Chapter Text
Five months after the debacle with the Flag Smashers, Bucky is declared free of any charges relating to acting as a free agent, or against the United States’ interests. He has also finished his mandatory therapy sessions and is cleared to be among the general public without having to check in with someone every week. For the first time in a long time, Bucky has no obligations. No therapy, no missions, no world to save. He goes back to his apartment after the hearing and stares at the emptiness around him, still in his suit and tie.
“I hate this place,” he declares to the empty room.
He goes to his room and packs a bag, tearing off the suit and exchanging it for comfortable jeans and a henley. Once he has the bag packed with the essentials, he takes the key off its ring, and leaves it on the kitchen counter. He figures he can just leave a message for the landlord, telling her to sell whatever Bucky has left behind, if she wants.
It's not like it's a lot. He hadn't even bought furniture for the place.
Less than an hour after he'd arrived, Bucky’s sitting in front of his apartment building on his Harley, wondering where the hell he's gonna go. His only friend is Sam, but sometimes Bucky feels like the only reason they talk is because Steve had foisted him off onto Sam before he left and the other man feels responsible for him. Besides, Sam’s been roped into doing interviews and a press tour as the new Captain America, same as Walker had done when he’d first been announced as the new Cap, Bucky remembers in passing.
The answer comes to him suddenly.
Walker.
He hasn't heard anything new about the other man since they parted ways; just the same tired old news story that runs again and again- the failed Captain America. It's a bit worrying, actually. So, Bucky- being the good guy he is- will go check on Walker first. Then maybe he can finally tour some of the states that he’s helped to save more than once. A hundred-six and he’s barely seen anything outside of Indiana and New York City under his own power.
He has been all over goddamn Europe though.
First, however, he needs to find out where the other man is. He opens up the web browser on his phone and carefully types in what he knows about the man. There are 516 John Walkers in Georgia, apparently. Remembering that his hometown is Custer's Grove, thanks to that rage-inducing interview he woke up to all those months ago, narrows it down to seven.
Bucky decides it's time to call an old contact because he's out of ideas at that point, other than to visit each one, and he's not putting himself through that.
“That's John Walker? Last known address somewhere in Georgia, but probably Custer's Grove, or at least used to reside there?”
“Yeah.”
There's a sigh over the phone. “Give me a couple hours. Standard fee unless I run up against some issues. Him being a former public figure can either help or harm the search. Won’t know until I try.”
“No problem.” Bucky’s sitting on quite a bit of backpay, plus he'd received a stipend for living expenses while he'd been in therapy, so a couple thousand won't hurt him. “Just let me know ASAP.”
“I'll text you the account number.” The voice on the other end hangs up.
Bucky decides to get a head start on covering some of the distance. Something tells him John probably hasn't left Georgia, at least, if he knows the other man at all.
(He doesn't really- know John- but it's what Bucky would do. Hole up somewhere familiar. And he thinks they're more alike than either of them would want to admit.)
Bucky has been on the road for nearly three hours when he gets the call.
“He's someplace outside of Talking Rock. I'll send you a map, since this place is somewhere in the hills, and apparently unnavigatable by GPS.”
Bucky thanks them, then pulls over to check his phone. It's getting close to dark now, and while Bucky could ride through the night, somehow he doubts John would appreciate being disturbed at- Bucky checks the estimated time of arrival- around 2 am.
He drives until he's outside Christianburg, finds a place to eat, then gets a room at a cheap but relatively clean-looking hotel. There isn't much to do, so he watches some TV, tries to sleep, and he's back on the road by six the next morning.
The GPS says he should arrive some time around noon, which should be more than respectable, especially for a military man.
Eventually, he's traveling up some little mountain road, train tracks on one side, dilapidated houses on the other. He checks the map one more time and his destination should be on his right.
Bucky feels his heart drop into his stomach. The house he's seeing looks barely liveable with its sagging porch, peeling paint, and overgrown vines. Still, Mac has never led him wrong, so he parks his bike on the gravel drive, and tests his weight on the first step of the porch.
It holds. Barely.
He makes his way to the screened-in door, hanging lopsided on its hinges. Bucky pulls it open to knock on the main door. His fist thumps hollowly against it.
From inside comes a solid thud, then a pained groan, and Bucky’s almost tempted to break his way in, but then he hears footsteps creaking their way toward him.
“Goddammit, if I’ve told you people once, I’ve told yo-” the door swings open. “Bucky?!”
The man in the doorway is Walker, he's fairly certain. Same red-tinted blonde hair and bright blue eyes, but now the hair hangs in greasy strings in front of his face, and the eyes are dull. Walker's jaw is covered in a scruffy beard and he's dressed sloppily in a stained white shirt and loose sweat pants.
Bucky waves, trying not to feel like an idiot. “Hey.”
“Fuck off,” Walker snarls, and slams the door in his face.
Well, fair enough.
Now normally- normally- Bucky would leave well enough alone if someone were clearly so unhappy to see him, but there's something about Walker that just gets under Bucky’s skin, makes him want to give it back, so instead, he pounds on the door again.
“C'mon, Walker! Is that how you treat a guest?”
“I didn't invite you here,” Walker yells back.
“I’m not a vampire.” Bucky grins. “Where's that Southern hospitality I've heard so much about? You really gonna leave a man who drove thirteen hours in less than a day in the cold?”
“It's 83 degrees out, jackass.”
Bucky waits a moment, contemplating his next move, when he hears the footsteps shuffle back and the door creaks open again. “You really drove thirteen hours in a day?” Walker eyes him suspiciously.
Like a shark sensing blood in the water, Bucky puts on his most charming and pathetic ‘aw, shucks’ look. “In just under twenty-four. Started out yesterday around one.”
John stares at him a moment longer, then turns away and walks back into the house. But he leaves the door open, and that's all the invitation Bucky needs.
Grinning in triumph, Bucky hikes his rucksack higher up on his shoulder, and follows the other man inside. Looking around curiously, he sees that for all the house is worn down outside, it's clean, though equally shabby, on the inside.
He follows Walker into the kitchen. The linoleum floor is peeling in places, and the counter space is nearly non-existent. The sink, refrigerator, and range are all crammed close together.
Walker takes a glass from the drying rack and fills it with water from the tap. “Here,” he says, thrusting it in Bucky’s direction.
Bucky thinks about making a joke about not having a fancy water filter, but he figures he's pushed as much as he can probably afford to at the moment. And he is actually kind of thirsty, so he just accepts the glass of tepid water and takes a sip. It tastes like the kind of water he grew up with, musty and faintly metallic.
John leans back against the counter and stares at him.
Bucky stares back. If it's a contest of wills John wants, then Bucky is going to win. He's had eighty years to perfect his stare, no way a thirty-some year old is going to beat him, though John does give it a good go. He'd held Bucky’s gaze rather well on that truck all those months ago too, Bucky remembers. Maybe even better than Sam ever had, before learning that Bucky is mostly bark, very rarely any bite.
Unless they really deserve it.
Eventually, John does break, though Bucky thinks it's mostly his curiosity that wins out. “Why are you here?”
“To see you, obviously.” A dribble of water escapes Bucky’s mouth, and he wipes at it with his left hand. Honestly, Bucky still isn’t sure why he came, other than a lack of any other direction and a need to do something. Checking in on Walker had seemed like as good a starting point as any.
(Okay, and maybe he secretly delighted in the thought of causing the other man some grief. He’d just been so easy to rile up the last time.)
“To haunt me, you mean.” John retorts, looking more like a recalcitrant three-year-old than a grown man.
Bucky grins, glad to know that man feels the same way that Bucky does about him. A thought occurs to him. “Where's, uh…” Shit, Bucky can't remember her name. “Your wife?”
That shuts John down fast. “She left me.”
Bucky stares at him. “Because of the house?” He hazards to guess. “Is this place even habitable?”
“It has running water.”
“From where? The roof?”
“You literally just saw me fill your glass from the tap!”
“Coulda been runoff from what's left in the pipes.” Bucky struggles to keep the smirk off his face, then wonders why he's bothering. The whole point is to annoy the other man.
John huffs, clearly annoyed with Bucky. “She didn't leave because of the house. We have a perfectly nice home in Custer's Grove.”
“And you're not there because…?”
“Because she kicked me out,” John enunciates like he's talking to a particularly dense child. “This is the house my grandparents left to me.”
Bucky sets down his glass. “Jesus John, it's been less than six months since New York.”
“Yeah, well, I've been reliably informed I'm an asshole.” Bucky can see the muscles in John’s jaw flexes as he clenches his teeth together. Before he can say anything though, John changes the subject. “So, are you going to tell me why you're really here?”
He considers his answer for a moment. Bucky doesn’t have a specific reason for being here, he’d just… needed to get out of New York, a change of pace. A chance to exercise the first bit of freedom he’s had since World War II. Why the fuck had he picked going to see John Walker of all people?
Oh, right. Because he knows literally no one else- that’s not in jail- other than Sam, who’s currently unavailable. Hell, John doesn’t even want to see him, he knows that, but somehow he also knows he can bully John into doing just about whatever he wants. Shit, maybe Dr. Raynor had been right about him needing to get out more. His personality has really taken a nosedive if he actually feels somewhat gleeful about inflicting himself on someone.
“Or you can leave,” John says, in a tone that highly suggests that would be his preference. “And we can pretend you were never here.”
“Alright, alright,” Bucky holds up a hand to stall him. “I'm trying to think-”
“Must be hard.”
“About how to say this,” Bucky finishes, glaring at the other man. John just smiles back tightly. He stands quiet another minute, trying to organize his thoughts. “Alright so… After everything that happened in Latvia and New York, I had to go before a panel to see if my actions were deemed justified or not.”
John’s head tilts, confusion written all over his face. “Why would you have had to go before a panel? I thought they just forgave you for everything because of the good ol’ red, white, and blue, and American McDreamie.” Bucky isn’t the most emotionally in touch person, but even he can hear the bitterness in John’s voice.
Also, that's the first time he's heard someone refer to Steve like that, and he struggles to hold back a snicker at the thought of how much Steve would hate it.
“I'm not Steve,” Bucky says, and decides to ignore the rest of the other man's comment for his own sanity. “So I got excused, pardoned- again- or whatever you wanna call it, and now…”
“Now?”
“I’m free,” Bucky says. He hadn’t actually said it out loud before. It feels a little more real suddenly.
John squints at him, and Bucky can tell that right at that moment, John is wondering how anyone judged Bucky mentally capable enough to wipe his own ass, much less walk around outside on his own. “No shit.”
Bucky shakes his head. “No, John. I’m free. For the first time since before I can remember, there’s nothing tying me to anywhere.” He gestures broadly. “No family, no obligations, no world that needs saving. I can do anything. Go anywhere.”
“And the ‘anywhere’ you chose was the rundown house of a man you hate?” John asks dubiously.
“In my defense, I didn't know it was like this at the time.”
John pinches at the bridge of his nose, looking like just being in the same room as Bucky pained him. “You really didn't think this through at all, did you?” Guilty as charged. “What, did you think? You were just gonna shack up with me, Olivia, and our son?”
Bucky shrugs. “Originally, I was just gonna check in then move on to somewhere else.” A pause. “You have a kid?”
“Daniel, he’s fifteen months old.” John answers automatically, looking proud. “Originally?” A suspicion forms in his eyes. Bucky hates how easily the other man can read him. “No.”
“I haven’t even said any-”
John straightens from his slouch against the counter. “We don’t even like each other, why would you want to stay here?”
“Well…” Bucky thinks of how to explain his brilliant idea without making himself sound as pathetic as he really is. He doesn’t know how to explain that Sam’s opinion of him matters, but John’s does not, and how much he needs that right now. Somehow, he doubts the other man would find such thinking flattering.
“The only reason you’d want to stay with someone you hate is because you think no one would look for you here.” Well, that kinda works, actually.
“Hate’s a strong word,” Bucky protests.
“Very publicly dislike, then.” John rubs his hands over his face. ”Jesus Christ, that’s it, isn’t it? There is no one else.”
Bucky thinks about denying it, but John is strangely good at reading him for someone he’s only had a handful of conversations with. “Yeah, pretty much.”
John sighs, running his hands through his hair. “Un-fucking-believable. You are un-fucking-believable.”
Bucky lets the silence settle around them for a bit. “So?”
“No! The answer is very obviously no. Why would I want you here?”
He thinks about it for a moment. “I can pay rent?” John stares at him, so Bucky adds, “And help fix this place up.” John chews on his bottom lip, and the fact he hasn't outright said no again gives him hope. “C’mon, what could it hurt?” Bucky isn’t sure why he wants this so much, just that he does. Something about Walker’s situation resonates within Bucky, and part of him can’t help but feel that if he leaves this man alone now, he’ll regret it.
“Each other. We could hurt each other.” Okay, fair point. Bucky waits. Finally, John sighs. “I don't have a guest bedroom.”
Bucky tries not to let his triumph show. “Couch is fine.”
“You haven't sat on it yet.”
“The floor is fine,” Bucky regroups.
“You haven't sat on that yet either.”
“Jesus Christ, John, is it a yes or a no?”
John sighs. “I'm not supporting you. Anything you use, you replace. Buy your own food.” Bucky nods. “You pay half the bills for water, electricity, etc.” He eyes Bucky like he expects him to disagree, but honestly, considering he hadn't known what he wanted when he'd come to find John, it's better than he had hoped.
“Agreed.”
Walker looks at him like he’s genuinely confused by Bucky’s easy agreement. “Right, well, uh, welcome to your new home, I guess. May God help us all.” The words are reluctant, but they send warmth through Bucky anyway. It's been a long time since someone has said that to him. “You bring anything else with you?” John asks, eyeing the rucksack Bucky had left on the worn armchair.
“Not really. A few things on my bike, but that's about it.”
“Guess I don't have to worry about giving you closet space then,” John mutters to himself.
Bucky brings the last few items inside with him, then pulls his bike under the car port beside John's beat-up Ford Ranger. He eyes the rust spots in the corners and wonders if his bike would be safer in the middle of the yard. Then he shrugs, pulls the protective cover over it, and goes back to the house for the tour.
The house really is tiny. Besides the living room and kitchen, there's a miniscule bathroom where Bucky isn't even sure he can close the door fully and fit inside, and then John's room, which is little better than a closet.
“And that's it,” John finishes with a wave of his hand.
“It's… cozy?” Bucky feels the word in his mouth, and knows it's a lie, but he's trying not to start a fight. Mostly because he knows if it goes physical, the house is going to be the first thing that suffers, and Bucky would like to make it at least a day before destroying something.
John shifts to lean his weight onto one leg, arms crossed over his chest. “You're welcome to leave at any time.”
Bucky wanders over to the threadbare couch and eases himself down onto it. The frame creaks dangerously, but it holds his weight. John is right though, the thing is lumpy as hell, and Bucky can already imagine death by a thousand tiny pinpricks. Or tetanus. “No, thanks.” He spots the TV remote. “This work?” He clicks the power button, and the TV comes to life, though the image is grainy.
“Yeah, but I only get like three channels up here.” John sits in the recliner by the door. That looks newer and like it's meant to actually hold the weight of a full-grown man.
Bucky shrugs. “It's got sound and color. Seems like a win to me.”
John snorts. “Okay, grandpa.” Bucky just rolls his eyes. He's so used to the old jokes at this point that they don't really bother him. “Oh, shit,” John says suddenly. “I gotta get going actually.” He heaves himself out of his chair.
“Where?” Bucky cranes his head to see the clock display on the microwave. 2:04 pm.
“Work,” John grunts, heading into his room. He comes back out a few minutes later in a cleaner shirt and jeans.
Bucky twists in his seat to watch him grab his keys. “Where the hell do you work that has you going in at two in the afternoon?”
“Manufacturing. I have to be there by three.” He's halfway out the door before he stops suddenly and looks at Bucky over his shoulder. “Uh, I guess help yourself to whatever for now. There's beer in the fridge. I should be back before midnight.” He continues out the door. “I must be fucking insane,” Bucky hears him mutter to himself before the door slams shut behind him.
Which leaves Bucky to his own devices, in a ramshackle house occupied by the man who has most gotten under his skin since Steve left. He leans his head back on the couch, and covers his face with his hands. “What the fuck am I doing?”
Keeping an eye on things, he answers himself. Making sure John isn’t another Red Skull or plotting world domination. It’s a lie, but he has to tell himself something to keep from thinking about the real reason. The one he’s been dancing around acknowledging since he decided to go on this roadtrip.
So far, John just looks like a man on the brink of divorce. And tired. John looks nearly as tired as Bucky currently feels, like all one hundred-six years are weighing down on him at once.
Eventually, Bucky's stomach reminds him he hasn't eaten since that morning, and he goes to investigate the fridge. What he finds there is extremely underwhelming, and he considers trying to find the nearest grocery store, but part of him just wants to sit in the near silence of the house for a while. It’s actually rather peaceful here, in the absence of other people.
Hunger wins out eventually though, and he reluctantly pulls out his phone to search for the nearest grocery, or some place that sells food. He finds some sort of food mart that proclaims it's open 24 hours, but when he gets there, he realizes it's just a gas station with delusions of respectability. They carry the basics though, and that's all he really cares about.
A bell rings when he pushes the door open. The two grizzled men by the counter stop their conversation to stare at him, neither say anything, just watch as he walks through the aisles for a moment before continuing their conversation.
He grabs the essentials: sandwich bread, peanut butter, a couple cans of Campbell's, and anything else that's easy to make- then heads to the register.
The man behind the counter straightens up and begins to ring up his purchases.
“That your Harley out there?” The man not behind the counter asks. Bucky manages to control his flinch at suddenly being addressed to a slight tightening of his left hand.
“Yeah,” he says, not really wanting to encourage conversation, but not wanting to be rude either.
The man nods. “S'nice. What model?”
It takes Bucky a moment to remember. “The Street 750.”
“Oh, heard good things about that one. Modded?” The man's tone is curious, but polite.
Bucky nods. “Some.”
The man behind the register puts Bucky’s last few items in a bag. “Heard they were built for city driving, though. How does it do on the roads around here?” The man tells him the total.
Digging out his wallet, Bucky shrugs. “Gotta be a little more careful on the dirt and gravel, but otherwise she handles fine.” He pulls out a couple bills and hands them over.
“Hmm.” The man counts out his change. “You just passing through or stayin’ a while?”
“Visiting a friend,” Bucky says for lack of a better explanation to his presence in their small town.
“You're the one visiting, but your friend made you do the shoppin’?” The man who had first spoken asks. He sounds disappointed by the ‘friend’, much to Bucky’s amusement.
Bucky gathers up his purchases. “Sick friend,” he amends. He doesn’t know why he’s trying to defend John, the other man isn’t even here. Still, for some reason, he doesn’t want these men to think Bucky has shitty friends.
Understanding dawns across both men's faces. “Well, in that case, good luck to ya.”
“Thanks.” And then with one last nod, Bucky makes his escape. He gets back to the house, realizes he forgot to grab jelly, and wonders if John would notice some of his preserves missing. Deciding not to chance it, he slaps an ungodly amount of peanut butter onto two slices of bread, then scarfs them down with some water, right there in the kitchen. Then he steals John’s recliner and turns on the television, no plans to move in the near future unless it’s to take a piss.
He's watching Walking with Dinosaurs when he hears John's truck pull up to the house. A glance at the clock tells him it's 11:42 pm, just like John had said he'd be home by. He eats another bite of his ice cream, watching as the team on the television unearth the fossilized bones of a Spinosaurus and concoct a harrowing story.
“Pft, fitting,” John says as soon as he's in the door and sees what Bucky is watching. “Is that ice cream?”
“Mhm,” Bucky hums, dipping his spoon back into his pint of cookie dough. “If there’s one thing that’s gotten better since the forties, it’s the ice cream flavors.”
“Where did you even get it?” John goes to the fridge and opens it, digging around before pulling something out.
“Gas station down the road a bit.” Bucky leans forward a bit to peer at John. “Why the hell are the only things in your fridge a six-pack of beer, four eggs, and a half-full jar of blackberry preserves?"
John turns around, finger stuck in the jar of aforementioned preserves. “You got a problem with blackberries?” He scoops a bit out and into his mouth.
Bucky wrinkles his nose. “Gross. And no, I don’t.”
“I told you to get your own shit, didn’t I?” He digs out a few more mouthfuls before putting the jar away and grabbing a beer. “I’m gonna get a shower, then head to bed.”
Bucky frowns at him. Now that he’s looking, John appears even more exhausted, which- yeah, okay, he did just get home from work, but a super soldier shouldn’t get tired that easily. There are dark circles under his eyes, and Bucky remembers the dull thump he’d heard when he had first arrived, like a man falling out of bed. “You want some soup or something? I got chicken noodle and beef vegetable.”
John shakes his head, already heading to the bathroom, beer in hand. “Nah, man, I’m tired. Just wanna wash the sweat off and call it a day.”
Figuring he’s been polite, and that John’s an adult, Bucky shrugs and goes back to watching the plight of the Spinosaurus. The shower shuts off several minutes later, and soon John is out, towel around his waist. Bucky tries not to stare. In the suit, John had seemed broad. Solid.
Out of clothes, the other man is skinnier than he expected, all lean muscle instead of bulk. But what really draws his attention are the scars. There’s more of them than he would have guessed, but most notable is the constellation of pock marks along the man’s right side.
John cocks an eyebrow at him, and to cover his staring, Bucky asks, “did you just take a beer with you into the shower?”
He shrugs. “More efficient that way.” John crushes the can in his grip and tosses it in the trashcan.
“What? No recycling?” Bucky asks in mock offense.
“Not this far out,” John replies, heading to his room. “Which reminds me, there’s a burn barrel out back for the trash.” ‘A burn barrel?’ Bucky mouths to himself. “Trash can’t be left to sit in case it attracts critters, so make sure to light it up if you take it out.”
“Uh, sure,” Bucky says, like he has any idea what that means.
John sighs. “I'll show you later. You good out here for the rest of the night?”
Bucky pats the couch arm that's within reach of him gently. “I'm good.”
“Alright.” There’s a brief hesitation, like John wants to say something else, but instead thinks better of it and bids Bucky a goodnight.
Bucky watches the TV for a few more minutes before deciding he’s had enough ice cream and gets up to put it away.
He stays up a little longer, but the day’s travel is wearing on him. Bucky doesn’t get tired easily, not like he used to before the serum, but he still needs to sleep. He puts the TV on mute, then settles down further into the recliner.
Bucky stares up at the ceiling for a long time. Sleep never came easily to him anymore. Eventually, just as his eyelids start to grow heavy, he hears a noise.
At first, he doesn’t think much of it, but the noises get louder and more pained, and Bucky realizes what he’s listening to- nightmares. So, he gets them too, huh? He doesn’t know why it surprises him, maybe because the other man acted as if nothing touched him, as if he was above such things. But then Bucky remembers the broken why John had said his friend's name, and thinks that's a really stupid assumption to have.
The noises continue for a little longer before they taper off.
He relaxes back into the recliner, shuts his eyes, and tries to sleep again.