A piercing chime echoed through the gym, prompting Bucky to drop his weights to the floor with a long exhale. That was his cue, his 4:30 p.m. alarm that told him to wobble to the showers and clean up so he could get back upstairs before you started preparing dinner. He needed to be there, just in case— in case you fumbled with a knife again, in case you burned yourself on the hot stove, in case you set the whole goddamn building on fire. Safety, and nothing else, was why he made dinner with you a priority every night now. He told himself that until it felt true.
Bucky took over most of the cooking that evening, working quietly next to you as you fetched ingredients and read the recipe aloud for him to follow. You had re-wrapped your hand with fresh gauze while Bucky was away, and he could tell it was tender by the way you unconsciously kept it clutched to your chest. When the kitchen timer went off, Bucky reached into the oven and pulled the hot pan out with his left hand.
"Needs a couple more minutes," he said as he inspected the food. You were uncharacteristically quiet, and he glanced up to find you staring at him, stock-still and wide-eyed. He frowned, his brows furrowed as he picked up the pan again— oh. A laugh bubbled out of you, turning Bucky's cheeks red as he placed the pan back on the oven rack and turned to you.
"Jesus, you scared me," you chuckled. "I don't know how to do first aid on a metal hand, don't think you can put burn cream on that— doesn't it hurt? You said you can feel things with it."
"No. I mean, I can tell it's hot, but it doesn't hurt. I don't think they put pain receptors in it." He held his hand out in front of him, trying to examine it from your perspective.
"That's so cool," you murmured, more to yourself than to him.
"I guess," he mumbled, wiping both his hands on his jeans, but he was pleased. He was used to people being impressed by his prosthesis, but always because of its power, its strength, its usefulness as a weapon. He liked that it was useful in situations like this, too. Situations that made him feel normal— hell, maybe a little better than normal— a welcome change after years of feeling less than human. He tucked his hair behind his ear with his metal hand.
You stood on your toes to pull a bottle of wine and two glasses from a cabinet while you waited for the next timer to go off. Shimmying over to Bucky, you silently held a glass out with your bandaged hand, but he shook his head. You put the second glass away without protest and set yours on the table, filling it halfway to the rim with that expensive red wine Stark always kept stocked. Bucky paused with one hand on the oven handle, watching you over his shoulder with narrowed eyes.
"How old are you?" he asked as you settled onto the chair and raised the glass to your lips. He suddenly thought you didn't look old enough to drink. Well, shit, maybe you did. After a hundred years, his perspective was probably a little off.
"A gentleman never asks a lady her age." You looked up at him from under your lashes, your accent unconvincingly posh. Bucky slowly turned to face you, his hands on his hips.
"...Right. So you and I are good, then." He smacked the button on the timer before it finished its first beep. "How old are you?"
You scoffed. "What, are you going to card me?" You kept your gaze on him, eyebrows raised as you took another sip— defiant, challenging him to stop you. But before his indignation could bubble to the surface, you swallowed your drink and answered.
Hm. Maybe you did look that old. Bucky hadn't given your age much thought before this. Sometimes, like when you were working on your computer, you looked older. When your eyebrows were drawn together, the laptop screen reflecting on those glasses that helped with your headaches, you looked like you could hold your own in any boardroom. But those serious moments were few and far between, and your day-to-day self was much harder to read. You dressed in comfortable clothes, and your hair was usually messy— well, his was, too, so that didn't tell him much. You had offered him a hair elastic the other day when he was complaining about how his hair stuck to his face in the gym.
"It's not long enough. It won't work," he had said with a shake of his head. His hair came to just below his chin, an awkward length, long enough to annoy the hell out of him and too short to pull back.
"Well, don't do all of it, just half— here." You pulled the elastic from your wrist and passed it to him. "Just put it up— no, not like that, take half— run your thumbs above your ears and pull up—"
Bucky was trying, but he couldn't figure out what the hell you were telling him to do despite how you mimed the motions to him. His hands were uncoordinated behind his head and he was getting frustrated, his cheeks growing hot.
"No, don't, it's like this— ugh, can I—?" You held your hand out for the elastic and he dropped it into your palm with a little more force than necessary. "Turn around— bend down, you're so goddamn tall—"
Bucky turned his back to you and dropped to his knees. You raked your nails across his scalp and he had to choke back a gasp, his eyes suddenly wide. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up and goosebumps bloomed down his arm and back. It only lasted half a second before you were tugging on his hair unpleasantly, his blissful expression replaced with a wince, but he was glad for it. He didn't know how or why your touch felt that good, but he wouldn't have been able to hold it together for much longer. With one final tug you snapped the elastic into place. You tapped his arm to tell him to climb to his feet, and he followed you into the bathroom.
"Look! Man bun," you said proudly as you gestured to the mirror. "Well, a half-man bun. See, I told you it'd work—"
"I used to wear my hair like this," he interrupted. His voice was low and monotone as he held eye contact with his reflection, the memory flooding back.
You stared at his reflection open-mouthed, your eyebrows pulled together in confusion. "Then tell me, Barnes, why the hell was that so difficult?"
"I forgot," he said with a shrug, and it was the truth. "I never did it myself. In Wakanda, before I got this arm, they would put it up like this."
"They?"
"One of the lab assistants, whoever was around. I don't think I could've done it with just one hand."
"You couldn't do it with two hands," you grumbled, but Bucky ignored you. You turned to him and pushed some flyaways back from his face, and he had to fight the urge to lean into your hand, to press his face against your palm and never let you stop. It was giving him the same feeling he had when you touched his metal arm, those flitting, shivery sensations jolting pleasantly through his brain.
Bucky hadn't been able to replicate the bun on his own. It was always lumpy, weird, too tight when he tried. But he kept the hair elastic, played with it, stretched it between his fingers when you weren't looking. It smelled like you. He liked it.
The elastic was tucked in his pocket that night as he made dinner. "Just a kid, then," he said as he switched the stove off.
"Depends. How old are you?"
"It doesn't matter." He tried to brush the question off, focusing on serving food onto your plates at the table. "Old." This wasn't something he usually had to explain to people; it was common knowledge that he and Steve had both long overstayed their welcome in this life. You knew about Steve, you made that joke about the ice— but you must've played hooky the day they covered the Howling Commandos in history class.
Bucky lowered himself gingerly into his seat; his muscles would feel fine by morning, but right then he was a bit sore. He picked up his fork, ready to move on, but you leaned back in your chair to study him.
"You can't be that old," you said. "Fess up." Bucky just shook his head, chewing, his eyes on his plate. "I'm gonna have to guess if you don't tell me," you said, but you were met with silence. "Final warning." He looked up at you, his expression as blank as he could make it.
"Well," you said with a flourish, and Bucky immediately knew he was going to regret this. "You do have a little gray in your beard." His right hand flew up to cover his stubble. Shit. He hadn't thought the sparse white hairs were noticeable to anyone else yet. "But you don't have reading glasses," you continued, "and your hearing's too good." You cleared your throat, a poorly hidden laugh, but because Bucky was looking down again he didn't notice you fighting to keep your mouth in a straight line. "What about erectile dysfunction?"
Bucky started coughing, narrowly avoiding choking on his food while you cackled. "What the fuck's that got to do with—"
"It's very— it's very common!" You repeated yourself loudly enough to carry over the sound of him coughing. "It happens to lots of men, especially over forty. Nothing to be embarrassed about, Barnes, but I wouldn't have had to ask if you just told me how old you are."
Bucky sighed and rubbed one hand down his face, his fingers tugging at his skin, at his stupid gray stubble. "Just. Hang on, okay? Let me think for a second." His voice was muffled behind his hand as set his fork down and sat back, trying to figure out how he was going to explain this.
"You have to think about how old you are?" Your voice was dry, teasing.
"It's not... stop. Just listen." He scratched the bridge of his nose. "You know how Steve... was in World War II, and he was frozen and woke up a couple years ago?" You nodded. "Well, Steve and I went to school together. We were in the same unit during the war."
He could see the gears turning in your head, your mouth opening and closing as if you couldn't decide what to say. "So... you're...?"
"A hundred and four, technically." His voice was quiet and he fidgeted with his fork; saying that out loud never got any easier. But out of all the reactions Bucky had prepared for, your crack of laughter was not one of them. He clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes at you.
"Bullshit," you said when you were able to catch your breath, straightening back up in your seat. "I don't believe you." You ran the fingers of your bandaged hand through your hair, a cocky smile on your face.
"What do you mean, you don't believe me?"
"You look like you're thirty... thirty-five, tops. The gray is throwing me off a little, but some people do gray early." Your fingers stroked your chin as you developed your conclusion. "There's no fucking way you're a day over thirty-five." You poked your fork toward him for emphasis.
Bucky's head rocked back as he rolled his eyes, his gaze landing somewhere to the side. "It's complicated, I'm telling you." His voice was low, serious. "But I was born in 1917. You can look that up."
"Where? You got a Wikipedia page?"
"There's an exhibit in the Smithsonian," he snapped. "You can start there." If that information surprised you, you didn't show it.
"No," you said almost immediately, and you took another bite. Bucky stared at you, incredulous. "Why should I do all the work? You're not a research project, you're my roommate." He was silent, so you continued. "Besides, maybe the stuff out there is wrong. Tony was wrong about you when he introduced us—"
"—Not entirely," Bucky interjected.
"All that bullshit about you being dangerous— So why would I listen to anyone else?"
Any smart remark he wanted to make disappeared as panic crept into his exasperation. You were wrong, you were so wrong— "You're obnoxious."
"And you're a pain in the ass. Anything else you want to tell me?"
Yeah, actually, there was. Bucky pushed his food around on his plate and sighed.
"I really was born in 1917, I swear. But I spent a lot of time... under. In cryo. Ice. It's a long story." He paused, organizing his thoughts. "I was twenty-eight when I... went under, for the first time. But it's kinda hard to figure out how much time I spent... awake... after that." He treaded carefully around the subject.
You were quiet for a moment, chewing as you contemplated. "I still think you're fucking with me."
He shook his head, his disbelief clear on his face. "Is this what I get for being honest with you? An argument?"
"I'm not arguing, I'm just disagreeing."
"You can't disagree with facts. I'm serious, pull it up on your phone."
"No," you said. Your smile was annoyingly content. And then, after a pause: "I think you're thirty-five."
"What?"
"It feels right to me."
"That's not something you can feel, you don't just get to choose—" But it did feel kind of right, now that you had said it.
"I would've gone lower, but that gray is really working against you."
Bucky scowled again, but the scowl didn't reach his eyes. "People go gray from stress, too," he said. "Maybe I'm just a really stressed out twenty-eight year old." You hummed, not even bothering to look up from your plate. "And you're about to age me another ten fuckin' years, you know that?" He ran his fingers through his hair, but you just laughed and laughed.
"Hey Buck. Hope you're doing good. Must be real busy over there. We're pretty busy here, too. We've got appearances every day this week. You'd hate it, all the smiling and waving. How's the roommate situation? Are you being nice? Well, give me a call sometime. Or a text. Miss you, pal."
Bucky really didn't understand why he felt the need to prove his age to you, but he did. You had gotten under his skin, and the idea that you didn't believe him had bothered him all night, keeping him awake. So when the sun finally rose enough to justify getting out of bed the next morning, the first thing he did was pull that old shoebox off the top shelf in his closet and dust it off. Steve had put it together for him: a box of memories, as many as he could find, to help Bucky remember who he was before Hydra stole him away. Some trinkets and photos, a pack of the cigarettes Bucky used to smoke. Ticket stubs that Steve had kept, and yellowed newspaper clippings from the war. Bucky dug through the box until he found what he needed and marched out to the kitchen.
You were sipping your coffee at the kitchen island, waiting for him. Your face brightened when he walked in and you popped your earbuds out, jumping up from your seat to get him a mug. But Bucky reached the counter first.
"I've got proof," he said breathlessly, holding out the photos to block your path. It took you a second to realize what he was shoving at you, but your eyes widened when you saw he was passing you a small stack of faded photographs. Your hand flew to cover your mouth and you gasped, inspecting the first photo closely as you leaned against the counter.
"Oh my god, such a baby face!" You glanced between the photo and Bucky several times, lining up and comparing their features. In the photograph he had shorter hair, smoother skin, but there was no denying it was Bucky.
"These look like they were taken ten years ago," you said, your voice hardly above a whisper as you inspected the photo closely. "I mean, like that's what you looked like ten years ago. The whole faded 1940's film thing is telling me otherwise." You flipped the photo over, examining the back of it, the tattered edges, but found yourself drawn to the younger Bucky again. He was in his army dress uniform, standing tall and posing for the photo, his arm around a scrawny Steve's shoulders. You focused on Bucky's clean shaven face, his dimpled chin, and slowly raised your hand to the Bucky next to you. Bucky stood stock-still as you grazed your thumb across the scruff on his chin, feeling for that same indent.
He held your gaze and you let your hand fall to your side. "That was right before I shipped out," he said. "For World War II. Like I told you."
You held the photo closer to your face. "Sergeant?" you asked, looking at the insignia on his jacket. He nodded and sighed, relieved that you weren't trying to argue it. "You look so proud," you said, looking up at him with a gentle smile.
A bitter chuckle escaped him. "Yeah, I guess I was."
You shuffled to the next photo: a group of men surrounding none other than the Captain America, Steve tall and muscular post-serum. You instantly found Bucky in the crowd— he was Steve's right-hand man, filthy and bruised, blood on his face and dripping out of his ear. He was smiling again, but his expression was infinitely more hollow than before. You looked up at Bucky with soft, worried eyes.
"I had been... captured. A prisoner. POW." That had been a difficult idea for him to come to terms with in therapy, but it did feel a little easier, saying it now. "Steve came and rescued me, by some miracle." He chuckled but it sounded wrong, the humor not reaching his eyes. "He wasn't even on the same continent when they took us." He stared at the younger version of himself. The Bucky in this photo was at the beginning of the end; he had already been through so much, he thought he'd seen it all. But that time with Zola was only the start— only his first time being tortured, only his first stint as a prisoner. This Bucky had already experienced so much more pain than anyone ever should, and he didn't know that there was so much more ahead of him.
Bucky shook his head, desperately trying to clear those thoughts away. He had only wanted to show you the pictures, prove his age, not bring all of these memories back to the surface. He hurriedly shoved the last photo into your hands. Now he was in a different uniform— a jacket that appeared to be quilted, pants with cargo pockets, a belt and straps for all of his gear. His expression had hardened, no longer proud or hollow, but determined. And yet, there was something about his eyes. Something fearful. Something knowing.
"Got to pick my own uniform for that," he said, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. That was one of the few good times he could remember— Steve had gotten them a budget to work with, let all of the Howlies choose their own gear. Bucky's favorite piece was his jacket. They'd managed to quilt it with some material Howard Stark had come up with, not only for warmth, but also for protection. It took one hell of a blade to even nick its surface, and punches didn't seem to hurt as bad when he was wearing it. It was like a suit of armor in his favorite color, that deep blue that Steve said complimented his eyes.
"We had our own team there, for a bit." For a bit. As if they had just decided to stop one day, to throw in the towel, retire. Like Bucky hadn't fallen to his supposed death and was captured again, but this time with no one looking for him. He held his left arm against his body, rubbing the metal slowly. Feeling the feedback, trying to remember what it had felt like before his nerves were artificial. He tried to speak but couldn't hide the emotion in his voice this time, and he coughed slightly when his voice cracked. You glanced at him, your eyebrows knitted with worry before that familiar glint in your eye returned.
"Daaaaamn," you said, pretending to fan yourself with your hand, causing Bucky to roll his eyes. "Sergeant Barnes must've had first pick of all the ladies in Europe, huh?"
He shook his head, an embarrassed smile teasing on his lips, grateful that you had chosen to steer the conversation in another direction. Even if it had to be this direction.
"What, first pick of the men, then?"
"No, I just— it wasn't like that—" he sputtered, a blush rising to his cheeks. He shouldn't have been so grateful, shouldn't have thought this would be easy—
You stood on your toes to bring your face close to his, feigning shock. "Are you telling me Sergeant Barnes was a virgin?" you asked in a playful whisper, faux outrage on your face.
His skin prickled from how close you were, your breath on his ear raising goosebumps all over, his damn brain unable to come up with any kind of witty reply. He glanced down at you but looked away quickly, focusing instead on some spot in the distance. "Heh. Uhh, no."
"Good." You dropped back down to your normal height, looking at the photo once again. "'Cause I was about to go find a time machine and fix that myself."
Bucky froze, his heart thudding in his chest while he took a moment to process what you just said. He stared at you, incredulous. "...Should I take that as an insult? Considering, y'know, the guy in this picture is standing right here?"
You shook your head and stepped back. "Nope. This guy—" you nodded to the photo, "isn't nearly as gray as you."
A faint ringing started in Bucky's ears, his face heating up. He couldn't believe it. After everything he just said, you were going to argue— "Jesus Christ, kid, if you're going to say you still don't believe me—" He swiped at the photos but you pulled them out of his reach with a yelp, hurrying away from him down the hall. He could've easily taken them, but he didn't follow you. He wasn't going to get sucked into your game, he was not—
You had circled around the small apartment, appearing back in the kitchen behind him. Your footsteps were sneaky, but he heard you. He knew. There was no surprising him.
Oh. Your warm arms wrapped around his waist, your hands offering the photos in front of him. You pressed your face against his back, his shirt muffling your voice.
"I believe you, Sarge."
Okay, maybe there were still some surprises left for him. The jolt of electricity in his veins when you called him that name was definitely a surprise. He took the photos from your hand, but instead of letting him go, you squeezed your arms around him tighter.
"Wanna hang out today? See what kind of trouble we can get into?" You spoke directly into his back, your breath warm against his shirt.
"I..." No, he didn't. He wanted to shove these photos back in his closet and forget they existed. He wanted to go to the gym and work out until his body ached, run until his brain was quiet. Until his fingers and knuckles bled from the friction of the weights, the impact of his fists against the sandbag. Until he was too tired to even consider letting those memories float up again.
You gave him a tiny squeeze, barely noticeable, but enough to bring his thoughts back to you. And that's when Bucky realized what you were doing, why you were asking him, today of all days. You knew. You knew how hard he was fighting to keep himself distracted. Something had given it away— his face, or maybe the waver in his voice.
"...Yeah. What're you thinking of?" Bucky couldn't see your face, so he didn't see that telltale smile. You took a deep breath.
"I was thinking about how people can ride ostriches— did you know that? It's true— but there are no ostrich riding facilities around here. Horse farms galore— there are horse shows, scenic trail rides, everything. But what if... no, no, hear me out!" Bucky had tried and failed to interrupt you. "What if you could take a scenic trail ride through the mountains on an ostrich? People would pay boatloads for that. We gotta break into the ostrich ride industry, Sarge."
Bucky stepped out of your arms and turned to face you. Slowly, making sure he had heard you right, that his brain had processed that correctly and he wasn't the crazy one, it was definitely, definitely you—
That wicked smile. It pulled him out of his head, kept him on his toes. "Oh, did you mean for today? Hmm... have you ever played video games?"
You wasted most of the day together, spread out on the couch. Bucky had never seen the appeal of video games before, but now he was starting to understand. Watching his little character run around the screen, completing tasks, made the other parts of his brain shut up. Every completed fictional goal was a quick little boost of serotonin straight to his receptors.
You had set up the console and showed him the basics of the game before letting him take the reins. You leaned back on the other side of the couch, scrolling through your phone. "I can't watch you play," you told him. "I'll start bossing you around. It's more fun if you figure it out for yourself."
"Thanks for being self-aware, I guess."
You snickered in response. "Oh hey, pause for a second. Come here." You didn't wait, scooting closer to him instead, the couch cushions sagging beneath your combined weight. Bucky felt your warmth against his right arm when you leaned in and held your phone out in front of you to snap a picture.
"What's that for?" He frowned slightly. He didn't want some strange picture showing up on the internet, especially one of him just sitting around playing video games while his friends were on tour—
"Sending it to Steve." You pulled back from him, tapping on your phone screen.
"What? Why?" he snapped, unable to mask his surprise.
"He wanted to know how things are going. Asked if we were okay. Apparently he's been trying to contact a certain someone— I'm not naming names, but he's got long hair and this weird shiny arm— but that dude hasn't answered his phone in days. Or returned a call, or even a text. He just wanted to check in."
Bucky turned back to his game. "Yeah, well, tell Steve he can go fu—"
"He's worried about you, Bucky." Your hands dropped to your lap when the text went through. "Like, really worried. I don't know what's going on between you two, but maybe cut him some slack."
Bucky grumbled noncommittally. Your phone dinged, and you snickered when you saw the message.
"Steve says you should brush your hair," you explained. Bucky grumbled again, a string of curse words you couldn't quite make out as you rose from the couch and wandered toward the bathroom. You emerged a second later wielding your hairbrush.
"I have my own, you know," Bucky said without looking away from the TV.
"News to me," you retorted. "Here, get down on the floor. You don't even have to stop playing your game."
Bucky gave you a sour look but complied, sliding to the floor in front of the couch. You sat behind him, one leg folded under you on the couch cushion, and raised the brush. But after examining his hair you reconsidered and set the brush down on your lap, choosing to work through some tangles with your fingers first. When you were satisfied, you gently worked the brush through the ends of his brown waves.
"Your hair's always so nice," you mumbled. "Even though you're shit at taking care of it."
"What's that supposed to mean?" He was having trouble concentrating, his eyes almost fluttering shut before he forced them open again, determined to focus on this level of the game.
"I don't know where you found that shampoo, but it can't be good for you."
"You're going through my stuff, now?"
"It's right there in the shower. I didn't know they even made that stuff anymore. I'm pretty sure my grandma used it."
Bucky scowled. "Maybe she was onto something." It was the cheapest shampoo the big box store had to offer. Between growing up during the Depression and those years when he was hardly allowed to care for himself, he didn't exactly have high standards for hair products.
"And no conditioner?! You need conditioner with hair this length." Your brush caught in a tangle, as if to prove a point.
Bucky resisted the urge to flinch. "Must have good genes."
"Yeah, alright," you said, although it didn't sound like you were agreeing with him at all. You set down the brush and ran your nails through his hair, tugging and scratching his scalp gently, causing his skin to explode with goosebumps. Bucky was slipping, fading, only occasionally catching himself enough to move his character around the screen. He hoped you weren't watching as he puttered around in aimless circles.
His breath caught, almost pained, when your hands left his hair to search for your phone. You turned the front camera on and held it out so Bucky could see the two of you on the screen. "Nice, right? Let's send Steve a new picture."
"Don't." It came out as an exasperated growl. Bucky had been too blissed out, too absorbed in the push and pull of your fingers, to notice you had weaved two perfect French braids down the back of his head.
"Fine, fine, I won't," you teased with a smile. "But we really should send him another picture. Here." You dropped your phone and used both hands to gently shake his braids free, leaving him with tousled but tidy hair. "That's better. C'mon, smile."
And he did. His lips only turned up slightly, but the crinkles by his eyes were a dead giveaway.
"Hey Steve, uh, sorry I missed your calls. We're good here. The roommate thing is— she's— she's good."