Chapter Text
Date #1: The History Buff
Bucky sat awkwardly at the corner table of the dimly lit bar, constantly checking his watch. Sam had insisted he try this "Tinder" thing, claiming it would help him "get back out there." Forty minutes into waiting for his date, he was regretting the decision.
Just as he was about to leave, a woman in a vintage-style dress approached.
"James? Hi, I'm Helena! Sorry I'm late."
Bucky stood, offering a polite smile. "No problem. And, uh, most people call me Bucky."
"Bucky," she repeated with a curious look. "That's... cute. So your profile said you're a history enthusiast?"
"You could say that." He sipped his beer.
The conversation started well enough. Helena was passionate about 20th century history, particularly the World Wars. Under different circumstances, this might have been perfect.
"The 1940s were fascinating," Helena leaned forward excitedly. "I'm actually writing my thesis on Captain America and the Howling Commandos. Have you heard of them?"
Bucky nearly choked on his drink. "Yeah, I'm... familiar."
"The Winter Soldier files were recently declassified too. Such a tragic figure! Imagine being alive all that time, forced to—"
"Maybe we could talk about something else?" Bucky interrupted, his metal hand clenching under the table.
Helena looked surprised. "Oh, sure. What do you do for work?"
"Government contractor. It's... classified."
As the night progressed, Helena kept circling back to historical events he'd lived through or, worse, been part of. When she enthusiastically described the "extraordinary torture techniques HYDRA used on their assets," Bucky made a quick excuse about an emergency and fled.
Date #2: The Influencer
"This lighting is terrible for my followers," Mia complained, repositioning her phone for the fifth time. "Could we move tables?"
Bucky glanced around the crowded restaurant. "I don't think there are any others available."
"Fine. Just lean in so I can get us both in frame." She held up her phone, flashing a practiced smile.
Bucky stared blankly at the camera.
"Could you at least try to smile?" Mia sighed. "My followers are going to think I'm on a date with a serial killer."
*If only they knew*, Bucky thought grimly.
Throughout dinner, Mia barely looked up from her phone, constantly posting updates and checking notifications. She insisted on photographing every dish before they could eat it.
"So what do you do again?" she asked distractedly, editing a photo of their appetizer.
"Security consultant."
She looked up with sudden interest. "Like a bodyguard? That's actually kind of hot. Would you mind if I tag you in my stories? My engagement has been down lately, and the mysterious bodyguard angle could really boost my numbers."
"I'd rather not," Bucky said firmly.
Mia looked disappointed. "At least let me get a picture of your arm. The metal one? It's so unique."
Bucky stood up abruptly. "I think I should go."
"Wait, are you seriously leaving? I have three thousand followers waiting for updates on this date!"
He tossed enough cash on the table to cover dinner and walked out, hearing her complain loudly about "content creation being so hard these days."
Date #3: The Therapist-in-Training
"So you mentioned you've been through some significant trauma," Julie said, her expression sympathetic as she leaned forward. "I find that fascinating from a clinical perspective."
Bucky shifted uncomfortably. "I don't really want to talk about that."
Julie nodded understandingly. "Avoidance is a common response. Have you considered EMDR therapy? It's quite effective for PTSD."
"I have therapists," Bucky replied tersely. "Government-assigned."
"Interesting. And how does that make you feel? The lack of agency in choosing your own mental healthcare provider?"
Bucky stared at her. "This is a date, not a therapy session."
Julie smiled. "Sorry, occupational hazard. I just find your psychology so compelling. A man out of time, forced to commit atrocities, now trying to reintegrate into society... it's like a case study come to life."
"I'm not a case study," Bucky said through gritted teeth.
"Of course not. But your experience with dissociative states and memory fragmentation could really inform my dissertation on—"
"I should go," Bucky interrupted, already standing.
Julie looked disappointed. "We've barely scratched the surface. At least let me give you my card. If you ever want to talk..."
Bucky was already halfway to the door.
Date #4: The Superhero Groupie
"So," Cara said, batting her eyelashes, "what's it like working with the Avengers?"
Bucky frowned. "I never said I worked with the Avengers."
"You didn't have to," she giggled. "I recognized you immediately. You're the Winter Soldier."
Bucky tensed. "I prefer Bucky."
"Of course, of course," Cara waved dismissively. "So what's Thor like in person? Is he as dreamy as he looks on TV? And Falcon—I mean, the new Captain America—is he single?"
"I'm not here to talk about my friends," Bucky said flatly.
Cara leaned forward eagerly. "Do you have any cool battle stories? Have you ever killed anyone with that arm? Can I touch it?"
Bucky pulled his left arm away as she reached for it. "No."
"Come on, don't be like that! I've dated a few enhanced individuals before. Nothing as high-profile as you, but still. I've got a thing for heroes." She winked.
"I'm not a hero," Bucky said quietly.
"Don't be modest! You fought Thanos! That's so hot."
Bucky stood up. "This was a mistake."
As he walked away, he heard her call after him: "At least give me Sam Wilson's number!"
Later that night, Bucky deleted Tinder from his phone. Some aspects of modern life, he decided, weren't worth adapting to.
The Brooklyn Animal Shelter
Bucky shifted uncomfortably in the waiting room chair, the small carrier on his lap emitting occasional distressed meows. The scraggly one-eyed cat had shown up on his fire escape three nights ago, looking half-starved and injured. Despite his best efforts to ignore it, the thing kept coming back, staring at him through the window with its single amber eye.
"Relax," he muttered to the carrier. "This is for your own good."
The shelter was busier than he'd expected for a Tuesday morning. A harried-looking woman at the front desk kept answering phones while simultaneously typing on a computer. Bucky had been waiting for twenty minutes, and his patience was wearing thin.
Finally, a door behind the desk opened, and a woman in scrubs stepped out. Her brown hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame her face.
"Mr. Garcia?" she called, glancing at a clipboard.
An elderly man with a large dog stood and followed her through the door. Bucky sighed and settled in for more waiting.
Fifteen minutes later, the door opened again, and the same woman emerged. This time, she looked directly at him.
"You with the carrier—we had a cancellation. I can take you now if you don't mind being seen by a tech instead of the vet."
Bucky stood, clutching the carrier. "I don't mind."
He followed her through the door into an examination room. Her scrubs had tiny paw prints on them, and the back of her ponytail swung slightly as she walked. There was something efficient about her movements that reminded him of military personnel.
"I'm Aurelia," she said, turning to face him. "I'm the senior vet tech. What brings you in today?"
Bucky placed the carrier on the examination table. "Found this cat. It's hurt."
Aurelia raised an eyebrow. "And you brought it in? Most people just ignore strays."
He shrugged. "It wouldn't leave me alone."
"Let's take a look." She opened the carrier and expertly extracted the cat, who surprisingly didn't resist. "Oh, you poor thing. What happened to your eye, buddy?"
The cat meowed plaintively.
"Is it... will it be okay?" Bucky asked, surprising himself with his concern.
Aurelia glanced up at him, a hint of a smile playing at her lips. "Worried about your not-your-cat?"
"Just want to know if I wasted my morning," he said gruffly.
"Right." She didn't look convinced. "Well, the eye's an old injury. Healed over, but not well. He's malnourished and has an infected cut on his back leg, probably from a fight. Nothing fatal."
She stroked the cat, who started purring loudly. "He's actually quite friendly for a stray. Might have been someone's pet once."
Bucky watched her hands as she gently examined the cat. Her nails were short, practical, painted black. A small tattoo of coordinates peeked out from under her sleeve when she reached for something.
"Those coordinates," he found himself saying. "Afghanistan?"
Aurelia looked up, surprised. "Iraq, actually. 2014-2016. You serve?"
"Something like that," he mumbled.
She studied him for a moment longer than was comfortable. "You look familiar."
Bucky tensed, preparing for the usual recognition, the fear or the invasive questions that followed.
Instead, she snapped her fingers. "Tuesday mornings at the VA. Group therapy with Dr. Rivera, right? You usually sit in the back, leave early."
His eyes widened slightly. "You're in that group?"
"When I can make it between shifts," she confirmed, turning back to the cat. "I don't talk much either."
Bucky tried to place her in the therapy circle but couldn't. He was usually so focused on staying invisible and getting out as soon as possible that he barely registered the other participants.
"Airforce," she volunteered, answering his unasked question. "PJ. Pararescue."
That explained the efficient movements, the steady hands.
"Army," he replied simply.
"I figured." She grinned suddenly, and it transformed her face. "You have the look."
"What look?"
"Like you're constantly checking for exits and expecting something to explode." She shrugged.
The cat meowed loudly, drawing their attention back.
"Right, let's get you fixed up," Aurelia murmured to the animal. She worked quickly, cleaning the wound, giving injections, explaining what she was doing without waiting for Bucky to ask.
"So," she said as she worked, "you planning to keep him?"
"No," Bucky said automatically.
"Shame. One-eyed cats are good luck, you know."
"That's not a thing."
"It absolutely is. I made it up just now, but it could be a thing." Her eyes met his, and there was something challenging in them. "He needs someone. You clearly care enough to bring him in."
"I don't know anything about cats."
"They're easy. Food, water, place to shit, occasional affection on their terms. Kind of like soldiers." The corner of her mouth quirked up.
Despite himself, Bucky felt a smile threatening. "That's a terrible sales pitch."
"I'm not selling anything." She finished bandaging the cat's leg and stepped back. "But this little guy needs antibiotics twice a day for two weeks. Shelter's overcrowded. He'd do better recovering somewhere quiet." She scratched under the cat's chin. "What have you been calling him anyway?"
Bucky hesitated. "Patch."
Aurelia burst out laughing, a rich sound that filled the small room. "Original."
"I wasn't planning on naming it," he said defensively.
"Too late. He's Patch now." She handed him a small bottle of pills. "Two weeks, twice a day. Then bring him back for a check-up."
"I didn't agree to take it."
"Him. And sure you did. You named him." She was already filling out paperwork. "Unless you'd rather I call animal control? They're overrun too, so he'd probably be euthanized by Friday."
Bucky frowned. "That's manipulation."
"Is it working?" She looked up, her brown eyes direct and unapologetic.
He sighed. "Two weeks."
"Great." She handed him the paperwork. "I need your name for the forms."
"James Barnes," he said reluctantly. "But most people call me Bucky."
Recognition finally flickered across her face, but not the kind he expected. No fear, no awe, just... understanding.
"Ah. The quiet guy from group therapy has a name." She wrote it down. "Well, Bucky Barnes, you've done your good deed for the day. Congratulations on your temporary cat."
As he was putting Patch back in the carrier, she added casually, "I go to Murphy's sometimes after my Thursday shift. Around eight. They make a decent old fashioned and don't mind if you sit alone in the corner looking broody."
Bucky looked up, surprised. "Is that... are you..."
"Just information," she said, a glint of amusement in her eye. "Do with it what you will." She handed him a card with the shelter's information. "For the follow-up appointment. Or whatever."
He took the card, noting the number scrawled on the back that definitely wasn't the shelter's.
"For Patch's sake," she clarified with a straight face. "In case of cat emergencies."
"Right," Bucky said, feeling the unfamiliar pull of a genuine smile. "For the cat."
As he left the shelter, carrier in hand and phone number in pocket, Bucky had the distinct feeling that his streak of bad dates might finally be coming to an end. This one hadn't even been a date, and somehow it was the best interaction he'd had in months.
Maybe Sam was right. Maybe he did need to get out more. Just not on Tinder.
Patch meowed in agreement.