Chapter Text
Bucky doesn’t like living on the street, but sometimes life isn’t about getting what you want. It seems that way for him, anyway. After serving two tours, he’s been decommissioned (which isn’t the right word, but that’s how it feels), and he’s slowly readjusting to civilian life. Even before he joined the military, he struggled with his mental health, but it’s worse now that it’s mixed with a healthy dose of PTSD.
For the first few months after he was discharged, he rented a tiny studio in Red Hook, near where he’d lived during his childhood. After countless nightmares and one too many panic attacks, he realized his place felt like a prison. He broke his lease, lost his ass in the process, and has spent the past couple of months living on the street. Mostly, people see his long, scraggly hair and scarred left hand and leave him alone. Today, though, there’s a noise at the end of the alley that is too loud and obvious to ignore.
When Bucky looks up, he’s sure he’s seeing a vision. Tall, broad, beefy, and gorgeous. Those are the only words he has to describe the man who smiles at him tentatively as he holds out a bottle of water and a greasy paper bag. It smells like heaven.
“I thought maybe you’d like some lunch.”
That sentence falls from full, pink lips in a baritone that sends shivers down Bucky’s spine. If he wasn’t…himself, he might smile back, but this vision in a navy blue jacket and form fitting jeans deserves better than a homeless, shifty, filthy vet whose idea of a proper lunch comes from digging through trash cans.
“My name’s Steve. Steve Rogers. This is for you, uh…?”
Hunching his shoulders, Bucky glances around him to make sure there aren’t others creating a perimeter. The alley’s empty, though. It’s just Steve here with him.
Mumbling softly, he answers. “I’m James.” It’s not a lie. That is his real name.
“It’s nice to meet you, James. It’s burgers and fries from the diner at the end of the block,” Steve says as he shakes the bag in his hand. “Still warm. I can get you a milkshake if you’d like. I had one earlier. They’re good.”
Straightening quickly, Bucky lets the lid fall closed on the trash can and shies away, attempting to disappear into the shadows. He doesn’t want Steve’s help. He doesn’t want anybody’s help, but he knows he needs it. His stomach does, too, because it rumbles loudly at the same moment he shakes his head.
“I’m not asking for anything. Not trying to sell you anything,” Steve explains softly, as if he’s speaking to a wounded animal. “I’ve seen you around a few times, and I wanted to…I don’t know what I wanted. Something just told me to get these for you today. No strings attached.”
When Bucky doesn’t move, Steve takes a small step forward, his hands up in surrender. “I’ll just leave it here for you.”
As Steve slinks away, his shoulders up around his ears, Bucky shuffles forward quickly and snatches the bag and bottle. Before Steve can turn and catch him, Bucky disappears into the shadows, more silent than a ghost.