Chapter Text
Chapter 1
Bucky had an entire month to get used to the idea. He had weeks of preparation and getting things sorted in Berlin, and now hours on a plane to New York, and still, he can’t believe he’s accepted Tony Stark’s offer. He can’t believe he’s back home.
He looks around the crowded airport, scanning faces to try and find Natasha’s familiar green eyes and red hair while simultaneously doing his best to keep his breathing even and not freak out by the sheer number of people surrounding him. Nat had promised she’d be here, and Bucky knows, he knows she’s a woman of her word, but man, if he doesn’t find her soon he’s going to freak out for real.
He’s just starting to feel the sweat plastering his shirt to his lower back when he finally spots her, rushing — and kind of pushing people out of her way — to meet him.
“I am so sorry,” she says in lieu of a greeting as she approaches him. “Traffic in this city is a nightmare,” she reminds him while they hug. “I hope you took that into consideration when you decided to decline Tony’s offer to live in the Tower.”
Bucky takes his time holding her, burying his face in her hair and allowing himself to get lost in the familiar scent for a moment. Fuck, he’s missed her.
“I did,” he says, taking a step back as they break apart. “But I’m a Brooklyn boy, Nat, you know that.”
Natasha lifts an eyebrow. “Aren’t you from Indiana?”
“No,” Bucky is quick to deny, even though he was born in Indiana and, indeed, spent the first nine years of his life there. His answer is met with an eye roll and a tongue click, both of which Bucky chooses, wisely — if he does say so himself — to ignore. “Please, just get me out of here.”
Without another word, Nat loops an arm around his and, with her free hand, grabs the handle of his smaller luggage case and starts dragging it behind her as she expertly maneuvers the two of them towards the street.
The second Bucky crosses the automatic doors, his knees go a bit weak with relief as cold air hits his face. He lets go of the handle of the cart with his baggage and bends over to brace his hands on his thighs and just breathe. Nat pauses on her way to the car to give him a moment.
“James?” She calls quietly, the concern clear in her tone.
“I’m fine,” Bucky waves her off. “Just tired.”
“Listen,” she insists, “I can still talk to Stark. Maybe this was a bad idea.”
“No, Nat. I’m alright. Really,” Bucky says. “It’s just a city,” he tells her, even though they both know that it’s not Natasha who needs to hear that. “I’m not a kid anymore.” And there’s nothing here that can hurt me again, he thinks, but finds it better to leave unsaid. He wants the worried frown to disappear from her face already. “Come on, get me out of here, I’m beat!”
The frown doesn’t go away but, bless Natasha’s heart, she drops the subject for now.
“Do you wanna go to my place,” she offers, as they head to her car. “It’s closer.”
“Nah. I called ahead. The house is ready,” Bucky tells her. The previous owner has even gone to the trouble of actually mailing him the keys. “Take me to Brooklyn.”
***
The kids are in the middle of a loud argument over the last slice of pizza, and Steve is honestly considering not ordering any more of it for the foreseeable future, when he looks out the window and catches sight of a red Stark convertible slowing to a stop right outside. At first, he thinks it might actually stop in front of his house, but then it goes on a little further, stopping at the empty house next door.
Steve can’t help it, curiosity gets the best of him and he leans closer to the glass to get a better look, the urge to stop the kids’ squabbling taking a back seat. He cranes his neck and squints at the car’s opening doors. It’s not too dark outside yet, but the awkward angle makes it hard to see the people coming out. A man and a woman.
All Steve can see is their backs.
It’s not a bad sight.
The woman gets out on the driver's side, but she’s short, so all Steve catches is her red hair.
The guy from the passenger seat however, offers quite a nice view. He’s tall, well built, though perhaps not as well as Steve himself, but still, Steve can tell there are muscles under that navy jacket. The guy’s long hair is tied in a messy bun at the base of his neck, some of it escaping the loose knot, no doubt framing his face. Steve wishes he could see what he looks like, but alas, the guy doesn’t turn around, leaving Steve with not much else to look at, apart from...
Steve’s eyes travel south of their own volition.
Wow! Who knew sweats could work in someone’s favor like that. When Steve wears them, he’s been told by Sam that he becomes a trademark Dad. The guy outside looks great in his… or maybe it’s just that he has a nice ass with which to fill them.
Steve must lose track of time staring because, the next time he looks up, the red-haired woman is staring directly at him as she opens the boot of the car.
“Shit,” Steve exclaims, ducking away from the window.
“Swear jar,” the kids sing-sing in unison. Trust them to let go of their feud to gang up on him.
He swivels around, doing his best to ignore his hammering heart and ready to lecture them on the importance of sharing, but when he does, Steve finds each child holding their own half of the final pizza slice. Ben’s considerably shorter than Lizzie’s, since he’s already taken a bite, and is munching happily on it, cheese string dangling from the corner of his mouth and all.
“I didn’t mean it,” Steve tries to argue his case.
Lizzie tutts at him, shaking her head. “Pay up, pal,” she says gravely, no doubt quoting from a movie she’s probably too young to see, but that Sam and Maria let her watch because they are unable to say no to their godchildren.
Steve hangs his head, accepting defeat, and fishes a dollar from his wallet to put in the piggy bank above the tv on the entertainment center.
“What were you looking at anyway?” Ben asks, once he’s done with the pizza.
“Oh, I think we’re gonna have new neighbors,” Steve tells them as he starts collecting the dishes and the trash.
***
"Why do you keep looking at that house?" Bucky asks, throwing a glance of his own at the brownstone next to his. The lights are on, but the curtains are drawn so there is nothing to see.
"There was a guy at the window,” Nat explains, grabbing his luggage one by one to set them on the sidewalk. “He was staring at you."
"Well, he probably wants to know who's living next door," Bucky shrugs, unbothered. He’d be curious too if it was the other way around.
Nat hums, displeased. "Yeah, let me know if it’s a case of creepy neighbors." She gets the last suitcase out and slams the boot door shut. Bucky cringes in sympathy for the car. Good thing Stark vehicles are made with durable materials.
He climbs the few steps up to the door of the house and unlocks it before heading back to help Natasha with the luggage. They manage to get everything up in one go, and Bucky celebrates by dropping down on the sofa with a sigh. The house came nicely furnished, thanks to the old lady who lived here and decided to get a fresh start with her new home. She left pretty much everything to him.
The only thing he needs is a new mattress.
Adeline sounded nice on the phone, but that was one offer Bucky had to politely decline.
That’s also something he completely forgot until now.
“Aw, fuck,” He moans, throwing an arm over his eyes. “I don’t have a mattress.”
Natasha takes a seat next to him. “Told you to come home with me.”
“I can get one online, can’t I,” he muses, choosing to ignore her jab. “Do you think it might be delivered today if I order one now?”
“Well, if you had told me…” Nat starts, lightly elbowing his ribs. “Or your mother.” Then she goes suddenly quiet. Bucky lowers his arm off his face to look at her. “You did tell your mom you were coming back, right?”
Bucky closes his eyes instead of answering. Not for the first time, he wonders if coming back was a good idea. He already had a great job at BMW, he didn’t need this. He loves Nat, and he’s happy to be close to her again after so long apart, but he also hates how incapable of letting things go she is.
“James!”
He opens his eyes to find her scolding at him. Apparently, he’s been silent for too long.
He rubs his face, letting out a shaky breath against his palms. Rationally, Bucky knows it’s only psychological, but he could swear he started to feel each and every scar on his body the moment Nat mentioned his mom. He can feel the burnt skin on his left arm pulling tight and uncomfortable under his jacket.
“I texted her before I went to the airport,” he confesses at last.
“What did she say?” Nat asks quietly.
Bucky shrugs. “Dunno, didn’t check.”
“Do you think she might wanna see you?”
Bucky feels tears pricking his eyes. He blames jet-lag. “She shouldn’t bother with a trip all the way from Indiana just to say hi.”
“Of course, not,” Nat agrees. “She’d probably want to stay for a while. Catch up. She must miss you a lot. How long has it been since you last saw each other?” She asks as if she doesn’t already know the answer to that.
Nat knows some of his past. They’ve been friends for about a decade, ever since they met in France when they were both interns at Citroen. They were from different departments, but they had instantly bonded over the fact that they were the youngest recruits, besides being foreigners; Bucky from the States and Nat from Russia.
They didn’t stay in Paris for long, hopping around Europe, working for one overly expensive car company after the other. Bucky as a mechanical engineer and Nat as a marketing director. They’ve never lost touch over the years, even though they haven’t lived in the same country until now. Natasha is his best friend. She knows him better than anyone. He doesn’t have to pretend to be on good terms with his mom, not with Nat. Still, there are things she doesn’t know, things Bucky has been too ashamed to share with anyone, so he can’t expect her to realize how little his desire to talk to Winifred Barnes-Pierce is, despite the fact that he hasn’t seen her in about ten years.
“It’s fine, Nat. Don’t worry about it. I’ll call her tomorrow.”
She studies him for a moment and Bucky tries to keep still under her scrutiny.
“Okay,” she relents after a small eternity. Then she turns away from him to get something from her purse and Bucky takes the opportunity to huff a discreet sigh of relief. “Anyway… here, I got you a house warming gift,” she announces, placing a bottle of authentic Russian vodka on the coffee table before them.
Bucky groans in sympathy for his poor liver.
“Sometimes I’m not sure if you hate me or love me,” he tells her, already going for the bottle. The statement couldn’t be further from the truth and they both know it. They would both kill or die for each other in a heartbeat.
“I know,” Nat says cryptically, patting him on the knee. “My superpower is to keep people guessing.”
She steals the bottle from his hand and takes a big swig before giving it back. She doesn’t even wince. It’s like she’s drinking water. It’s impressive, no matter how many times he’s seen it.
“Cheers,” he deadpans, subconsciously trying to match her as he takes his own swig, and promptly chokes on it.
Natasha has the gall to laugh at his indignant face.
***
Steve knew this was coming and has, in fact, known for quite some time now, and still, he does not want to see the obvious and he does not want to admit it, even though truth is staring him right in the face, mocking him really. Alas, the moment has come. Time to face the facts.
His car is dying on him.
It shouldn’t surprise him, since it was his mom’s and it’s also from 1998, but still… He’s taken good care of it ever since she gave it to him as a graduation gift.
He turns the ignition again.
It downright sounds like it’s laughing at him.
“Daaaad,” Lizzie whines from the backseat. “We’re gonna be late.”
Steve glances at the rearview mirror to see the kids, uniforms on and backpacks sitting between them. Lizzie has her arms crossed over her chest as she tries to glare a hole on the back of Steve’s head. Ben is worrying on his lower lip.
Steve reaches back to place a hand on his leg. “Stop that, honey. You’re gonna hurt yourself. We’re not gonna be late,” he promises, trying the ignition one more time. Still nothing. He sighs, then checks the time on his phone. They can still make it.
School is not that far, but the kids can’t walk as fast as they would have to. Perhaps if Steve carried them, maybe… He loses his train of thought as the neighbors’ door swings open and the guy from yesterday comes out.
“Whoa,” Lizzie says. “Is that the new neighbor?”
“Yeah,” Steve replies, “I think so.”
“He’s so pretty.”
Steve can’t help but agree.
If he thought the guy was hot yesterday, it’s only because he hadn’t seen the full picture. The man is stunning. Steve’s eyes slowly travel up the guy’s figure as he keeps absently trying to get his car to start.
The guy is still wearing the sweatpants from last night, but he’s ditched the jacket and is now only wearing a thin white t-shirt. Steve’s eyes stop in their tracks when he catches sight of the man’s left arm. At first glance, Steve thinks it might be a prosthetic, but then he realizes it’s actually a sleeve tattoo, which goes all the way from his fingers until it disappears under his t-shirt. It’s dark gray and silvery, made to look like metal plates overlapping each other. From afar, it looks like a metal arm.
Steve’s not entirely sure many people could pull that off, but it works for the guy.
It’s beautiful.
Just like his face. The guy’s square jaw, which Steve would kill to be able to immortalize on paper, covered by a couple days’ worth of stubble, his pink mouth, which has no business looking so kissable this early in the morning, his aquiline nose, supporting the classic black Ray Bans hiding his eyes, but not quite covering his frown… It’s all framed by the soft-looking brown curls of his hair.
Jesus. Steve would love to run his fingers through that.
He’s startled out of his inappropriate daydreaming by the loud sound of the car finally coming to life. It startles the neighbor too, causing him to halt in his tracks and Steve realizes the guy was making his way to them.
And Steve was staring. Great. He wants to disappear.
He doesn’t waste another moment. The kids let out a loud “Finally” while he fastens his seatbelt and puts the car into motion.
The neighbor is still staring as Steve takes the car away from the curb. It dawns on him that he was probably on his way to help. The noises from the car must have woken him up; judging by how much he’s squinting at the light, he probably didn’t get much sleep last night. It makes Steve feel shitty.
He wants to apologize for the nuisance and also say thank you for the help he was about to get, but they’re finally moving now and he’s afraid to stop the car again so, in his panic, Steve gives the guy a thumbs up before driving away.
What the fuck are you doing, Rogers, he thinks, lowering his hand back to the steering wheel.
Hopefully the neighbor will have already moved out by the time Steve comes back.
He should have carried the kids to school.