Archive of Our Own

During his first session with Dr. Raynor, Bucky doesn't say a word.

He hums at the appropriate intervals, nods and grimaces, stifles a laugh when she has the gall to ask, "How do you feel?" She says it so sincerely, mouth set in a frown, like she expects a genuine answer.

It isn't until she puts her pen down and crosses her arms that he realizes she does expect a genuine answer. No problem, he can just bullshit his way through this. He opens his jaw, works it, feels the words catch in his throat and die there. He looks from the Doctor to the floor and back again, trying to make his voice work. Just say something, he thinks, just say anything. Predictably, nothing comes out. Five minutes in, and he's already making a terrible case for not needing court-mandated therapy. He panics.

The room spins and all of a sudden he's in Siberia again—Austria, Russia, Germany—fists clenched, back in another fucking chair, being asked questions he doesn't know the answer to. He fights the urge to bolt, busying himself with picking at the seams of his jeans, reminding himself it's denim, not Kevlar.

You're not bulletproof. You don't have to be bulletproof anymore. At ease, soldier. Answer the question.

The air conditioner hums. Bucky is silent.

Dr. Raynor eyes him curiously, repeats, "How do you feel, James?" as her pen scratches into her spiral notebook.

He feels like she's looking for a very specific response—input A, output B—but the only word he lands on is 'lost.' That seems like an understatement, or maybe just a lie, so he stays quiet. There were no rules about waiting it out. Sixty minutes tick by at a snail's pace, and he is dismissed with a reluctant nod. As he turns to leave, he hears Dr.Raynor pick up the pen again, scribbling something down with a deep, resounding sigh.

Well, one down. A lifetime to go.

This pattern endures for the next several sessions. He sits on that grey couch, tries to save face and sit calmly, inching through the minutes with unabating silence until Doctor Raynor concedes to the clock and lets him go. Afterwards, she picks up the pen. Bucky tries to make peace with it.

She gives him three rules. He abides by them. Reluctantly.

At some point, the doctor suggests he get a cell phone. "You should try to reconnect with the world," She says. "You can't let it move on without you." Her patience thins more and more as the sessions go by. This time, her words almost sound like a threat.

He settles for a used flip phone with a battery that lasts days on a full charge. He uploads two contacts into it: Dr. Raynor and Sam Wilson, sending a curt explanatory message to each. Responses flood in almost immediately, Sam's contact in particular, with texts coming in about every other day. He catches snippets of the messages, eyes snagging on Sam's fondness for android emojis, bids for connection cut off by ellipses in his notifications bar. He can't bring himself to read any of them.

Sit on the grey couch, pick at the stitches, stonewall the shrink, ignore Sam, go home, and stare at the ceiling. He's made quite the routine for himself.

At last, Dr. Raynor's patience draws to a close.

They're sitting across from each other as usual. Bucky has his gaze trained on her worn, grey sneakers bouncing against the worn, grey floor, all wrapped up in an uncomfortably sterile, grey room. Was she aware there were other colors? Good grief.

Twenty minutes to go.

"Do you know why you're here?"

That's a new one. Another input-output, so Bucky shrugs, looks somewhere off to his left through the office window. A mourning dove toddles along outside on the mulch. Also grey. Cool.

He can feel Dr.Raynor trying to stare a hole into his head.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, James," She finally bites, "use your fucking words."

On instinct, Bucky says, "Swearing seems a little unprofessional."

Dr.Raynor throws her hands up. "He speaks!" Which is enough to drive Bucky straight back into stubborn silence.

It only lasts so long. The question gnaws at him, bubbling uncomfortably in his chest like Mentos in a cola. Why was he here? It clearly wasn't fucking working. Or perhaps it was considering he hadn't killed anyone lately. He ought to get a sticker or something. He should get in touch with Ayo.

Raynor picks up her pen. He panics.

"I don't know."

Like that's ever been an acceptable answer.

Denim, denim, denim.

"You don't know?" Raynor asks, raising an eyebrow.

"It's court-mandated. Says so in your," he gestures, "your file on me, right? Why else would I be here?"

"Is that what you think?"

Bucky scoffs. "Well, sorry, Doctor, but it's not like I get up every Wednesday chomping at the bit just to sit in silence with you for an hour. No offense."

"And what about now?" She asks.

"What about it?"

"We're not in silence anymore. We're holding a conversation. The first conversation since," She pretends to ponder it for a moment, "Oh, well, since ever! What changed?"

"Maybe I got tired of seeing you write so much," Bucky responds. He can feel her backing him into a corner. Damn it. He should have stuck with respectable, stoic silence. That always worked with Steve. Near the end, at least.

The documentaries he's watched claimed that, by all accounts, James Buchanan Barnes could charm the skin off the snake. He was a war bond's dreamboat— Cap's best friend with a killer smile and an aim like the devil. Sitting in this office, fighting his way through psychotherapy with half-assed one-liners, Bucky thinks those documentaries were total bullshit.

Dr.Raynor scribbles something down. Prick.

"Hm. Still haven't answered my original question."

What is he supposed to say? Ninety years jumping from one war to the next, bullets begetting bullets, until all that remained was a tired, scratched-up shell, and dozens of bodies to show for it? Oh, well, perhaps he should talk about how that makes him feel! He'd have to think on it, but he guesses the appropriate answer is: bad.

Nah, shells don't feel much at all. The federal government (more than one) wants to ensure the shell stays hollow. Simple as that. Hell, the metaphor isn't that far off. He's half metal already. His gunpowder fell into the Potomac sometime in 2014. Or the Alps in 1945. Hard to say.

Maybe when this session is over, he can find an old poster with his face on it and light it on fire. There are probably some on eBay. He'll use his pension to pay for expedited shipping.

"I just want to get this over with and move on," He mumbles, tipping his head back to rest against the edge of the couch. The ceiling has a swirling abstract pattern etched into it that makes him a little dizzy.

Dr.Raynor raises an eyebrow. "Move on from…?"

"How much do they pay you exactly?"

She smiles thinly. "Move on from what, James?"

"You know," Bucky says, sitting back up to look at her properly, "I think you're enjoying this."

She sighs, tapping her pen impatiently against the spine of her notebook. "Your past is no secret. Hell, I can Google every despicably intimate detail about your life and read it for my morning paper, but— "

"Jesus."

"— But I want to hear it from you, James. That is why you're here. Because there are hours worth of news broadcasts, countless documents, files upon files about what happened to you. What you did. But not a single one," Raynor leans in, brows furrowed in intensely, like it means something, like it's important. "Not a single shred of information is from you. No one has asked you about your own story."

"Steve did," Bucky croaks. It comes out without permission. His head is beginning to ache, the hint of a migraine unfurling at the top of his skull. Images flash in his mind's eye like twinkling stars. The train, the war, and even before that: Steve, frail and bird-boned, slipping his house key beneath the doormat, a street cat he used to feed, some warped outline of boyhood. They barely seem like memories, all tinged with the fuzziness of dreams.

But I knew him. But I knew him. I knew him.

"Did you tell him?"

To that, Bucky finally laughs, small and choked. He doesn't bother responding, just picks himself up, and storms out. The security guard posted outside the office door reaches for him, snagging him by the elbow, a warning caught in the lines of his mouth.

Bucky glares at him. Raynor's grating voice echoes in his head. Rule number two: Don't hurt anyone.

It would be so easy, He thinks, looking at the guard. He's a short, stocky man with deep crows feet and no gun. There is a single security camera pointed at them, light blinking red. Did they tell you that when you signed up for this job? How easy it would be for me?

"Leave him," Dr. Raynor says, and that's all Bucky needs. He yanks his arm free, side-steps the guard, and slams the door behind him. The latch shudders. It feels an awful lot like running away.

His phone dings in his pocket as he steps into the lobby. He pulls it out, fully anticipating some sort of warning from the Doctor that this will not fly a second time, or a notification that his groceries have been delivered. Instead, at the top of his screen is a message from his only other contact.

[Missed call from Sam Wilson]

Sam Wilson: Can we talk?

He sighs and snaps the phone shut, shoving it into the pocket of his jeans.

Bucky is not a fan of modern Brooklyn.

It feels like a ghost. A familiar face paved over with modernity, but just recognizable enough to make his heart ache. On more than one occasion, he's walked down a street he swears he could draw from memory, only to stop and stare at the seemingly endless wall of change. Brick and mortar swallowed by corporate conglomerates, every landmark misplaced or decimated entirely. Hell, even the banks look like they're made of plastic.

It's a strange feeling, getting lost in the only place you've ever called home.

He never got to see it fresh out of the war. He wants it to have been bright. Food on the table, enough to go around, pulled seemingly from the ether of the country's overwhelming relief. Soldiers coming home and sleeping through the night, drinking for fun, laughing like it's breathing. A city freed from terror.

Bucky knows that's not how it works, but it helps to think of it that way. It makes him feel like he had a life to miss out on. That, if he had been lucky enough, there would have been something to come back to.

God, what is wrong with him today? He says a couple of quips to a shrink, and suddenly his guts are trying to spill out of him and paint the sidewalk. Screw Kevlar, screw denim. He needs gauze.

He turns a corner, head pulled down to stare at his phone. Brooklyn moves indifferently around him. The address Sam gave was 495 Lorimer Street. He counts 489, 491, 493, and finally stops in front of a small hole-in-the-wall coffee shop wedged between a salon and an antique furniture store. It's another ghost, the walls far older than the business inside. The door has been painted recently. They didn't bother to protect the metal accents near the knob, just blasted over them with bright white paint. He runs a gloved hand down his face and pulls the door open. A bell dings overhead as he steps inside.

The smell of coffee is almost overwhelming, but Bucky shakes it off, working his way toward the back where Sam is sitting, nursing an americano, a second cup untouched beside him. He's wearing plain clothes, but his wrist sports a blue and green friendship bracelet. It's in that moment that Bucky realizes he hasn't seen Sam since the funeral. He looks…bright, if not a little tired. He sits with practiced ease, his arm draped over the back of the booth, but his eyes scan the room. When they land on Bucky, he smiles.

"Look who showed up! I was starting to think you'd bailed on me," Sam says. He motions across the table to an empty chair. "I don't know what sort of coffee you like, so I just got you the same thing."

A pang of guilt rings in Bucky's chest. He ignores it, nods his head, and mutters, "Thanks." It is wholly inadequate.

"Did you walk here?" Sam asks. Fantastic. Bucky loves small talk. He can't get enough of it, truly.

"Yeah. Figured I'd enjoy the nice weather."

Sam accepts this with something akin to suspicion. A little "Hm," before tucking his legs back to make way. Had Bucky said something wrong?

He sits down and takes a sip of the coffee. It tastes fine, a little burnt. A memory dances in of Dugan bringing a cup to his lips, hissing as the coffee burns his tongue. He pushes it aside. Tries to focus on what Sam is saying. Fuck, he's missed half of it already. Why had he agreed to this again?

"— new haircut. How you been, Buck?"

"Fine. Busy. New bracelet?"

It's automatic. Sam can tell. He frowns dubiously, setting his coffee down. "Right," He says, "I imagine you're doing great. What with the ignoring all of my texts, barely leaving your apartment, and all."

"How do you know I'm not leaving my apartment?" He did, technically, go out to appointments with Raynor and cross names off his list. Sometimes, he even went for a walk, but he had a feeling Sam wouldn't accept that answer.

"I didn't," Sam says, "but thank you for confirming."

Bucky rolls his eyes. "What do you want, Sam?"

Sam leans in, face suddenly stern. It's annoyingly familiar. He imagines it's the same worn expression Sam wore in the passenger's seat of Steve's car all those years ago, like Bucky shouldn't bother asking. "I want you to talk to me. I've been texting you damn near three times a week, and you haven't said a word. Now, I know you're new to this century, so maybe a text is pushing it, but half the time, I feel like I'm friends with a wall."

Friends?

"I'm right here." He is, isn't he? And it's already going wrong.

That gets an affronted huff. "Sure. It's only been what? Six months? I spent years putting my ass on the line for you, and you can't even pick up the phone once in a while? Shoot me a text letting me know you're," Sam fumbles, searching for the words, "okay? Hell, at this point I'll settle for alive."

"No one asked you to do that," Bucky says. It doesn't feel good to say. He works his jaw, right hand lifting to readjust the strap on his glove. Sam sighs and shakes his head, a soft, sad look on his face. It could almost read as pity. Or disappointment.

But Sam must know better than to fully embrace either, because he steels himself and says, "Look, I know it's been hard, alright? I know you're struggling being back, and here of all places, Buck. I can see it in your eyes. I just— You don't have to do this alone."

Bucky frowns. That's the problem, isn't it? He does have to do this alone. The only other person who had a fraction of understanding, who remembers Bucky the way he's supposed to be, is gone, lost to time, just as much of a ghost as the shop they're sitting in. Whoever Bucky was has been painted over. He bites the inside of his cheek.

"No," He shakes his head, and then, for good measure, "I can't. This is—" He falters, runs his tongue over his teeth. He didn't want to have to explain this. How is he supposed to explain this? "It's really not that big a deal," He says finally, "Okay? You don't need to work yourself up over this. I'm good."

He assumed, foolishly, that once he'd crossed off enough names, the weight would lessen, things would change, and he'd be able to… to what? That's where he always pauses. 'To what?' To move on? Build a new life atop the soil of the old? The list only grows as his memory washes in and out, name after name piling up. But he has to keep trying, right? Until the list runs dry.

And if he lets Sam help, then Sam has to carry some of the weight, and that's not how redemption works. Bucky needs it to be hard, to pay back a fraction of what he stole. Bucky needs it to hurt.

"Right, 'cause it's Bucky Barnes versus the world. How could I forget?" Sam sighs, exasperated.

The worst part is, a fraction of him wants to give in. Wants to nod and say, "You're right. I'm sorry. Let's talk," because he knows Sam would welcome it. He can picture it: Sam's shoulders dropping from his ears and sitting back, carefully listening and trying not to scare him off. It would be so simple. But he smothers it, just like everything else. Locks whatever tender moment this could have been under a veil and finds the only thing he's good at anymore: Anger. 

His tone flattens. "Well, thank you. I appreciate your concern."

"Bucky— "

Bucky stands, planting his hands on the table. His left arm whirs quietly as it presses into the wood. "But I am fine, Sam, alright? I am fine. You didn't need to come here."

Sam starts to panic, reaching out a hand as if to grab him, before snapping it back. "Buck, hey, c'mon. I didn't mean to push."

You didn't, He thinks desperately, you didn't. I pulled.

The words come out meaner.

"Just go home, Sam."

Sam's face falls. Or maybe it hardens and sets. Bucky wouldn't know. He turns and leaves the shop, ignoring the irritated huffs thrown his way as he shoulders past the sea of customers blocking the door. The bell dings again. He keeps walking.

It isn't until a week later, when he wakes up shivering and panting on the unforgivingly stiff cushions of his couch, that he checks his phone again and sees that godforsaken name in his inbox.

Sam Wilson: Sorry for upsetting you at the cafe. I didn't mean to overstep.

[Missed Call from Sam Wilson]

Sam Wilson: I know you're not going to like it, and I wanted to tell you in person, but I've come to a decision about the sh…

Bucky lets the phone fall out of his grasp. It lands somewhere beside him with dull clatter, echoing against the walls of the scarcely furnished room. He hides his face in his hands, feels the sudden, cool press of naked metal against his face, and wishes for all the world that he could just disappear.

Nine.

That's how many times Sam has called since he gave up the shield. Bucky hasn't picked up once. He's not sure why Sam bothers anymore.

The sink in his apartment broke yet again, and he has no hobbies and no friends, so he'd opted to fix it himself. Contacting his landlord would take too long anyhow. He turns the shut-off valve and wipes his forehead. Time to check the stem.

The TV drones on in the background. Some interview with John Walker on Good Morning America that Bucky refuses to watch, but is too busy to turn off. Walker's voice is nasally and self-important, explaining freedom to the news anchor like he'd invented the concept. It makes Bucky's teeth grind, but he ignores it in favor of switching out the O-ring. If this doesn't work, he's replacing the whole damn faucet.

He has half his head stuck under his sink when his phone buzzes on the counter above him. He startles and bangs his head on the roof of the cabinet. Hydra's most notorious assassin, scared by a cellphone. He could kick himself.

This time, it's a photo of a stray cat. It's a patchy little thing with long whiskers and a tail that fans out behind it like a feather duster. Sam's hand is visible in the lower corner, fingers outstretched with what looks to be a piece of chicken or pork as he tries to lure the cat from a brick alleyway. The cat's body is almost entirely black, splashes of orange dappled in, but what catches Bucky's eye is the front left leg. The orange swallows it entirely, cutting off abruptly at the shoulder.

Sam Wilson: Look, it's you!

He swipes away the notification, his thumb leaving a streak of water over the glass. He'd upgraded to a smartphone not long after the cafe incident when he discovered the wonderful world of on-demand music streaming. Forties music had been a pleasant addition to his routine. 'Go home and stare at a wall' became 'go home and stare at a wall while Ella Fitzgerald's discography does its best to fill the giant hole where your social life should be,' which, when you think about it, was a pretty significant upgrade. Sometimes, when he's feeling adventurous, he stares at the ceiling instead.

He's not sure what he'd do if he ever did decide to respond. What is there to say?

Hi, Sam. Hope you're well. Why did you decide to get rid of the shield? Furthermore, why would you let Star Spangled Shithead take up the mantle? I kind of hate you, but you're all I have. I kind of hate Steve sometimes, too, don't you? Funny how that works. Cute cat, by the way.

He'd have better luck just tossing his phone into the ocean and going back off-grid.

Bucky turns the shut-off valve again and tries the faucet, watching the pipe beneath. Water beads up and drips down the side. Damn it.

He really can't keep doing this.

Back in Brooklyn, his and Steve's Brooklyn, Bucky had handled all the repairs. They'd shared an apartment after Steve's mom died, and Bucky had outgrown the twin mattress in his Mother's guest room. It was a shitty wooden box with no insulation and old pipes, but it was theirs. The two of them had spent more than one summer fanning at their blushing faces while Bucky messed with the plumbing. Steve always bugged him about not checking with Maintenance first, but never made a move to do it himself. He'd just sit on the floor, right next to Bucky, passing him a wrench and then a screwdriver, as Bucky teased him about his red-tipped ears.

"King Kullen wants their tomatoes back," He'd say, and Steve would roll his eyes, smile teasing the edge of his lips as he punched Bucky's arm.

"Jerk."

"Punk."

Then they'd laugh and grab half-melted popsicles from the icebox and munch on them absentmindedly, sitting with their legs dangling off the fire escape as the city buzzed beneath their feet. They'd talk about anything and everything, before it all became so important. What was a World War to two boys basking in the heat of July? The sink would inevitably break again, and then they'd be right back on that floor, sweat beading on their foreheads as they complained about the price of rent and butter.

That memory is his, but only barely. Recalling it now feels like a borrowed grief. How can he miss something that was never really his? That memory belongs to some kid in Brooklyn who's never held a gun in his life and got his kicks from the Sunday Funnies. Not him.

It's been happening more and more lately, his lives bleeding into one another. His apartment keeps changing names: hideout, our place, my place, комната, rendezvous point, home. The Winter Soldier, James, and he all sleep in the same bed, sure, but Bucky is losing track of which one keeps waking up.

James says, "Do you think we've got a life left for us?"

Cолдат says, "There is a straight shot from your kitchen window to your bedroom. Your door is unlocked by a master key."

Bucky sighs and ignores them both.

He stands, groaning as his knees protest him. He turns toward the TV. Walker is holding up the shield to the camera, posed like an action figure. The host is clapping enthusiastically. It's all very dramatic. Another memory barges in.

"But you're keeping this outfit, right?"

"Don't get your hopes up. It's not exactly regulation."

Speaking of things that were never really his—

He snatches the remote and turns off the TV. The water continues to drip.

"And when you say you've been fine, James, how are you defining it?" Raynor asks. "Because I've been hearing it a lot lately, and I don't think we agree on what it means." The tilt of her head reminds him of Agent Carter, like she knew whatever he said next would be incorrect, but wanted him to say it anyway, just for kicks. Dance, show pony.

"Eating, sleeping, and breathing," He says. It's been a few months since their semi-disasterous session and his subsequent fallout with Sam. Talking, he's found, makes the hour go by faster.

"Hm," she says, "like a pet hamster."

"I'm low maintenance."

"Sure," Raynor hums, scribbling something down. He was pretty sure she did this solely to agitate him. "Been up to anything else? Following the rules?" He'd jaywalked on his way here, but that was barely illegal. And he hasn't hurt anyone lately. He really should ask about that sticker.

Bucky shrugs. "Home repairs. I went into Harbor Freight, and the cashier recognized me. I got a veteran's discount. Chased down a lead for a name on my list. It went nowhere." He doesn't tell her about John Walker, or the memories, or about how, after he got home from following a black sedan halfway across New Jersey (that allegedly belonged to security personnel for a state representative he had helped plant in the 90s), he'd poked his face in the mirror and frowned because his reflection looked inexplicably unrecognizable. That all seemed rather personal.

"James?"

Oh, shit. He had spaced out. He wasn't supposed to do that.

"Yeah?"

"Where did you go? Just now?" Raynor asks. She's leaning forward in her chair, notebook abandoned on her side table.

"Nowhere," Bucky says, his face screwing up and settling again, "I just thought of something." That was a safe answer, right? Very normal and acceptable therapy talk.

"Talk to Sam lately? Or anyone that isn't me and your Instacart driver?"

Sam had called again. He'd left a voicemail that Bucky hadn't listened to yet. He'd run into the same stray cat and sent a few more pictures. Bucky was pretty sure Sam had named it at this point. Patches, or something. Real original stuff. He hadn't responded to those either.

"I talked to the cashier at Harbor Freight, weren't you listening? That's half the job, Doc," he quips, and a childish part of him revels in the way her lips thin disapprovingly.

"Right, here's what you're going to do."

Oh, fantastic. Homework.

Dr. Raynor leans down to her left, voice strained as she folds herself to snatch something out of a plain wicker basket near the side of her chair. "You're going to take this," she says, passing him a medium-sized laminated card, "and you're going to do what it says. Piece of cake."

Bucky takes the card and holds it up. In bold purple lettering, it reads: JOURNALING PROMPTS! Followed by a bulleted list in smaller print. There's even a smiley face in the upper corner.

"Really?" He groans, gesturing with the card, "I'm fine, Doc. I don't need a— a diary."

He has a journal already, worn and leather-bound. In it is a postcard of Steve, fully dressed in his Captain America suit, save for his helmet, which is tucked under his arm. The text at the bottom reads: "CAPTAIN AMERICA WANTS YOU!" The remaining pages are half-filled with notes Bucky had taken after he'd dragged Steve from the Potomac. Bucky's name, birthday, his sisters, his friends, The Howling Comandos, Brooklyn, Italy, and so on. The other half has been commandeered by water damage. It sits in a box under his bed alongside his dog tags. He doesn't like looking at it.

Not that it was any of this woman's fucking business.

Raynor grins. It is somehow entirely devoid of warmth. Whoever was responsible for shoving a two-by-four up her ass is on Bucky's shit list, rules be damned. "And I don't need to sit here and listen to you bitch about the pitiful lifestyle that you refuse to change, so I guess neither of us are happy. Tough shit. I want at least two of those done by our next session."

"Or what?" He asks because he really can't help himself.

Dr.Raynor looks at him curiously for a moment. Then she heaves a rather dramatic sigh and pinches the bridge of her nose. Her whole person seems to sort of… slump, like a fire getting doused. Bucky glances at the door to her office and back again. This was uncharted territory.

"Nothing," She huffs, "or nothing, James. I send you home just like every other session, and you come back next week. We'll sit in this room for an hour while you continue to make yourself miserable and I try, fruitlessly, to help you. I'll write my report about your progress—which is minimal, by the way—and we'll do this every week until I retire."

"Peachy," Bucky snaps, "Should I just sign off on my copays in advance?" It's a weak argument. Raynor shakes her head.

"You know what?" She laughs, "You may just be the only person in your life who doesn't want you to get better. Why is that, James?" Her hand gestures into the air before falling carelessly into her lap, her ire finally solidifying. "Hydra gets snuffed out, so you go on and do their work for them? You fell out of line, so now you're… what? Punishing yourself?"

Yeah, of course I am. Of course I fucking am—

"I am not—"

"Yeah, I think you are. Same shit, different era, kid. You just picked a different bunker to hide yourself in."

Before he knows it, his left hand contracts, and the armrest of the grey couch he'd been holding in a death grip splinters in his grasp. There's a sharp crunch and the distant feeling of wood chips dusting his pant leg. The card falls to the floor. Dr. Raynor only leans in closer, her eyes briefly flitting to the damage before returning their focus to him.

"Your life didn't end in the war, James, and didn't end in Siberia, either," she spits. And it's a lie. It is a dirty fucking lie. His life got snuffed out in that damn chair, over and over again, while the war never bothered to stop. Longing, rusted, seventeen. Italy, Siberia, Wakanda. "You want to stop being miserable? Hm? Get up and do something about it."

Bucky is seething, his jaw working itself into knots. He releases the armrest and bends down to snatch the card off the carpet. He's been miserable in this stupid shrink's box since the start. Get up and do something about it? Be his fucking guest.

He says nothing as he storms out this time. The security guard doesn't even flinch.

Bucky gets lost after that. He wanders New York City, ambling down the sidewalk with just enough attention to avoid knocking shoulders with the strangers he slips past. The serum allows him to walk for miles and miles without stopping, so that's exactly what he does. The street signs begin to blur, the sun sinks in the sky, and his anger dwindles to a murmur, until at last he finds himself in a pleasant neighborhood at the mouth of a familiar alleyway, staring at a familiar little face.

The cat is crouched by a dumpster, tail tucked around itself as it tries to meld into the shadowed brick. Cautious, but not afraid. What are the chances? It's the same cat in the photos Sam sent. Then, he realizes: Sam had been in New York again? Why?

Maybe you'd know that if you bothered to read his texts.

Or, he counters, I've finally lost it, and this is a completely different cat.

He pats his pockets. Empty, save for his wallet and phone.

"I'm sorry," he says softly, "I'm all out."

The cat continues to stare. Bucky gets the feeling it's unimpressed.

He pulls out his phone and quickly googles the nearest corner store. It's not far, maybe a block or so away. He turns to the cat, gestures pointlessly in the store's general direction, and goes, "I'll be right back."

Twenty minutes and eight dollars later, he's back at the alley, crouched on the pavement with a half-full plastic bag.

"I wasn't sure what you'd like," he says, "The… the other guy and I haven't caught up in a while. So, I got a couple of things." He digs through the bag, fishing past a SlimJim and a hot dog. "They wanted two dollars for a can of tuna, can you believe that? Two hundred pennies. Ridiculous."

The cat, per custom, does not respond, but continues to eye him warily. Bucky cracks open the can of tuna anyway. A speck of juice lands on his left hand, and he scrunches his nose. It's odd, the feeling of liquid on his metal palm. Closer to the outline of a sensation than a concrete signal. The cat perks up at the smell, ears following the snap of the lid peeling back, and Bucky grins. He sets the can down on the ground and gently pushes it across. Both he and the cat tense as the tin can scrapes against the asphalt. Its ears are pinned to its head, but it doesn't run away. He retracts his hand slowly.

For a moment, nothing happens, and then the cat is creeping its way towards the tuna. nose twitching as it sniffs the air. Bucky stills. When it moves into the light, he gets a good look at its arm. Stripes trail up over the expanse of orange, all of it ending just before the leg meets its torso. It looks like metal plating. Sam may have a point.

A noise breaks the silence. It's distant and harmless, most likely a car alarm, but the cat freezes, head snapping back towards the direction of the sound. Bucky makes soft clicking noises, taking one small shuffle away. The cat startles at that as well, and darts back towards the dumpster. It must decide to play it safe because it gives Bucky one last backward glance before running down the length of the alleyway, disappearing into the dark without a sound. He sighs.

He waits ten minutes, then twenty, until eventually his body begins to protest his skipped lunch and subsequent long walk. Being a super soldier burnt a lot of calories, and he'd missed his daily quota, though the exhaustion felt disproportionately heavy. He must be getting rusty. There had been no sign of The Cat (he was not calling it Patches), just more city ambience and particularly determined flies he'd swatted away somewhere around the fifteen-minute mark. He decides to leave the open can there and go back to his apartment. If not The Cat, something hungry will eat it, surely. He had helped…something.

The thought doesn't make him feel better.

Days pass, the sink gets fixed, and Bucky can't stop thinking about The Cat.

It was so much smaller than it looked in the pictures. Its fur was quite dense, but Bucky imagines he could run his hands across its sides and feel the ribs poking through. It was so flighty, too. Hungry enough to come over, but too scared to stay. It makes him frown.

He does some research, flicks through Wikipedia articles and YouTube videos, and learns that The Cat is a tortoise shell, and therefore most likely a girl. Not that The Cat cares, but Bucky thinks it might help him find a better name than Patches. Before he knows it, he finds himself back at the alley. This time, the sun is a little higher, and he has a can of wet food stuffed in the pocket of his jacket.

"I'm backkk," he singsongs, mostly to himself.

He crouches down like before, brings out the can, and digs his thumb under the tab of the lid to peel it open. He sets it down as far out as his arm can reach and pulls back. A woman walks by with an overly eager Labrador, ear pressed to her phone. Three cars pass in a blur.

Nothing, nothing, still nothing, and then—

The tip of an ear, black and torn, followed by a lithe and fluffy body. The Cat pokes her head out from behind the dumpster, meowing softly. She's nervous, celedon eyes darting from him, the food, and back. He averts his gaze, pretending not to notice her, and fights a face-splitting grin as she begins inching towards him. Step by step, until she's sniffing curiously at the can, her mismatching paws tucked beneath her.

How strange he must look, metal arm just barely hidden away beneath his sleeve, shoulders broad but made to look small as this infinitely smaller creature tries to decide if her lunch is worth putting up with him for.

She takes the first bite, then the next, and eventually he feels confident enough to turn his head and watch her in full. Occasionally, she pauses, head swiveling, before digging in again. Each time makes him hold his breath.

Come on, it's alright. Leave if you want, but don't leave hungry.

At some point, he gets brave and slips his phone out to snap a picture. It's rushed and a little blurry. Bucky stuffs it back in his pocket when he realizes the shutter makes an audible snap. This, The Cat barely notices, too engrossed in her Paw Lickin' Chicken (with Extra Gravy!)

When the can is empty, she slinks back toward her hiding spot without ceremony, plops down onto the pavement, and gives herself a bath. She twists and bends until Bucky has to fight not to laugh. She looks like a writhing croissant.

Bucky waits until she settles before standing and strolling back to his own hiding spot, home, whatever. There's a bag of groceries by the door mat. Ham, swiss, sourdough ("Gettin' fancy now, Buck? Tryna impress Dolores? You know she—" Stop. Don't think about him.) and a small potted catnip plant. He snatches the bag up. This time, when he opens the door to his apartment, the blank room hits his chest with a pang. It is empty. Worse than that, he feels like it shouldn't be. Like he's missing something.

He checks his phone.

Still nothing new from Sam. He hasn't called in a week.

Bucky opens their messages, taps 'attachments', and stares at the photo of The Cat in his gallery. It is one of the only five photos he has. He debates sending it, debates writing "Look who I found!" but the words feel cheap and his bravery withers quickly.

The groceries are shoved into the fridge, bag and all, save for the catnip plant. He sets it on the windowsill just above his brand new sink. It's got two stalks poking from the soil, stretching just a few inches high. The pot says "full sun." Bucky nudges it as close to the glass as he can and hopes that will be enough.

He curls on the couch, knees pulled to his chest. He turns on the TV again. No Walker, just natural disasters and rising prices. The card from Dr. Raynor's is still on his coffee table, the corner slightly bent from where he had snatched it off the floor. The first bullet point reads: "How would you like to feel today?"

Not like this.

He bites the inside of his cheek.

I don't want to feel like this anymore.

The catnip quickly outgrows its container. It spills over the sides, decorating the windowsill in velvette leaves that smell like someone tried to recreate garlic from memory. Bucky trims it in batches. The Cat has grown comfortable enough with him to be picky, and she prefers her catnip dried, but whole enough as not to be powdery. So, Bucky ties bundles up in twine (He was buying twine? This was his life now? Twine and gardening?) and hangs them up to dry. After a while, he brings them to her and watches her roll atop the asphalt in delight, drool puddling around her. He still can't pet her, but occasionally she'll wind herself around his legs before screaming to be fed. Brat.

He's gotten to know one of the tenants of the apartment building that makes up one side of the alley. Well, 'gotten to know' is a strong turn of phrase. She's an older woman, she's never heard of Sergeant Barnes or The Winter Soldier, and doesn't care to learn, and Bucky hasn't caught her name, but that doesn't really matter because she's never asked for his. Her family emigrated from Bucharest in the sixties, and she enjoys shoving cozonac into his hands and telling him how unkempt and awful he looks while he thanks her for the food in passable Romanian. It's…nice. He thinks.

Dr. Raynor is just happy he's talking to another human being.

And yeah, so is he. It's a friendship without stakes. He could disappear tomorrow, and she'd be just fine. A part of him thinks he ought to strive for better, but the other part knows that's not an option. This is allowed to be enough.

He's leaned against the railing of her porch stairs, smiling as The Cat indulges in her fresh bundle of catnip, while The Neighbor smokes a cigarrette and laughs softly at her feline antics. He's about to begin the process of leaving ("I should get going—" "You take this. You don't eat." "No, really, it's okay. Thank y—" "Hush. Take it. Go.") when The Neighbor suddenly gasps and shoves his shoulder.

"I remember now. You," she points accusingly, "You did not tell me you had a friend."

Bucky pauses. "What?"

The Neighbor plows ahead, " I was telling you earlier, I needed to tell you something but I had forgotten what. Your friend. He was here this morning. He knew you, with your metal arm. He feeds the kitty, too. She is getting fat, you know. But not your friend. I need to give you more cozonac to give to him. He is very handsome, but he looks as bad as you these days! No good. This is no good."

Sam? Here, again?

Intelligently, he repeats, "What?" But she's already heading back inside, chattering to herself.

Unfortunately, he doesn't get another word in as she returns and shoves an actual woven basket into his hands and chides him like a grandmother before sending him on his way with strict instructions to share the contents. It all happens so fast. He feels dazed, the basket hanging by his side as he walks home. What is he supposed to do with this? It's not like he can just call Sam and ask for a picnic. He can't call Sam at all. And now that he's confirmed Sam is in New York, and it's the same cat, he might as well just stop visiting entirely. Fuck it, Sam can have New York. Bucky can return the basket and call animal control or something, and then he'll find a different alley and a different cat and maybe just maybe—

"I call dibs on the sarmale. She packed you some, right?"

Oh. He's in the park by his apartment complex, frozen in the middle of the sidewalk. And Sam is there in front of him, dressed in casual clothes, looking at him inscrutably. Sam is here. Sam is here. Sam is here.

There is a moment where time seems to still, and Bucky is pulled three feet from his body. He watches himself from the back of his head and frowns at what he sees. Then it all comes back in a rush, and he's opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water. Which isn't out of character. Talking to Sam always feels a little bit like choking on air.

"Don't get too excited," Sam sighs. A lot of people sigh when they talk to him, Bucky notices. "Let's take a walk."

Bucky forgets how to do anything but nod.

Sam has grown his beard out. He's still wearing the blue and green bracelet, but the ends are frayed and dirty now. He has lost weight. He's gained scars.

They walk in silence, in the opposite direction from Bucky's apartment. Bucky keeps throwing glances Sam's way, but Sam stares straight ahead, hands in his pockets.

Bucky also keeps nervously toying with the hair at the nape of his neck, hands reaching back to swipe the hair aside. He really needs to get it cut, but the thought of someone behind him with a pair of scissors makes him wince. He'd done it once and made a handprint in the armrest of the barber's chair. By now, it's almost as long as when he and Sam first met.

You're moving on, and I'm going backwards.

"Get out 'cha head, Bucky. I need you here for this," Sam calls, barely turning his head.

"Mm," is all that Bucky can manage to reply. The basket bounces against his leg with every step.

Eventually, they reach a section of the park with much fewer people and a couple of empty benches. Bucky follows Sam to a bench that's parked rather cinematically under a tree. The weather is overcast, and the dreary arms of a silver maple make for a particularly tense atmosphere as the two of them sit on opposite sides, the basket set between them. It feels like another big grey room.

Sam reaches for the lid, flips it open, and pulls out a cabbage roll bound in plastic wrap. He takes a bite. Bucky, who keeps flipping from confusion to outrage to guilty relief, twiddles his thumb like a chastized child. Sam eats like nothing is wrong. Two robins flitter around the ground in front of them, pecking at the dirt.

When Sam reaches for a second roll, Bucky snaps.

"What is this?"

Sam's hand doesn't stop. He takes the roll and unwraps it as casually as the first. "Lunch," he says, like an asshole, "or maybe brunch. It's early. Or do you mean the sarmale? It's a cabbage roll. They had cabbage in the forties, right?"

Bucky plants his hands on his knees and begins to stand. "Right, okay, I should have—"

Known better? Done better? Been better?

"Sit your ass down and say what you actually want instead of running away," Sam says, mouth full. His tone doesn't shift. He doesn't stop eating his stupid fucking cabbage roll.

Bucky sits, seething.

"Now," Sam swallows, "use your words."

"Why 'dya give up the shield, Sam?" He spits the words out and lets them land. Open and ugly, just like Sam wants.

"I donated it, actually, but I'm guessing you don't see it that way. And I did it because I had to. Which, you might know, if you'd picked up my calls." And there it is, the first crumb of bitterness. He continues blandly, "Or read my texts, or met me in the alley. Crazy how that works, isn't it? You talk, and you learn more information. You could try it sometime."

"It was a mistake, Sam. He trusted you, and you just gave it away."

"You don't get to say that," Sam's coolness gives. He turns to face Bucky, voice solid as stone, "You, of all people. You don't know what it was like, everyone looking at me like I'm some cheap knockoff, waitin' for me to slip—and that's if they bother to wait—so they can point and tell me just how much I'll never measure up. That I'll never be what Steve wanted. You've got no idea what that's like."

"I have no idea?" Bucky asks quietly. He knows he's in the wrong, knows he's biting aimlessly, but the memories churn and spill regardless. One of the helicarrier, slinging his fists at a bruised and bloodied face, being begged to remember, to come back. A dark apartment, practicing expressions in a dusty, cracked mirror, not understanding why it didn't match the photos in his journal. He was damn near performing seances back then, begging some dead version of himself to take over and remind him how to be human. How to be Bucky. The anger comes back, too. He's not even fighting to win anymore; he's just fighting to hurt.

Sam glares at him.

"That's not what I meant, and you know it."

"Right," Bucky sneers, "Cause I would never understand."

"No, you wouldn't!" Sam finally snaps, voice climbing in volume, "And even if you could, every time I try to talk anything through with you, you shut down! Triple-digit kill count, and you can't even hold a difficult conversation? Shit, you don't even realize how much of a fucking privilege it is that you get to hide. And— Gave it away? Gave it away? You—" Sam struggles, hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He lets out a deep, weary huff. He's quiet again when he says, "You don't have to like it, or agree with it, but can you at least accept that I did what I thought was right?"

The robins get nervous and fly up into the tree. The cabbage roll lies abandoned on the ground, dropped and knocked off sometime during their argument. It's covered in dirt and wet grass clippings. There is nothing left in the park but the two of them and the words sitting like a stone in Bucky's stomach.

Sam lets his head fall back, skull knocking against the crest of the bench. His hands are folded in his lap. He looks so, so tired. Always the bigger person. He and Steve had that in common. His patience is a tangible thing, and Bucky can feel the thread of it thinning fast.

"I was just trying to fix things. That's all I've been trying to do. I didn't want a legacy, I just wanted some sleep."

"I'm sorry," Bucky croaks. It's the only thing he can think to say.

"Yeah," Sam agrees, the fight draining out of him in a breath, "I think we both are."

Something about Sam in this moment makes anger seem like a waste of time. Bucky tilts his head back to match. Together, they watch the robins again, hopping from branch to branch and singing softly. The silence is heavy, but less burdensome. Bucky reaches blindly for the basket and flips the lid shut, shooing off a few gnats with his hand. They sit there for a while. It's not completely awful, but Bucky feels nauseous with the lack of closure.

"The bracelet is new," He tries eventually.

Sam hums, "It's from my nephew. He got really into bracelet-making last year when he went to summer camp. Couple a' kids made fun of him for it, so I wore one in solidarity."

"It's hard to make fun of something if the Falcon is doing it."

Sam chuckles, and it's sun-warmed. "Yeah, it shut down quick after that."

"I bet."

Bucky taps his foot. It feels like pulling teeth, but Sam wanted honesty…

Well, here goes nothing.

"I ever tell you I was drafted?" He's aiming for casual, but the mood hardens instantly.

Sam turns to look at him, wide-eyed and serious. He splutters, "Wh— For the war?"

"Yeah," Bucky nods, "Happened some time after Steve's mom passed. I just told him I signed up, doing my due diligence and all."

Sam heaves a sigh, "Jesus, Buck."

"I didn't want him worrying," Bucky continues. Honesty. "Or worse, trying to come with me. Look how that turned out."

At that, Sam laughs fondly. "Yeah, I don't think you could have stopped him."

"Not for lack of trying. God, Sam, he was ninety pounds soaking wet. I mean, you've seen the museum. He was as thin as anything. And he wanted to be on the front goddamn lines."

"Always."

The levity starts to falter. Bucky pushes through. "When I saw him after the serum," He laughs wetly. He turns his head to look at the park. He really can't look at Sam right now if he's going to get this out. "I kept catching myself looking at his shoulders instead of his face, cause I guess I never expected I'd have to look any higher."

"Bucky—" Sam starts, but Bucky steels himself. Sam deserves to understand. It's the least he can do.

"I guess I thought—" Bucky stumbles, "I thought if he'd fought so hard just to find me in Italy, that if he- if he stuck his neck out for me over the accords…"

"You really don't have to—"

"If being the Winter Soldier wasn't enough to convince him I wasn't worth it, what was? What was the last straw?" Bucky's voice breaks, but he clears his throat before trying again, "Why up and leave at the very end? Leave me to do all this shit on my own?"

Sam gives him a look. It says, 'I've been askin myself the same goddamn thing.'

Bucky, who had leaned forward sometime during his monologue, sits back. He shakes his head. "So, you know."

"Yeah," Sam gives a cautious nod of his head. "I do. He's a library of confusion, your boy."

"Mhm."

"But," Sam straightens. Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky can see him turn his body towards him, shoulders curled in. "He never blamed you for that Hydra shit. Not for a second."

It's a risk, but he still has to ask. He has to know. "And you did?"

With a conceding shrug, Sam goes, "For a little, yeah. Until I understood. Then I was right there next to him and Nat, hunting down Hydra bases for the next few years and going on the run after the Accords. It's not your fault what happened, Bucky. And Steve didn't leave because of it. And I sure as shit didn't give up the shield because of anything you or he did."

"I'm sorry," Bucky says again. He ought to say it more.

Sam waves him off, "Just… Look, I get it if you don't want me in your life—"

"No!" Bucky blurts a little too quickly. "No. I do. It wasn't you, Sam. Even before the shield, I was still… I didn't think you deserved to deal with all of," He searches for the words before gesturing helplessly at himself. "Me."

Sam looks at him sadly. "Only one 'dealing' with you is you, Bucky. I just didn't want you to shoulder it by yourself. You and I both know how that plays out."

Yeah, Bucky thinks, it put America's Greatest Hero on ice for seventy years.

That leaves another gap. Not as bitter. Kindly, but raw. Brittle. Something gnaws at Bucky's insides. The argument still lingers around them, tension just as thick and buzzing as the swarm of gnats in the park. He's getting restless, and he doesn't feel like less of an ass, so he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.

"I'm not calling her Patches."

Sam, who had settled back into his previous position and let his eyes thin, snaps them open and side-eyes him. "What?"

"The Cat," Bucky says, "I'm not calling her Patches."

"Oh, so you read that text? What do you call her, then? Barnes Junior?" Bucky doesn't answer. Sam turns his head towards him, slow and easy. "I was joking, by the way. Please tell me you didn't. Do you even have a different name picked out?"

"Well, no, but The Neighbor calls her Pui—"

"Wait, the neighbor? You mean Miss Adler? You've been chatting her up for weeks, and you haven't learned her name?"

"I didn't get around to asking," Bucky grumbles.

"Have you—" Sam is speaking through snickers now, nose scrunched up as he laughs, "have you been calling them The Cat and The Neighbor this whole time?" He makes a funny face, disbelief shadowed by amusement when he guffaws, "Do I still have a name? Or am I 'The Falcon' now?"

"No, of course not—"

"I can't believe Patches has been putting up with this bullshit. I gotta get her some sort of compensation. How about The Patchwork Cat? Ha! No, no, wait. The Summer Soldier."

"Sam."

When they finally part ways, it feels like thumbing over the cut left behind after a splinter. Sore, but comforting. They shake hands, and Bucky doesn't dare lean closer. Sam's hands are warm, warm, warm.

Bucky says, "Call me."

Sam says, "Pick up."

The next day, Bucky goes back to The Cat. He watches her eat, taps his foot, and tries to think of a name.

"I mean," he huffs, "you do have patches."

"Hello?"

"How's my girl?" Sam asks. There's a brief bit of static over the speaker as he shuffles his phone around.

"Our girl," Bucky corrects, "And she's fine. I was late for dinner yesterday, so she had some complaints."

"Oh, I bet she was nearly starved."

Patches had grown from slinky and skeletal to a rounded, squeaky toy in a matter of weeks. Now, Bucky has to weave around her just to get her food to the ground, dodging her attempts to trip him by tying herself around his ankles and screaming. Miss Adler calls her a princess. Bucky calls her a brat.

"Could barely make it to the food bowl. It's a miracle she was standing at all."

Sam tuts. It's weird, talking to him so casually. They call about once a week, chatting for an hour or so, catching up. Bucky talks about Patches and tries to hide how terribly boring his life is. Sam talks about traveling or Torrez, dancing around his career as the Falcon with as much grace as he can muster. There is still a film of awkwardness, but Sam seems content to ignore it, so Bucky tries his best to do the same.

He sets his phone down on the kitchen counter. Last week, he'd gone out and purchased an air fryer. He wonders now why he ever bothered using an oven. Two hot pockets come out bubbling and perfect. God, this would have been a game-changer in the forties.

"You hate to see it… Oh, speaking of food, I'm in Prostějov at the moment. You got any restaurant recommendations? Breakfast at the hotel was shit."

Distantly, Bucky hears, "—so oily. It hurt my teeth!" presumably from Torrez.

Bucky takes a bite of his hot pocket. He burns his tongue on impact. There's an awkward few seconds where he debates between spitting it out and awkwardly blowing on it with a haf-haf-haf sound, until eventually he chokes it down in an ugly splutter.

"It's fine if you don't," Sam continues, oblivious to his suffering, "I wasn't sure if you'd even been. Or if you even had the time for local cuisine back when you were, uh, globetrotting."

"No, no, I don't mind," Bucky says, trying to even his breathing, "I uhm… let me see…Ambika. Neat little indian restaurant near the center of the city. They've got a good chicken korma. Or they did last time I was there. Thirty years ago."

His diet had been rather strict, but his handlers were frugal with their stipend and talked in front of him as openly as one might talk in front of a piece of furniture. They'd stopped there for lunch sometime in the nineties on their way to assassinate a minister of regional development. Bucky's handlers had ordered him to stay in the booth across from them as they bitched about the service and scarfed down bite after bite. It was kind of nice, in a way. They didn't usually let him sit down.

He hears the sound of fingers tapping away on a screen, punctuated by a farther away, "Am…bi…ka.. got it. Thanks, Buck."

"No problem."

There's a scuffing noise as Sam moves the phone back to his ear. "Hey, you got any plans three weeks from now?"

"No, why?" Dr. Raynor had informed him that court-mandated therapy did not count as 'plans.' Neither did trash day, or laundry day, or Ella Fitzgerald.

What does Sam want, though? Surely not a mission. And they hadn't seen each other in person since the park. Did he need a house sitter or something?

"I got a thing happening in DC on the eighteenth. The VA is hosting a fundraiser, and they invited me as a featured guest. They want me to shake hands, kiss ass, get some extra pennies, that sort of thing. I know it's not really your scene, but I thought…" He trails off. Bucky can almost feel him invoke a very Sam-like carefullness when he continues, "You know, I thought it would be fun. Get you out of the house. You can save me from those annoying ass donors who keep tryna hire me for their kid's birthday party."

"Sam, I'm not sure—"

"Just think about it," Sam interrupts, "You got like a month. Look, I gotta run, but let me know, okay?"

"I just don't—" Is as far as Bucky gets the second time before he's cut off by the dial tone. He frowns. Takes another bite of his hot pocket.

It's not that he doesn't want to go. Well, he doesn't, but spending time with Sam does sound nice, like he said. But Bucky can picture walking in that room, every head turning towards him as they realize exactly who he is. Or worse, looking back and recognizing them in turn. Seeing people he'd pulled into power always made him a little nauseous, but this was Veterans Affairs. This was an event full of people who carried a war with them still. Some, Bucky was certain, included The Winter Soldier as part of that weight, whether they knew it or not.

And all of this… this healing stuff. It was new. Fragile and barely set. He was still so awkward and so easily overwhelmed. Every conversation with people would feel like climbing a tree with a beehive in it, waiting to mess up—to fall, or be stung.

But Sam would be there, and if Bucky were to slip, Sam would catch him. Sam was good at catching things.

Even if he were to drop him after…

Well, it'd be no one's fault but Bucky's.

He opens Google and begins to look for a suit.

James Barnes: Patches is asking for you.

James Barnes: [1 attachment]

Sam Wilson: Please tell The Patches that The Falcon will return as soon as possible with The Food.

James Barnes: This is why she loves me more.

Bucky isn't sure journaling works.

He'd finally bought his own version of Steve's little notebook sometime between Steve abandoning him for several decades less baggage, and Bucky deciding he ought to do something with his fifth chance at life. So far, he's mostly jotted down the names of albums to try, places to go, and just thoughts that'd pop up now and then. But he never really feels different after. He ignores the prompt list entirely. The waterlogged journal stays hidden in his room.

He's not sure what motivated him to finally pick up a pen and write. It just seemed practical after a while. Maintainance. After his calls with Sam, he's left feeling… unmoored, like there are words lodged somewhere between his teeth, irritating him whenever he swallows. Those never make it into the book. He can't seem to wrap his hand around the shape of them yet.

On occasion, he vomits up a paragraph of uncharacteristically vulnerable scrawling, but when the ache turns to a buzz, he's left collared by embarrassment. Even in the midst of it, he feels like he's watching himself from over his own shoulder. There's the Bucky who cries into his palm and writes "I'm sorry" over and over into the margins, and the Bucky who waits, exasperated, for the other Bucky to finish so they can move on and pretend nothing happened. The next page usually ends up being a grocery list.

Dr.Raynor would get a kick out of reading it, he thinks. Something about sandwiching scraps of catatonic grief between "Listen to Troubleman" and "Don't forget: buy toothpaste" would probably make her day.

Bucky is sitting on the edge of his bed, holding his journal in his hands. He has his phone balanced on his knee, Sam on the other line. He'd called after a mission, seemingly just for company. He's in a safe house somewhere in South America, one of the skeletons remaining from Hydra's reign. Bucky had directed him there, the address already on his tongue before he could remember when he learned it. It's a solid place to rest and recover, remote and quiet. A shower drones in the background, interrupted by occasional fussing and hissing as Sam fights with his wounds.

There's a clatter, and a particularly passionate swear.

"Sam?" Bucky checks.

Muffled through the noise he hears, "WHO MADE THESE SHELVES SO GOD DAMN SMALL?"

"Hydra!" Bucky calls and huffs in amusement at the responding groan.

Well, it'd been a rough week for both of them. Maybe he'd give journaling another go. Tenth times the charm, or so they say.

He opens the book, fingers smoothing over the rumpled edges. Flipping through, his eyes snag on a torn page. It's only half removed; the bottom piece still wedged in the binding. There is a scrap taped in, a remnant from a different book, a slice of it taken without a trace of the rest. What text is left is undisturbed, still perfectly legible.

Sometimes, Bucky forgets.

On more than one occasion, he'll flip through the journal only to find pages ripped out. Sometimes it'd just be lines of ink struck through again and again until the text became indecipherable. Other times, he finds passages he has no recollection of jotting down. An address here, a reminder there, nothing bad, just… strange. His handwriting changes, too. There are a few pages that look less like his modern perfunctory chicken scratch and more like the kind of laissez-faire loopy penmanship he'd used in the forties. It was all so confusing. Bucky hates being confused.

He skims the page. Realization strikes, and his thumb, which was driving the paper apart in the center, slopes to one side. The book closes over his hand. His breath hitches.

"—Still, I thank the saints that carry us through this war but can't bear to see us together. End of the line, but not the length of the wire.

So, God, if we die, let us die like this, because it's the only thing I can ask for. Two coffins from the same tree. My name after yours in the papers. Just keep us next to each other."

He's changed his mind. Confusion would be much better. He'd give a pretty penny to not understand what he just read. He'd give even more to go back in time and throttle his past self for ever thinking it was okay to put that on paper in his stupid, sloppy, forties cursive. For ever thinking it at all.

Hell, maybe Potts had a spare bracelet. He could do just that.

Nah, his mind supplies, you'd go to him the second you had the chance.

Had he torn this from the book under his bed? Had he forgotten all of it? When had he written this? It wasn't the original, that's for sure. The first draft had been burned in a tin can ages ago. What the fuck? What the fuck?

"Just keep us next to each other."

Bucky tears out the rest of the page.

When Sam steps out of the shower, he's agitated. Bucky can hear the opening of his mouth, a soft intake of air as he presumably tries to bitch about the architects of Hydra safe-houses, but he pauses.

"You good?" He asks lightly.

How does Sam always know? Even when he can't see Bucky, it's like he can sense when Bucky's gone too still. It makes him feel… he's not sure. It's an indiscernible signal through a frayed wire. A directionless noise in a quiet room.

Bucky feels like he's watching himself again. He tosses the paper into the small trash can by his nightstand (he'd bought a nightstand and a throw pillow for his couch, like a true homebody) and tosses the book to the side.

"Yeah," He croaks, bringing the phone off speaker and up to his ear, clearing his throat, "Did it at least have hot water?"

Sam carries on with barely concealed suspicion before making the very smart move to not bring it up.

"Yeah, not that it helps. That thing has, like, negative water preassure and the soap falls off the shelves if you breathe wrong. It's like they hate happiness,"

Showers for The Winter Soldier had been three minutes long and done with a hose, but Bucky would feel rude to bring that up at the moment.

"They were a terrorist organization," Bucky supplies instead.

"A well-funded one," Sam counters, "They could afford less shitty showers for their safe houses."

"Eh, well, making their employees miserable was sort of their specialty." That gets a hard pause from Sam, which Bucky can't help but meet with a shit-eating grin. He feels better already. Pissing off Sam: 1. Talking about his feelings: 0. Take that, journaling.

"Hilarious."

"Yeah, so I've heard."

There's a reluctantly fond huff of air. "How was your day?"

Bucky blinks. He still freezes like a deer in headlights whenever Sam asks him. When anyone asks him.

"Uh," He gathers himself, "Good. It was good. Crossed another name off my list."

There is a brief lapse into silence, and Bucky fears he mistakenly brought up something awkward, when Sam goes, "Does it help?"

"What?"

Sam reiterates, "Going through the list. Finding these people. Putting them away. Does it help?"

Bucky is in very unfamiliar territory. This entire time, Sam had been noticeably precise during their calls. He's friendly and warm, but for the most part, they had stuck to safe conversations. This felt like testing the waters, but Bucky wasn't sure who was testing who.

"Yeah," he settles on. He's mostly sure he means it. "It uh…it does. Help. It keeps me busy, and I like to think I'm doing some good. Most of them don't remember me until they see the metal arm. It's kind of funny, seeing the look on their faces when they realize who I am."

"Oh, I bet. Getting a house call from the bionic staring machine is no joke," Sam says. And there it is again, that carefullness. Bucky can't even bring himself to be upset. It is such a Sam thing to do.

"Pffft."

"Whatcha up to now?"

Bucky stands up. "I'm gonna shower too, I think," he stretches and groans, knees popping. God, is this what being one hundred and nine is like? He sounds like a bowl of Rice Krispies.

Sam hums, "The handles are busted too, by the way. You've got to twist 'em justtt right to avoid getting an ice bath. I'm leaving a bad review."

"Nah, you just have to pat your head five times and say the magic word, Sam. Hydra plumbing can smell fear. You know that." Bucky pulls off his shirt, slinging it over his shoulder. He undoes the button of his pants but leaves the fly. With Sam undressing over the phone earlier, Bucky hadn't thought anything of it. The noise of clothes falling away never really registered as something worth noticing. Yet, somehow, it feels weird for Bucky to do the same.

"Must be nice, all that constant city-boy comfort,"

"Eh, the tap on mine doesn't always turn on the first try."

"Oh, I just assumed you stare at it with your creepy robot eyes until you scare it into submission."

Bucky laughs, "Nah, I save those eyes for you," and cringes almost immediately. Why had he said that? What the fuck did that even mean?"

"You practice that in the mirror?" Sam asks. He doesn't seem caught off guard or upset, just mildly amused.

"That bad?" Bucky offers instead of denying it. He must love digging for how often he finds himself in a hole. What was he doing?

"Solid seven out of ten. Delivery was a little flat." Sam still doesn't sound bothered in the slightest. There's the woosh of a faucet and a splash as he washes his face, followed by the muffled pat pat of a towel.

"I'm rusty," Bucky says. His heart is thrumming in his neck.

"Hm, well, I'll be back home in a week or so. You can practice until then."

"Sure. Bye, Sam."

"Night, Buck."

When they hang up, Bucky stares at his phone for a solid minute. The emotional roller coaster he's just departed leaves him a little breathless. The torn page stays crumpled in the garbage, unassuming. No one would look at it and think anything of it. It's just paper now. Like this, he can pretend it had never been anything more.

He messages Sam.

James Barnes: I'm RSVPing for the 18th.

Sam Wilson: Good. I'll pick you up at your place. You got a suit?

Bucky looks at the clothes draped over his bed. The blazer is a deep, professional black, with a faintly detailed dark blue lining. It fits a little tight on his shoulders, but the return fee was eighteen dollars, and he refuses to pay it based on principle.

Sam will pick him up. Sam will be at his house. Sam, Sam, Sam.

James Barnes: Yeah. You?

The chat bubble pops up, sinks, and pops up again. Finally, an attachment comes through. It's a picture of Sam dressed in a navy suit. He looks bright and confident, with his arm around Torrez, who is dressed similarly. A sea of blurry bodies looms behind them, light catching on scattered champagne glasses. Someone else is holding the camera, the unfocused edge of their finger just barely visible in the corner of the frame. Sam is smiling, captured mid-laugh with his head on the verge of tipping back.

Sam Wilson: Thinking of wearing this again. Thoughts?

Bucky clears his throat and double-taps the message. He sets his phone down. Pinches the bridge of his nose and sucks in a breath. The frayed wire wraps around his lungs and squeezes.

That night, he dreams. Not a nightmare, but he wakes up feeling disgusting all the same. Teeth and sweat linger on his skin, only interrupted by the light beaming through his parted blackout curtains.

He takes a cold shower.

"Your American friend has not been by in a long time." Miss Adler says. She hands him a cup of something steaming. It tastes like cinnamon.

Bucky blinks. "He's away on business. And I'm American too, you know."

Miss Adler waves him off. "As much as I am. You got that look about you. In the face. You live long enough, you travel enough, and home just becomes a box with a door. You are a man from nowhere."

Bucky looks at New Brooklyn and frowns.

"Well," He lifts his chin, "Property taxes on Nowhere are up two percent. Someone really ought to do something about that."

Miss Adler laughs mirthfully, as warm as the drink she'd offered him. Patches slithers between her legs. "You should run for Mayor."

Bucky blinks, and the calendar flips.

All of a sudden, he's in the bathroom, mostly dressed, save for the blazer, and fighting with his hair. He should have bitten the bullet and gotten it cut, but it's too late now. He runs pomade through the fringe and rustles it into an acceptable shape. The length makes him look younger. He tries to feel younger. Tries to fix his face into something friendlier. The result is something strained but passable. Maybe not quite James, but surely it will be enough to be—

There is a knock at the door, short and polite, followed by a distant, "Bucky?"

"Coming!" Bucky shouts back. His glove is resting beside his blazer on the foot of his bed. Conflicted, he reaches between the two, hand hovering in the air. Fuck it. He'll leave the glove for tonight. It doesn't match anyway. He snatches the blazer and pulls it on, walking towards his door. He opens it, and, despite knowing who was on the other side, blinks at Sam dumbly. "Hi," he says. It's the first time they've seen each other face-to-face since the park.

"Hey," Sam replies, an easy smile on his face. He pulls him into a one-armed hug. Bucky barely has time to react before it's over, and Sam is back in front of him, gesturing at his clothes. "Nice suit. You ready?"

Bucky, who had managed to conduct a succinct, three-second panic attack, gives a small nod and follows Sam out into the hallway. They get to the elevator, and Sam presses the button for the ground floor, gesturing with an arm when the door opens.

"After you."

They pass through the lobby, Sam pausing briefly to adjust his tie. Bucky's forefinger and thumb rub nervous circles into each other, nail catching on his bitten cuticles.

Just outside the door to his apartment complex lies a sleek black limousine, engine rumbling softly. The sunset behind them reflects faintly off the tinted windows. Bucky's eyes widen in surprise. Sam notices and nudges his shoulder.

"It's nice, right? The seats are ridiculously comfortable. Figured if I managed to pull you out of that apartment, I might as well go all out. Honestly, I'm debating buying a lottery ticket."

"Gonna split it with me if you win?" Bucky asks.

Sam chuckles, reaching to open the door. "So you can spend it on a nicer apartment to hermitize in? Hell no. You might upgrade to higher security. Then it'd be double trouble trying to drag your ass out of it."

That stings a little. Not because he's wrong, but because he isn't. Bucky ducks into the car and scoots over. There's a brief moment of awkward shuffling as Sam climbs in after him and settles in on the opposite side, pulling the door shut behind him. Bucky rushes to fill the gap.

"I feel like you'd find a way somehow." It lands heavier than he means it to. That's fine because Sam shakes it off. Or maybe he just doesn't notice.

"Probably," Sam shrugs. "I'm not too worried about it." The car lurches forward, wheels turning smoothly into the road.

They exchange easy conversation for the rest of the ride, not unlike how they talk over the phone. Sam asks how he's been. Bucky answers honestly when he says, "Not bad." The time passes easily, like it often does with Sam, until they pull up in front of a Corinthian columned building framed by grand stone steps. It's night now, and the warm lighting dotting the stairs and entrance makes for a surprisingly inviting air. Maybe it won't be so bad.

Sam shuffles out first. He offers Bucky a hand, which Bucky takes after a brief (and frankly embarrassing) moment, and pulls him out. It was completely unnecessary. The wire plucks all the same.

They walk up a paved pathway framed by neat, geometrically maintained shrubbery and make their way towards the doors. At the base of the steps, Sam turns to Bucky, a serious expression on his face.

"Hey," he says, "You don't gotta do anything you don't want to do, okay? If things get to be too much, just find me, and we'll go."

Bucky stares. He hadn't considered leaving early to be an option, let alone one he could ask for. Sam is looking at him intently, and Bucky isn't sure how to respond. Thank you? I'm sorry? He nods again, which Sam accepts, a hand landing on his back with a firm thud.

He steers Bucky up the steps and through the door, glaring sternly at the security guard when Bucky hands her his ID, seemingly daring her to question it. They walk through another set of doors, and immediately they're met with ambient jazz and about a hundred chattering attendees. Some stop to look up at the two of them, eyes passing over Bucky and locking onto Sam with mild interest before returning their focus.

Wow, Bucky thinks, is this how Steve felt at our senior formal? He finds himself cringing in empathy. God, that must have sucked.

Sam pulls Bucky further into the room, and quickly gets looped into conversation, face morphing into a commercial smile as he shakes hands and laughs. Bucky looms, too nervous to join in, but equally nervous to wander off. A server passes by, and he plucks a flute of champagne from the tray just to have something to do with his hands. He takes a sip. It tastes like battery acid.

"And who is this, Wilson?" asks a man to Bucky's ten o'clock. He's older, broad-shouldered and grey, with stern eyes and a deep voice. His coat is vibrantly decorated with an assortment of pins and ribbons. Army. Major General. He's standing at an angle, hips tilted. Following down, Bucky can see he's wearing a prosthetic leg. He's gesturing to Bucky. Five more pairs of eyes fall on him.

Sam plants a hand on his shoulder and shakes him a little, his free arm gesturing to the small crowd in a graceful arc. "This, ladies and gentlemen, is Sergeant James Bucky Barnes, of the Howling Comandos." The hand on his shoulder gives him a friendly pat. Bucky tries not to stiffen. "He stopped by tonight to help support the fundraiser."

Bucky's own hand comes up in an awkward half-wave with an awkward half-smile to go with it.

"Oh, I've read about you!" exclaims a woman to his right, "Gosh, you really haven't aged a bit from those photos in the Smithsonian."

Nope. He hasn't. He's been staring at the same face in the mirror longer than this lady has been alive.

"Sunscreen," He says, trying to feign nonchalance, "keeps me young." That gets a laugh from most of them, including Sam. Someone else jumps in with a new topic, and the attention shifts away from him again. He stifles a sigh of relief.

Then he notices the Major General still staring at him, eyes narrowed and frowning. Bucky meets his gaze impassively. His eyes dance nervously over Bucky's face, expression indignant and slightly alarmed, his shoulders tensed. For a moment, Bucky fears the worst has come to pass, and he's been recognized, but the worry has no time to settle before Sam has him by the arm and is pulling him across the floor towards another circle.

Sam ducks his head in to whisper, "How are we?" and all Bucky can notice is the smell of his cologne. Subtle, but heady, like the smell after it rains mixed with something floral and dark. He resists the urge to sniff Sam like a freak. It takes effort.

"Fine," Bucky whispers back. "You having fun kissing ass?"

Sam pulls back to laugh at this, polite but unabashedly amused. "I'll need an icepack after this. My back is starting to hurt from bending over so much." He plants a hand on his lower back, hunching over dramatically, before standing up again.

Bucky smiles at the display and offers him his glass of champagne, still hardly touched. Sam nods his head graciously and takes a sip. His face morphs into something sour, the apples of his cheeks pushing up against his eyes. He passes the flute back, lips smacking.

"You'd think they'd have gone for a slightly nicer bottle," Bucky offers.

"Yeah." Sam shakes his head, a whole body shiver going through him as he continues to complain, "That shit tastes like someone hated making it. Why do you have one anyway? I thought the serum just ate right through it."

"Oh, well, uh," Bucky answers brightly. He hadn't expected Sam to notice. "Thought it made me look more approachable. Less like uh…"

"Like a bionic staring machine?" Sam finishes. Bucky nods. "Well, mission accomplished. Now you just look like a regular staring machine."

"I'll take it," Bucky says, and they charge again into the fray.

The night continues on and on and on. Bucky watches Sam shake more hands than he previously thought possible. He shakes some himself, cracks jokes, mingles, and chit-chats. It's all terribly social. He hardly recognizes himself. At some point, he even manages to drift away from Sam, carrying on a conversation all the way to the opposite side of the room.

There is still a strange feeling in his chest. A little whisper of impending doom. He promised Sam he'd come get him, but it had only been about an hour, so Bucky shoves the feeling to the side and tunes back in to an eccentric young man from Modesto who is trying all too desperately to convince him that the East Coast really ought to invest more towards no-contact payments.

"Right, like, so you understand my point?" He asks, again. This is the seventh time he's heard this man's Silicon Valley spiel. Bucky does understand his point. Hell, he's inclined to agree.

He looks at the rest of the crowd. Weighs his alternative conversation partners if their discussion concludes.

"I mean, I see where you're coming from…"

The man sighs in relief.

Okay, but this would be really funny.

"I just," Bucky continues, "I just don't understand. How are you paying if you're not touching anything?"

The man smiles tightly. Bucky can see the whites of his eyes grow wider. Who knew you could smile so wide without a single ounce of joy? Doctor Raynor has competition. "No-contact doesn't necessarily mean you aren't physically touching the—"

"Then why is it called 'no-contact?'"

The man, who appears mere seconds away from detonating, opens his mouth to politely instruct Bucky to go fuck himself, when he is cut off by a clamped hand on his shoulder. The man jumps, a yelp caught behind his gritted teeth. Bucky startles, only just. Major General drops his hand.

"Excuse me, gentlemen. I need to borrow Sergeant Barnes for a moment." The General says. He's aiming for levity, but it falls flat with his gruff voice. The man from Modesto scampers off impressively fast, only giving a small nod and a high "Yep!" before slipping away. Seems Bucky wasn't the only one who felt the mood sink the second this guy showed up. Great. The General's face descends into a leveling stare. "Walk with me," He says. It is not a request. The feeling of 'impending doom' transitions into 'current doom', and Bucky nods solemnly. He discards the still half-full flute of champagne on another passing server tray.

The General leads him to another lobby tucked away by an emergency exit. It's empty and dimly lit, sheltered by a blocky staircase to the second floor. There is a wet-floor sign propped up next to a water fountain with a rusted spicket. The music is softer here, a diametrical opposition to the violent turning of Bucky's stomach. He notices almost immediately that they're in a blind spot for the scattered security cameras. And Sam had his head turned towards an attendee when they left.

"Sir," Bucky starts, low and slow like he's soothing an animal. That's good, right? Old-fashioned respect? "I understand that my being here may be—"

"Do you remember me?" The General asks. His back is turned, head tilted up to watch the dappled party lights dance on the ceiling. He doesn't wait for an answer. "I remember you. Same fuckin' face too. And that arm… What'd they put you in? A freezer? Or is that just a side effect of the serum?"

Bucky can feel his emotions melt away in a strange sort of pull. Fear becomes anger, becomes overwhelming sorrow, becomes nothing at all. The Soldier stands at attention. There was no bargaining here. Just questions in a dark room. That, at least, he could do.

"Cryo," He answers soberly, straightening up, "Then they'd wake me up and put my brain in a blender. Guess it didn't stick."

"Stuck pretty well in sixty-eight," The General counters.

Bucky purses his lips. "It did."

"So, you do remember me." The General nods, satisfied. He turns around, pivoting uncomfortably on what must be an ill-fitting prosthetic. "Thought as much. Now the real question is if you remember what happened."

A moment, then, "Battle of Bến Tre. They sent me in to escort a doctor out of the line of fire. She had useful information about— "

The General cuts him off. "Do. You. Remember. What. Happened."

He remembers. Of course, he remembers. He'd shown up and hit them like lightning strikes a tree—an instantaneous calamity. They didn't even have time to fight back.

He remembers this man, a boy really, much younger than he is now, whimpering softly and pulling at the fabric of his blood-stained trousers. He remembers seeing the foot, still in a boot, several feet away from him. He remembers the begging.

He also remembers walking straight past him, not sparing so much as a word his way.

It is then that he thinks it's no wonder he feels like a stranger in his own life. He could hardly call it living, because life was something that happened to you, and Bucky was something that happened to other people.

His eyes dart briefly to the man's leg. "You got trapped under the rubble," he says very quietly.

"And who bombed the building?" The General presses. "Who started mowing down American soldiers—"

Artillery fire, flying bodies, and crumbling stone. Indiscriminate carnage. He can still smell the smoke.

Bucky's angry. He's not sure why. He doesn't have a point to make, not really. If anything, he is damn near asking for it when he cuts in, "I did not authorize that strike. That was an American-led strike—"

The General's voice begins to climb as he steps forward. His face is turning an ugly shade of red. "—like they were fence posts in a wood chipper. Who led his little Soviet buddies right towards my platoon? "

"—You were unintentional collateral. You and several hundred others—"

"Who started firing on civilians, Sergeant? Who—"

"I was not personally responsible for—"

"Who killed anyone who could have fucking helped me!?" The General shouts, spit flying from his mouth. His hand is pointed accusingly, finger leveled at Bucky's heart.

Bucky looks away. His voice, when he speaks, comes out small. Guilt is a grave he's being buried in. It all went wrong so quickly.

Doesn't it always?

"The leg was already gone."

The General looks at him, dispirited, face in the same portrait of betrayal it wore fifty years ago. He looks like Bucky had just hit him. Which is ironic, considering what happens next.

The set of the man's jaw is all the warning Bucky gets before the punch lands. It's sloppy and glances off Bucky's cheek with all the force of a love tap. But then there is another, and another, and at some point, Bucky is lying on the floor with the General atop him, watching the lights blur as tears well up in his eyes. There's a sort of catharsis to it, the numbness settling over him like a blanket as the man whales on him. Easier to hit a target that's holding still, so Bucky lies there with his arms by his sides. The tile is pleasantly cool. His nose is bleeding, he thinks, and someone has begun to shout. Some staff member, probably. She sounds scared.

"Sir, stop! Stop! Jesus— Can someone get security? Is that—? Sir! Oh god—"

At some point, he thinks of Steve and wonders, Is this it? Is this what you were chasing? He swallows the bile creeping up his throat, but the bitterness doesn't fade. What Bucky would give to go back and ask him… Is this what he felt like, too? Every time he'd start shit with some punk in an alleyway and get his ribs kicked in? Like he deserved it?

"You son of a bitch. You stole my life, you fucking— You— M— you monster," The General spits. He's crying too. Fat tears roll down his face and land on Bucky's. The salt soaks into his skin and clothes.

"I know," Bucky rasps. The General's hits slow down into sluggish barely-hits until he doubles over and sobs into Bucky's shirt. "I know," Bucky says again, because it seems important that the man is told this. He hears the staff member again, and then someone yelling his name. The weight is pulled off of him, and although he could withstand just over a metric ton, he still heaves in a breath.

"Bucky? Shit! Get the hell away from him, man. I said get the hell away from him! All of you! Go. Go!" Sam barks. He's there now, crouched over Bucky with his hand cradling Bucky's head. Someone is leading the General away. Someone is shooing a small crowd. Several people are gasping and murmuring. There goes the donations. Fuck, and Sam will be so—

Wait, Sam is here. Sam is here.

Oh, God.

Bucky reaches up and clutches Sam's shoulder. Sam goes, "You're good. You're good." And Bucky wants to say he really isn't, but that it's okay anyway. All he manages is this terrible hiss as Sam hauls him up. His head is spinning.

"Let's go," Sam says. Bucky hopes he nods.

Time fizzles out. One minute, they are by the staircase, the next, they're climbing the stairs to the second floor, and Sam is apologizing and saying something about it being less crowded.

"…Almost there. Stay with me, Buck."

Finally, they find themselves in the men's bathroom. It's empty. Sam is at the sink running a paper towel under cold water. The gentle fwoosh of the faucet echoes against the bare walls. Fluorescent lights buzz and flicker. Bucky is watching from the doorway in a washed-out daze. His nose had stopped bleeding a while ago. Now it just aches. It'll be healed within the hour.

Sam, Sam, Sam.

God, he feels like his body is filled with cotton. Maybe it's the oncoming migraine. He'd smacked the back of his head against the floor pretty hard when he fell.

Sam says something again. He wants Bucky by the sink? Bucky shuffles over. No, on the counter. Bucky gives him a dubious look, any leverage blunted by his tear-streaked face. Sam returns it. Counter it is. He feels like a child, legs dangling from the ledge of the granite countertop. Doubly so when Sam tells him to tilt his chin up so he can see the worst of the blood. He frowns when he sees the drops that have made their way onto Bucky's shirt and jacket, red dappling the cotton collar. He bullies his way between Bucky's legs, grips his jaw with a warm, soft hand, and Bucky thinks he's about to fall apart.

He anticipated a scolding. A harsh, righteously angry lecture, or even resolute silence. He'd ruined the event, he'd fucked up a chance to spend time with one another, and he'd personally embarrassed Sam by cosplaying a war criminal piñata. Sam had every right to rip him a new one. And yet.

"Let's get you cleaned up," Sam says, wringing out a paper towel with his free hand and holding it above Bucky's top lip.

"What?"

No, he can't. Sam doesn't understand. This isn't how this goes.

"Come on. Lemme see."

Bucky bats at his hand weakly.

"'M Just gonna regenerate. It's fine."

And yet.

"Uh-huh."

"I got it, Sam... Sam—"

"Sure. Yeah. You got it. I heard you. Let me have a turn, though."

"You're gonna get blood on your suit."

"Wouldn't be the first time. Besides, someone's gotta restore those baby blues."

"Mm."

And yet.

Sam thumbs at his cheek. Moves his head this way and that. Dabs at the blood. His breath hits Bucky's face in even intervals. Dirty paper towels pile beside them. When Sam needs a new one, he refuses to step away. He just stretches to snag another, each time punctuated by the grating mechanical whine of the automatic dispenser. The world, for the most part, leaves them uninterrupted. The music plays on.

He's so gentle. Bucky wants desperately to ask him why. Why is he doing this? How could he look at Bucky—really look— and still want to do this?

The wire hums.

"Sam," He whispers.

"Yeah?" Sam whispers back. He's looking at Bucky's forehead, eyebrows raised. He's got his mouth parted in that little frown he does when he's focused. The paper towels are no longer streaked with red when Sam pulls them away. Bucky is pretty sure his face was clean a while ago.

"I want to go home."

Sam pulls back. Smiles, despite everything. Bucky nearly lurches at the sudden absence. Jesus wept.

"There's the staring machine. You got a bed in that apartment of yours or just the couch?"

The ride back is mostly silent, save for the droning of the highway and the occasional motorcycle. The migraine had risen to a slicing ache with nausea in tow. All in all, Bucky still thinks he got off easy. Sam doesn't seem to agree. He's sitting upright with his arms crossed, watching Bucky with the same look of concern the two of them used to share for Steve. A helpless, knowing quirk of the lips. Something like, 'There he goes again.' He's not used to being on the receiving end of it. He doesn't think he likes it. At least when Steve begged to take a hit, he was trying to be a martyr. There was at least some honor in it, in a stupid, infuriating sort of way. Bucky's begging was just a vehicle for some well-earned penance.

They hit a bump in the road. Bucky grunts. The Look intensifies.

"You alright?" Sam asks warily. He hasn't asked about the fight. Hasn't said a word about the fundraiser or the General or how Bucky just sat there and took it. Maybe he's saving it for later. Maybe, an ugly part of Bucky thinks, he's not surprised.

Bucky nods in lieu of a verbal reply. He's bad at lying to Sam as is. God forbid he open his mouth. He has this terrible feeling that if he does so now, something awful will fall out.

"Got an icepack in your freezer somewhere?" Sam inquires.

A shake of the head.

"Frozen vegetables?"

Another shake.

"Damn. What the hell do you even eat? TV dinners and protein pills?"

Okay. That was a little too close. It's not like he didn't know how to cook, but cooking for yourself was an entirely different ballpark than cooking for other people. And besides, Bucky needed, like, eight thousand calories a day to stay awake. The serum didn't make his stomach bigger. There was no room for vegetables. Bucky glares at him.

Sam puts his hands up in mock-surrender. "Just askin'. Miss Adler can only do so much, you know."

They arrive back at Bucky's apartment complex just before midnight. Sam ushers him inside and through the lobby, snatching a mint from the complimentary pile on the receptionist's desk and popping it in his mouth. He offers one to Bucky in the elevator, who declines with a soft raise of his hand. An older couple shuffles in beside them, sending nervous looks towards Bucky's bruised face and bloodied clothes as Sam hastily presses the button for the fourth floor.

When the elevator lurches up, Bucky stumbles. Sam grabs him by the arm. He doesn't let go until the door opens again. Sam guides him out into the hallway. The older couple, who had been plastered to the opposite side of the box, finally drifts into the center. Sam walks just ahead, pausing in front of Bucky's door. His gaze drifts to the neighboring doors, decorated with plaques or wreaths and the like. Bucky's is noticeably barren in comparison. You'd know it was his even without the numbers.

Bucky fishes out his keys from his coat pocket and fumbles them into the lock. The door gives way with a creak. He refuses to oil the hinges. He likes being able to hear the door open and close.

Earlier, Sam had only caught a glimpse of his living room. The blank walls, the lonely couch, the TV on the floor. Leading him inside and shutting the door feels incredibly exposing. It is a terribly lonely little room, even with the new throw pillows. Sam doesn't comment, just takes off his coat and hangs it on a hook jutting from a wall-mounted coat rack. Bucky tosses his onto a bar stool by the kitchenette. Both the stool and the coat rack had come with the apartment.

Sam gives a heavy sigh, arm coming up to rub circles into the junction of his neck and shoulder. "You got some clothes I can borrow? I feel like I'm sweating bullets. Ralph Lauren would kill me if he saw the stains I'm leaving on his work right now."

Bucky can't help but chuckle fondly at that. He makes his way to his bedroom, kicking dirty clothes under the bed as he goes. After changing out of his own gross outfit into shorts and a t-shirt, he fishes out a deep green henley and some cargo pants from his dresser. The shirt might be a bit tight on Sam's shoulders. Bucky had lost some weight. They were clean, at least.

When he comes back, Sam is fishing through his freezer. "Man, you weren't kidding. The Depression is over, by the way. Ain't even any ice cream in here."

"I can't find the flavor I like," Bucky grumbles, passing over the bundle of clothes.

"We are in New York," Sam rolls his eyes, "They have every flavor. What do you want? Neopolitan? Butter Pecan? I can run to the nearest bodega and get you some Rocky Road."

"Rum raisin," Bucky says, "and no thank you, because the only store I bought it from closed down in the fifties. Believe me. I checked."

Sam lets out a breath, "Man, you and Steve are so picky. I bet you we could find something. Where's your shower? I'm gonna wash up and change. I shook so many damn hands… and that bathroom. Ugh, I feel gross."

Bucky directs him down the hall and to the left. After Sam leaves, he falls onto the couch and drops his head in his hands.

What just happened?

No, really, what the fuck just happened?

The past eight hours seemed too large to fit into a single night. Each event had stacked upon the last, and now everything feels like it's crumbling. He feels like he's buckling beneath the weight. The hug, the drive, the cologne, the bathroom, the stupid fucking ice cream. And Sam is acting like everything is normal? At least being beaten on the floor had made some semblance of sense. What was he supposed to do with this? This wild, beating thing in his chest that wouldn't shut the hell up?

His hands drop to the couch. He's about to stand up and make his way towards his beloved air fryer (Sam better not bitch about the freezer-burned bagel bites) when he feels something between the cushions. He digs and finds a crumpled piece of paper, the edges torn. The familiar handwriting and water-stained shade make his pulse skyrocket.

Of all the fucking days. Of all the shitty, bad enough days to have found this. Why was it just lying around? When did he leave it there? Why couldn't he remember?

Bucky Barnes grits his teeth. Cолдат stands straight as a ruler. James turns away in contrite sorrow.

He hears the shower turn on and resigns himself to one more heartbreak before Sam gets back. He stands up anyway and moves to the glass sliding door of his balcony. The moon is full, pouring light through the plastic blinds. It gives him just enough to see. The paper unfolds in his hand far too easily. He holds it in his left. The metal makes it feel farther away.

The rest of the letter reads:

—Under shells and soil we'll fossilize, but before that, I'll pull your ghost straight from your bones and sweet-talk you all the way through No Man's Land.

I'm selfish, I know. So, when the weeds start to pull at your boots, and the mud drags us both back down, I'll hold on just a little bit tighter.

The dirt can have you later. You were mine first.

Bucky stares at the letter. The letter stares back. He reads it again, and again, and again.

Being in love with Captain America was hardly an original experience. Everyone who didn't hate him fell in love with him at least a little bit. That was simply the type of person he was. But being in love with Steven Grant Rogers, who was deathly afraid of spiders but not afraid of death, and who didn't believe he deserved to be in the world unless he was saving it, was a different story. And Bucky had been wholly consumed by that story for most of his life.

"Just keep us next to each other."

Yet, Steve had left him without a second thought. Steve had a choice—

—And he chose the dirt. Every. Single. Time.

James, Bucky, and Cолдат sit in a small Brooklyn apartment, battered and bruised, holding a love letter from a dead man to a dead man.

Cолдат says, "He is gone."

Bucky argues, "He was never really mine."

James, who had never told a soul about his poetry and had written the original letter in a shared canvas tent the night before he died, aches terribly.

But then he thinks of Sam, thinks of his sun-warm palms, and his unkillable heart, and his toothy, blinding smile, and wonders if maybe moving on doesn't mean forgetting the past, but falling in love with the present.

And maybe, just maybe, this will work.

I don't want to feel like this anymore.

So he says, "No, he wasn't. So what are you going to do about it?"

Sam, who had been watching Bucky space out by a balcony with paper mulching between his metal fingers for an uncomfortable amount of time, cautiously asks, "Bucky?"

In an instant, or perhaps in a culmination of several little instants, the wire mends. A vicious signal comes through. With striking clarity, Bucky understands the message.

He steps forward.

"Sam," He says. It is all he says.

It's less a kiss and more a collision. An open-mouthed pleading as he winds a hand into Sam's—his—shirt. Sam makes a soft noise of surprise, fumbling for purchase, so Bucky pulls back, already on the verge of drowning in shame. He only manages an inch, and still the empty air between them feels corrosive. He can feel himself falling, but Sam catches him. Sam catches him and threads a hand in his hair, breaching the space again. So, Bucky whines. Sam swallows it. Says his name once or twice more, and Sam swallows that too. He still tastes of mint, and he is warm, warm, warm.

Sam's other hand finds its way to Bucky's waist. It slips underneath his t-shirt and molds itself to the jut of his hip. His nose slots beside the bruised bridge of Bucky's. It doesn't hurt. Nothing hurts. The paper, mostly shredded at this point, falls to the floor.

It culminates with Bucky's forehead against Sam's, eyes closed, breathing in, breathing out. Every time Bucky drifts, Sam pulls him back. There are a million things to talk about, but for now, all Bucky needed was this. Sam, and a safe place to land.

"I think I'm rotten, Sam." He confesses into the dark. The last of the adrenaline fades, but somehow he's even more scared. "I don't know if you should do this."

Oh, God. Oh, God.

Sam grabs Bucky's face with two hands. "Stay. I'm asking you. It's all I've been asking you. I want this. I want you."

Then he'll have him. He can't deny Sam. Not now. Not for anything.

"Okay," Bucky chokes, "Okay."

The night carries on, and morning trails right behind it. The two make their way into Bucky's bed just before dawn and promptly collapse into an exhausted pile. It is dreamless and sweet, a lazy interlude before the day tugs them out of sleep. When he wakes, Bucky's eyes are still puffy from crying, and Sam is drooling on the pillow, and he's snoring quietly. The smooth expanse of his back stretches in stark contrast against Bucky's pale sheets, the rise and fall of his breath lulling Bucky back into resting. He closes his eyes and scoots closer.

Time had eaten away at him like moths to a blanket, but whatever unsightly thing remained loved Sam Wilson with a sincerity that threatened to halve him, and Bucky was tired of asking himself if he deserved it. For now, in the softest of moments, this was all that mattered.

When it's time for his weekly session, Bucky all but saunters in. Even the security guard throws a wary glance his way. He falls into the grey sofa and doesn't even bother bitching when Doctor Raynor immediately picks up her pen.

She scribbles the date down at the top of the page and eyes him suspiciously. "Good afternoon, James. You look well. Anything interesting happen this week?"

Bucky clicks his tongue, smiling impossibly wide. "Doc," He says, and Raynor visibly recalibrates, "you got no idea."

"You know, she may be ready for an inside life. She's been taking naps in my window on warmer days. You and your friend could take her in, no?" Miss Adler suggests this one evening while she and Bucky are lounging on her porch. Patches is eating her wet food contentedly before them. Miss Adler had donated one of her pottery dishes for the cause. A blue, shallow dish in the shape of a heart. It makes a quiet scrape every time Patches nudges the lip of the bowl.

"He, uh, he doesn't live with me," Bucky replies, a little embarrassed.

Miss Adler's face scrunches doubtfully. "She will need a carrier. I will buy. You and your friend can come pick her up. How is next Tuesday?"

"Yeah," Bucky sighs. His apartment doesn't allow pets. Sam is gonna love this. "Okay."

Several months later, after the Flag Smashers and Walker and apartment hunting, they're sitting on the couch together, crowded by unpacked boxes, legs tangled with bowls of ice cream on their laps. Sam is eating his bowl of mint chocolate chip with a tangible smugness as Bucky begrudgingly scarfs down some of the best rum raisin he's ever had with a bent plastic spoon. They're watching some reality TV show Sam had insisted would be crucial to modernizing his pop cultural repertoire. Bucky still doesn't understand what the big deal is about a guy catching a bunch of giant, ugly fish, but whatever.

("No, no, listen. He caught all of them. The show ended because he caught all of the fish."

"Uh-huh. No, yeah, it's…it's impressive."

"You don't get it."

"Nope!"

"…Sit your ass down and hand me the remote. Do you have Hulu?"

"I have… no idea. Is that a channel? Or…?"

"Free trial it is.")

Patches is curled in Sam's lap, the traitor. He'd bought her some fancy freeze-dried treats from Norway that she'd thoroughly decimated over the past week. Compared to Bucky, who housed her, fed her, and generally attended to her every need, he couldn't hope to compete with it, really.

Sam slides a hand up Bucky's leg. It comes to rest on his ankle. "You know, about the ice cream, I won't say I told you so…"

Bucky shoots Sam a look. "Oh, well, imagine my relief." He takes another bite. Fuck, he could get used to this.

Sam barks a laugh, "Ha! I wish you'd gotten to see the look on your face. You were so mad. I should have taken a picture."

"Keep buying me this, and I just might let you."

In the background, Jeremy Wade wrestles a fish that is equal parts alien and dinosaur. Dramatic music rises to a crescendo as he thrashes in the water. Bucky thinks he looks like a jackass. Sam raises an eyebrow. "You sure you're feeling alright?"

Sam's tone makes him pause. He sets down his spoon. "Yeah, why?"

"Just bein' awful nice is all. Figured maybe you took one too many hits to that cyborg brain of yours."

Bucky adjusts his posture, relieved. A cheeky smile plays on his face. Patches stirs with a little mrrrp, before tucking her paws under her belly and falling back asleep.

"Well, if you want me to stop, you should have just said so."

"Nah," Sam says. He pulls Bucky's free hand, the metal one, to his lips and plants a soft kiss on his knuckles. Bucky doesn't need nerve endings for the touch to make his heart stutter. "It's cool. Might negotiate for a video, though. You know, just in case I start to miss you on those long flights. Captain America gets lonely too, sometimes."

Bucky would like to note that Captain America has been leaving the shield by the door far too often, and it's starting to scuff the wall, but it can wait. Besides, he's been thinking of painting the living room anyway. It'll tie in the throw pillows and the new curtains.

"Mhm," Bucky nods instead, "Keep selling it."

"Is it working?"

Bucky pretends to think about it. "I might need some more convincing. Is your sister hosting a cookout any time soon? I could be persuaded with some crab legs."

"Oh hoh hoh," Sam drops his hand, teasing and light when he asks, "Is that how it is?" And then they're both fighting through giggles.

"That's how it is."

"Wowww."

The wire sings, "I love you," while the two of them laugh and laugh.