Chapter Text
The cab pulled away, leaving Bucky alone on the curb with nothing but a duffel bag and a single battered box.
It felt wrong, standing there without orders, without a unit, without… anyone. Just him. Just silence.
The apartment building loomed over him, brick and glass, a little too pristine. The kind of place that promised “fresh start” in the leasing pamphlets. The kind of place that didn’t know what he carried inside his chest.
Bucky adjusted the strap on his duffel with his one good arm. The left sleeve of his jacket was pinned neatly at his side, but the empty space tugged at him, heavy with memory. He swallowed hard, squared his shoulders, and pushed through the front doors.
The lobby smelled faintly of cleaning products. Too sterile. He preferred it that way—better than the copper tang of blood, better than mildew and iron bars. Still, the click of his boots against the floor made his pulse skitter, like echoes in a place where echoes meant danger.
It’s fine. It’s safe. You’re out. It’s over.
He repeated the mantra as he climbed the stairs—elevator was too risky, too enclosed—and found his unit halfway down the hall. Apartment 3B. A new lock, a new number. A new chance.
The key shook faintly in his hand as he slid it into the door. He stopped inside and was greeted by… nothing. White wall. Bare floors. A kitchenette that looked like it had never seen a pan.
It was empty enough to echo.
Bucky dropped the duffel just inside the door. The sound of it hitting the floor was too loud, too sharp, and he flinched before he could stop himself. His breath caught, his shoulder locking like he was waiting for—
No. Not here. Not now.
He forced himself to exhale and pressed a palm to the wall. Cool. Solid. Safe.
He’d unpack later. For now, he just needed to sit.
Bucky sank onto the edge of the couch—cheap, secondhand, but sturdy—and pressed his face into his hand. His body was tired, but his mind wouldn’t stop moving, darting between shadows. He could still feel the cuffs on his wrists, the weight of chains, the echo of commands in a language he never wanted to hear again.
And then—
A knock at the door.
He froze. Every nerve went taut, screaming don’t answer, don’t move, don’t breathe .
The knock came again, gentler this time.
Bucky forced himself to stand. He was being ridiculous. It was probably the landlord. Or a delivery mix-up. Or—
He opened the door.
The man on the other side was tall. Broad shoulders, chest like a wall, shirt pulled tight over muscle. Blond hair, bright blue eyes. His sheer size filled the narrow hallway, blocking the light.
And Bucky’s lungs forgot how to work.
For a split second, the hallway wasn’t clean brick and polished wood—it was a cell. Cold concrete. Boots stomping closer. Shadows falling across him. Hands reaching. Voices barking orders.
Bucky stumbled backward, heart hammering. His vision tunneled until there was only size, strength, threat. His chest locked. His throat closed. Not again. Not again. Not again—
The man’s face shifted from polite smile to sudden alarm. His hands lifted in surrender.
“Hey. Sorry—I didn’t mean to—”
The voice was soft. Not the bark of a captor. Not cruel.
But Bucky couldn’t hear it over the roar of his pulse. His body was already curling in, braced for blows that weren’t coming.
“I’m sorry,” the stranger said quickly, guilt in his tone. “I’ll go.”
And then, just like that, he stepped back. Retreating. No threats. No demands. Just space.
Bucky slammed the door shut. His fingers fumbled for the lock, twisting it hard, selling himself inside. He pressed his back to the wood, chest heaving, as though the door might splitter any second.
But it didn’t.
The silence that followed was crushing.
It took an hour before Bucky’s breathing slowed. Before the sweat dried on his forehead. Before his hand stopped shaking enough to push his hair back.
He sat on the couch again, hollow, exhausted. The walls felt closer now, like they’d shifted while he wasn’t looking. His duffel still sat unopened by the door, but the thought of unpacking was unbearable. Too much. Too soon.
Bucky let his head fall back against the couch. His body ached, his scars pulling tight, his left arm throbbing with phantom pain. He closed his eyes.
And when he opened them again, the room was dark. He didn’t even remember falling
asleep.
***
Morning came sluggishly.
The sun cut through the blinds in harsh stripes, stabbing at his eyes. His body aches in all the old familiar ways, but at least his chest wasn’t clamped in panic. Not yet.
Dragging himself upright, Bucky shuffled toward the door. Maybe coffee would help. He wasn’t sure he even had any in the cupboards.
When he opened the door, something waited for him in the hall.
A small Tupperware container, with a folded note taped to the lid.
Bucky’s throat went tight. He crouched slowly, his right hand trembling as he picked it up. The baked goods inside looked homemade—muffins, maybe. The note was written in clean block letters:
Sorry about yesterday, I didn’t mean to scare you. My friend’s sister made these for me and I wanted to give you some to apologize. I’m in the apartment right by the elevator if you maybe wanted a restart, or just to return the Tupperware
- Steve Rogers :)
Bucky stared at the paper until the words blurred together.
His gut reaction was to throw it all away. Too much. Too close. Too fast.
But the faint smell of sugar and cinnamon curled into the apartment as he carried the container inside. His stomach growled despite himself.
He set it on the counter. Walked away. Came back.
Finally, he sighed, muttering under his breath,
“Maybe later.”
The note sat where he left it, a silent promise of something he wasn’t sure he could handle.
But for the first time since he’d arrived, the apartment didn’t feel entirely empty.