucky turns to greet the Asgardian, who heartily claps him on the back with a cheery “hello!”
Thor, Bucky thinks as his knees buckle slightly from the god’s blow, is full of contradictions. He is constantly smiling when not in battle, but his unnervingly blue eyes are just a little bit sad and a little bit old. He is physically imposing with his enormous biceps and looming figure, but saved a ladybug from the tower yesterday, overriding Stark’s objections and ignoring Clint’s extreme eye roll. No, not yesterday—two days ago: it is now 12:03am. The rest of the team has crashed, except for Banner and Stark, who are working on something scientific, which results in the occasional faint bangs from the basement. Bucky frowns as he realizes the time.
“Why are you still up?” he asks, gingerly stepping away from Thor, who takes the cue and moves away to the fridge and grabs an apple, which he takes a generous chunk out of. “Jet lag from Asgard to New York shitty?” He had, Bucky contemplated, only arrived two days ago, enthusiastically introducing himself to the newer team members and Bucky, whose arm was rapped on appreciatively.
Thor frowns. “What is jet lag?” he inquires seriously, cheeks bulging.
Bucky shakes his head. “Unimportant. Sorry,” he mumbles, waving a dismissive hand. “I just wanted to know why you were still awake, since everyone else has gone to bed.”
Thor shrugs and takes another bite of his apple. “I don’t generally sleep as much as you Midgardians. I don’t seem to need it,” he explains. Then he frowns again. “Why are you awake?”
Bucky copies Thor’s shrug, but more shame-facedly. “Force of habit. Go to bed late and awake early.” He drums his right fingers on the kitchen counter and stares at the nails he has bitten down to the bed, trying to ignore the knocking at the edge of his brain, reminding him why he stayed up late and rose early when he was not locked in a freezer. He scrunches up his face momentarily, squeezing his eyes shut as his left hand impulsively forms a fist, then slowly opens his eyes and relaxes his muscles, exhaling gradually.
Thor peers down at him with concern. The man is huge. Bucky is not small by any means, especially after Hydra fucked with him, but Thor positively towers over him.
“I wish I could help,” Thor says quietly, setting the core of his apple down on the counter. “No one deserves to be haunted both day and night.”
He’s speaking from experience, Bucky notices. Bucky wonders how old Thor is, just how much he’s seen, how much he’s caused. Probably a lot of shit, if the snatches of Norse mythology he knows are up to snuff.
“Is it your brother, for you?” Bucky asks, stopping the drumming. Something tells him that’s a rude thing to ask, but something else, something detached, is wondering too hard not to know. Bucky knows about New York, he knows about Sokovia; he’s done his research. He knows about Loki and the damage he has caused, directly or indirectly.
Thor’s eyes flash with something. Bucky can’t tell if it’s sadness or anger or both. Thor doesn’t immediately respond, opting to throw his apple core away first. “You’re very perceptive,” he says finally.
“I’ve had to be.” They made me.
Thor pauses again, and Bucky can see him mulling over his words underneath his blonde head. “It’s not only my brother,” Thor begins. “But it’s mainly Loki.” He smiles sadly at the ground. “I will always wonder what I could have done differently. He was not so bad as a child. Just mischievous. But…” He trails off. “I lost my brother, my mother, my brother again, and my father because of my brother.” The smile returns, bitter this time rather than sad. “That sort of thing does tend to make one restless.”
Bucky says nothing because he does not know what to say. All of us are fuck-ups. We are a merry band of fuck-ups, he thinks sardonically.
Thor goes to the fridge to grab another apple, which he bites into with gusto. His eyes are less sad when he smiles softly at Bucky and swallows the piece he was chewing. “You should go to bed,” he suggests.
Bucky snorts softly. “Funny.”
“They told me what Hydra did to you,” Thor says after a short silence.
Bucky’s jaw clenches. “Oh, yeah? Did they tell you what I did to other people?” he asks, his voice tinged red by anger.
Thor takes another bite and shakes his head while he eats. “No, because they do not hold it against you,” he replies levelly, unmoved by Bucky’s angry tone.
Bucky stares at him, confusion flitting across his face before it settles into stony indifference. “Their forgiveness doesn’t mean a damn.”
“It should,” Thor says quickly. “They are the most important people in your life. Their forgiveness is the only forgiveness that matters.”
“You sound like one of those inspirational posters ironically hanging in Stark’s office.”
Thor shrugs nonchalantly and finishes off his apple, tossing both cores in the trash can under the sink. “You are only awake right now because you can’t accept forgiveness. You are too busy blaming yourself.”
“By that logic, you haven’t forgiven yourself, either,” Bucky dryly points out.
Thor flashes another dark grin. “I told you, I don’t need as much sleep. Forgiveness, my friend, is another matter entirely.”
Bucky almost laughs. “What the fuck is wrong with all of us?” he wonders aloud, shoving his head into his hands and running his fingers through his hair.
Thor does laugh, a big, rolling thunderclap at odds with the dark subject matter. “A question I ask myself every day,” he chuckles. “Yet somehow I find myself still fighting with you.” He raises an eyebrow. “Something must be okay, then.” The eyebrow waits for Bucky’s response.
Bucky takes his head out of his hands and lifts a piece of hair from a metal slot, letting it drift to the floor. “I guess,” he says finally. “Something.”
-----
“What’s your favorite color?” he whispers.
Steve looks up from his sketchpad. “Why?”
“I used to know it.”
“It’s blue.”
Something moves in the back of Bucky’s brain. “Not dark blue. Light blue, like the sky.”
“Do you remember yours?”
“My what?”
“Favorite color.”
He purses his lips. “Orange, I think. No, not… not quite orange. In between. Like the leaves during autumn just after they’ve changed colors.”
“Yeah. You loved it. You’d go all the way to Central Park to see the leaves.”
“And we’d sit on the rocks and just talk. One time a bird took a shit on you.”
“Ah. We don’t need to bring that up.”
-----
The tuxedo is choking him. He tugs at his bowtie, trying to relieve the strain against his neck, but only succeeds in tightening it.
“You’ll make the bow off-center,” Natasha chides, reaching up to flatten his collar. “You need to look like you’ve been living in these things since you were two. Maybe younger. Your daddy probably dressed you in this when you first came out of the womb.”
Bucky makes a noncommittal grunt.
Natasha raises one delicately shaped eyebrow. “If this mission goes wrong, I’m blaming it on you.” She steps away to admire her handiwork, lavender dress sparkling in the light, swaying with her hips. He knows there is one gun and one knife beneath the dress, special lipstick and another knife in her silver purse. Her heels by themselves could gouge out several eyeballs.
He smiles weakly and turns to look at himself in the mirror.
Two hands. Flesh. He reaches out and touches his left hand, feeling the cold metal rolling underneath the fake skin. His hair is slicked back and his chin is free of stubble. He doesn’t recognize himself. Debonair, poised, polished, whole.
“You look handsome.”
Bucky snorts. “Thanks,” he says dryly, pivoting on the balls of his feet to face Natasha. Her flaming hair is pulled up into an artistic bun, one strand hanging loose and curling about her ear. She wears it like a second skin. He’s envious. The tuxedo itches at him, finds his skin and rubs it raw.
She tilts her head at him. “I’m serious,” she says, a small laugh escaping her lips. “Most girls would kill to have you as a date. I actually might tonight, depending on how much fun we have.”
It’s his turn to raise an eyebrow.
She grins at him and offers her elbow. “Shall we?”
-----
“Did you teach them how to swing dance?” Steve inquires, picking a hangnail.
“Ha ha. Very funny, old man,” Bucky says, scrolling through an article on his phone.
“No, but seriously. How was it?”
“Fine.”
“This is your first mission as a team member and all you’re going to say is ‘fine’?”
“Yep.”
Steve groans.
-----
The inconsequential chatter of high society surrounds him, a constant buzz like a swarm of angry bees. The women are thin waifs, the men are drenched in trust fund money, and danger permeates the air like poison gas. His fake flesh itches. He wants to tear it off and rip it apart and never see it again, but instead he holds Natasha’s hand with it, and he can almost imagine the warmth of her delicate fingertips. His right hand rests cautiously on her waist, feeling her skin pulse beneath him.
“I never understood waltzes,” he remarks, attempting to be casual while scanning over the top of her head for their target. The man is standing by a table, frowning as he talks to someone through a Bluetooth. “Is this even a waltz?”
“I thought you old people only danced to waltzes,” Natasha replies, grinning at him.
Bucky laughs. “Oh, no. We knew how to party. You people have no idea.”
“Oh, really?”
He remembers grainy music through gramophones, dragging Steve onto the dance floor and watching to make sure he wasn’t squashed, and he especially remembers the raging hangovers. “Really.” He grins.
“I’ll take your word for it, then,” Natasha says. Her eyelids are covered in faint purple dust, catching the light. She glitters. He just feels vaguely sweaty.
Behind Natasha, the target slips towards a door, quietly opens it, and goes into a narrow hallway, letting it swing shut softly.
Bucky immediately leans down towards his date, feeling her breath tickle his chin. “He just left through that doorway,” he whispers. Natasha giggles and wraps her arms around his shoulders, trapping him with his cheek pressed against hers.
“I say in five minutes, we go look for a nice private place over there,” she breathes before backing away and laughing again, a tinkling sound like a knife hitting a wine glass. Or a spoon. Fake, thin, right at home among the elite who dance around them. He takes his cue and chuckles softly, gently tugging at a loose strand of her hair and watching it bounce back into place. The red stands out even more than usual in this room of blondes bombshells and balding black, combed over in a feeble attempt at preserving what was lost years ago.
Red reminds him of a lot of things. It reminds him of the bleeding star on his left arm, it reminds him of carrying the mangled bodies of feeble soldiers screaming for their mothers, it reminds him of a book and of fresh blood contrasting with newly fallen snow. Of pain so intense he is momentarily blinded but keeps swinging, of lashes across his back and cuts on his arm. But he also sees his mother’s lipstick in red, he remembers buying strawberries for his sister. And he still can’t recall everything, but red reminds him of her, not just because of her hair but because red is the color of a feeling that cannot be put into words, a raging, fiery, burning passion that would put Romeo and Juliet to shame. He might not remember everything, but he’d be damned if he doesn’t remember red.
-----
The TV reporter stops mid-sentence, mouth frozen comically open, as Sam hits the pause button. Steve shakes his head like he knows what’s coming.
Bucky turns to stare at Sam. “Can you turn that back on?”
“No.”
Bucky raises his eyebrows.
“Dude, you gotta tell us about the mission sometime.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yeah, you sorta do. We’re a team. Teammates tell each other things, that’s what makes it a team.”
Bucky shakes his head, but he’s smiling.
“I hate you,” Sam mutters as he plays the TV again.
“Ah, fuck you,” Bucky says.
-----
He doesn’t pay much attention to Wanda at first, because she doesn’t draw much attention to herself. He knows about her, of course, and knows about her twin; he thinks she probably knows more about him than he does himself, what with her psychic powers and all. (“Neural electric interfacing, telekinesis, and mental manipulation,” Bruce explains patiently, hands fidgeting. Bucky nods and pretends like he knows what Bruce just said.) The thought is unsettling and he sometimes wonders why she smiles at him in the hallways because he damn well wouldn’t.
4:30am sharp he rolls out of bed and walks towards the kitchen, navigating by memory until his eyes adjust to the darkness. He doesn’t need any food or drink, and if he doesn’t eat now his stomach wouldn’t start growling until lunchtime and maybe not even then, but he could ignore the rumbling for much longer, for days, but the thought of accessible, free food draws him to the refrigerator each morning. Maybe he will make pancakes this morning, with chocolate chips and strawberries. Clint’s room is closest to the kitchen and Clint’s with his family right now, so sizzling pancakes won’t wake anyone up.
He is thinking of pancakes still when he rounds the corner and his eyes are greeted with artificial light, causing him to blink rapidly before focusing on the figure on a stool by the island, with her face in her hands and sweaty hair. Wanda. Bucky curses himself for not listening closer during his stroll to breakfast and tries to back up, but she turns her head towards him and spreads her fingers so one tired and startled pale green eye stares at him.
He freezes.
“Sorry,” she apologizes quietly, and begins to get up from the stool. Her face, already pale, is white as a bedsheet this morning, and her hands shake slightly as she pushes damp hair out of her face. “I did not think anyone would be coming in here at this time.” She’s too tired to be flustered but she’s clearly embarrassed.
Bucky whirs back to life. “Nothing to be sorry for,” he says, and takes a cautious step towards her. Now that she’s noticed him and he’s noticed her, he can’t help but feel a great deal of sympathy and empathy towards her. Her current state is one he’s intimately familiar with.
Wanda plays with the hem of her red pajama top, not meeting Bucky’s eyes. “I couldn’t sleep,” she explains, stating the obvious. Bucky sees a mug resting on the counter and wonders if it contains warm milk, if maybe she’s run into Natasha before. She follows his gaze and quickly grabs the mug and dumps the rest of its contents out in the sink (yes, milk) and places it in the dishwasher. “Sorry,” she says again.
“Do you want pancakes?” Bucky asks abruptly, not really thinking about it. He inhales sharply because he isn’t supposed to speak unless he knows exactly what he’s saying and even then he can’t because then they’ll—
No. No. Not anymore. Fuck them. No more.
He realizes his left fist is clenched and slowly loosens his muscles, taking in a deep, shuddering breath. Wanda is staring at him curiously, and she has stopped playing with her pajamas. Bucky takes another step forward, and another, until he is by the stove. “I was thinking of strawberry and chocolate ones,” he says, avoiding her eyes.
There is a slight pause before Wanda points out, “It’s four-thirty in the morning.”
Bucky pulls chocolate chips from a cabinet and shrugs. “It’s ten-thirty in Italy,” he replies levelly. He sets the chocolate chips down by the stove and grabs strawberries from the fridge, sniffing them before placing them next to the chocolate chips. His hands want to shake when they handle the food, but he cannot let them.
“Okay.” There’s a smile in her voice. Then he feels the smile slip as she murmurs, “Thank you.”
Why aren’t you afraid of me? he wants to ask, but only nods, back still turned to Wanda. Then he remembers that Wanda could tear him apart with a single thought, and maybe that’s why she’s so bold. He pushes the thought out of his mind and methodically makes his pancakes and lets Wanda flip them while he pours them some cold milk. Then the pancakes are done and presented on plates and he serves them and they eat in silence. Not an uncomfortable silence, but not comfortable, either. Just there.
“I hope,” Wanda begins suddenly, scraping the last piece of pancake off of her plate, “that you are not upset I volunteered with Hydra. I did not—I did not know—I had no idea what they would…” She trails off and her voice quivers. “I was just trying to help. I was wrong. I was so wrong and I’m very sorry.” She sets her fork down, syrup dripping off the prongs, and bites her lip. Bucky thinks maybe she’s about to cry. “I’m very sorry,” she whispers.
Bucky stares at her, blinking.
“They sure did a number on both of us, huh?” he finally says. Hydra’s little pet monsters.
Wanda looks up at him and gratefully smiles with no trace of hesitation and he is taken slightly aback at the sudden display of dazzlingly white teeth. She’s damn strong, he muses. Remarkably unscathed considering all the shit she’s gone through.
“Thank you,” Wanda says, and while her eyes are still tired they shine a bit brighter. It’s a nice feeling, Bucky decides, to be the person helping someone instead of being helped. He smiles at her and takes up her plate to rinse off in the sink, where he has to rub the syrup off the plates with a sponge because it wants to cling to the plate with every ounce of its being.
Maybe next time he’ll try banana pancakes.
-----
“Out of the two of you, Barnes is the better kisser,” Natasha idly remarks as she swirls her spoon around her bowl of cereal.
Steve raises his eyebrows. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me, Rogers.”
Steve turns to look at Bucky incredulously. “Did you two—?”
Bucky shrugs. “Maybe.”
“You know, I really thought I had my technique down pat. Dammit.” Steve rubs the bridge of his nose. “This is embarrassing.”
“However,” Natasha interjects, “neither of you were that good.”
She walks away, turning her back on Steve and Bucky’s overlapping insults and complaints.
-----
He’s in the kitchen again. 3:17 am. New York is already starting to wake up as he watches from the top of his tower. A raccoon darts across the dimly lit street and into an alleyway. Someone yells something in Spanish, another in English, one in French. He inhales and exhales like a malfunctioning air duct. Shaky, rattling breaths.
Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. You’re an Avenger.
He doesn’t want to keep breathing but he does; in, out, in, out, in, out like he’s practiced, but he feels like his lungs are filling with water and he can’t keep afloat. He doesn’t sink though, he just flounders. Flails. Helpless.
Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. You’re Captain America.
His knees give out again and he hits the floor again, harder than the last times and a shard of pottery from a shattered mug cuts his skin, but he doesn’t betray any pain, he just stays half-kneeling on the floor and stares blankly at his hands. His hands aren’t fit for… They can’t handle… Why the fuck did Steve pick him? The fist of— no. No.
He closes his eyes and clenches his fists. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. You’re Captain America. Your best friend Steve is…
His breath quickens and he feels dizzy even though his eyes are closed. He shifts his weight and the mug digs deeper into his skin and this time he grimaces but doesn’t move to take it out. The pain isn’t that bad. He’s had worse.
He doesn’t flinch when Natasha creeps up on him and sinks down next to him because he is too damn tired to react. He just opens his eyes and turns to peer at her blearily through a curtain of hair.
“How long have you been awake?” she murmurs, reaching out a hand to touch his cheek.
“I don’t know,” he lies. Thirty-nine hours, twenty-eight minutes.
She places her other hand on his knee but immediately draws it back as she feels the blood that has soaked through his pants. Silently, she grasps the shard embedded in his skin and smoothly pulls it out, setting it down on the floor beside them, in the middle of all the other pieces. He will have to clean up the red from the floor later.
“You can say no,” she says gently.
Bucky shakes his head. “You know I can’t.”
She sighs and puts a hand back on his knee. “Yeah, but I thought you would benefit from hearing you have an option.”
“Thank you,” he mumbles.
She moves in closer to him so their legs are touching. He can see the bags under her eyes and the dried blood caking her cheek, can sense that she has been awake just as long as he has. He grabs her hand in his and clutches it tightly, feeling the veins pop in his knuckles. “I don’t know what to do, Natalia,” he whispers.
Her thumb strokes the stubble on his jawline. “I don’t think there’s anything you can do besides keep going.”
“How?” Bucky begs raggedly. He sees a tear roll down Natasha’s cheek, cutting a clean pathway through the dirt and sweat, as he pushes his head into her chest and feels her arms encase him. Her shoulders are trembling.
“We’ll figure out a way.” Her voice is constricted. He doesn’t think she quite believes her own words.
He tries to form syllables in his mouth but all that comes out is a distorted scream mingled with a guttural sob, animalistic and crazed, tearing at his vocal chords and ripping through his throat. He clutches at her hand like if he lets go he won’t stop falling and his shoulders heave as tears land on her lap. Natasha just strokes the top of his head, letting him howl into her shoulders, repeating “it’s okay, James.” Of course it isn’t fucking okay, and he knows it and she knows it, but hollow words are all they can say. She lets him wail until his throat is raw and his tear ducts are empty, then wordlessly leads him towards the shower and scrubs the grit and blood off of him, massaging his scalp with shampoo and watching the water run down his back until the dark grime has gone from the surface and has fled into the drain, taking care of him.
Neither of them can sleep but simply stare upwards at the dark ceiling, holding each other in the blackness and feeling the rhythmic rise and fall of their chests.
-----
“You know you can’t get drunk, right?” Tony asks, sliding into the stool next to Bucky, constant layer of derision and scorn faded and replaced by bloodshot eyes and shaky hands.
Bucky stares at the bottom of the shot glass, examining the distorted reflection of the counter through it. “Yes,” he says shortly.
“Okay. You also can’t get liver damage—I assume—so you can’t drink yourself to death.”
“Yes,” Bucky repeats sourly.
“So why are you drinking? Vodka tastes shitty.”
“Maybe you and I just have different taste buds.”
Tony snorts derisively. “No. If there is one universal truth in this world, it’s that straight vodka tastes terrible. So. Why?”
Bucky slides the glass away from him and it screeches against the granite counter. “I don’t know, Tony,” he says with clipped syllables and a tight throat.
Tony blinks. “Okay,” he says.
Bucky shuts his eyes and exhales heavily. Sorry, he almost says, but the words don’t come.
Tony shifts his weight in his stool and it creaks. “He loved you, you know,” he begins awkwardly.
“Of course I fucking know,” Bucky says bitingly. “I loved him. You loved him, Natasha loved him, the whole goddamn world loved him.”
“No,” Tony corrects him, only slightly fazed. “The world loved Captain America. Not the guy we knew.”
Knew. The word slices through him like a knife, cutting through his muscle and sinew, twisting in his stomach. Bucky’s left fist clenches, metal slots clicking into place.
Tony sighs heavily as his shoulders sag. “If you want to get alcohol poisoning, at least try flavored vodka,” he suggests quietly. “I speak from experience.” He silently pushes out his stool, stands up, and walks away. Bucky watches his retreating back and shoves down the urge to call Tony back, to talk to him, but he just slides the glass back and pours another shot, barely registering the burning sensation as the liquid travels down his throat.
He wishes to God he could get drunk, but fate is a fucking cruel bitch and he has nothing to hide behind anymore.
-----
The funeral the day after next is small. The presence of so many superheroes ready to snap in the church is enough to deter the paparazzi, or at least push them back several blocks. The leaves are changing in Brooklyn, from green to red and orange and yellow; Bucky doesn’t notice until Natasha points it out. He only grunts in reply, but she catches him brushing some with his hand, gently, like he’s afraid they’ll break under his fingers.
His hands shake when he delivers the eulogy but his voice does not break, maybe because he’s too far broken himself. He talks about Captain America because that’s what they want to hear. They don’t want to hear about Steve Rogers getting beat up in ninety different alleyways by ninety different guys, or Steve Rogers crying when his parents died and only Bucky saw, or that time the 107th threw tomatoes at Steve Rogers and someone flashed their ass to the stage. No, they want to hear about Captain America saving the Howling Commandos, saving Bucky, saving the world and sacrificing himself, saving the world again and saving Bucky again over and over. They want to hear about the knight in shining armor and not the boy with the bloody knuckles and black eyes. So he tells them about the knight.
The whole affair is subdued, even the crying. Only silent tears roll down cheeks, and some don’t even cry at all, like Sharon, who just sits and stares vacantly at the shining black coffin in front of her. Bucky ends his speech and listlessly makes his way back to his pew, where Natasha is, and they sit while the preacher drones on and the organ plays a requiem. He thinks it’s Fauré—the one they played and sang at Peggy’s funeral. Fitting.
The reception’s food looks delicious, but Bucky can’t taste anything on his tongue. The food just dissolves in his mouth and he swallows automatically, like a machine. Natasha hovers around his elbow and graciously accepts compliments bestowed on the moving eulogy on behalf of Bucky. He doesn’t see the rest of the team but he does see Sharon, who embraces him softly and he can feel her shoulders tremble but her eyes are clear when they break apart.
“I’m sorry for the eulogy,” he mumbles before he can stop himself. He’s sorry for the glossy stories he told, he’s sorry he didn’t get there in time, he’s sorry for Sharon and he’s really fucking sorry—
“It’s okay,” Sharon whispers, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s what they needed.” She tries to smile bravely and almost succeeds.
Bucky doesn’t even try.
-----
“He gave you the shield. You should wear the outfit,” Clint says.
Bucky scratches his nose. “No,” he states firmly.
“People need to see that outfit.”
“I’m not wearing that ridiculous costume,” Bucky retorts angrily.
Clint sighs. “Whatever. Not my problem.” He pauses. “Actually, it is. You’re part of the team now. Wear the damn costume.”
Bucky sets his jaw and stubbornly shakes his head.
Clint throws his hands up into the air in exasperation. “Why the fuck did I not stay retired?” he grumbles.
-----
His first time out officially as Captain America ends with two bullet wounds to the stomach and one to the leg. There’s a moment in the hospital when he screams something awful and the team worries he might not make it but then half an hour later the doctor comes out and says he’ll be okay, he’s damn lucky he has accelerated healing and they all can relax a little bit.
They say after only one day that he can go back to the tower so he does, and everyone there fawns over him a bit when he comes back, though Sam’s version of fawning includes smashing a pie into Bucky’s face and pointing and laughing. The doctor said he shouldn’t move much for two more days, but Bucky ignores the advice and goes everywhere without assistance, shrugging off Tony’s sarcastic suggestion of a walker. “You are, after all, as the kids say nowadays, old as balls,” Tony points out as Bucky fumbles around in the kitchen for some lunch one afternoon.
“Fuck off,” Bucky says pleasantly in return, and makes himself a peanut butter sandwich.
That night, he takes off his shirt before bed and feels his stitches strain against his skin before he can see them. The wounds are sewn up nicely and will leave very little scarring, though they did hurt like a bitch to get. The flesh is still a little angry but well on its way to being normal again, so soon enough he will have to pick up the shield again and find a different outfit, since his old black getup is now ruined with his own blood. He gingerly pokes the area around the stitches, wincing each time his fingers make contact, but noting that it hurts much less than yesterday. Not a very scientific assessment, but it works.
The wound on his leg is of minimal importance. The bullet barely grazed his thigh; it didn’t even need stitches. He brushes his fingers over it, then moves them back up to his torso, running them over a knife scar adjacent to his new injury. The skin is raised and bumpy—it had been treated and healed, but in an unrefined manner that left a mountain ridge where the blade had sliced him. He can’t remember where it’s from, or when it’s from. Not that it matters, really. He has many more nearly identical souvenirs covering his body, with similar stories to go along with them.
He lets his hands fall limply and walks over to the bathroom to brush his teeth, but stops with his hand halfway to his toothbrush.
“I look like shit,” he remarks to no one in particular.
He thought he had refined the “no-sleep-for-several-days” look over the years until it couldn’t get much worse, but apparently he was wrong. His eyes are surrounded by skin several shades darker than everywhere else, and thin red lines stretch out from his pupils to his eyelids. On his chin is stubble well past five o’clock shadow, his hair looks greasy in the fluorescent bathroom light, and there is also a magnificent bruise sprouting across his collarbone that he hadn’t noticed before, yellow on the edges turning progressively darker until it was almost black in the center.
Our nation’s hero, Captain America, he thinks darkly. If only they could see me now.
He snorts and finishes reaching for the toothbrush, lifting it only a few centimeters out of the cup it calls home before putting it back down.
“Dammit,” he mutters to his battered reflection.
He reaches into the cabinet hidden behind his mirror and grabs his razor and shaving cream, sets them down on the counter, reaches for a comb, then shakes his head and realizes he needs to take an hour-long shower to fix his hair, most likely. Maybe he can borrow some of Natasha’s shampoo, the one that smells like lemons but softer. So he shaves first, accidentally nicking himself on the curve of his jaw twice, and spends ten minutes in the shower, practically a luxury. (He remembers he already stole some of Natasha’s shampoo. Really, he thinks, I am damn smart.) Steam has accumulated on the mirror, but by the time Bucky puts on his sweatpants again, it has begun to slide off. He grabs his damp towel and rubs it over the glass noisily, hungrily searching for his own face. When it materializes, he frowns. No extreme five o’clock shadow and better looking hair, but the bloodshot eyes and flowering bruise still glare relentlessly at him, and he would still probably make babies cry if they saw his face. He groans and resignedly begins to brush his teeth.
The next morning, Bruce says he looks “a lot better” and Sam says he resembles bird shit so he figures maybe he’s okay. “Baby steps,” Bucky tells Sam.
“No baby can walk far enough to reach your goal, buddy,” Sam replies, grinning as he spreads jam on his piece of toast.
-----
“How’s it fit?” Sam asks.
Bucky scratches at the white star sewn onto his chest. “Tight.”
“Yeah, well, the ladies are gonna be all over that.”
He licks his lips. “I feel… I don’t know. I feel like I’m not… like I’m not worthy or something.”
Sam snorts. “That’s bullshit. Have you been listening to Thor again? You do realize the guy’s from outer space and his damn hammer does not obey the laws of physics at all. You can’t listen to him.”
Bucky shrugs. “I don’t know. It just feels like, like I’m too dark or something.”
“Jesus, man.”
“I look too dark. My hair’s brown.”
“When are you gonna accept that you’re Captain goddamn America?”
“When I feel like I am.”
“Which will be never if you keep being this negative. Look, dude, you and Steve… you were like two sides of the same coin. That’s cheesy as hell, but it’s true. The sun just shone on his side a bit more so he looked ‘brighter’ or whatever the fuck you’re going on about. But you don’t deserve this any less.”
Bucky doesn’t reply.
Sam sighs. “Look, the world’s gotta have Captain America. Even if you don’t believe you are, they gotta believe. Convince them even if you can’t convince yourself.”
“Always so eloquent, Birdman. Thank you. I’m inspired.”
“Fuck you, Barnes.”
-----
Bucky winces and pulls his fingers away from the purple bruise on his side, sucking in air sharply through his teeth. “Shit,” he mumbles. “Loki is an ass.”
Across the room, Natasha throws her head back and laughs, hair catching in the early morning light. “Tell me about it,” she says. “You’ve only just met him.”
Bucky slowly, painstakingly peels his shirt off his bloody torso and dumps it on the floor before gingerly reaching to grab bandages off the counter. “How the hell did he fake his death?” he grumbles, beginning to wrap the bandages around his ribcage, trying to ignore the stabbing pain in his side.
“He’s fucking crazy, that’s how,” Barton mutters, clenching his jaw as he stitches up a cut on his leg. “Piece of shit.”
Tony snorts. “That’s putting it lightly.” He’s sporting a shiner on his left eye and his lip is split, but his suit took the most damage. He’s cradling a piece of metal in his arm as he twiddles a screwdriver around, frowning. “Took us shorter this time around to beat him, though,” he points out, ripping out a nail from the piece of his suit carefully balanced in the crook of his elbow.
“Hopefully Thor keeps him in his jail cell this time,” Natasha says, bending over to pick up Bucky’s shirt off the floor. “And this is a sanitary room, you know, so next time watch where you’re putting your shit.” She raises an eyebrow at him sternly, but he pretends to be preoccupied with his bandaging, though his waist has been thoroughly covered.
“All the paps today seemed impressed by Captain America,” Sam says, grinning at Bucky. “Not too shabby. Not too great, either,” he amends hastily, rearranging his features so he looks disapproving. It doesn’t work.
Bucky makes a noncommittal grunt and rinses his face in the sink, watching the water run red and slosh down the drain.
“Accept the damn compliment, Barnes,” Tony orders, looking up from his wrecked suit. “You earned it.”
Bucky turns the faucet handle and the water stops running. He wipes his hands on a towel and leaves a slight red tinge and mumbles a quiet “thanks” and sits down on a nearby stool. Sam groans and throws his hands up in the air. “This is why I don’t try to be nice to you,” he says, exasperated.
Bucky ignores the comment and begins to examine a deep gash on his arm, and Tony says something to Bruce, lurking in a corner and Sam begins to rummage around for more bandages and they leave Bucky to tend to his wounds.
He feels Natasha’s frown from across the room before he sees it as her face bends down in front of his. “James,” she says sternly.
“Natalia,” he says mockingly.
She clamps down a smile to maintain her pretext of scolding. “Learn to accept your victories, please.”
Bucky picks at a hangnail and avoids her eyes.
“I’m serious,” Natasha says, cupping his chin in her right hand and tilting his head upwards, forcing their eyes to meet. “You did damn well.”
Bucky slowly reaches his hand up to grasp her arm and takes a shaky breath. “He fucked with my head,” he whispers and prays that the others can’t hear him. “Christ, he really—”
Natasha places her left pointer finger on Bucky’s lips, stopping him mid-sentence. “I know. I know what he can do. You don’t need to tell me.” She moves her finger from his lips to his hair and gently pushes a strand behind his ear, then smiles just a little bit. “But you’re okay. You’re okay, right?”
Bucky gives her a roguish, battered grin. “Oh, never. But I’ve been a lot worse.”