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So maybe he had a soft spot for strays. Maybe when he was eight years old he saw a scrappy kid who held onto his pencil like it was made of gold and decided it was his God given mission to protect him. Maybe he ended up getting so much more in return that his brain decided pathetic little things in back alleys were actually scraps of miracle dust that would eventually turn his life upside down and shower him with luck.
His brain was wrong but it didn’t stop him from doing it over and over. Most recent case in point being right now. A Brooklyn back alley that was home to at least eight mutant rats and a a few questionable needles. Additionally there was a gray lump of shivering fur mewling pathetically at an empty chip bag in the rain.
He was living in Bed-Stuy, had a questionable job doing once a quarter missions with Steve, and was kind of dating his land lord. The last thing he needed was a living creature that he’d likely kill just like the last plant he bought. Hell. The thing was so small someone who knew what they were doing would probably fail that mission.
But he kept Steve alive. Had taken to taking care of him at 11 years old like a fish to water and learned all his tells and ticks by 16 well enough to be a real help or hindrance depending on the scenario.
What was a cat in comparison to Steve Rogers?
He’s got a long walk home.
The storm is just going to get worse.
The thing barely fought him when he scoops it up. It just flexed tiny claws into his thumb as he shoved it in his jacket against his heart. He talked the whole way home, chin tucked to his chest and eyes stinging from the rain.
It was all nonsense.
It’s alright. I’ve got you. You don’t weigh anything at all, could carry you to Mozambique and not get tired. Some storm you’ve got me caught in. Terrible. Are you warm in there? Because I’m cold as hell.
Inside his apartment was warm and dry and he dripped a trail from the door all the way to the kitchen. Setting the kitten on the counter he frowned at it.
First: warm it up and get it dry.
He had plenty of kitchen towels and set to work rubbing the kitten’s fur in gentle circles. The cloth started to turn gray with soot and dirt.
“Ah.”
He had to google if you could wash a cat.
Warm water, two more hand towels, and some scratches later he was wondering at how filthy the - apparently - white cat had managed to get. “Okay, sweetheart. Isn’t that better?”
Little teeth caught the meat of his palm.
“Ow.” He stated plainly, pulling the kitten to eye level. “That hurt.” It gnawed on him again. Rather than annoyance he found himself fond and simply glad it had some energy. “Food. You’re probably starving… I know something about that.”
A glance at the clock said fifteen after ten.
Quietly, well aware that no good neighbor would go around at this hour, he knocked on Aimee’s door with a well-swaddled kitten tucked to his chest. She eyed him, his still damp jeans, and then the kitten.
“I don’t know what to feed her and I know you said you fostered-“
“I have some formula. Come in.” She whispered, her girlfriend asleep on the living room couch and the end of some low budget movie was playing on the tv. “Can I hold her?”
He had no reason to say no even if he didn’t want to let it go. It seemed to feel the same, mewling pitifully.
“She’s maybe four weeks old?” Aimee looked at the kitten from every angle.
“She?”
“Yeah. If you want to keep her, I’m ninety percent sure. I have formula and a can of wet food you can have until the shops open.”
“I have no idea what I’m doing.” He watched her soften at the confession.
“You’re keeping her warm and safe and mostly clean.” There was still a smidgen of dirt on her ear that Aimee rubbed. “I’ll text you a list of things to buy but tonight just give her a little formula and keep watch over her.”
She walked him through warming up the formula and handed him the tiniest bottle - comically small in his hand - before showing him how to hold the kitten so that she could eat well. Her little heartbeat was going so fast…
“Thank you.”
She smiled at him and squeezed his arm lightly. “Any time.” He left neighbor’s place with a tiny litter box, a can of wet food, and an almost empty box of formula mix. Still enough for a day or two.
At home he curled up on the couch with the loud-as-hell kitten. “You can’t still be hungry. What am I going to do with you?”
Texts rolled in - first a shopping list and then links to kitten care articles and videos that he spent the next three hours reading and watching like it was his job. As for the kitten herself she dozed on his chest, cupped by his hand, used the litter box, and then yowled for more food until he was sure even Clint would hear her through the walls.
He was lucky sleep was less necessary than it used to be.
The next morning Clint wasn’t home when he knocked on his door and Steve didn’t answer his phone. With a sigh he took a photo of the kitten and texted Natasha.
“Shopping. Help?”
She texted him a pet store address right away and said ‘see you in 15’.
The shop was a little overwhelming but Nat greeting him at the door was helpful. “You got a list?”
“Yeah.”
“Let’s do this.”
He bought a bed, a blanket, food, two more litter boxes so he could give his borrowed one back soon, a scratching post, and toys. They were all blues and pinks and greens like he might have chosen for a nursery once upon a time. Nat threw in some catnip and held up a Captain America & Co bandana. “Name it Steve and make it your sidekick.”
“No.”
“Oh come on. It’s funny.”
It was but he was not in the habit of reinforcing bad jokes if he wasn’t the one making them.
“What are you going to do with her when you’re on missions?”
“I’m not on missions. And if I was then not all of you are.” He’d trust most of the Avengers to take care of the kitten once she was a little bigger. Mostly.
Natalia didn’t seem to believe him and they parted ways with a half hug.
By the time he was home and unboxed all the toys, scratching posts, and miscellaneous items it was past time to feed the little menace.
“Alright, alright come here.” She started to purr the moment he had her his hand, scooped out of the danger zone of his booted feet. “You’re too trusting.”
He should have known that Nat wouldn’t keep his secret long. Just as he pulled the next bottle of formula out of the microwave Clint was knocking on his door like he was on a mission. Not that he was trying to keep it from Clint it was just… well. He wasn’t sure what it was. Maybe the fact Clint was the spontaneous one and Bucky hadn’t really thought about this in advance… whatever.
“You know I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to tell your landlord about your pets.” His lips were twitching, 100% amused and 0% angry.
“He can charge me.” Bucky tilted his chin up for a kiss.
“So Nat snitched on me?”
“Aimee asked how the kitten was doing when I saw her taking the trash down.”
“Damn.”
“You gonna let me see it?”
She was asleep in the recliner, swaddled like a proper baby. “I haven’t picked a name yet.”
“She’s so small…” Clint folded down into a ball on the floor, staring at the sleepy little puffball. “You didn’t tell me.”
“I wasn’t sure I was going to keep her until an hour or two ago.” Bucky scooped her up, blanket and all, just for her to yawn immediately and give a little squeak of discontentment. She settled immediately when he crooked his arms and offered her the bottle.
“She’s stupidly trusting.”
“She just knows you’re a big softie.” Clint pillowed his cheek on one fist, sitting in the floor like he owned it. Ridiculously soft and open - stupidly trusting.
“Stop spreading lies about me. She’s young and impressionable and I can’t have you being a bad influence.”
“I’ll show you a bad influence.”
“You do. Every single day…” the words felt meaner than he meant them to be, though he knew Clint could take more than a little ribbing. He sank to the floor, “do you want to hold her?”
“No. No, she’s comfortable with you.” Still he reached out and stroked a thumb over her head. “Gosh she’s tiny.”
“Do you think it’s silly?”
“What?”
“Keeping her?”
“Why the hell would it be silly? You aren’t away for weeks at a time, you’re not sleepwalking or a danger. Why not keep her?”
He frowned at her little head, watching Clint scratch behind the kitten’s ear. Why not? “Ignore me, don’t know why I asked.”
“You should backpack train her.”
“What?”
“They make these backpacks now, you can take her places. She’ll be your sidekick!” Once he’d wondered what Nat saw in Clint - how those two ever got together; he was beginning to see exactly why they worked.
“She’s a baby. She’s not going anywhere.”
“Oh she’s so going to be spoiled. Speaking of- you still got that pizza from today? I’m starving.”
Yeah. He had a soft spot for strays.
Sometimes it worked in his favor.