Chapter Text
This chapter needs a quick TW for mentions of PTSD, depression, a quick mention of past animal abuse (fighting rings)
**********
“Tasha, it’s your deal.” Sam clapped a friendly hand onto Bruce’s shoulder as he rounded the dining room table and handed off the deck of cards. “And no cheating this time.”
“I’m hurt and offended, Samuel Wilson.” Natasha’s green eyes twinkled as she took the cards and immediately shuffled them in some wild, flashy maneuver. “I’ve never cheated a day in my life.”
“Tasha, just you being this beautiful is cheating.” Tony swooped in with bowls of snacks and a kiss on the cheek for his favorite ballerina. “I can’t bluff worth a damn when I sit by you.”
“You can’t bluff worth a damn anyway.” Steve settled into the seat across from Tasha and next to Bruce. “Tasha being beautiful has nothing to do with it. Speaking of beautiful redheads--” he winked and Nat only scoffed at him. “--where’s Pepper tonight?”
“I dunno, off running my company or saving the world or being a supermodel?” Tony shrugged. “I can’t ever keep track.”
“Where’s Thor?” Bruce asked just a tad too quickly and when four pairs of eyes swiveled his way, the Doctor flushed only a little red. “What? I thought we were asking where our friends were.”
“Sure. We’re asking about friends.” Sam chuckled as Bruce’s blush spread. “Thor’s at an arm wrestling competition tonight. I told him he shouldn’t miss poker night for arm wrestling, and he told me that if I had biceps as big as his, I’d be at those competitions too.”
“Hm. Seems fair.”
“Valid point.”
“Can’t argue with that reasoning.”
“Man, fuck all of you.” Sam scowled at the group and snapped his fingers so Tasha would start dealing cards. “I have arms like cannons.”
“Sure you do, Sam.” Steve folded his own rather cannon like arms over his chest and asked, “Anyone heard from Bucky lately? I’ve been trying to get ahold of him for weeks and couldn't get him to pick up his phone. I finally went over last Wednesday but he was on his way out to a physical therapy appointment and didn’t want me to come along.”
“He wasn’t going to physical therapy unless he’s switched instructors. He hasn’t been to physical therapy with Valkyrie all month.” Nat quickly dealt everyone else a hand. “She texted me yesterday asking if he’d been to any conditioning classes with me since she hasn’t seen him.”
“Bucky’s been skipping classes?” The Captain’s mouth pulled down into a frown. “Sam, what about his appointment with you?”
“I haven’t seen him all month at our counseling sessions either.” he supplied. “I didn’t feel right saying anything cos it’s a breach of professionalism to be seeing my friend as a patient anyway, and I don’t want Bucky to feel like I talk about him to you guys but yeah-- I haven’t seen him in a month.”
“He hasn’t been by the shop to see the arm I built him either.” Tony chimed in, rummaging around for his sunglasses in hopes that the shades would help his poker face at least a little. “I called to tell him it was ready for some test runs but he never got back to me.”
“Shit.” Steve rubbed at his face wearily. “And now he’s not showing up to poker night again? He hasn’t been once since we got home. Not once in the last year. I’m worried about him, guys. Real worried. I thought Bucky would be getting better by now but if he’s skipping classes and avoiding us then he must not--”
“Steve.” Sam cut in, shook his head. “Bucky went off to war a hero and came home in pieces, alright? There’s no telling what his good or bad days are like. A few missed poker nights and appointments isn’t the end of the world, we just have to be patient and be here for him when he decides to talk to us.
“Counselor Sam with some platitudes of wisdom.” Tony faux whispered, and Nat elbowed him to shut up. “Ow! I was being serious! That was good advice!”
“For all we know, Bucky is just fine.” Bruce soothed over the tense moment by agreeing with Sam. “Last time I saw him, I gave him the card for a friend specializes in rehoming shelter dogs to veterans. Maybe he’s just caught up working with a pet.”
It was a nice thought, but no one at the table-- Bruce included-- really thought it was true. The odds of Bucky going MIA for a month because of something good in his life were slim to none. The odds of the Purple heart awarded former soldier going MIA because the nightmares had gotten bad and the PTSD was tearing him up and he physically couldn’t face his friends at the moment…
...well those odds were good enough to bring what had been a playful poker night between long time friends to a melancholy halt.
It didn't seem fair that while both Steve and Bucky had come home from a harrowing third deployment, Steve had come home a decorated hero and Bucky had come home broken. It didn’t seem fair that the world kept turning and poker games kept happening when their friend couldn’t even get dressed without struggling.
It didn’t seem fair that Sam was a licensed counselor, Bruce a doctor, Natasha and Valkyrie were in fields conducive to physical therapy, Steve and Thor had shared trauma and were willing to talk through the nightmares, and Tony was ready and waiting to gift Bucky a terminator level prosthetic and somehow they still couldn’t help Bucky enough to bring him back around for game night.
It wasn’t fair and all of the friends couldn't help but stare at the empty seat they always saved for the Sergeant.
“Maybe he’s okay.” Steve finally said, trying hard to fake a note of conviction in his voice. “Buck missing poker night might not be as big of a deal as I’m making it out to be. We-- we can be a lot, even on a good day. Poker nights take a lot of energy and maybe he’s just tired.”
“Sure.” Tony wasn’t exactly known for his tact, but Bucky was his friend too, and he made a conscious effort to soften the edge of his next round of sarcasm. “I mean hell, we look like the start of a bad joke, right? A counselor, doctor, war hero, the world's scariest ballerina and the world's pettiest billionaire all walk into a room… if I wasn’t so sure I was gonna win everything tonight, I wouldn’t want to be here either.”
“Tony honey, you aren’t going to win anything if you keep wearing ultra reflective sunglasses that let us all see your cards.” Tasha teased, and when Tony squawked in alarm at having apparently given away every hand of cards for the past several months because of super shiny sunglasses, the entire table erupted into laughter.
Friends and poker and conversation, it was a perfect night.
… and Bucky sat outside Sam’s apartment with his back to the door and face hidden in his one remaining hand, listening to his friends hanging out together and wishing he had the strength to just walk through the goddamn door.
But he couldn’t hold a bag of pretzels and open a door at the same time anymore, he couldn’t hold a six pack of beer and snacks and turn a knob, fuck he hadn’t even managed a jacket tonight because zippers were still hard so he’d given up and went out freezing in a t shirt instead.
He was cold and the beer had fallen through his fingers along with the snacks as he tried to juggle it to get to the door knob and one of the cans had busted when it hit the hall floor, spraying Bucky’s feet with beer and today-- today that had been it. A busted beer can and dropped back of pretzels, a zipper he couldn’t manage and a cut on his chin from trying to shave one handed, a months worth of missed appointments because he couldn’t sleep without nightmares and couldn’t face the day with out sleep and today-- today Bucky couldn’t handle a single fucking thing more so he slid down to the floor and hid his face and listened to his friends laugh together and cried.
He and Steve had gone off to war as heroes but Bucky had come home in pieces and now he sitting in the hall alone too broken to even ask for help, hair in his eyes and tears falling into his scruff and beer soaking into worn shoes and the hem of ragged jeans and he couldn’t handle anything else.
Please fuck, someone come rescue me.
***********
From Steve: Missed you at the poker game, bud. Let’s get a beer tonight after I’m done at the Veteran’s Center.
There were three dots on the screen as Bucky read the text message at nine am the next morning, three dots that meant Steve was sitting there looking at the message and waiting to type back just as soon as Bucky managed an answer.
The phone was big though, bigger than the one Bucky had before the last deployment, big enough that he couldn’t hold it in one hand and text quickly and the talk to text screwed up too much cos Bucky spoke with a little bit of a drawl and after his injuries he spoke with a little bit of a slur and it printed out as gibberish, which is how his mind felt most days anyway.
Texting was hard, and there were three dots on the screen where Steve was waiting for a reply and Bucky moved his thumb once, twice, towards the microphone to try a talk-to-text but eventually he just put the bright screen and the pressure of those three dots down and left it behind on the bed while he went to shower.
Some mornings he was okay, and other mornings he woke up after crying for an hour over a spilled beer and the thought of texting slow and awkward while Steve could text so quick with both his goddamn hands was too much to handle.
They had gone off to war as heroes, and Steve had come home with a promotion and a medal for bravery and the fast track to being America’s poster child for patriotism and hoorah-ness and why everyone loved a man in uniform. Bucky had come home without his good looks, without his self confidence, without his arm and without any hope of ever feeling normal again.
--You’re a hero, Sergeant Barnes. Your country owes you a debt of thanks.
His country owed him reparations for a years worth of nightmares and PTSD and the sort of depression that meant he couldn’t look in the mirror anymore after they handed him the Purple Heart and then cut him adrift into civilian life and expected him to cope.
Bucky wasn’t coping. He wasn’t coping at all.
Most weeks he went to the counseling sessions with Sam or Bruce and most weeks he went to physical therapy with Natasha or Valkyrie and most weeks he could handle a beer and reminiscing about war times with Thor and Steve and most weeks when Tony babbled about the prosthesis he wanted to build, Bucky could listen with a smile.
But some weeks having a fake arm would be worse than having only one arm, and counseling sessions made him feel like screaming and physical therapy was humiliating and talking about the war made him vomit.
Bucky wasn’t coping. He wasn’t coping at all.
Bruce had suggested a therapy animal, an emotional support animal, a fluffy wriggly pet that could be trained to help him through a flashback or episode, that could provide stability when he wasn’t stable, that could sit with him through the nightmares so he wasn’t alone anymore. Bucky was supposed to get a therapy animal and that pissed him off in some irrational way because he was already broken and needing a dog for ‘emotional support’ made him feel weak and not like the ass kicking soldier he was a year ago.
...holy shit had it only been a year?
Bucky wasn’t coping. He wasn’t coping at all.
*********
The animal shelter wasn’t what Bucky expected. He’d never put any thought into the reality of shelters before but images from long ago commercials flitted through his mind as he got out of the taxi and waved the driver off.
Rows of dirty cages and emaciated animals. Big eyes and shivering frames. Some sad song by Sarah McLachlan in the background while a voiceover begged for the watcher to send a few dollars a month to wholly change this poor animal’s life…
...the shelter wasn’t like that. There was a high fenced yard off the to the side where a few dogs ran around under the watchful eye of an employee, the front doors opened up into a well spaced and well lit lobby with a colorful board boasting cute advertisements of adoptable pets taking up most of the first wall. The phones at the front desk were ringing cheerfully, the receptionists smiling and chatting as they sorted what looked like a donation of collars and dog blankets and everywhere everywhere were pictures of adopted animals and their new families.
No, it wasn’t a heart tugging Sarah McLachlan soundtrack style scene at all. It felt clean and hopeful and encouraging and Bucky stood rooted to the spot closest to the door feeling entirely out of place.
Look at that, I’m out of place even in a place for abandoned animals.
The girls at the front desk were immediately nice to Bucky, big smiles then bigger eyes as they glanced at his empty left sleeve and it hurt to see the spark of attraction in their gaze turn to a spark of sympathy. Not that Bucky particularly cared if a receptionist at a dog shelter thought he was good looking but a year ago she would have blushed instead of doing that head tilt thing everybody did now, every one did the head tilt of pity when they asked how he was doing and Bucky set his jaw tight and forced himself to blink and pretend it didn’t make him want to throw up.
“M’here to see someone about a therapy dog.” Bucky said purposefully softly, purposefully slowly. He didn’t talk a whole lot anymore and sometimes when he did, all he did was sound angry so he had to work on pretending he wasn’t angry and sometimes it worked. “My Doc gave me the name of this shelter and said his friend could help?”
“Oh you must be looking for Clint!” Big smiles and bigger eyes. “He’s straight through those double doors and down the hall, can’t miss him!”
“Honestly can’t miss him!” the other one chimed in and when they laughed together, Bucky thought of himself huddled outside Sam’s door last night while his friends laughed together too. “He’s overly tall and super blond and is wearing a super shocking shade of purple this morning! Can’t miss him!”
For all the description of tall and blond and wearing purple, Bucky didn’t find Clint when he went through the double doors and down the hall. He found a big window that looked in on a class of dogs and owners all working through basic commands, he found a display about Canine Good Citizen classes and why they were so important, he found a truly massively fat cat lounging uncaringly on a chair next to an empty office and at the very end of the hallway, he found a mutt with golden hair and slightly wild eyes happily squeaking the hell out of a toy shaped like a piece of pizza.
Bucky stopped and looked down at the dog, who stopped and looked up at him, and after a minute of feeling absolutely ridiculous about holding a staring contest with a dog, Bucky asked, “You gonna share that pizza with me?”
It was a stupid thing to say to a dog, a stupid thing to say in general, but Bucky said it anyway because it felt normal to say goofy things to shaggy dogs, that was something normal people did, it was something Steve did, in fact Steve probably would have got right down on the floor and wrestled with the dog and laughed about it the entire time and that would have been perfectly normal too.
Bucky couldn’t wrestle with just one arm though, so he said what he said and just kept looking at the dog and in a moment that was somehow exactly everything Bucky didn’t know he needed from his day, the dog burst into action with wiggles that made her entire butt shake, tail whipping furiously, pizza squeaking vigorously as she shoved into Bucky’s legs in a clear attempt to play.
“Oh, you wanna share, huh?” Bucky wasn’t sure if he smiled or grimaced when slobbery plastic pizza smooshed all over his jeans, but the dog only wriggled more excitedly when tentative fingers landed at her ear for scritches. Hair puffed in the air around them, the pizza toy squeak-squeak-squeaked and Bucky heard a noise he realized was himself chuckling as the dog wound in and around his legs and wriggled wriggled wriggled with excitement. “I changed my mind, I don’t want slobbery pizza. You keep it.”
“Well clearly it’s too late to change your mind, Lucky already decided to share so you gotta take it drool and all.”
A voice cut into the oddly perfect moment and Bucky looked away from the dog-- Lucky?-- and the drool marks on his knees to see someone who could only be Clint. Overly tall, super blond, a shocking shade of purple for his shirt and somehow an equally shocking but not matching shade of purple for shorts. There was a bandaid on his nose, another one on his cheek, a hearing aid in his right ear mostly covered by hair that was both shaggy and spiky at the same time. Bright blue eyes and a slightly crooked grin and he was gorgeous.
Gorgeous and Bucky was suddenly horribly wholly aware that he was not gorgeous anymore. A year ago he would have flirted and asked Clint out. Now he turned so his left side wasn’t as immediately visible and tried to hide behind his hair and shoved his good hand into his pockets and let his shoulders hunch.
Don’t look at me, I am not coping.
“That your dog?” Two steps back and the second he disengaged, Lucky plopped back down and busied herself with the toy. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” Clint snapped his fingers and Lucky pranced over to his side, gazing up at her owner with soft adoration. “She’ll take pats from anyone who offers and she’s a good girl, aren’t you Lucky? Aren’t you the bestest girl?”
The big blond’s voice pitched up into what could only be described as baby talk and Bucky found himself fighting against a reluctant smile as Lucky started up with the wiggles all over again.
“Anyway.” Clint straightened up and wiped his face where Lucky had licked all over him. “I’m Clint Barton, I work with the therapy animals. You must be Jesus, though I didn’t recognize you at first because of the severe lack of baa lambs or goats following you around.”
Bucky blinked. “I--” what? “--what?”
“Jesus?” Clint waggled his eyebrows teasingly for a joke Bucky had no hope of following. “You know, you’ve got the carpenter beard thing and goat herder hair-- those baby blues and you look just like all those pictures of Jesus from like, the nineties. If you were in robes, I could take a picture and put you up my Grammy’s mantle right next to her rosary beads. Put a goat or baby sheet in your arms and you’d be halfway to sainthood.”
Bucky blinked. “I’m not holding a goat.”
“Yeah you’re-- you’re definitely not holding a goat.” Clint scratched at the band aid on his nose and smiled sheepishly. “Sorry. That’s probably a joke only a few people think are funny, and since you’re looking at me sort of murdery right now, let’s sidestep the awkwardness, I’ll refrain from saying I never thought I’d be attracted to Jesus before and we’ll just move on.”
Clint grinned and motioned for Bucky to follow him through a door and Bucky just blinked because… what?
“So what kind of dog are you looking for?” Clint moved fast down a new hallway and around a corner to an open area full of pens, or maybe it wasn’t fast but it felt fast because so much of Bucky’s life seemed stuck in a molasses slow loop. “You want somethin’ small and carryable? Big and drooly? What are you thinking?”
Bucky wasn’t thinking, he was still processing Clint thinking he looked like Jesus or--or a goatherder and then had the blond said he was attracted to Jesus and--and should Bucky be getting a goat or something...?
“Aw, Beef no! What happened?”
Rattled out of his disjointed thoughts by the sight of Clint dropping to his knees next to a pen, Bucky stopped too and watched curiously as the trainer-- therapist?-- unlocked the door and made sweet kissy noises towards a pit bull huddled in the far corner. “Aw Beefy boy, what’s the matter? Don’t hide, what’s the matter, c’mere and see me, c’mon brave beauty, c’mere.”
The pitbull hobbled forward from the shadows, side stepping the accident in the middle of the pen and Bucky’s heart did something uncomfortable when he saw the dog only had three legs, three legs and a mass of still healing scars where the front right leg used to be.
“Beef was rescued from a fighting ring.” Clint grabbed the pit’s big face between both his hands and smooshed it together so he could kiss the dog’s nose. “He’s had a couple surgeries for his leg, and we couldn’t fix the nerve damage in his face but we managed to save both his eyes. He’s having a hard time still--” he inclined his head towards the mess. “--but he’s still a good boy. Aren’t you Beef? Still a good boy.”
“Nerve damage?” Bucky thought about the way his words slurred just a little from the shrapnel that had torn up his left side and embedded in his throat near his vocal cords. “How bad?”
“Not so bad that he can’t bark anymore, but bad enough that his smile is all crooked and dorky.” Clint was beaming at the pit bull, his grin taking any hint of irritation or teasing out of the words as he scratched at the closely cropped ears. “We have to be careful with him still, some days he takes affection just fine, other days he panics and bites, but he’s getting better. Just needs patience and gentleness.”
“I thought dogs that bite get put down.” Distantly, Bucky realized this conversation was the longest he’d talked with anyone since his last appointment with Sam close to a month ago, and distantly he wondered why it was easier to talk to Clint about Beef than it was to talk to one of his closest friends about whether or not he’d been eating, and distantly he wondered why the thought of a biting, snarling dog having a chance to get rescued resonated deep down in his heart and made him want to choke.
“Everyone deserves a chance to be rescued.” Clint didn’t stop nuzzling at Beef, but he pointed towards a box labelled ‘Oopsie Doopsie Cleaner Up’ so Bucky would hand it to him. “Can’t blame a dog for biting if that’s all he’s ever known. Just gotta love him through the bad days and give him lots of smooches no matter what.”
“And if he can’t be rescued?” Bucky reached to give Clint the box without realizing he was even doing it, moving to help before his brain had caught up with the motion enough to make him self conscious about being in the way or struggling to hold the awkwardly shaped box with one hand. “What then?”
“I dunno.” Clint cuddled the pit bull up in both arms and carried him back to the bed, stepping over the mess without acknowledging it and covering Beef in what was apparently the dog’s favorite blanket. “I’ve never lost a dog. We’ve always managed to come through the other side. I’ve got a perfect adoption record. All it takes is a whole lotta love and matching these beauties up with the perfect human to love them even more than I can.”
He ran gentle fingers over the scars at Beef’s right shoulder and the pit bull growled warningly, but didn’t bite. “Once he’s off the antibiotics and recovery steroids, I’m gonna put Beef in the Canine Good Citizen classes so he can start learning to be a therapy dog.”
“A therapy dog.” Bucky swallowed back something that felt like doubt and panic and self loathing in the back of his throat. “He’s only got three legs. He’s all cut up. Damaged. Growls and sometimes bites. How would he be a good therapy dog? How could he help someone?”
“What does having scars and a little damage have to do with being good in therapy?” Clint’s blue eyes flickered over Bucky’s empty sleeve. “Just cos he’s hurt doesn’t mean he can’t help. Beef’s the bestest boy even as a tripod.”
“A tripod.”
“Yeah.” Clint’s grin was just as mischievous as it had been over the Jesus comment. “Cos he’s only got three legs? Get it?”
It was a terrible joke, absolutely terrible, and Bucky didn’t want to smile but he smiled anyway. Too many days he felt like he was stuck in place and the seconds ticked away slow and agonizing but five-ten-fifteen minutes with Clint had flown by and now he was smiling...sort of.
Sort of smiling. It had been a while, after all.
“So you never told me what kind of dog you were looking for.” Clint finished cleaning up and tossed everything in the garbage, washed his hands and dried them on the unfortunately purple shorts. “Do you have anything specific in mind?”
“...no.” Whatever had stretched light and hopeful in the moment was gone, and Bucky retreated back to himself, back to the reminder that he needed a pet to get him through the days in one piece, that he wasn’t stable, that he wasn’t normal, that a year ago he would have adopted a dog just for fun and now he had to have one because he had a note from the doctor. “No, I don’t.”
“You never told me your name.” Clint turned around and they were close, closer than Bucky had been to anyone in a long time and Clint was tall, eye to eye with him-- or rather, eyes to polka dotted bandaid on Clint’s nose and that was specifically funny in a way that made Bucky feel hysterical and shaky so he retreated further and physically backed away until he met a wall.
“Bucky.” Once upon a time Bucky would have winked and followed up with, but you can call me Bronco, but now he hunched his shoulders and repeated, “My name’s Bucky Barnes and I dunno what kind of dog I want.”
“Bucky.” There was something in Clint’s eyes that looked like understanding instead of pity, a tilt to his head that was appraising instead of sympathetic, the tone of his voice knowing instead of blatantly, pryingly curious. “No worries, man. We’ll find you a good buddy. How do you feel about volunteering?”
“I don’t--” do anything anymore. “--have anything better to do?”
“That’s the spirit.” Clint’s grin lit up his face, scrunched the bandaid at his cheek. “You can come by and volunteer with the animals, get to know some of them and when you find one you love we can make it work.”
“Do I have to take Good Citizen classes?” Almost teasing, almost smiling.
“Well I dunno, do you sit and stay and come when told?” Almost… flirting and Bucky was back to blinking, trying to process.
“Hey.” Clint’s hands moved then, a quick sign with his fingers that brought Bucky’s attention first to the hearing aid and then back down again to watch. “It’s okay. I know this is a lot and that there’s still a weird stigma around service animals and that it can be real fuckin’ disheartening to have to find another way to cope when you think you’re coping pretty well. But it’s okay. I’ll help you figure it out, I’m good at that. Good enough that they pay me for it so--”
Clint’s smile was so nice, so bright, his eyes shining and expression so hopeful and Bucky-- Bucky wasn’t coping at all.
“You can help?” Promise?
“I’ll help.” And then teasing again, “We miiiiiiiiiiiight need to do that picture of Jesus for my Grammy though. Just saying.”
“...do I need to bring a goat?”
*******
Chapter Notes:
So me and Kaylee OG planned this out back in 2020 but after FATWS, this particular version of Sad Bucky 100% hurts. I really loved writing this as like, life around Bucky moves fast with conversation and laughter but Bucky is stuck in a loop where life moves super slow and he’s stuck in repetitive daily shit where every small moment stretches out. Dropping the snacks outside of Sam’s door is like thirty seconds, but when it’s on top of everything else he can’t do anymore, it’s a breaking point so it stretches out foreverrrrr for him. It takes him longer to process everything, most of Bucky in this chapter is his inner monologue but then he meets Clint and Lucky and then there’s color and activity and even smiles in his day for a few minutes before the reality of his mental state comes back in and everything slows back down. Him SAD but it won’t stay that way for too long!
Matt Fraction’s Hawkeye-- super tall, super blonde, super disastrous is amazing. I love him next to MCU Bucky. I mean, I love MCU Clint too but it’s a little harder to write him in an easy going but supportive role after the whole serial killer gap year thing...mm.
Beef the Pitbull and Lucky the Pizza Dog are clearly the heroes of this story. Here are the pictures that inspired the puppers, (and please remember that cropping pitty’s ears is completely unnecessary)(I barely believe in dog shows, guys. Just let the puppers play)
