Bucky knows his apartment needs some work — and by work, most people mean furniture, a coat of paint, and some decoration besides the leather jacket he hangs on the wall every night when he comes home. Or the dirty laundry that litters his empty bedroom. He's used to living with next to nothing. He has a television, one chair in the living room that he's never sat in, and the appliances that came with his apartment. Sam says it looks like he squatting here; says he needs to actually use the bedroom — and buy an actual bed. Bucky isn't interested in that. Why buy a bed when he can sleep on the living room floor to be closer to the television? He likes the noise. It drowns out the bullshit rattling around in his head. It makes him feel safe. It's an alarm, a companion, a friend. Whenever he wakes up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, it's always there, humming in the distance.
Shit, that is sad.
Sam is currently inspecting his kitchen. There isn't much to it. A couple of bowls, one plate, and one set of cutlery in his cupboards. A bare lightbulb dangles from the ceiling, flickering occasionally. He meant to tell the landlord about it but never got around to it. Bucky is just thankful that the family of roaches living underneath the furnace haven't made their nightly appearance, scuttling beneath the stove and clinging to the legs of the rickety kitchen table that lingers untouched in the corner of the kitchen. He named them one night.
"You've gotta get back out there," Sam says as he opens up Bucky's fridge and frowns. He straightens and flashes Bucky a dirty look. Bucky shrugs. What did he do now? His fridge is clean. His stove hasn't been touched since he moved in. There isn't a crumb on the floor and he scrubbed the grout with a toothbrush. It looks great. It would pass military inspection. Except for the roaches.
"What do you mean?" Bucky asks.
Sam sighs.
"Man, all you have in here is beer and hot sauce. What the hell is wrong with you?! You're a grown man. You don't go grocery shopping?"
"I eat take out," Bucky replies with a shrug. "The hot sauce is for practicality. There's soy sauce in there too."
Sam rolls his eyes and tosses him a can of beer. Bucky catches it with ease with his metal arm, being careful not to crush the aluminum with an eager hand. A hand that has so readily killed without mercy or consequence. He cracks open the beer and looks up.
"What do you mean get back out there?"
"I mean you need to get laid, man. Or get a girlfriend — or a friend with benefits. You've gotta ease some of that tension. You're way too uptight. Your eyebrows always do that frown thing."
"I'm not uptight," Bucky scoffs. "And my eyebrows are fine, thank you."
"They're doing it right now."
Bucky rolls his eyes.
"You're sad," Sam says after a small sip of beer.
"Are you saying I look sad, or that I'm pathetic?"
Sam chuckles to himself and leans against the refrigerator.
"A bit of both."
Bucky frowns, his mouth forming a quiet, disapproving grimace.
"You're about as helpful Doctor Raynor... Do I have to pay you?" Bucky asks after a moment.
"I'm not court-mandated, so technically yeah," Sam chuckles. "I'll take a beer as payment."
"Whatever's in the fridge is yours," Bucky replies.
Sam raises his eyebrows and laughs.
"Is that a yes? Is that Bucky Barnes giving me a help me signal?"
Bucky snarls.
"I really hate you."
"I know," Sam says with a massive grin. "Okay, Barnes. I'm gonna help you. I'm gonna get you a girlfriend — or at least a bootycall."
Sam looks around and sighs.
"This apartment isn't exactly girlfriend ready."
"What's a bootycall?" Bucky asks.
"Shit, man. You are old."
Bucky rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his beer, choosing to ignore the insult.
"What are we doing? Are we going to a bar, or...?"
Sam laughs and shakes his head.
"Tinder."
Bucky stares at him with a blank expression before shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders. The word means nothing to him. Maybe something fire-related? A fireplace? A burning log? A campfire? Sam is grinning from ear to ear.
"It's a dating app," Sam sighs.
"You've lost me."
"Give me your phone."
Bucky reaches into his pocket and tosses Sam his phone. He catches it and acts like it's a bomb in his hands and looks up at Bucky with a confused expression.
"Barnes? What the fuck is this?!"
"It's my phone."
"It's 2023!" Sam exclaims. "What the hell are you doing with a flip phone?!" He looks disgusted. "You text me from this thing?!"
Bucky shrugs.
"Sometimes, yeah... when I can figure out how many clicks it takes to get to each letter."
Sam puts his head in his hands and sighs deeply.
"You need serious help."
"And this is really helpful," Bucky snipes. "Thank you for insulting me in my own home — about my home and my phone choice. I really appreciate it. You're a really good friend."
"This is not a home," Sam laughs. "This place looks like a bomb shelter."
Bucky drains his beer and crushes it in his metal hand. Sam immediately tosses him another one, which he catches gently.
"You got a laptop?" Sam asks.
Bucky points to his right.
"In the living room."
"Oh, on the floor? With the rest of your stuff?"
"Really appreciate you coming to hang out, Wilson."
Sam turns his head and cackles over his shoulder.
"I know."
He crouches down and scoops the laptop up off of the floor before he throws himself into the chair that nobody has ever sat in. Bucky sits on the pile of blankets he calls a bed and bites his lip.
"What are you doing?"
"Have you ever even used this thing?"
Bucky shrugs.
"Sometimes, yeah. To check email."
"You have ten software updates," Sam scolds him. "And 500 unread emails. Most of them are from your therapist."
"That sounds about right," Bucky whispers.
The computer dings. Sam looks up, scowling.
"501 emails."
Bucky rolls his eyes and flips through the channels on television to ease the anxiety pooling in the pit of his stomach. He hears Sam typing away on the computer. His head drifts slightly to his right, toward the sound that is infuriating him.
"What are you doing?"
Sam breathes deeply.
"Setting up a dating profile for you. We'll connect it to my email since you never answer yours."
"Oh, good," Bucky sighs.
"You clearly can't be trusted with your email. You got a Facebook account?"
"A what?"
"Christ," Sam sighs. "Maybe you should be paying me for this."
Bucky reaches into his pocket and throws a crumpled one-dollar bill at Sam, who snarls and tosses it back.
"Don't do that."
"What? You wanted money."
"Listen, you got a picture on this computer?"
"Of myself?"
"Yeah."
"No. That's for work."
Sam throws his head back and laughs.
"What work? Ignoring emails? This thing has dust on it, man."
Bucky frowns.
"You can leave any time."
"No, I'm comfortable here," Sam replies. His voice is so nonchalant that Bucky snarls. "Stand up and put your back to the wall."
"Why?" Bucky asks, eyes narrowed and his heart leaping into his throat. "What are you doing?"
"I'm going to take a picture of you for your Tinder profile."
"I don't know what a Tinder profile is."
Sam sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Think of it as a dossier about you that you put on the internet for women to look at."
"I don't like that," Bucky replies, panic creeping into his voice. "What are you going to say about me?!"
"Relax, Barnes. I'm only going to put good stuff in there." He gestures to the wall. "Go on."
"Should I change?"
"Why? You look great."
Bucky frowns.
"Are you sure?"
"Do you have any other clothes?"
"I have a better black t-shirt. It's tighter."
Sam shakes his head.
"Just stand against the wall."
Bucky stands like a corpse, perfectly stiff and straight. His eyes are blank and his mouth sits in a firm line. Sam doesn't even bother to get his phone out of his pocket and raise his camera up.
"You have to look more natural and way less like you keep women in your basement."
"I don't have a basement."
"Barnes!" Sam barks. "Relax!"
Bucky shrinks slightly.
"I don't know how."
"Think of something that makes you happy and just look into the camera lens." He points at a very specific spot on his phone. "Right here."
Bucky thinks about his last day before deployment. He kissed Connie that night. He remembers her cute little smile; the way she tasted like soda and smelled like roses. He remembers dancing with her and her friend Bonnie. He kissed Bonnie later in the alley. He remembers the way his hands felt against her nylons and garters. Sam's laughter interrupts his thoughts and he hears the sharp sound of mechanical camera flashes. His gaze snaps upward.
"What are you thinking about, Barnes?" Sam chuckles. "You look a million miles away."
"Nothing."
"Doesn't look like nothing." Sam inspects the photos on his phone. "These actually look pretty good. You look - dare I say it - cool? The leather jacket is working for you."
Bucky scoffs. He doesn't actually believe it, but maybe if he says it loudly enough, he could start. The idea of Sam making him a dating profile fills him with dread. He's fine on his own. He likes alone. Alone is safe, alone means that nobody else gets hurt - except for him. Alone means that he doesn't hurt anyone. Sam flashes him an incredulous look.
"You good?"
Bucky nods.
"Can I sit back down now?"
"Sure."
Sam retreats back to the computer and Bucky hears a lot of clicking and clacking as Sam types. His brow is furrowed and he glances up at Bucky occasionally, seemingly for inspiration. Bucky keeps his eyes fixed on the TV.
"What are you doing?"
"Making you a Facebook account."
"Do I get a say in what goes on my internet?"
"Your internet?"
"Yeah. Don't I get a part of the internet once you put me on it?"
"No," Sam laughs. "It's just the internet. You wanna see what I wrote about you?"
Bucky sighs and stretches his arm out.
"Yes."
Sam hands him the computer and he squints before reaching for a pair of reading glasses.
"James Buchanan Barnes. Born March 10th... you kept the year ambiguous. Good job."
"Well, I don't want to write an essay about why a 106-year-old man is using Tinder."
"I thought this was Facebook."
"Your Facebook connects to your Tinder — just read it, Barnes. Shut up."
"Enjoys cocktails and long walks on the beach... Sam..."
"You like beer and you like to walk around New York. I just made your sad hobbies more appealing."
"World War Two Enthusiast?!"
Sam raises an eyebrow.
"Am I wrong?"
"I guess not. I'm more interesting than that, though."
"Yeah?" Sam asks. "Enlighten me. Who are your favorite musicians?"
"Bing Crosby. Ella Fitzgerald. Eddy Duchin."
"I'm just going to put down Rihanna."
Bucky shrugs and Sam takes a deep breath.
"Okay, I'm afraid to ask this, but favorite movies?"
Bucky opens his mouth to answer and Sam immediately cuts him off.
"You know what? It's fine. I'll just write down Godzilla."
"What's Godzilla?"
"Giant lizard destroys a city."
"Could I fight it?" Bucky asks.
Sam considers the question for a moment before shrugging.
"Maybe."
"Put that in my dossier."
"Why don't you tell the ladies that when you chat with them?"
"I have to chat with them?"
Sam scoffs.
"Do you think they just come to you randomly?"
"You certainly made it seem that way!" Bucky exclaims.
"No, no, no. I set up your profile, but you do the work on this computer. And you actually have to check it, Barnes! I know you can flirt with women. Look at you."
Bucky sighs. He hasn't flirted with a woman since... well, he doesn't want to think about it. Maybe Sam does know more about this dating stuff than he does. It was just so much easier when he was young. You found a pretty girl at a party, and that was it. Forever. This entirely digital world seems weird and scary to Bucky, but he's trying his best. Maybe a girlfriend or a — what was it? Bootycall? Would get him to get his shit together. He listens with quiet anticipation as Sam plugs his information into Facebook or Tinder or whatever the hell he's using. Sam slightly closes the laptop and grins at him.
"Now we wait."
Bucky's face remains flat and neutral, but inside, he feels like he's going to throw up.
"For what?"
"For —"
Bucky hears his computer ding and Sam's eyes light up.
"Oh, shit! You have a catch, Bucky Barnes!"