Chapter Text
He wakes to the sound and smell of eggs frying in a pan. Bucky sits up, a little startled that John was able to get past him and root around in the kitchen long enough to get breakfast started without waking him. “What time is it?” He asks, rubbing his face with his human hand.
“Almost 8.” There’s a clattering of plates and silverware. “Sorry if I woke you up.” Walker doesn’t sound particularly sorry, but Bucky ignores it in his surprise.
“Shit, I haven’t slept that long since…” Since before the war, he trails off before he can say.
The look on John’s face says he heard it anyway. “I made the rest of the eggs, if you want some. They were about to go bad anyway.”
Bucky hauls himself out of the recliner, stretching his arms over his head, then scratching at the place where the waist of his sweatpants dig in a bit. He ambles over to the rickety table John’s already sitting at, and looks at the plates in surprise. “Just eggs?”
John shrugs. “Didn’t think to make anything else.”
There is no way Bucky is going to survive on just two eggs, and neither is John. “You got a toaster?” John nods toward the counter behind Bucky. “I’ll make us some toast then.”
Immediately, John tries to protest. “You don’t have to make any for me. This is fine,” he says pointing at the eggs that are already half-gone from his plate.
“Jesus, John, it’s just bread. I can get more later.” Bucky sets about getting the bread and toaster set up. “Besides, we both have the same serum flowing through our veins. Sort of. We need more calories than most people to keep us going.”
John shuts up after that, and Bucky makes the toast in peace. He didn’t think to grab butter yesterday, so it’s dry, but at least it’s more than what they had.
He grabs John’s plate while the other man is mid-bite and loads up two pieces before returning to the toaster to make more. “Can you grab me the preserves from the fridge?” Instinctively, Bucky wants to bite back that he’s not John’s maid, but he did just make the man toast, and he’s kind of in front of the fridge anyway. It’s hard not to be, with how small the place is. “Thanks,” John says when he hands the jar to him, then proceeds to dump some on his toast., squishing it into the bread with his fork.
When Bucky returns to the table with his own share, John holds out the jar to him. “Want some?”
“You literally ate out of that jar with your fingers last night.”
“My hands are clean.” Bucky stares at him. “So, that’s a no then?” John just shrugs and puts it down. “Suit yourself. Enjoy your extra dry bread.”
“I will, thanks.” Bucky scoops some of the egg onto a slice then folds it like a taco and takes a bite. The eggs aren’t too bad actually, lightly seasoned and not overcooked.
The rest of the meal passes in silence, and soon John is clearing the table. “I can do the dishes,” Bucky surprises himself by offering.
“That’s alright. I already got it.” It’s only a matter of minutes before he’s done, and then he’s drying his hands on a towel hung over the oven handle. “I gotta go to work soon. Anything you need before I head out?”
Bucky feels a little surprised. His supposition was that most people still go to work at the same time every day, except for places like restaurants and the zoo. “I thought you worked like, second shift or something…?” He thinks that’s what they call it, at least.
“I do. Mandatory overtime today. Got a choice of coming in early or staying late though.”
“Oh.” Bucky thinks about how he didn’t do anything at all yesterday, and that there are other things he really should do today. “You have a washing machine or something?”
“Oh, yeah, it’s on the back porch. You’re gonna have to hang your clothes to dry though.” John leads the way and shows Bucky how to use it. Not that Bucky is unfamiliar with washers and dryers now, but everything so far has been sleek and new. John says he thinks this one is from the 1970s. “Didn’t they have electric washers back in your day?”
“They did, but by the time they made it to the US there was a war on, and I was in Europe.”
“Ah. Well, this is pretty basic.”
Bucky watches as he points to each dial. “Honestly, I think I prefer this to the one that came with my apartment. Too many damn options.”
John laughs. “I know what you mean. Well, this will get your clothes clean, then you can just hang them on the line here.”
“At least that part’s familiar.”
They head back inside. Bucky follows John back to the front door. “Oh, one more thing.” John stuffs his feet into his boots.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t try to shower and run the washer at the same time.” John pats his pockets, checking for his phone and keys. “The water tank can’t handle it.”
“Got it.”
They stand there awkwardly for a moment. “Well, uh, bye then.” John gives him an awkward wave.
“See you later,” Bucky says, and with that, Bucky is alone in John’s house again. “What the fuck am I gonna do all day?” He asks the empty house, hands on hips. “Well, I guess the obvious first.”
Bucky sets about doing the very limited amount of laundry he has, measuring out detergent and adjusting the settings as John had directed him. He’s also in desperate need of a shower, but he’ll wait until the laundry is drying before he attempts it. Instead, he looks around the house for something to do, but even though it’s rather shabby, it seems like Walker keeps the place clean.
Still, the warped floor boards and peeling paint give Bucky an idea. Both the porch and carport look as if they could collapse at a moment’s notice, and while there isn’t much he can do about the carport- except tear the whole thing down and replace it- there might be something he can do about the front porch, so he goes to take a look at it.
Most of the boards are in various states of warping, and the middle is starting to buckle. Surprisingly, despite the comment Bucky had made the other day, the roof seems to be holding up okay. “Thank God for small favors,” Bucky mutters to himself. Well, tearing everything back and replacing it shouldn’t be too difficult. “Just be methodical,” he mutters to himself.
First, however, he needs supplies. He looks up the nearest hardware store and makes the half hour trip on his bike. There’s no way he’s going to be able to haul lumber on it, not legally anyway, but having an idea of what he’ll need is good enough for now. On the way back, he stops at the same gas station as last time to fill the Harley’s tank and grab more bread, as well as butter.
On his way back out, Bucky spies a few jars of various jellies and picks up a jar of strawberry in defiance of John’s weird obsession with blackberry. Also, it has the added bonus of no one having stuck their fingers in it. Yet. Hopefully not ever. When he gets back to the house, he hangs his newly washed clothes on the line, then he makes himself a sandwich for lunch.
After he finishes eating, he takes a look around the yard. It’s wildly overgrown in most places, and further investigation unveils an old push mower that refuses to start. Shrugging, he pulls it out to where there’s more light and sets to taking the thing apart. He becomes enraptured in the work, only stopping once or twice to find some rags and then see if John has any oil. Eventually, he locates the problem, fixes it, then puts everything back together. A few pulls of the chain and the thing starts up well enough.
Shrugging, Bucky takes it for a few spins around the yard before it dies again, but this time he figures it’s because it ran out of gas and not any other mechanical problem. He hauls the thing one-handed back under the relative protection of the carport and goes inside to clean up then fix himself some dinner.
He’s back in John’s recliner again watching an amateur murder-mystery show, when the man pulls up in his truck again. Bucky’s just licking the last of his ice cream off his spoon when John slams through the door. “Hey, how was work?” He cranes his neck back to try and see the other man.
John squints at him. “Jesus Christ, you’re still here?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I kinda thought the accommodations would scare you off.” John toes off his shoes, then ambles over to the refrigerator, following the same pattern as the night before. “I figured you were just waiting for me to leave before making a break for it.”
Bucky gets up to dispose of his empty container and wash off his spoon. No sense in letting it sit in the sink to fester. “My laundry didn’t dry fast enough, so I’ll have to stay at least one more night.”
John nods. “Makes sense,” he says, and leans up against the fridge, watching Bucky cross the room as he drinks from the can in his hand. He looks exhausted again, which is quite a feat considering he’s a super soldier, but Bucky is starting to have his suspicions about that, despite being there for less than forty-eight hours.
“You want something to eat?”
John rolls his head against the freezer door. “Nah. Just gonna finish this, wash up, and head to bed,” unconsciously echoing his statement from the night before.
Bucky can feel the frown forming on his face. He tells himself not to get involved; it’s not his place. John takes his beer into the shower again, and Bucky can’t help trailing his gaze after him, a thought niggling at the back of his mind.
The next morning, Bucky wakes on the floor. It was a bad night for sleeping, and so he’d taken to the cool linoleum where it had felt more solid, more real. The clock on the microwave reads 6:07, which is probably about as much sleep as he’s going to get, so he heaves himself up and into the kitchen.
He fixes himself a bowl of Cornflakes, turns the TV on mute, and watches the local news while crunching his way through his breakfast.
John stumbles out of his room a couple hours later, looking like an electrified kitten with the way his hair is sticking up, and Bucky snorts at the picture he makes. The other man is shirtless again, and in the light of day, the scars on his torso are more prominent.
“Are those shrapnel scars?” Bucky asks like he doesn’t very well know that they are. He’d seen men torn apart by grenades, but the ones who survived had similar scarring.
“Huh?” John pokes at the coffee maker until it starts making the appropriate noises. “You want any of this?” Bucky shakes his head no, and while John waits for the coffee he gets himself a glass of water. Bucky gives it fifty-fifty odd on whether or not John either didn’t hear Bucky or is purposely ignoring the question.
Remembering that he meant to check on his clothes, Bucky stands and crosses to the door to the back porch. They’d still been a bit damp the night before, he hadn’t actually been joking about that, and he hadn't thought to check them again until now. “The scars on your side,” he says, pointing lazily. “Shrapnel?” He ducks out onto the enclosed back porch and tests the nearest shirt. Finding it dry, he starts pulling his clothes off the line.
John peers down at his side like he’d forgotten all about them. “Oh, yeah. Apparently grenades really do go boom. Who knew?” There’s a sort of studied nonchalance to the way John speaks that tells Bucky there’s more to the story. John pours himself a mug of the fresh dark brew and goes to lean in the doorway, watching Bucky collect his laundry.
“I thought you had some sort of specially-made helmet for that.” Bucky says, continuing to haphazardly fold his clothes onto the top of the washing machine.
“Only works when you’ve actually got the helmet with you.” He grins a bit, as if he’s telling a joke, but then the smile slides off John’s face just as quickly as it appeared. “Lemar gave me so much shit for it.” There’s a faraway look in John’s eyes, one Bucky knows well. He’s seen it in the mirror often enough.
“John?” Bucky calls softly.
He shakes his head. “It’s nothing.” John waves his hand as if he’s waving away a memory. “It’s a long story. Suffice to say, I didn’t have my helmet, so I tried to use some sort of reinforced container thing that ended up blowing to bits, but my tac vest cushioned the blow enough that none of the pieces went too deep.” He takes a sip of his coffee and winces.
“You didn’t mention that when I asked you about jumping on a grenade before.” Bucky’s tone is softly questioning.
“I didn’t think you’d care.” No, he probably wouldn’t have, if Bucky is being honest. John shrugs. “Didn’t really seem relevant anyway. Besides, it wasn’t that bad.” It feels like Bucky should say something to that, but he’s not sure what. It’s not like he can lecture the other man, after scornfully having asked him that question all those months ago. “So, I have the day off today, was there anything you wanted to do?”
“I was thinking of fixing up your porch.”
“What?” Bucky opens his mouth to repeat himself. “No, I heard you. Why?”
Bucky collects his laundry to carry inside. John hurriedly backs out of his way, bumping into the edge of the counter next to the door and wincing at the impact. “Have you seen it recently? In daylight? The thing is one stiff breeze from falling apart.” Lacking any other options, Bucky places his clothes on the sofa. It’s not like either of them really use it anyway.
“And?” John raises an eyebrow, rubbing at his hip through his sweatpants.
“And I’d like to not die by collapsing porch, so I figured I could fix it up.”
“Pfft, as if that would kill you.” There’s a note of ‘unfortunately’ underlining his words. Bucky decides to take it as playful and ignores him. John fixes him with a skeptical look. “Do you even know how to repair it?”
“It can’t be that hard,” Bucky scoffs. “We built stuff like scaffolding all the time during the war.”
“So that’s a no then.”
Bucky straightens his posture, borrowing Stark’s condescending look from when people had tried to underestimate him. “Actually, I had a very nice chat with Augustus in lumber-” “Who the fuck is Augustus?” John interjects. Bucky ignores him, “and I’m confident I can get it done.”
John stares at him for a long moment before sighing. “You know what? Fuck it. You wanna fix my porch or anything else, be my guest. You’re paying for the materials, though.”
“Deal.” Bucky starts putting on his boots.
The other man sighs and runs a hand through his already messy hair. “Who knows, maybe you’ll get sick of it and finally decide to leave.” Bucky shoots him a dry look and pulls on his other boot. “Wait, you wanna go now?”
“No time like the present.” He finishes stuffing his feet into the shoes and kneels to tie them.
“Right.” John downs the rest of his coffee and places the cup in the sink. “Lemme get some clothes on.” He goes to his room and Bucky hears some shuffling, then a bang and a curse, and John comes out another thirty seconds later, rubbing at his elbow.
Bucky watches him, thinks about asking what happened, then decides he’s not actually curious enough. John stuffs his feet in a ratty pair of sneakers, grabs a cap from the peg by the door along with his keys, and leads the way out the door to his truck.
They’re a few steps off the porch when John suddenly stops and squints at the yard. “Did you mow my lawn?”
“Yep.” He goes to the passenger side of the truck, then turns to John when he realizes the other man is still trailing him.
John looks around the yard, then spots something out of place. “Did you fix my mower?”
“Uh-huh.” Bucky tugs impatiently at the truck door handle, only to realize it isn’t even locked. Well, he supposes there isn’t a lot to steal, looking at the state of the vehicle. John slides in next to him behind the wheel. “Needs gas though. You got a container for that?’
Sighing, John gets back out of the truck, digs around for something, then throws a red container in the bed before getting back into the driver’s seat. “I feel like there’s a discussion to be had about touching other people’s things, but honestly I’m too tired for it right now.”
Immediately, visions of careening off the road down into town go racing through Bucky’s mind. “Maybe I should drive.”
John starts the truck. “Nervous?” He asks, shifting into reverse.
Bucky scoffs. “No.”
“Good.” And with that, John presses on the gas and swings out onto the road without a care that there could be someone coming from the other way. What follows is one of the most harrowing journeys Bucky has ever had down a mountain, and that includes the time he fell off one.
Somehow, they make it to the hardware store in one piece, though Bucky clutches the handle above the door the entire way.
“Jesus, where the hell did you learn to drive?” Bucky grouses as they exit the car. “The Indy 500?”
John scoffs. “You didn't die, did you? You're fine.” He pockets his keys and heads for the door. “And like you have room to talk.”
“What does that mean?” Bucky hurries to catch up, and John throws him a sardonic look.
“I've seen you on a motorcycle, man. You're one bad stunt away from Evil Knieval-ing it.”
Bucky shrugs. “Yeah, but that's something I'm doing myself.”
“You understood that reference?”
Bucky glares at him. “I watch TV. I can even read.”
“So I've heard,” John says with an edge of playful skepticism. In favor of keeping the peace, Bucky ignores him and leads the way to the lumber section, John grinning after him.
They get what they need, for now, load it into John’s truck, and off they go. John detours to the nearest Dollar General, and Bucky learns there are more food offerings in the small town than just the gas station, though not by much. At first, they agree to keep their groceries separate, but when Bucky sees the ridiculously small pile John adds to the cart, he bullies the other man into letting him buy the groceries. “In lieu of rent,” he says when he hands over his card to the cashier, before John can get his wallet out.
“Just put it all on this, sweetheart.” As soon as it's out of his mouth, Bucky winces. He knows people don't really say that anymore, especially to women they don't know, but old habits die hard and all that.
He offers the woman an apologetic smile, hoping it still comes off as charming as it did all those years ago.
The woman, who looks old enough to be his mother- and therefore, still much younger than him- smiles back shyly. Behind him John snorts, and Bucky can't help but turn and offer the other man a cocky grin. Yeah, he’s still got it. Some part of him wants to preen, but he tamps down on the urge.
Groceries bought and loaded into the truck, they finally head home, with one final quick stop to fill up the gas can. Bucky is surprised by how comfortable he already feels in John’s house. Originally, he thought they would butt heads all the time, and while they still do snark at each other, it's without the viciousness of before. Probably because Bucky has let most of his resentment at John go, and John just never seemed to have held a grudge in the first place.
It’s easier to get along with someone when you aren’t looking for fault in every single thing they do. Bucky knows now that a lot of his objection to John had to do with his own internal struggle, his own feelings of self-worth, and the fear of becoming even more disconnected from the world than he already was at the time.
Even if it hadn’t been John who’d taken up the shield, Bucky would have still hated whoever did. If they weren’t Steve, or the person Steve had left the shield to, then they weren’t worthy, in Bucky’s eyes.
Now, he’s on a more even keel these days. Dr. Raynor wasn’t exactly wrong to call him out on wanting peace- what he really wants is to feel useful. Be needed. The clash with the Flag Smashers had given him that. Temporarily, at least. Months later, he’d started to feel that itch of uselessness again, and as soon as he could, he’d decided to give himself another project .
He just hadn’t realized that John Walker would end up being the subject. Bucky’s still not sure how he feels about it, being drawn to John’s circumstances, but things haven’t been bad so far, just awkward.
It probably helps that in the last forty-eight hours, they've only spent about five of them in each other's presence. This outing is the longest amount of time they've spent together in all the time they've known each other.
Bucky helps put things away when they get back to the house, learning where John likes them to be stored, and he's struck by how domestic the whole day feels. They've gone shopping together, and now they're putting everything away, navigating around each other and the small kitchen like they’ve done it a hundred times before. It’s the first time in a long time that he’s felt… ordinary. It warms him because he had been beginning to think he'd never have something like this, and also irritates him that it's with John-fucking-Walker, his number one pain in the ass. But, well, it’s Bucky’s own fault that he’s here.
“You know,” John says as they finish putting the last of the groceries away. “If you want to stay under the radar, you probably shouldn't be using your credit card so much.”
Bucky gives him a strange look. “I just don't want to be easily accessible, not disappear off the face of the earth.” He’d momentarily forgotten his reason for staying with John for the time being. John believes he’s here to hide from the world- from Sam- and he’s really there because he doesn’t want to be alone, but he can’t stand the thought of telling Sam that, especially when there’s nothing the other man can do about it. He’d probably invite Bucky to move in with his sister or something and Bucky is… not ready for whatever promise that would imply.
He’s not sure he ever will be.
“Right.” John peers out the window. “We should probably hold off on the porch until tomorrow or the next day. Looks like it's gonna rain soon.”
Seeing the darkening sky, Bucky agrees, and they settle in the living room for the rest of the day. Bucky cedes ownership over the recliner back to John, and both of them veg out in front of the TV. Without noticing, Bucky starts nodding off, and soon he's snoring, head tilted back onto the cushion- not that he knows it.
He startles awake sometime later to something clattering nearby, and he instinctively reaches for a gun he no longer carries at his hip.
“It’s just me, Bucky.” The soft voice comes from behind him, and he whips around to see a large, bearded man. At first, he thinks it's an enemy soldier that has snuck up on him in an abandoned building, but something about that doesn’t feel right. Then something turns over in his mind and he remembers where he is, and the man becomes John.
He takes in a slow, deep breath, then exhales it.
“You clutch that any harder, you're going to be owing me a new couch.” John points to where the fingers of his vibranium hand digs into the armrest.
“Sorry.” With a great deal of concentration, Bucky forces himself to let the piece of furniture go. “Be doing you a favor though.”
“Fuck you,” John says, but there’s no real heat to it. Seeing that Bucky is back to himself, John shrugs. “No harm, no foul.” He glances back over his shoulder. “I was gonna make some supper. Hungry?”
“Starving,” Bucky replies with some surprise.
John turns back to the stove, and curiosity has Bucky getting off the couch to follow after him. He leans against the counter as John gets out chicken, vegetables, and various cooking utensils. At first, Bucky just watches as John rinses the carrots and potatoes, but after John has to nudge him out of the way for the third time, he sighs, and slams down a cutting board, a peeler, and a knife on the counter. “Here. Make yourself useful.”
So Bucky makes himself useful while John preps the chicken. They work in silence, except for the occasional question, and soon vegetables are roasting in the oven, with the chicken set to finish there as well.
It smells amazing. Bucky isn't really sure what John put on the vegetables or the chicken, only half paying attention as the man rifled through the cabinet for spices, but it has Bucky’s mouth watering.
Soon, the table is set, the food plated up, and Bucky takes his first bite. “This is really good,” he says, surprised.
John stares at him. “Really?”
Bucky takes a larger bite. “No,” he says through the mouthful. “I'm just shoving it in my mouth as fast as I can because it's so awful.”
“Well, if it's so bad…” John starts, reaching for Bucky’s plate.
He twirls his fork, holding it like he'd been taught all those years ago. “I will stab you.”
John lets out a snort and withdraws his hand. “Alright, alright, I was just joking.” He goes back to his own meal, and Bucky rights his fork so he can stab more of the delicious carrots. “I'm glad you like it though,” John says softly after a few more bites.
Bucky tries not to smile.