Chapter Text
Bucky feels lost.
New York is a labyrinth to the uninitiated, the streets a cipher one learns with practice. It comes easily to some and harder for others. But Bucky is neither new to nor unfamiliar with the city. He used to be one of them, one of the many people who confidently walk these streets, a local well-versed in time-saving shortcuts and hidden gems.
As he wanders around, however, Bucky feels like a stranger lagging behind the rest. The city, to him, is now half-familiar in a way one might struggle to remember a word on the tip of their tongue or like walking through the hazy recollection of a dream conceived the night prior. Many things have changed in the span of seventy-odd years and his memory—shoddy at best given all that he's been put through—naturally fails him.
Bucky's jaw ticks, steel-blue eyes scanning his surroundings from beneath the brim of his inconspicuous cap. (It works wonders as camouflage in a city with maybe half a million or more men dressed just as inconspicuously as him.) He honestly isn't sure what he's come here for, standing idly by a crosswalk opposite of a library.
The building itself is unassuming, with features typical of the era it comes from: old brick and stonework, weathered at the edges and bearing a history that's outlived all of its patrons. Its silhouette falls neatly into place within this corner of the city, among other buildings of similar size and make, and evokes a sense of familiarity within him. But this isn't Bucky's neighborhood from the long lost years of his youth. Far from it, really. His feet had just brought him to this area without much thought.
Part of it must be nostalgia, he figures, of mostly faded memories of him and a younger, skinnier Steve checking out books from a similar looking place on one of their days off from school. Or of quiet afternoons conjuring vivid images from the imaginative worlds of his favorite science fiction novels. It's in this way that the mere sight of the building, older than he is, brings a sense of comfort. He lowers the brim of his cap, contemplative as he regards this relic of the past, when someone—you—stop to look straight at him.
"Hey," you speak first, your eyes wide with curiosity, and Bucky almost wants to melt into the sidewalk. He had snuck out of the Avengers Tower earlier for some fresh air and could not risk being found by a civilian. Steve learning of his absence was one thing, but Stark would definitely have his head if—
His thoughts are cut off as you speak once more. "Are you okay?"
Do I look okay to you? Bucky snaps in his head, the tips of his ears turning red as you scan him from head to toe. In the back of his mind, he wonders if you have any sense of self-preservation.
Because who in their ever-loving right mind would stop and talk to a stranger—a six foot tall, beefy stranger dressed in layers with long sleeves pulled low in the sweltering heat of July and with his eyes obscured in the shade of a baseball cap. Never mind the fact that his hands are hidden in his pockets, both clad in well worn leather gloves; his movements careful in order to conceal the gleaming titanium of his prosthetic arm. Bucky's entire demeanor screams strange and suspicious, a walking caution sign to all those wary of undisclosed danger.
He answers you anyway, gruff and avoidant. "I'm fine." Sweat beads at his brow as he maps out an escape route from this conversation.
You unfortunately, not having the sense to just leave things be, have the audacity to give him an incredulous look.
"You're not fine," you declare suddenly, rummaging through your bag. "It's hot out and you've got a thick jacket on—" Bucky's almost tempted to walk away, unsure if you are about to alert everyone in the immediate vicinity to his suspicious presence. "—and I figure you're probably overheating in all that. So, here."
Bucky's stoic expression nearly falters when you all but shove a twenty his way. He's awkward as he holds it, the bill half-crumpled in his hand.
"Get yourself a cool drink, okay?" you say, voice soft with what he thinks is misplaced concern. "Wouldn't want you to pass out in this heat."
Bucky knows that you know that the twenty is more than enough for a single drink and a generous amount of change but you fix him with a look of intense sincerity that he can't find the words to object to. Nor does he think to mention the fact that he's actually being housed by a multi-millionaire and that he really doesn't need the money. So he pockets the cash, mumbling a reluctant 'thank you' as you beam at him.
There's not much in the way of pleasantries after that, with you bidding him farewell and wishing him a good day in a manner that compels him to stare after you as you walk off towards the library—the entire reason he had been lingering in this area in the first place. He watches as you ascend the steps leading up to the entrance and disappear behind the heavy glass doors.
It stirs something within him, he realizes later, the random act of charity thrust upon him. For the kind stranger who seems blissfully unaware of danger, Bucky figures he should keep an eye out just in case.
The late afternoon sun hits the New York skyline at an angle, casting long shadows over its streets. It's still hot out, warmth radiating from cracked concrete and uneven asphalt, the natural consequence of an urban jungle built with materials that sap up heat like a sponge. Coupled with the humidity, the air feels heavy and thick as it weighs everyone down with perspiration.
You are hit with what feels like the brunt of it the moment you step out onto the street, a metaphorical slap in the face after leaving the air-conditioned bubble of the public library at which you work.
Summers are a busier time at the library, what with school being out and people looking for cool spaces to 'chill' in, pun intended. The chance to connect with the local community makes it all worth it in your opinion, even as you're run ragged juggling clerical duties, incessant inquiries from patrons, and making sure the shelves are neat and organized.
It's with this thought in mind, as much as you love your job, that you're glad to be free of it for the evening, eager to return to the comfort of your apartment.
The route home is easy at least, learned through trial and error after getting lost many a time in the seemingly identical rows of brownstones lining narrow streets. A prickle of something gives you reason to pause, however, and you still in the middle of the sidewalk. Some passersby shoulder their way past you, mumbling annoyances at the sudden obstacle in their path, but you pay no mind to them. Instead, you identify the feeling as unease even though there is hardly anything out of place as far as you're aware.
It's probably nothing, you think, trying to ignore the chill that trickles down your spine.
It's still the same path you traverse everyday anyhow, from home to work and back again, but you figure it's a little wise to err on the side of caution, so that's what you do. You round each corner with apprehension, avoiding the darker shadows cast by each building you pass. The prickling feeling follows you still, even with every look over your shoulder and cautious glances into dim alleyways. The quiet of the neighborhood hardly helps with the paranoia either, the sound of your heartbeat loud in your chest with every step you take.
As you walk, you think back to earlier, to the strange man loitering across the street from the library. He'd seemed lost with a distant look in his eye as he stared down the building like it had done something to offend him. At first glance, you assumed he was a vagrant: he was wearing clothes that were worn and slightly unkempt, his hair long and his cheek dotted with stubble. He'd looked like he could use a drink, really, so you gave him the money without thinking twice. And despite looking a bit put off by your offer of cash, he'd accepted it without question.
Maybe it wasn't a smart idea to butt into the business of a nameless stranger, now that you really thought about it. The inkling feeling of being watched is proof enough of your mistake. You curse your lack of foresight, picking up the pace towards your apartment, and practically skip up the stone steps into the safety of your apartment building.
You take odd relief in the normally arduous climb up the stairwell towards your floor, happy to hide away in the organized clutter of your shoe-box apartment. But as you prepare to go to bed, you can't help but notice a strange shadow hiding across the street from the corner of your eye.
But when you look again, it's seemingly disappeared.
Weird.
"JARVIS," Bucky calls out, sprawled out on the floor of his quarters in the Tower, a duvet draped over his lower half and a pillow wedged under his neck. Despite much persuasion to sleep on the bed, he opted for the floor instead. (The soft carpet is a mild upgrade compared to his previous living situation, all things considered.) "Can you run a background check for me?"
"Of course, Sergeant Barnes," JARVIS complies, the room falling silent soon after as the AI processes his request.
Bucky had returned without incident the evening prior through a well-hidden rear entrance, evading any line of questioning from Steve, Stark, or the others by holing himself up in his private quarters. JARVIS had supplied an alibi for him, an unlikely conspirator despite the distrust the AI's creator held towards him. It was oddly convenient and a quiet reassurance, especially when dealing with the annoyances of Steve's well-meaning interventions.
That was Bucky's biggest problem these days.
Following the fall of SHIELD and his subsequent apprehension by the rest of the Avengers, everything concerning Bucky was treated with an absurd amount of caution. Even Steve had taken to walking on eggshells around him, drawing a shaky boundary in an effort to "make his transition back into the world smoother," or whatever bullshit reason there was.
Sure, Bucky was the furthest thing from a stable person at the moment and, sure, it'd only take the utterance of his trigger words to undo all the progress he's made since escaping HYDRA's grasp, but it wasn't like he was made of glass, as if he'd shatter the moment he was touched wrong.
In fact, he was actually doing quite well for himself.
He self-regulates, following the same simple routine most days: wake up, eat, train, and sleep. He has hobbies; he has a laundry list of sci-fi and fantasy novels to catch up on, a fledgling collection of vinyls comprised of all the hits he'd missed following the War, and he people-watches whenever he gets the chance.
JARVIS breaks this line of thought, listing off a detailed summary of your description, occupation, and all other information in between: a library aide living alone, no immediate family nearby, and having moved to the area not too long after the Chitauri invasion that had terrorized the city.
Bucky listens on, eyes shut as he recalls his encounter with you. It was strange, being acknowledged by someone without ties to his past or the knowledge of his time as a living weapon. He clenches the fist of his left arm, the whirring of the inner mechanics just about audible in the quiet of his room. Would you have run if you saw this arm, cold steel and intimidation, in broad daylight? It would have been the most logical response, one he wouldn't fault you for if that had been the turn of events.
But as it stands now, Bucky remains a strange, nameless man to the public, an odd shadow skulking on street corners. He believes you would sooner write him off as an oddity, a curious encounter in a city chock full of them. Better that than any of the other alternatives, of eyes prying into affairs he's loath to unearth after years of brainwashing and torture.
Still, the small taste of "normalcy," even as unusual as it was, lingered on the forefront of his mind. And throughout the rest of his mundane daily routine, Bucky finds himself selfishly wanting more.