Chapter Text
Bucky's not in the mood to eat anything. He swears he's been to every place in Brooklyn. His therapist has laughed at that before. 'The city is huge, there's no way — even with how much you eat,' she had insisted. But the thing is, a city — even a whole planet — feels small when you're alone.
Steve has been gone for a year now. He went to another timeline to live a life he claimed he missed out on. Bucky and his therapist talked about it endlessly until it got to the point where Bucky just wanted to move on and live his own life. The only problem is as much as he tries to find a community for himself, he can never seem to keep people in his life.
He's staring at a blank wall of his apartment. Sitting on the floor with the pillow and blanket he uses to sleep rumpled behind him — another thing he hasn't overcome since starting therapy is moving off the floor. There's a long list of things he needs to work on regardless of how often it feels like Bucky is in therapy. His entire life seems like a routine of simply going to and from his therapist's office. It's miserable.
He sighs as he hears his stomach growl. He knows he has to feed this stupid super soldier stomach of his but he has no appetite. He doesn't want to eat another meal by himself in his sad apartment, staring at the same four unadorned walls.
He pushes himself to his feet. He turns about to stalk over to his fridge which he knows he'll find empty, leaving him to go to the corner-store deli for the hundredth time. He's nearing the fridge when suddenly, he can't move anymore. Yet he's moving all at once. His breath shortens, his chest restricts with panic. The space around him warps, he can't see his apartment anymore. It's a mix of colors and shapes with swirling particles.
Everything is flying or maybe he's flying, he can't tell. His body drops fast, he squeezes his eyes shut. He's falling and falling until everything abruptly halts. He waits in the stillness, too scared to open his eyes. He takes a long beat before slowly opening them again.
The walls aren't beige anymore, they're painted a shade of blue as light as the sky with pure white moldings encasing them. Long pale curtains frame wide windows and the sun is shining so strongly through the glass Bucky knows this can't be Brooklyn. He sits up and discovers he's lying on a couch. It's dark gray with orange throw pillows. The couch extends around half of the room filling a good portion of the large living room Bucky's found himself in.
Where is he?
He stares down at his hands. They look real. He clenches them into fists, they feel real. His first worry is this is some kind of dissociation since he swears he hadn't fallen asleep, crossing nightmare off the list. But he's never had an episode where he's transported to a place unrecognizable.
He carefully gets up from the couch and walks over to the windows. Outside, there's grass for miles. The sun is so high, it must be midday. Probably early noon, Bucky thinks. It was nearing six at night a moment ago. He checks for his phone but his pockets are empty. He left it on the kitchen counter, he remembers. He always tosses his phone there when he comes home from therapy and has the strongest desire to turn off the world. Shit.
A meow sounds from behind him and he spins so fast he almost kicks a small white cat that is circling his ankles. He freezes as the feline rubs its tiny head up against his shins and purrs. He has to admit, he relaxes at the sight. The little furball is cute. He can't help himself, he bends down and pets the animal. The creature doesn't shy away from his touch, it twirls itself around Bucky's hand until it moves toward the metal one. Bucky withdraws his prosthetic hand, out of fear of causing harm but the cat only stops and whines at Bucky as if to say give me that hand, dammit.
The cat waits patiently, eyeing his left arm until Bucky cautiously extends it back down. The kitten yelps with delight and rubs itself against the cool crevices of the metal. Bucky watches in awe feeling oddly at ease that a creature could enjoy his arm so much. Maybe he should consider getting a cat, Bucky muses, whenever he figures out how to get back home.
A man's voice cuts through his thoughts, "Hey, Buck. Come in here, will ya?"
Bucky freezes, the cat continues to rub its fur against the motionless vibranium.
"Buck," the man calls once more.
How does he know his name? This must be some real weird shit that Bucky is definitely going to have to talk about with his therapist. Great.
Bucky stands and follows the voice into the kitchen. He pauses at the archway of a farm-style designed kitchen equipped with a stone fireplace in the center. He's a little distracted by the architecture of the room that he nearly forgets the man he was looking for until someone pops up behind the large island in the center and places a stack of bowls on the countertop. The stranger is well... stunning. He has dark skin with bright brown eyes and cheekbones that lift even higher as he smiles and yes, this man is smiling at him. Bucky goes warm all over, he can't help it, it's that gap-toothed smile shining right into his soul.
"Figured we could finally whip these out for dinner on Saturday, whaddya say?"
Bucky stands speechless. This stranger is definitely talking to him, somehow knows his name, and cares what Bucky thinks about a set of beautifully carved bowls that remind him a lot of his time in Wakanda.
"Buck?" the man repeats, his face falling with concern. "You okay?"
Bucky can't manage to shake his head. He doesn't move a muscle even as the attractive stranger rounds the island and steps closer to him. The man touches Bucky's shoulder, it's soft and fleeting but it still makes Bucky tense from the contact. He isn't used to touch, he only recently broached the topic with his therapist. It's unclear whether the man notices.
"You need to lie down again?" the stranger frowns.
Bucky's desperately hoping this is just some crazy dream and maybe if he lies down again, he'll wake up back in his Brooklyn apartment. Bucky accomplishes a nod this time.
"Okay," the man nods in return. Then he leans forward into Bucky's lips, placing a gentle kiss upon them.
This time there's no question, Bucky's unbelievably rigid shock doesn't go unnoticed. The man retreats ever so slightly and frowns deeper.
"I'm right here. It's me, Sam."
Bucky's mind races to place the name but he can't recall a Sam. He's certainly never seen this Sam in his life or he'd remember because christ, he'd remember such a gorgeous face.
He's reeling too much from the kiss and from everything. He really needs to lie down.
He swiftly turns and beelines it straight back to the couch. He falls onto the soft cushions, closes his eyes tight and prays he'll wake up at home again. Let everything go back to normal, please.