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Bucky soon becomes quite accustomed to the Wilson’s couch.
At first, he finds the smallest of excuses to stay: the boat needs just a bit more tinkering, or I can fix your leaky sink, Sarah , and soon, with words unspoken, Bucky finds himself no longer pulling away from this family he’s seemingly adopted himself into, and New York feels worlds away from Louisiana.
Still, Sarah is insistent on getting him a proper bed, tutting at the sight of the thrown together blankets and lumpy couch cushions he sleeps on every night. And Bucky has every right to assure her that the couch is perfect, and a whole lot better than the wooden floorboards that is his bed back at home, but he saves her the pitiful looks and the sad eyes, and is sure to thank her and tell her she’s doing more than enough to make him feel welcome.
He earns his keep too by staying busy around the house. Whilst Sam is off, doing whatever Captain America does (saving people, being a national hero, making Bucky and Sarah and the boys proud) Bucky does indeed fix the leaky sink, and sorts out the cracked tile in the bathroom. He even thinks about repainting the shed for her, just to freshen it up a little.
But Sunday rolls around and Sarah practically orders him to just sit down and relax for the day. There’s already sweat beading at his hairline from where he’s spent the morning out the front, picking up the twigs off the lawn from where they’d fallen from the force of Sam’s shield training.
She hands him a lemonade and tells him to take a shower. Bucky just grins, downs the drink and once she’s got her back to him, he sniffs underneath his arm and… yep. He does indeed need a shower.
Once he’s cleaned off the grime and the sweat from his body, he changes, a sparse amount of black t-shirts and jeans. A few of them do in fact belong to Sam, and he chews at the inside of his cheek as he wonders if maybe he should start growing a collection of other clothes, just to keep here at Sarah’s.
Just in case, he thinks, his head going a little dizzy at the idea of permanency here, in this part of the world, with Sam’s family.
He bends down to tie up his boot laces when he jerks backwards, hissing between his teeth.
“Motherfucker,” he grits, standing up straight, wincing as he does so.
The pain throbs just behind his shoulder, fading as quickly as it had come, and he turns around to face himself in the mirror, his reflection a little distorted and wobbly from the thick condensation that settles on the glass.
His face is pinched as he reaches back and rubs at his shoulder, right where flesh meets metal.
He gingerly pulls back his sleeve to inspect it; the seam of where his vibranium arm meets the edges of his human shoulder is almost seamless. When he’d seen it first, he’d been in shock, and it’d been Shuri who’d brought him out of it, laughing and smiling, clearly very pleased with herself and the results as well as his reaction.
And the arm itself is amazing. He can feel more, do more, and it makes his chest feel strangely tight when his gaze flickers over the bicep of the arm, where there is no bright red star plastered there like a mark of his past, but instead, black and gold runs like veins underneath the plates, making him feel more human than ever.
Still. Despite all the incredible work from the Wakandan’s efforts, there’s still the ghostly lingering pain of his old arm.
Shuri had told him that whoever had installed the HYDRA arm had done a pretty botched job. They’d obviously been experimenting; poking and prodding at him as he’d laid there, snow still clinging to his hair, half his arm bleeding out as Zola had been practically bouncing on the balls of his feet in excitement of his brand new toy.
But the arm they’d made was heavy – far too heavy for a human to take the weight of. Hence why they’d taken the whole arm off, when it’d only been just his forearm that he’d lost in the fall. And even with the arm being evenly distributed, his skeletal frame had taken the brunt of carrying it around, and after seventy odd years, his poor left side was always a little sore and touchy from how hard it’d been working to hold up the weight of that horrible, horrible arm.
He looks in the mirror, brows knitted together as the fingers of his flesh hand trace over the top plates, ghosting over the area that just weeks ago, Ayo had jabbed and prodded at.
He’d asked her, once Zemo was in their possession and he was back in Wakanda’s good books again, he’d asked her how to detach the arm.
“It always had to be this way, White Wolf,” she’d said softly. And Bucky had looked down at where his shoe was scuffing at the dirt, like a naughty child not wanting to meet her eyes out of shame.
“We always knew there was a chance… if something went wrong…”
It had been then that he’d looked back up at her. His smile thin and tired, but knowing.
“You couldn’t be responsive for what I might have done” he finishes for her, and her frame almost shakes with the heavy breath she lets go. “I know. I’m grateful for it. For all you’ve done.”
She had smiled back, still something sad lingering behind her eyes, and her mouth pulled tight. But she’d done as he’d asked, and instructed him on how to disable the arm.
But so far, with everything that’d happened with Karli and Sam going off and doing his own thing, he hadn’t really thought much about the arm. Something in the back of his head tells him that he should probably give Sam a heads up on how to disable it.
The fear gnaws at his gut, because the mere idea of being out of control frightens him beyond words, and it bubbles up like thick, hot panic in his chest, rising to his throat like bile.
But nothing is going to happen, he reminds him, taking a steady breath, rubbing his chest to ease that coiled feeling there. He’s safe at Sarah’s, and he is in total control.
He looks at himself, the condensation has started to slip down the glass and he can see himself a little more clearly now.
“I am in control,” he whispers to himself.
And for the first time, he detaches his arm.
He almost wobbles, just slightly at how quickly it falls away from him, catching it in his other arm. He stares at it, the fingers still flexed like he had been just moments ago, as the lights beneath the plates grow dim, like it’s simply fallen asleep.
He takes a breath, rolls his shoulder and heads out of the bathroom.
The house is surprisingly quiet; Sarah is off running errands with Cass, Sam is down at the docks sorting some last minute things for the boat, and last he’d checked, AJ was in his room playing some sort of video game.
He trots down the stairs, metal arm still cradled in his other arm when he decides to just lazily throw it onto the sofa, where it lands softly in the nest of blankets.
He looks at it, and decides that if he really is going to have a relaxed day like Sarah had instructed, then he won’t need it.
He’s about to grab another glass of lemonade that’s been left in the pitcher when there’s the sound of feet thumping down the stairs.
He tenses a little, keeping his back turned away as he grabs the glass, all of a sudden feeling strangely naked without the arm.
His hand shakes as he pours the lemonade, and he’s really starting to wish that he hadn’t taken the arm off at all when AJ’s voice sounds out in the room, loud and brash like he always is.
“Cool!”
Bucky sets the pitcher down, and turns to face the kid. He’s standing between the kitchen and the lounge, eyes wide behind his glasses as he gapes at the arm that’s been left of the sofa.
Bucky’s throat goes tight.
“I didn’t know you could take it off,” AJ remarks, taking quick steps towards it, and Bucky finds himself following.
Then, AJ stops, spinning on his heels to look up at Bucky with the widest grin.
“Can I hold it?” He asks, ever so polite. Bless Sarah Wilson and her incredible manners.
Bucky goes to speak, but his throat is dry, and all that comes out first is a little squeak. He clears his throat and tries again.
“Um. Sure,” he nods, taking a sip of his lemonade. “But uh, just remember, it’s the same rules as your uncle’s shield so—”
AJ already has the arm in his hands, twisting it and turning it to take a look when he cuts him off,
“Not a toy, I know, I know.”
Bucky just nods awkwardly as AJ runs his fingers down the plates, tracing the small patterns and squinting his eyes as if to try and see what was underneath where the wires run.
“When I have it on, it usually glows a little bit,” Bucky tells him, and AJ grins excitedly.
“Can you show me?” He asks.
Bucky swallows thickly. “Uh, maybe another time,” he shifts his weight from one hip to another, and AJ’s face falls, making him feel a tad bad. “It’s just. Sometimes it can be a bit sore, so I’m giving it a break today,” he tells him with a small, almost apologetic smile.
What he doesn’t account for is the way AJ’s face goes from looking disappointed to confused, to sympathetic, all in the space of a few short seconds.
“It hurts?” He squeaks, head cocking to the side like a curious puppy, and Bucky licks his lips, the bitterness of the drink is sharp on his tongue.
“A little bit, yeah,” he’s being gentle with his words. He doesn’t need to unload all his trauma onto a child, but he also knows that AJ is more mature than most boys his age. “Not all the time, but my…” he pauses, wondering how much he really knows about his life before. He swallows the lump in his throat.
“My old arm,” he says carefully, watching AJ’s expression closely. He doesn’t seem to even be phased at the words, so he continues.
“My old arm. It was kinda heavy, well. It was a lot heavy. It wasn’t too good for my spine, since it’s connected all the way up there.” On cue his back gives a little twitch and flinch. “But the, uh. The serum helps,” he smiles a little. “But it’s always good to just give this old back a rest every once in a while, huh?”
AJ looks down at the arm, still in awe of it.
“Cass said you’re over a hundred years old,” he shrugs, like it’s nothing, eyes flickering up at him before he narrows them almost accusingly.
“You don’t look a hundred years old.”
Bucky can’t help but chuckle at that.
“That’s because I’m not,” he says, lifting the glass to his lips before pausing. “I’m actually one hundred and six.”
AJ gasps, almost dropping the arm before fumbling with it, before clutching it to his chest.
“You don’t have any wrinkles,” AJ points out. “But old people do get sore backs so…”
Bucky laughs, louder this time, taking a gulp of his drink as AJ frowns at him, unsure of what’s so funny.
It’s then that the front door opens, and there’s an explosion of noise; Sarah busting in a chattering Cass, the sound of keys and paper bags being juggled, and Sam seems to be finishing up a phone call, talking loudly down the phone like he always does.
“You wanna keep hold of it for me?” Bucky asks AJ as Sarah and the rest of the family make their way into the living room. “Just to keep it safe for me?”
AJ’s eyes light up, clearly excited with this brand new role of responsibility.
“As long as you remember–” he starts but AJ once again is one step ahead of him.
“Not a toy. Got it.”
He’s then off showing Cass what he’s come into possession of, and the two of them are running off with it, past a very confused looking Sam and Sarah.
“Tell me now those boys didn’t beat you for your arm,” Sam speaks, and Sarah just frowns.
“Did you tell them they could…” he hesitates, looking back over her shoulder at the sounds of awe as the two boys poke at the arm. “Play with it?”
Bucky finishes off the last of his drink, smacking his lips together.
“Sure. It’s not hurting anyone,” he says with ease, almost shocking himself with how simple the words are. The arm isn’t a killing machine, he isn’t a killing machine, and if a pair of two kids can find the greatness in his arm, then so can he.
Sam’s smiling, like he too has realised the gentleness of it all.
“Plus, if I’m having a lazy day, I’m having a real lazy day. As long as my half a body doesn’t freak anyone out.”
Sarah passes him, making her way to the kitchen, taking his empty glass when he pats his shoulder, hand lingering there, and it doesn’t hurt; not physically or mentally.
“As long as you can wash dishes one handed, you’re welcome to do as you please with your arm.”
Bucky let’s out an airy laugh, and for once, it feels real and genuine. Like the tension sitting in his chest like a rock really does lift, leaving him, piece by piece.
“Of course,” he croaks, and her hand slips away as he heads towards the kitchen, leaving Sam and Bucky alone.
There’s a beat of silence. Then,
“You good though?”
Bucky sucks in a breath through his teeth. He holds it, looking down at his shoulder where his arm is no more. Sometimes he swears he can feel the tingling of pins and needles in the tips of his fingers that no longer exist. Something an itch behind his elbow that he can never scratch.
He looks up at Sam, and he can hear both the sounds of excitable chatter from both AJ and Cass, along with the sounds of humming coming from the kitchen as Sarah refills the lemonade pitcher.
He looks at Sam, and smiles.
There’s a glass and a lawn chair waiting for him outside.
“Yeah,” he nods. “I’m good.”