Chapter Text
The winter air was brisk and humid, a stark contrast from the warm dry air he had grown accustomed to training in. It seemed to seep in through his skin, settling deep into his bone like a memory that wouldn't let go. His lungs burned with each breath, his artificial limb ached with phantom cold. But he ran anyway. Because stopping meant thinking.
His feet pounded the frozen ground, each step crunching a thin layer of snow, kicking up a mixture of slush and road salt. His breath came out in visible puffs, gone almost as fast as they formed. His right sleeve was damp from the flakes that had melted against it — the left side of his coat hung limp and empty, zipped shut awkwardly over the space where his arm used to be.
By the time he reached the house, his cheeks were numb. His muscles were aching from the exertion and from trying to compensate. His should throbbed. The wound under the gauze and compression wrap was healing. Slowly. But the pain never dulled. The cold only seemed to intensify it.
He stepped inside, the warmth an immediate relief. The smell of baking cinnamon wafted in, mom must have gotten up while he was out. He had stopped inside before his run that morning to find a beanie. When he'd come in the house had been silent, everyone still fast asleep as far as he had known.
"James? Is that you?" His mom called from the kitchen.
"Yeah, Mom. Just went for a run." He nudged the door shut with his foot and bent to untie his shoes, fingers stiff from the cold.
"Can you come help me for a minute?"
"Sure thing." He stepped out of his sneakers, leaving them on the rug to dry. He moved through the house slowly, letting his toes warm up. He'd grown up in these halls, walked this path a million times, chasing soccer balls, or trying to sneak out after curfew. Now each step was measured and careful, still struggling with his balance.
The kitchen was an explosion of activity. A tray of half-decorated cookies sat beside a mixing bowl overflowing with frosting. Paper turkeys and kids' drawings were pinned to the fridge. The table was covered in flour-dusted parchment, rolling pins, and a list scribbled in sharpie titled: "To Bake Before 3 PM."
His mom stood in the center of it all, her hair pulled back in a bun that had mostly come undone, her apron streaked with cinnamon and flour. She had a streak of something white — powdered sugar, maybe — across her cheek. The oven beeped again.
She pointed at the mixer before slipping her hands into a pair of oven mitts. "Can you shut that off for me? I don't want to over mix the frosting."
He stepped around her, careful not to bump anything, and switched the mixer off with his right hand. The motion was simple, but it felt clumsy. Everything felt clumsy now. Too heavy on one side. Too light on the other.
"I thought you had the day off?" He asked, eyeing the chaos around her.
"I did." She said, trying to hide a yawn. "The Roberts asked for a couple dozen dinner rolls and a dozen cinnamon rolls for their Thanksgiving dinner on Thursday and Rebecca needed something for the school bake sale. So here I am."
She huffed, blowing a stray hair out of her face before she opened the oven and pulled out the warm rolls. The scent grown stronger as a fresh batch came out.
"So here you are, making four dozen cinnamon rolls two days before Thanksgiving? I'd hate to know how many are on your list for tomorrow." He raised and eyebrow, scooping a fingerful of frosting off the edge of the bowl before she could stop him. "You should be taking a break. You've been baking for everyone all week. How many pies have you made? Twenty?"
"Twenty-Five, plus whatever we decide to make for Thursday." She slid in another tray of rolls. "The Roberts always tip well, and-"
"And we need the money." The words slipped out before he could stop them. His throat tightened. He looked away, ashamed.
She paused, glancing at him, then back to her work. She didn't say anything.
They did need the money. Medical bills had stacked up fast. Faster than the VA or the military could react. And it didn't help that Stark Industries was still "reviewing" the damage report from the mission, the one that killed five of his teammates and left him half way in between.
Four months ago, he'd been overseas on a simple recon with his squad, the Howling Commandos. In and out, gather intel, track an insurgent group. But the enemy had been waiting. A Stark-built weapon, supposedly decommissioned, had buried itself in the sand and detonated beneath their convoy.
Bucky had survived. Alone. With the left side of his body torn apart, and a gaping void where his best friend used to be. Steve had been dead long before any help arrived. Bucky left to watch the life drain from his pain filled eyes.
"Sorry, Mom. I wasn't thinking. What can I do to help?"
She smacked his hand as he reached for more frosting. "Stop eating my frosting, that's what. It's for the Roberts."
He gave her a half hearted smirk, licking his fingers anyways. "They won't notice a little missing."
"James Buchanan." She warned, her voice sounder stern but her smile betrayed her.
He moved to the sink to start on the pile of dishes. He balanced a bowl against the side of the sink, carefully maneuvering the sponger with one hand. It was slow work, but he was getting better. The first time he had tried, he'd dropped one of his mom's favorite ceramic bowls, he'd nearly burst into tears. Worried about his mom's reaction, and about how the rest of his life would go.
"James, you do not have to do those."
"Mom, I'm fine." He shot her a glance over his shoulder, grinning slightly. "It's been, what, three weeks since I broke anything? That's got to be a record."
She laughed softly. "You always were stubborn."
He shrugged. "I learned from the best."
The kitchen fell into a comfortable rhythm, her rotating trays, him washing dishes, the smell of cinnamon and butter thick in the air. Outside, snow began to fall in quiet flurries against the window.
Inside, it was warm. Inside, it was home. And for a moment, just a moment, Bucky let himself breathe.
He slid the last dish into the washer and shut it with a soft click. The hum mixed in with the rest of the kitchen noises as he wiped his hand on a dish towel hanging from the oven handle.
"What's next?" he asked, turning back to the whirlwind that his mom's kitchen had become.
"You rest." She replied without looking up.
"Mom, I'm fine." he said, a little sharper than he meant to. He sucked in a breath through his nose, willing the frustration to pass. He hated the way people tiptoed around him now — like he was fragile. Like he might shatter if they asked too much. "Tell me what to do."
She paused her kneading, brushing a streak of flour off her apron before glancing up. Her expression was tired. Not just from baking, but from carrying. From watching her son come home in pieces and trying to act like the cracks weren't spreading through both of them.
"Can you grab one of the pie shells from the fridge out in the garage?" she asked, her voice soft. "I need to get started on our pies before I run out of time. Tommy will sulk through the entire dinner if I don't have a pumpkin ready for him."
"Sure thing."
The garage was cold, the light flickering above the second-hand fridge. He opened the door, grabbed one of the wrapped pie shells, and closed it quickly to keep the cold from biting deeper into his skin. The temperature shift making the nerves in his healing shoulder scream.
He set the pie shell gently on the counter, careful not to let it slide. "What filling do you need for this one?"
"Cherry," she said, focused on slicing the cinnamon roll dough and curling each piece with practiced ease.
"Cherry?" he asked, blinking. "None of us eats cherry."
She paused, hands dusted with flour, dough clinging to her knuckles. Slowly, she looked up.
"I was planning on bringing some things over to the Rogers," she said.
The air in the room shifted.
Bucky froze, the familiar twitch starting in his fingers. His therapist had called it a coping mechanism, his body's way of channeling grief and guilt. He wasn't supposed to fight it. But every time it started, it just reminded him how wrong everything was now. How wrong he was now. All he wanted to do was fight it.
"That's really kind of you," he said, voice thin.
She wiped her hands on a towel and turned fully toward him. "I was hoping you'd come with me."
He exhaled through his nose. The thought of walking into that house, of seeing Steve's parents, his fiancé, the dog that still sat by the window waiting, it made his stomach twist. It made him want to run until the cold burned everything away.
"Mom..." he said, shaking his head.
"James," she said quietly, "I know it's hard. He was your best friend. He was practically another son to me. But I think it might be good for you. And for them."
He couldn't look at her. Couldn't look at the kitchen. Couldn't look at the pie crust that now felt like it was made of concrete.
"I'll think about it," he whispered, eyes locked on the edge of the counter.
His mom reached over, brushing a hand against his right shoulder, soft, careful, like she was touching something wounded. "That's all I ask."
He nodded, the motion stiff, and turned to the freezer. He pulled out the bag of frozen cherries, the cold plastic crinkling in his hand. It felt grounding, something he could focus on. He brought it to the counter, grabbed a saucepan, and began the quiet rhythm of preparing the filling.
Cherries, sugar, lemon juice, cornstarch. Stir. Heat. Stir again.
He moved automatically, each motion memorized from years of helping his mom in the kitchen. But his mind had already started to drift, the way it always did when he let his guard down.
They had grown up together.
Steve had been there for everything. From kindergarten tantrums to scraped knees in middle school to the crushing loss of Steve's brother when they were fifteen. Every spare moment, every recess, every pick-up game, every late-night phone call. Bucky had been there when Steve was diagnosed. Had sat beside him through chemo. Had held the bucket when Steve was too sick to stand, and stayed overnight in a folding chair in the hospital room more times than he could count.
He had been there the day Steve rang the bell, pale, skinny, but grinning like the sun had cracked open just for him.
He had survived that.
But not this.
The scent of the cherries began to change, rich and sticky as the sugar caramelized into syrup. The deep red mixture bubbled softly on the stove. Bucky stirred it slowly, watching the fruit break down, soften, bleed into the sugar.
Red. Thicker now. Clinging to the edges of the pan. The color that soaked Steve's uniform after the explosion.
His breath hitched.
He blinked, and for a split second, it wasn't cherries. It wasn't a kitchen. It was the desert. The dust. The screaming. The silence after.
Steve's body, limp in the dirt. Shrapnel embedded in his chest. His mouth slightly open. His eyes already distant as Bucky begged him to open his eyes, to hold on just a little bit longer.
The spoon clattered to the floor.
Bucky's breathing quickened, chest rising in shallow bursts. His hand trembled. His legs locked.
The smell, once warm and sweet, now twisted into something metallic. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. He stared at the bubbling red, unable to move, unable to think, trapped somewhere between memory and reality.
"James?" His mother's voice snapped through the haze.
He didn't respond.
She dropped the pan she'd been holding, the clang echoing in the kitchen, and rushed to his side.
"James, sweetie?" Her voice was soft but urgent. Her hands hovered for a moment before gently touching his shoulder. "Breathe with me, okay? Just breathe."
He gasped in a shaky inhale. Then another. His throat felt tight, his chest constricted like a vice had clamped down on his lungs. He couldn't get the image out of his head.
"In... and out," she whispered, brushing the hair back from his damp forehead. "Just like that. You're safe. You're home. I'm right here."
He closed his eyes, trying to follow her voice, trying to anchor himself to the feel of her hand on his back, to the softness of the dish towel she pressed into his palm.
The cherries continued to bubble behind him, but he didn't look.
"I'm right here," she repeated, her voice steady and kind. "It's over. You made it home."
And after a long minute, his breath began to slow. The trembling eased, not gone, but manageable. His knees buckled slightly, and she guided him down to the bench by the wall, sitting beside him without a word.
They sat in silence. The timer on the oven beeped. Somewhere down the street, a neighbor's dog barked. Life carried on.
But in this moment, they just sat.
And she didn't let go.
She guided him gently to the couch, nudging one of Tommy's game controllers to make room. He sank down without protest, still dazed, his breath slow and uneven. His eyes tracked nothing in particular, just the grain of the wood floor, the soft dust floating in the sunlit air. His mother sat beside him, wordless, her hand wrapping around his with quiet strength.
Then came the thunder of small footsteps pounding down the hallway.
"Cinnamon rolls for breakfast, mom you are the best!" Tommy's voice was full of excitement as he launched himself onto the couch.
Bucky flinched instinctively, his body tensing at the sudden movement. His brother didn't seem to notice.
"Tommy," she said gently but firmly, "Please go pull the batch out of the oven. I promise I will give you one."
"What's wrong with him?" the twelve-year-old asked, peering at his brother with curious concern.
"Nothing," she said quickly. "Go wait. I'll be in soon."
Tommy hesitated, looking at Bucky one more time, before shrugging it off and heading to the kitchen.
The house grew quiet again, save for the soft hum of the dishwasher and the bubbling still happening on the stove.
"I'm fine, Mom," Bucky murmured at last, eyes fixed on a knot in the floorboard. "I'm just gonna go take a nap."
He didn't look at her, didn't want to see the worry creased into her brow or the pity softening her eyes. It was already hard enough.
She hesitated, fingers still resting lightly on his. "James, I meant to tell you earlier..."
His head lifted slowly, alarm flickering behind his tired gaze. "What is it?"
She sighed, brushing a hand down the front of her apron. "The ballet brought in a new dancer. A replacement for Kathleen after she broke her foot. The new girl's from out of town and she needed a place to stay..."
He stared at her, piecing it together. "They asked if she could rent the barn loft?"
She gave a guilty nod. "I'm so sorry, James. I know I said it was yours while you're recovering, but—"
"When does she come?" he interrupted, forcing a smile so tight it made his teeth ache as he stood.
"Tomorrow morning," she replied softly, watching him.
He nodded, already stepping toward the back door. "Alright. I'll get everything cleaned up for her."
His mom stood with him, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder. Her touch was warm and grounding. "Thank you, James. I promise, once the show is done, the loft is yours again. Just for you."
He gave another nod, this one smaller, and started walking.
She didn't say anything else, just let him go.
Outside, the cold met him again. Brisk and humid, cutting through the warmth he'd just left behind. He drew in a long breath. Another change. Another adjustment. Another place that wasn't quite his anymore.
But he would handle it.
Just like everything else.