Chapter Text
The bookstore has a small coffee corner with plush chairs and little tables Bucky could probably break with a careless flick of his hand. But they are set up by the large picture windows with one chair pushed into the little nook where the fake brick wall meets the edge of the window. It’s the perfect hiding place for Bucky, away from the angry buzz of a city he barely remembers being his home and the worried/suspicious glances of a team of heroes that never could replace the faint memories of camaraderie of sepia toned men laughing and fighting together. It’s the perfect place to learn how to function as a member of a society he doesn’t belong in, without anyone being the wiser or caring about his existence. Or the threat he poses for that matter.
He likes to try new flavors of coffee but hates the cloying taste of too much sugar and artificial coloring. Still, he finds one he likes well enough every once in awhile to make the artistically tattooed boy behind the counter smile wide. The boy’s thin shoulders remind him of a different one from a long time ago, even if his dark skin and clever eyes make him think of a man he might have known or might have not. The boy always gives him his second coffee free of charge and leaves books on his table in the corner to save him a place.
The books are entertaining if somewhat confusing, although Bucky draws the line at depriving pornography and domestic abuse. He drops the once grayscale colored book torn to pieces and beyond salvation just like its characters onto the counter, in front of the wide-eyed boy with a sneer.
“T-that’s going to be fifteen dollars,” the boy says, the way he stumbles over his first word belying his grin.
“You can pay it yourself, kid.” Bucky turns away before the boy could see the way his lips curl up into a shadow of a smile.
The kid is the first friend he makes on his own besides a distorted ghost he cannot and would never let go. The next time, he escapes the tower of oppressive friendliness, there is a thick red book with gold letters proclaiming War and Peace, and Bucky can’t hold back the huff of almost laughter that bubbles up in his throat. The boy is grinning from ear to ear when he hands over something cinnamon and chocolate smelling in a large, thick glass cup, and raises his eyebrows as if challenging Bucky.
The lack of fear or overbearing protectiveness is a surprisingly comforting change.
“I’m Miles,” the boy says, still smiling.
Bucky smirks, but doesn’t reply. Instead, he takes a sip of his drink only to grimace at the sticky sweetness covering his tongue. He glares at the kid, Miles, and puts the cup down with enough force to slosh the disgusting swill, the angry tides washing over the rim.
“A new one next time?”
Cheeky little shit.
It takes him nearly reaching the Tower to remember a smile just as wide, but one that meant the world to him once. And it takes walking into his self-chosen glass and electronics laden prison cell, and see the replica of that earth stopping stretch of lips to remember who it belonged to.
“Good day?” Steve asks, blue eyes eager and shadowed in a way the pair in his mind never was, but the smile… the smile has not changed at all.
“Children these days don’t respect their elders,” Bucky says, practicing how to make his smile believable. It earns him a fond laugh, softer, more reserved than the sound echoing in his head.
“You’re not even thirty, Buck,” comes the reply, but Bucky is distracted by the pink mouth that keeps forming elusive words. He’s mesmerized by the curl and pull of flesh, barely noticing the way his legs propel him forward until Steve his craning his neck up, his sketch pad forgotten on the drawing table that appeared one day and wouldn’t disappear no matter how many times Steve tried to tell Stark he didn’t need it.
It would be so easy to lean down and seek a taste, but there is nothing to match in his scattered memories, and the opportunity slips away before he could make up his mind. Because Steve is standing now, smile dimmer and soured by the hateful worry that makes Bucky’s gut churn. And he is taller than he should be, broader, and too different––
“I thought you were smaller.” It’s the wrong thing to say, he knows it is by the way even the shadow of that old smile wobbles and washes away. He knows it is by the way blue eyes are ridden with a heartstopping pain just as a long fingered hand hesitantly clasps around the back of Bucky’s neck and pulls him forward to rest against Steve’s forehead.
“Sorry,” Steve rasps. “Sorry, I know you don’t like being touched.”
“It’s fine.” It isn’t, but Steve wouldn’t understand that his problem stems from the despicable sadness that clings to Steve’s skin like a thick, everlasting layer of dirt and not from his own past. Or maybe he would and blame himself even more than he already does.
Bucky closes his eyes and inhales deeply, looking for that pinch of charcoal and musk that has always been an ingrained part of Steve. It’s there, but barely, the chemicals of modern day cleaning products almost managing to shatter the familiarity Bucky clings to with a desperation he thought he left behind in blood and antiseptic drenched rooms full of lethal and static and fear and emptiness.
They spend the rest of the day in front of the TV, watching sports neither of them follow anymore, curled around each other without acknowledging the way their limbs intertwine and press as close as physically possible.
~o~o~o~o~
Two days later Bucky is back in his corner, reading Pride and Prejudice while he sips on a cup of scorching hot black coffee laced with hazelnuts. He thinks Steve could make amazing illustrations for the story and contemplates bringing it up when he gets back to the tower. Maybe Steve would like it, too. Maybe Elizabeth would remind him of Agent Carter. It’s the first time he buys a book much to Miles’ surprise.
“There’s also a version with zombies if you’re interested,” the girl with a shiny little name tag proclaiming her “America” behind the register offers boldly as she bags his book. Bucky frowns at her, wondering if she’s messing with him, but her expression is open and her large, brown eyes are only reflecting mild amusement and expectation.
“I don’t think I’m ready for that,” Bucky admits, dropping the change in a small tip jar out of habit. Her entire face lights up.
“Take your time…” And it sounds like she wants to continue, which instantly sends Bucky’s nerves into overdrive, assessing the threat she could be. He notes the smooth cords of muscles under tight skin, peeking out from under the short sleeves of her light blue shirt, and the strong line of her shoulders that carry invisible power. She could be a Hydra plant, here to watch Bucky and strike when he least expects it.
The thought leaves him reaching for a gun he knows isn’t strapped onto his thigh. America slants a glance in Miles’ direction who is also watching them with too much interested, and Bucky’s stomach drops. If these kids are both Hydra––
“Mr. Hanson.”
Bucky’s mind screeches to a halt at the almost whispered name. He glances behind his back, expecting another customer behind him, but there are only two people are in the store besides him and the two maybe? Hydra agents, both of them too busy pretending? to look at nicely stacked books. He turns back to America with a frown, noticing the near invisible spots of red coloring her cheeks.
“I…” Her eyes are wide and she’s biting down on her lower lip in worry, as if afraid she offended Bucky somehow. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to make this awkward for you… but I’m kind of a huge fan?”
“Okay?” It occurs to Bucky that something is wrong, but going along with America’s nonsense still sounds better than having to kill or at the very least incapacitate two kids barely out of high school.
“And I know you come here to relax, so I don’t want to bother you, but…” She looks down at the bag still clenched between her fingers, only to stiffen up when a long arm is thrown over her shoulder out of nowhere, startling both her and Bucky.
Bucky’s entire body tenses up, hands once again reaching for a gun that’s been taken away months ago. His nerves are vibrating under his skin and his heart is racing, because it should be impossible. No one has been able to sneak up on him no matter the state of his mind, not since––
He doesn’t remember.
He almost wishes the glare he shoots Miles was a bullet imbedding into the annoying brat’s forehead, because Miles has no idea how close both him and America came to becoming the next names on the long list of the Winter Soldier’s kills. It doesn’t help that Bucky can see every second of their short lived fight and the way life would seep out of their eyes with crystalline precision.
It’s interesting and equal parts terrifying how ignorant and naive civilians are. Fighting to clear his vision of blood and cooling skin under his fingertips, Bucky forces himself to relax and arrange his expression into something that feels less like a mask of marble grinding his skin into smooth nonchalance. Fortunately, neither America nor Miles is looking at him, too busy arguing in looks and elbow jabs.
Breaking their necks would only take twenty seconds, and the idea alone is frightening enough to make Bucky take a step back, hands tightly tucked into his sides. And then he’s on the street, bumped into by careless pedestrians who only see an empty shell blocking their path, never realizing how close they come to death every time unfamiliar limbs touch Bucky’s body in some way.
He doesn’t remember getting back to the Tower. One minute, he’s standing hunched on a busy street in front of the bookstore that has become his safe haven in the past few months, the next he is enveloped in Steve’s warmth, reveling in the quiet strength and the undertones of charcoal and musk. He burrows deeper in arms that could hold up the world without breaking even when they were nothing but twigs of bones and pale skin. If his lips brush over slightly sandpapery skin under a regale jaw, neither of them mentions it the next morning.
~o~o~o~o~
He doesn’t go back to the store for five days.
On day six, he’s standing in front of Miles who looks sheepish and so relieved that Bucky almost regrets running out on him. His shame over his weakness only worsens when Miles hands him a tall cup of coffee that smells strongly of spices, mumbling, “It’s on me. For being a dick.”
Bucky nods and takes the cup to his table where his bagged copy of Pride and Prejudice is waiting for him, lying on top of a thin volume with a portrait of a young man with his face half distorted on the cover. The glossy paper under his fingertips is in deep contrast with the melting skin depicted on it, and Bucky knows he is going to buy this book as well before he even opens it. Maybe Steve would paint a portrait of him too, capturing the rotten core hidden beneath never aging human flesh.
He gets lost in rich coffee and the fickleness of rich, hedonistic people from another time, but not enough to miss the quiet tap of sneakers approaching. America’s smile is shy when she offers another cup of coffee, this time with a slice of apple pie. He raises his eyebrows at her, not mentioning that apple pies are really Steve’s things and not his. She pushes the plate closer to him with a shrug.
“I kind of thought you can’t go wrong with apple pie.”
“True.” Bucky picks up the fork and cuts of a small piece, chewing on the mushy apple filling as little as possible before swallowing the bite down. America is still standing by the table, watching him with badly hidden interest. “Would you like to sit?”
She cringes at the offer, her lips pulling into a small frown before she nods, not meeting his eyes. Once upon a time he was charming enough to dissolve the tension with a smile, but nowadays the best he can offer is a grimace that can never match the past. So he keeps chewing dutifully while wishing that America had chosen something less… cinnamony and appley. He really never understood how Steve was able to put away two and sometimes three huge slices of apple pie even when his body was like a frail, dry straw.
“I should apologize, too,” he says after long minutes of awkward silence. America peeks up at him through the tight rings of her curl, blinking in confusion. “For causing problems.”
“Oh no! It was our fault… well, mostly mine,” America replies hastily, her locks flying everywhere when she shakes her head to emphasize her point. “I shouldn’t have tried to…”
“Call out my name?” Bucky prompts, remembering the unfamiliar designation and the hesitancy surrounding it that started the entire problem.
“Yeah. I mean, you obviously come here to be away from… stuff,” she finishes, fumbling for an appropriate word and missing it by a mile. Yet it’s this clumsiness that slowly but surely starts easing the tension pulling Bucky’s muscles tight. “And I don’t want to be that fan, you know.”
Bucky doesn’t know, but he keeps the truth to himself. Lying by omission is always a better choice when it comes to deceiving others than fabricating elaborate stories. Blanks can be filled if necessary, but extra information only gets tangled and forgotten with time.
“Are you that fan?” he asks, hoping his voice is light enough for her not to get offended.
“No!” she protests, huffing a little laugh when she notices the mismatched tilt of Bucky’s lips. “Okay, yeah, I’m not proving that very well, I know. But I blame you for being this––” She waves his hand in a wide gesture over his body as if that should be explanation enough. “Just ugh…”
“Thank you?” Bucky isn’t sure if he was insulted or complimented, but he gets the sense that the somewhat negative words and gestures are hiding appreciation. Reverse complimenting if such thing exists.
Then again, women were always beyond his understanding, even when he pretended to know everything about them. America’s face is a shade darker than before and she is gnawing on her lower lip, a nervous habit she probably doesn’t even notice but easily tells the Soldier’s trained eyes that she is once again worried about offending him.
The overly careful treatment is familiar in a way that nearly makes him snap, but still new enough to quell his tongue before he says something unnecessarily hurtful. It leaves them at an impasse, where neither of them is able to figure out how to move the conversation forward.
Bucky still doesn’t know who is the person America is mistaking him for, but from her jerky, uncomfortable mannerisms he can guess that whoever Hanson is, he must be someone well-known. At least to a degree. A too recent memory of Stark posing with a bunch of people in front of the Tower swims to the surface of Bucky’s mind, and the word ‘fan’ suddenly bears a much clearer meaning. Camera flashes and pens flying over scraps of paper and glossy photographs join the the first memory, making him blink as if it is him who has to withstand the relentless attacks.
America is not really like those faceless people swarming around Stark, clamoring for attention. She’s obviously just as nervous as them, but at least she’s not screaming or trying to touch him. It still makes Bucky wonder if he should offer the opportunity to take a picture with her, like all those buzzing reporters used to snap their flashes at Steve whenever they were allowed onto the base grounds. If she’s really a fan of Hanson, she would appreciate the chance and maybe it would finally dissolve the uncomfortable atmosphere sitting between them.
“Do you want a picture?” His words are halting, America’s face however, is immediately lit up and her dark eyes sparkle to life as she whips out her slim phone.
“You mean a selfie?” she asks, as if to make sure she’s not just dreaming.
“Sure,” Bucky agrees, because what else is there to say? That he has only vague recollection of what a selfie is? Or that he really hopes she doesn’t expect him to actually handle the photo taking part? Of course not.
Fortunately, America is too excited to notice his hesitation. Her expression so open and elated that Bucky cannot help but stare. He put that look there. He continues to watch her, memorizing the brightness of her full smile and the light of happiness reflecting in her eyes, while America fiddles with the phone. The star spangled, blue, red and white case reminds Bucky of Steve’s shield and the old uniform that should have been displayed in the Smithsonian but instead was torn by cruel bullet wounds and stubborn bloodstains.
That memory is still a near unbearable one, the knowledge that he was able to bring harm to the only person in the world whose importance survived seventy years of infrequent trips under the ice and the absolute blankness brought on by the smell of singed hair and frayed nerves. It doesn’t matter how many times Steve tries to assure him that it wasn’t his fault, that he wasn’t himself, the fact remains: Bucky almost killed him.
It would be easy to spiral into another bout of self-hatred, but before Bucky can slip further into his darkening, blood soaked thoughts, America is getting out of the chair she pulled over from another table and Bucky’s attention cuts sharply back into the present, his focus honing in on America’s deceptively strong form.
The whole thing only takes a few seconds. There is no flash and America doesn’t try to touch him beyond the invasion of his personal space to the point where only a hairbreadth of distance separates their faces from each other. He is expected to smile, but the twist of his lips is more threatening than friendly, so Bucky just looks up into the screen of the phone reflecting their faces and does his best to look innocent.
He catches a glimpse of his face before America pulls the phone back, surprised how young he looks compared to the world-weariness that has been sitting on his chest like an overgrown, lazy cat since he pulled Steve out of the Potomac, barely alive. America seems happy with the picture, her shoulders loose and the tendons in his neck relaxed, as she taps away on the screen, doing who knows what.
Leaving her to it, Bucky turns back to his book and lifts his cup to his lips, grimacing at the lukewarm coffee sloshing in his mouth. He tries to get immersed in the story, but America’s presence is throwing him off-kilter especially when she continues to hover over him after she has put her phone away. It’s not her fault of course, yet Bucky is unable to simply sit there with his brain assessing the threat level he is subjected to on loop.
He closes the book after a few more moments of inattention and looks up at America, who has her hands pushed deep into the pockets of her jeans and isn’t even looking at him anymore. No, her gaze is trained on Miles who is making wild gestures, only to freeze in his obscene, but vaguely amusing rendition of sucking someone off with his mouth open and his tongue pushing against the soft flesh of his inner cheek. He instantly drops the hand he was holding in front of his mouth, then raises it again in a little wave.
The snort that leaves Bucky’s throat surprises him as much as the stretch of his cheeks does when he catches America jumping out of her skin as if she has forgotten that he is still there. Which makes the pull in his skin become strong enough to twinge with the pain of unused muscles being strained. She looks down at him, and groans, her eyes pleading. For what, Bucky doesn’t know but it feels good to be able to smile again even if it’s a pain laced happiness.
“Ugh… I’m so sorry, Mr. Hanson…” America mutters. “Miles is a dick. I mean an idiot, yeah. But he doesn’t mean––”
“Miles is a little shit,” Bucky cuts in, taking pity on the stammering girl whose face cannot seem to decide whether to contort in fury or slacken in relief. “Don’t worry about him. He’ll just have to make it up to me with more free coffee.” He realizes that probably this was the most he said all at once since he started coming to the store just as he stands up and gathers his book in one hand and the new one in the other.
“What?!” Miles squeaks, nearly pushing the sugar holder bowl off the counter with his flailing. “But––”
“Shut up, Miles. You were a dick, you deserve it,” America snipes back with a scowl. “Be happy Ms. Parker didn’t see you insult one of our regular customers,” she adds as she ducks behind the counter to put the empty plate into the sink.
“Is that a threat?” Miles’s arms fold in front of his chest defensively even though Bucky is sure he was aiming for threatening.
“It will be if you don’t shut your hole and do your job like you should.”
“The place is dead empty, ‘Rica. So get off my back.”
“You can be dead too.”
They argue like children, like siblings, really, and their snipping brings back hazed memories of futile arguments with Steve, before. The blood in these images is younger and smells like innocence and seems like a lighter shade of red that isn’t soured by disillusion.
“I don’t know,” he hears himself speak up with his mind still mostly buried in simpler times, “that looked like a brave way to say he is looking forward to some sucking.”
“Wha––? No! I mean, no, I’m not saying that like I’m against sucking…” Miles babbles, realizing too late what he is saying. “Okay that came out wrong. But you know what I mean, right? Come on, man!”
But Bucky has already turned away, directing his hiding smirk. He inclines his head towards the register in the bookstore part of the building. “Ring me up?” he asks glancing back at America.
“Of course,” she says with a pleased grin.
“You’re both assholes!” Miles calls after them, causing Bucky’s smirk to widen and America to laugh out loud.
“I’m really sorry for the other day,” she adds as Bucky is about to leave.
“It’s fine. I was just a bit shocked,” Bucky replies with a shrug that fees more awkward than he intended.
“Still, just sorry.”
“Yeah, she’s totally sorry,” Miles pipes in. Bucky has noticed him sneak up on America only to drape himself over her shoulders and roll his eyes at her words. It earns him a sharp elbow in his side that leaves him doubled over.
“Ignore him,” America says, cheeks dark as she drops her gaze to her hands. “Um… Is it—” she stops, forehead wrinkling. “Is it okay if I call you Tayte?” she blurts out after a few seconds of silence.
Miles’ head snaps up and then stares at Bucky for some reason, but Bucky’s attention is on the clearly embarrassed girl in front of him. “Of course,” seems to be the only acceptable answer in this situation, even though he can vaguely recall strangers snapping pictures with Stark calling him Mr Stark instead of Tony. But from what Bucky gathered about the younger generation of the modern world, they don’t use formality with each other. And no matter his occasional complaints about his age, Steve is right. Bucky isn’t even thirty yet, and maybe he could give a try to acting like it.
America’s face lights up and her smile nearly blinds Bucky with its brilliance. Miles is grinning too, but Bucky can’t help but think there is a slight edge to it. And any other time he would allow his paranoia to run away from him until he sees enemy in the nearest lamp post, but this moment feels too much like actual progress to let anything ruin it. Even the weird little buzzing sounds echoing in his ears can be easily ignored in favor of the giddiness bubbling in his stomach.
He nods at both teens as a farewell and they say goodbye with cheerful grins easily outshining Bucky’s more reserved tilt of lips. Yet his smile stays in place even as he walks back to the Tower, content that things might just be fine.