Chapter Text
Ava was holding up a very red, very biohazard-looking Dorito chip between her fingers, squinting at it. “You know what this looks like?” she asked, turning toward Bucky with a straight face.
“I dunno. Radiation poisoning?”
She ignored that. “Steve Rogers.”
Bucky sputtered, choking on absolutely nothing as his head jerked up. “What?”
Ava nodded solemnly, then spun the chip between her fingers. “That shoulders-to-waist ratio is ridiculous.” She turned the Dorito sideways and pointed at it. “Look at that taper. You could ski down that V-line.”
Yelena actually snorted into her tea.
Bucky stared at the chip, then at her, and finally shoved the book he was reading over his face like it could shield him from the very concept of Steve-shaped snack food. “I can’t believe I’m friends with you people,” he mumbled from under the pages.
Ava just grinned. “Don’t blame me, blame the Super Soldier serum and the bad tailor. Dude wears a shirt two sizes too small.”
“He wants to woo Bucky with his pecs alone,” Yelena snorted, clearly amused with herself, actually started laughing, shoulders shaking as she tried to sip her tea and failed spectacularly.
Bucky groaned from behind the book, dragging it slowly down his face.
“Admit it,” she said, tossing the Dorito chip into her mouth. “You noticed.”
“I notice when a person walks into a room wearing a skin-tight T-shirt and shoulders like a barn door. Doesn’t mean I’m—” Bucky caught himself, mouth clamping shut.
Ava’s eyes sparkled. “Doesn’t mean you’re what, Bucky?”
“Nevermind,” he muttered flatly, standing up and brushing Dorito dust off his pants. “Goodbye.” Bucky said, walking out of the room.
It had been a week since he saw Steve.
Which was fine, fine!! It wasn’t like Bucky missed the way he hovered with concern, always up in his business. It wasn’t like he missed the awkward visits with paperbacks or the quiet way Steve would talk about nothing. Except now he was just… gone, no sudden appearances with bandages or soup or things Bucky didn’t ask for but didn’t hate either.
Must be off doing some hush-hush mission, something important, something he wasn’t obligated to tell Jamie Jameson, civilian, grumpy neighbor.
Still, Bucky found himself wandering to the window like an idiot.
He pushed aside the white curtain and took a peek across the street, the lights were off, the shades were drawn. A potted plant, one Steve swore he’d try not to kill, was completely wilted beside the cactus Bucky had found when he stalked him that one time. The cactus looked fresh. Perky, even.
What the hell was he even looking for? Christ.
He let the curtain fall and stepped back.
During his brief and ill-advised time as a congressman he should’ve drafted a bill that went something like this, “A Resolution to ensure the long-term mental health, emotional stability, and general well-being of one James Buchanan Barnes (hereinafter referred to as “Bucky”), through the establishment of firm, legally binding parameters restricting the presence, influence, and overall interference of one Steven Grant Rogers in his life.
Whereas, Barnes has demonstrated consistent patterns trauma resurgence, memory destabilization and unpredictable emotional spirals following any and all reintroductions of Rogers into his personal sphere—”
He could already imagine it typed out in bureaucratic font, tucked between budget allocations and tax amendments. Section 4B: No Steve Rogers within a 500-foot radius.
Too bad he hadn’t thought of it then.
Then again, he hadn’t expected to see Steve again at all.
Stupid Steve Rogers.
He opened the front door and stepped onto the stoop, pausing for a second as the warm afternoon sun hit his face. Out here, nobody gave him a second glance, no nervous mothers crossing the street with their children to avoid walking in front of him. Without the metal arm in plain sight, he was just another guy in the city, more like a tired-looking man.
And for a moment, that anonymity was bliss. Maybe the past wasn’t so bad after all, maybe Bob was right.
He scratched his jaw absently as he moved down the block, ignoring the pang in his shoulder that always flared up randomly.
He was only one block away from their rented place when the sound of screeching cats caught his attention. Peering around the corner of an alley, he spotted the source of the noises, two cats, one snow-white and the other a scrappy orange tabby, were fighting.
But it wasn’t the cats that made Bucky stop in his tracks.
Near the back wall, beside an overflowing dumpster, a man crouched low, half-hidden in the shadows, shaking like a leaf, arms wrapped around his knees, gaunt face pale beneath days of grime and a dog tag dangled from one hand. A vet, probably. Maybe homeless. Maybe both.
Bucky felt a flicker of uncomfortable recognition. He’d seen that look before, in mirrors, in VA waiting rooms. The twitchiness, the way the guy kept glancing around like he expected someone to grab him from behind. He approached slowly, careful not to startle him. “Hey,” he said, hands visible, open. “You alright?”
The man’s head snapped up so fast Bucky instinctively recoiled back. His eyes were too wide, red-rimmed and glassy like he hadn’t slept in days.
The man’s cheek lit up from underneath. It pulsed, glowing bright orange like molten metal, did he mention that he was glowing from the inside? the veins on that side of his face were illuminated faintly, like bioluminescent wiring under flesh. Bucky stared at him, horrified. What the fuck?
First aliens exist, then time travel, now random glowing people?
“Easy, man,” Bucky said, both hands lifting in that universal gesture of I’m not gonna hurt you. “You’re glowing. Literally. What the hell is that?”
The man blinked rapidly and clutched the tag tighter, whispering something Bucky couldn’t comprehend over the continuing yowls of the two alley cats. A string of nonsense or maybe a prayer. “Hey,” Bucky tried again.
The man looked like he wasn't going to answer him and he glowed brighter, not just on the cheek now but his whole body began to shimmer from the inside.
Bucky stepped back and created a real distance between them and it was when the man exploded! holy shit. It was like a bomb detonated at point-blank range, sending a cloud of dust, fire, and pulverized trash rocketing down the alley.
He reflectively threw up his metal arm to shield his face as his heels were skidding across the pavement despite the supersoldier serum thrumming in his veins, the explosion still lifted him off his feet like a ragdoll. He flew backward and hit the brick wall with a crack that knocked the wind from his lungs.
A second later, he was on the ground, ears ringing, vision blurred. Somewhere nearby, one of the cats gave a final yowl and bolted, the other was nowhere to be seen.
Extremis. It had to be. That was the name Bob dropped once, AIM? biotech? unstable human bombs?
Bucky groaned and rolled onto his side, spitting out a mouthful of blood and for a moment he wasn’t sure if the fire he saw was real or just behind his eyes. Something was wrong with his right leg, when he tried to move it, a slicing pain shot up through his thigh and made his vision tilt. His jeans were torn at the thigh and already soaked through with his blood. Great.
But his metal arm took the brunt of it, the fake skin on the forearm was blackened like meat left too long on a grill and he could see bits of the metal plating of his arm peeking through.
Bucky lay there, staring at the orange glow flickering behind his eyelids, a single thought passed before he blacked out.
What the actual fuck.
When he woke up, the first thing he registered was the ache that settled in his thigh and the base of his skull. The second thing was Steve’s face hovering above him, impossibly close, eyes wide with concern and lips pressed into a bitten plush red line.
Steve’s forehead was furrowed, eyebrows scrunched in that familiar way that made him look boyish. His golden hair was mussed like he’d been running his fingers through it in frustration, he recognized that it was something Steve only ever did when he was worried sick.
Under normal circumstances, Bucky would be distracted by the sharpness of that jawline or the ridiculous sincerity radiating from those baby-blue eyes. But now? Now his gaze dropped instantly to his left arm, heart plummeting to his stomach that he was sure it rolled off the ground in a brief panic only to release a strained breath when he saw the bandages wrapped neatly around it.
Thank fuck. His teammates were thoughtful like that.
“Jamie!” Steve’s face lit up like the damn sun. “You’re finally awake!”
Bucky blinked slowly and the brightness of the room made his temples pound. He didn’t know how long he’d been out, but his limbs felt like they were made of wet cement, and his head? Christ, his head felt like someone had bonked Thor's hammer to the back of it, he was sure there was a bump the size of a golf ball.
He let out a grunt in place of actual words, that was all he could manage.
Steve didn’t seem to mind. He leaned back a little, giving Bucky some space, but his gaze never left him.
Bucky could feel the bruises blooming along his ribs every time he inhaled too deeply. Even Steve, the pinnacle of a perfect human male, would’ve been bruised to hell by being that close to a literal walking bomb.
Yelena entered the room and opened her mouth like she wanted to shout Bucky, but one glare from him was enough to pull her shit together. “Jamie, what the fuck?”
Bucky groaned and threw his forearm over his face, shielding his eyes from the overhead lights. “Not now,” he mumbled hoarsely, pressing the heel of his hand into his eye socket like it could somehow stop his skull from pulsing. “Somebody turn off the light,” he added and there was a click of a switch.
Blessedly, the room dimmed. The artificial brightness vanished, leaving only the soft light spilling in through the open window. The curtains danced faintly in the breeze, bringing in the smell of asphalt, summer heat, and city pollution.
“What happened?” Yelena asked, looming over him by the side of the bed.
Bucky squinted up at her, still pressing one hand to his temple. “Is it believable if I say somebody exploded in front of my eyes?”
Yelena’s brows jumped halfway up her forehead. “What? You used a grenade launcher on them?”
Bucky blinked at her slowly. “No. They exploded, on their own.”
Yelena stared at him for a beat too long, as if deciding whether or not he was messing with her.
“I mean it,” Bucky added, shifting with a wince and trying to prop himself up a little. “Guy was mumbling some weird shit, looked like he was overheating from the inside. His face lit up orange, next thing I know—boom.”
Yelena narrowed her eyes, unconvinced but intrigued. “Spontaneous combustion?”
Bucky shrugged. “He had dog tags, didn’t look like he had much else.”
There was a long silence before Yelena finally asked, “And you, genius, you went up to him why?”
Bucky closed his eyes and grunted. “Because he looked like me.”
Steve perked up at that. “You’re a vet too, right?” he asked, gaze flicking down to the dog tag still hanging around Bucky’s neck.
Shit.
Bucky tensed before he could stop himself. Did Steve read the tag while he was unconscious? It didn’t look like he had, if he had, he would be crying at the fact that Bucky was still alive. But still, the question alone put him on edge. That stupid little piece of metal had almost blown his cover more times than he could count and now it was hanging right there in plain sight.
Yes, Steve, we served together back in the ‘40s.
But instead, he swallowed that down and answered flatly, “You could say that. But hey, you’re back.” Bucky tried to steer the conversation somewhere else.
“I had work to do,” Steve replied.
“Avenging?” Bucky asked, raising a brow.
“Spy stuff.” Steve’s tone held the faintest tinge of embarrassment.
Bucky almost snorted right there, Steve Rogers doing spy work was about as subtle as a polar bear in a library. “Obviously that didn’t work, and I got pulled out,” Steve continued, rubbing the back of his neck. “Natasha replaced me.”
“Figures,” Bucky muttered, unable to stop the amused twist of his lips. At least she could actually move through shadows without knocking over a garbage can.
Steve wasn't supposed to be telling them this. Steve was too trusting, he always had been. Bucky just hummed. “Pretty sure you’re not allowed to say any of that to civilians,” he said.
“Guess I’m a bad agent too,” Steve shrugged.
Bucky shrugged. “Could’ve told you that.”
Walker walked in, holding a comically large sack of cat food slung over one shoulder. His eyes immediately landed on Bucky, still laying down on the bed with his arm bandaged and his leg elevated. “Oh hey, you’re awake,” Then his gaze shifted, brows flying up on his forehead as he caught sight of Steve perched awkwardly on the tiny chair next to the bed. “So many people are fussing over you,” Walker added with a faint smirk.
“What can I say? I’m a hot commodity,” Bucky replied, deadpan.
“That’s for Ava’s gremlin,” Walker said, dropping the oversized sack of cat food against the wall of Bucky’s room
“Since when did she get a cat?” Bucky asked, confused. He hadn’t been unconscious that long, had he?
“When he heard the explosion,” Yelena chimed in, nodding toward Walker. “We found you unconscious and bleeding, but there was also this white cat next to you, totally knocked out cold.”
Bucky blinked. “And you just… brought it back?”
“We couldn’t just leave it,” Yelena said with a shrug. “It was either bring it home or let it become bird food.”
“So Ava adopted it?” Bucky asked, incredulous.
“She didn’t even hesitate,” Walker muttered. “Wrapped it in her hoodie like it was a baby, gave it a name on the spot.”
“What name?” Bucky asked warily.
“Marshmallow,” Yelena and Waker snickered. “Because, you know, it’s white, soft, and now slightly toasted.”
Steve made a barely concealed snorting sound.
“She sleeps in Ava’s bed now,” Yelena filled him in.
“Unbelievable. You people need supervision.”
“You’re awake,” Yelena deadpanned. “That’s your job now.”
Recovering was easy.
Pretending was not.
Yelena had told him there was a piece of metal (ha! how ironic) lodged deep in his right thigh when they found him. Apparently, it was small enough to avoid major arteries but large enough to make walking difficult for a few days. So now, he was healthy enough but Bucky had to fake a limp around Steve, which was harder than it sounded, mostly because Steve was around a lot lately.
On top of that, his arm sleeve was toast, now he had to wear layers of bandages over it to hide what he was under the illusion of being just another civilian. He wouldn’t be complaining so much if the damn bandages didn’t keep getting caught between the plates. Every time they did, it made his arm click like a broken clock, or hiss faintly.
He didn't know if Steve was dense or just pretending not to hear anything weird happening under the bandage.
One night, Bucky lay on the bed, his already good leg being propped up, bandaged arm resting on his stomach. Steve sat beside him in a rickety chair. “Where were you spying?” Bucky asked, breaking the quiet.
“I can’t tell you that,” Steve replied immediately, it was a well-practiced line.
“Let me guess,” Bucky said, turning his head enough to look at him, “you were spying on the exploding people.”
Steve’s lips twitched in something like a grimace. “I don’t know, Jamie. There’s a lot going on in headquarters. AIM, rogue agents trying to play god again. That’s just one problem among twenty, but yeah…” He paused, leaning back in the chair with a tired sigh. “That’s one of them and Natasha’s been on edge lately, she mentioned… a ghost sighting.”
That made Bucky still completely. His fingers clenched briefly around the blanket covering his legs. Ghost sighting? Don’t tell him that’s the Winter Soldier or well… himself. His heart jumped, but he forced his expression to stay neutral.
“What?” he asked, pretending to furrow his brows in confusion, putting on the blank look that always got him out of trouble. “Ghost sighting? Like what, someone in a bedsheet?”
Steve huffed. “No. She said it was someone showing up on security footage, blurry, fast, long hair, tactical gear.”
Jesus Christ.
“That could be anyone, though.” Bucky grimaced.
“I know!” Steve snapped his fingers. “But Natasha isn’t easily spooked and she looked genuinely rattled.”
Bucky’s stomach twisted, a cold knot forming beneath his ribs. “She is a spy right? spies are paranoid bastards, Steve.” Steve looked scandalized that Bucky called Natasha a bastard, oh wow, here goes the lecture… but he cut him off before Steve could even start. “That’s her job. Comes with the ten passports, the burner phones, being paranoid is basically written on her job description.”
“You’re awfully familiar with the spy stuff,” Steve pointed out. Bucky forced himself to hold the man’s gaze, careful not to let the flicker of unease show on his face.
Just play it cool.
“I watch a lot of spy movies,” Bucky replied with a grin that he hoped came off casual and not looking like he was hiding something. “James Bond, Mission Impossible. Spies are practically pop culture icons these days.”
Steve tilted his head. “Huh.”
“What?” Bucky asked, a little too quickly.
“You never struck me as a movie buff.”
Shit. “Well, I’ve had some time,” he deflected, then arched a brow. “Wait! don’t tell me you’ve never watched James Bond?”
Steve blinked, looking mildly embarrassed. “I haven’t had time to explore that kind of stuff yet. Everything’s… still a little overwhelming.”
Bucky stared at him for a beat, then burst out laughing. “You’ve been out of the ice for how long and still haven’t sat down to watch Bond seduce his way across Europe?”
Steve crossed his arms, lips twitching at the corners. “Unlike some people, I’ve been a little busy saving the world.”
“Right,” Bucky muttered. “Well, i’d love to introduce you to the modern world but you know….” He gestured to his bandaged arm and leg. “Little busy being half-exploded.”
“It’s okay. I’ll wait.” And there it was, that ridiculous, blinding smile. The kind that made Bucky feel like the worst kind of people for not telling him the truth.
Bucky was just being polite, alright? he might be a mass murderer but he knew how to be polite by offering it when he knew Steve needed it. He just didn't expect Steve to accept it.
“I’m serious,” Steve added, shifting in the rickety chair until his knees bumped gently against the edge of the bed. “When you’re back on your feet, you and me. Movie marathon, you pick the first one.”
Bucky blinked, startled by the sudden turn of events. “What? You don't have jobs to do?”
“My boss, uh, superior told me to get settled first unless i need to do some ‘avenging’ like you called it. I have a lot of free time these days.” Steve said.
Well, didn’t Bucky already know that?
He tried not to let his face show it, but it was weird, wasn’t it? Seeing Steve Rogers sitting around with nothing better to do than loiter at a stranger’s bedside, someone he barely knew, supposedly. “Must be nice,” Bucky muttered, tilting his head to the side to keep his eyes on the ceiling. “Having time off.”
“You make it sound like I’m useless,” Steve said, grinning again. “I could leave, if you want, do push-ups on a rooftop or something.”
Bucky side-eyed him. “You would do push-ups on a rooftop.”
“I have,” Steve said, with no shame whatsoever.
Bucky stayed silent for a while and just listened to the soft ticking of the wall clock and the distant noise of someone—probably Yelena—blasting music in another room. “Why are you doing this? you don’t even know me.”
Steve blinked, thrown for a second. “What?”
Bucky looked at him. “I mean, I’m just some guy. You’re acting like we’ve been friends for years.”
Steve shrugged. “Maybe I want to be.”
He shifted under the blanket, suddenly aware of the pulse in his chest, the heat creeping up his neck. “You shouldn’t,” he muttered. “I’m not great company.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“We’ll see.”
Steve looked disappointed at his answer.
The skinny white cat Bucky had seen in that alley turned out to be the same one Ava had rescued. Poor thing was still limping slightly and had the wary look of a creature who’d seen too much in too little time. She sniffed everyone cautiously but refused to let any of them lay a hand on her. Bucky, on the other hand? She practically claimed him, climbed right into his lap one morning, circled twice and settled in like a warm weighted blanket.
He had, with a quick tail-lift, confirmed she was a girl cat because no one else dared to. Every time she crawled into his lap again, Ava glared at him like he’d personally offended her and stolen her firstborn. He’d try to shove the cat back into her arms but she’d leap down and trot right back to him.
“She’s like our emotional support cat,” Walker cooed one afternoon, leaning in to scratch her head only to be promptly hissed at.
Alexei made kissy noises from across the room as the cat blinked slowly from her throne on Bucky’s lap. “She has good taste,” he said. “She knows who the sad one is.”
Bucky rolled his eyes, absently stroking a finger down the cat’s spine. Her fur was surprisingly soft, clean, even though she’d been found skulking around a dirty alley and she arched into the touch like she was starved for affection. “I don’t even like cats,” he said, yet kept stroking.
The cat let out a deep, rumbling purr that vibrated through her tiny ribs.
Loudly.
Embarrassingly.
“Also, I’m not sad,” Bucky added quickly, scowling as if that would somehow convince anyone in the room.
The others turned to look at him in slow, synchronized disbelief. “Bucky,” Alexei said, lifting a brow, “you look dead-eyed every day.”
“You look clinically depressed,” Walker added. “Like, textbook definition. I’d write a thesis on you.”
“Your vibe is just… constant grief,” Ava said, flipping a page of The Hobbit novel without looking up. “Like a sad war widow who never remarried and just knits sweaters.”
The cat meowed in agreement, curling even deeper into Bucky’s lap and tucking her nose against his stomach like he was a safe place. Bucky’s mouth twisted. “And you all don’t?”
There was a collective beat of silence.
“Hm. Touché,” Yelena muttered, pulling her hoodie tighter.
“We all should get one cat each,” Bob added cheerfully, tossing a cat toy across the room. It bounced harmlessly off the wall and landed near Bucky’s bare feet. She didn’t even look interested, clearly above such peasantry.
“We are not going to get six pets,” Bucky immediately refused, leveling him with a flat look.
“Five,” Bob corrected. “You already have one.”
“I do not—” Bucky started, then stopped when the cat on his lap lifted her head and meowed up at him. “Okay, technically she’s not mine, she just… sits here. Menacingly.”
“She purrs,” Yelena pointed out.
“Loudly,” Walker added, amused.
“Exactly,” Bucky said. “She’s plotting something.”
“She’s in love with you,” Alexei said. “You’re her grumpy human.”
Bucky groaned and slouched deeper into the couch. “I survived Hydra for this.”
Bob shrugged. “She probably thinks you’re the alpha of the house.”
That earned a round of snickers.
“Seriously though,” Ava said, lifting her head from her book, “if we each had a cat, they could form their own little Avengers team.”
“Oh god,” Bob muttered then cackled. “Avengers: Feline Division.”
“Paw-vengers,” Walker said with a completely straight face.
Yelena was already scribbling something in her notebook. “I call dibs on the black one with the angry eyebrows.”
“We are not doing this,” Bucky said again.
No one listened. The cat purred louder.
Bucky lifted the cat to be eye level and stared at her blue eyes, similar baby blue to a certain someone that Bucky didn't want to think about. “I'll rename her,” Bucky told Ava. “Alpine.”
“She’s not yours,” Ava tried again.
The cat stretched luxuriously on Bucky’s legs, curled her tail around herself and purred again like a little engine.
“She disagrees,” Yelena muttered, clearly delighted.