Chapter Text
Steve notices that something isn’t quite right as soon as he cracks open his front door. Something has shifted in the air of his apartment, like a perturbation in the dust tracks, while he was gone for a mission.
Steve sighs and his posture goes slack. He’s exhausted, still dressed in a dirt-smudged tac suit from a run-in with HYDRA in a South American jungle. Hell, he just got off an hours-long debriefing he didn’t even need to be in, and can’t the villains just wait until he’d taken a shower and had something other than a goddamn protein bar?
Steve sighs again but tenses up, alert for any signs of an intruder. He scans the latches on the windows and scrutinizes the hardwood floor for boot prints and signs of tampering, but he can’t find any. Holding his breath, he listens for any sign of another being in his apartment, even just the rhythmic thump of another man’s breathing. Surely, if HYDRA or some other mediocre organization-of-the-week wanted to capture him, they’d bring enough back-up to be noticeable.
His apartment only has two rooms, with the living room and kitchen in an open layout separated only by a counter, so any intruder must be hiding in the bedroom. There’s no trace of them from his place by the front door, so he pads carefully, quietly, to his bedroom door and holds his shield aloft.
He bursts through the door, ready for any confrontation and–
Nothing.
There is no intruder, just a cat sitting atop his bed, causing the imperceptible disturbance in his apartment.
Steve relaxes and lets his shield clatter to the floor before surveying the new creature.
In polite terms, the cat looks like it has lived an interesting life on the streets. In less polite terms, Steve thinks the cat is fucking ugly. Its white fur is scraggly, with patches of it thinned-out or missing. Its ear is notched, like it lost a fight to an animal and left behind a chunk of it for the trouble. As the cat jumps off his bed to sit at Steve's feet, he even notices a limp in its gait.
“Hey kitty, how’d you get in here?” Steve murmurs, kneeling down to stroke it.
From the small puddle on his floor, he guesses that he accidentally kept his windows open a crack. It must’ve rained while he was gone. He makes a mental note to be more careful, even if his last mission barely gave him time to prepare his apartment for his absence. At least I got a cat out of it this time, he thinks.
“You’re sweet, aren't ‘ya?” He says, continuing to pet the cat. “You’re probably just hiding out from the winter, huh?”
Steve’s always liked animals, even though his allergies and the Depression never let him own one. The first fight he ever had was on behalf of one; in first grade, he defended a small kitten from the older boys pelting it with pebbles. He lost, of course, and his mom got so furious that he can still remember the exact shade of red her face turned. Still, it was worth it to see the cat scamper to safety. Even when money was tight, he found ways to squirrel little bits of his food away– not enough to be noticeable, but enough to tempt the strays living on his street.
This intruder-cat looks a little like the first cat he saved. It's rather endearing, actually.
“Maybe I'll keep you,” Steve whispers to himself. He gets a little lonely in his apartment nowadays. He went from living with his mom, to a cramped tenement where the noises of neighbors couldn’t be damped by thin walls, to the rowdy bunks of the army. He isn’t used to the quiet.
Having a cat would give Steve something to do in between missions. He’s been accepting too many anyway, just because he hates the unbearable expanse of boredom. A cat would at least give him something other than the gym or more exhausting pop culture catch up to do.
Guess that’s it, Steve decides. I’ll keep the cat. Anyway, it doesn’t look like it has an owner, so he’s almost 90% sure he won’t be stealing some poor schmuck’s pet. It doesn’t even have a collar, and the sheer amount of injuries on it probably means it hasn’t lived indoors. Its affectionate behavior is somewhat suspicious, but Steve won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. If the cat wants pets, who is he to deny it?
Steve closes the open window and practically breezes through dinner and a shower as he thinks about what keeping the cat actually entails. He needs a litter box, cat food, and as many toys he can buy without feeling guilty. And taking the cat to the vet can wait ‘til tomorrow, it’s too late to see anyone but an emergency clinic anyway.
If Steve’s honest with himself, he’s more excited to run to the pet store to grab the cat essentials than he has been for any date Natasha’s set up for him.
He zips the cat between his chest and the front of his jacket and steps out of his apartment. It purrs and bats at his face. Steve nuzzles his chin into its fur, taking a deep breath and savoring the warmth of it against his body.
God, I hope I can keep you.
Walking into the pet supply store, Steve is blasted with a wall of warmth in a stark transition from the chill of night. The cat, held previously tense from the outside weather, relaxes its spine and leans further into the jacket.
Steve pauses a few paces from the entrance. His jaw clenches once before relaxing and his eyes widen unconsciously as he takes in the rows of shelves and labeled aisles. All the pet stores of his past were small establishments, little mom-and-pop shops catering to just one animal, maybe two at most. This one had labeled sections for dogs and cats, but also – Steve does a double take – amphibians and ferrets?
He takes a slow blink and steels himself. His life has always been weird, from bat-shit crazy Nazis to Chitauri aliens, pet stores in the middle of Brooklyn housing exotic animals doesn’t even rank on his what-the-fuck meter. He bends down and surveys the map of the store provided beside the entrance; it's for emergency egress, but as a floor plan it works well enough. He plans out his route as if strategizing a plan of attack with the pet supply store as his battlefield.
As Steve pulls himself upright to venture into the maze of aisles, a paw reaches up and swats him softly on the cheek. A lightness of feeling fills him, soft like the gurgle of a calm stream. “Ok, kitty,” he whispers as he strokes a knuckle over its soft fur, “let’s go get your food.”
The food and litter were easy enough; looking up a few reviews online and having a near-unlimited budget made finding those a breeze. He picks up a scratching post and a cat tree to keep the cat stimulated, hoping that it’d spare his furniture the damage.
Toys are a whole other ball game. There are so many options: motorized mice, feathers on strings, jingly balls and stuffed animals he doesn’t even recognize. The internet isn’t any help either, telling him to just pick according to his cat’s “preferences.” He just met it – how is he supposed to know what it likes?
Steve just opts to pick up a toy from each category, handing the item to the cat to sniff and discarding any it shows no interest in.
Then, he spots it. A sweater for his new cat. It’s a white cable-knit emblazoned with little Captain America shields. It's soft and smells faintly like new laundry. It’s tacky as hell but he needs it.
That night, the cat chooses to curl up next to Steve on his bed. It lies on the pillow adjacent to his so that if he laid on his side, the cat would be right in front of him. He can already see the fluff of stray fur imprinting on his sheets. He tries, futilely, not to get attached to the cat yet. He has to make sure the cat didn’t just get lost, that it doesn’t have an owner that loves it as much as Steve can see himself coming to love it.
I really want to keep you, Steve thinks as he drifts off, I hope you’re mine now.
The next morning, Steve takes his new buddy to the vet to check if it's microchipped and registered to an owner. He dresses it in the Captain America sweater, partly because it's so ugly it loops right around to adorable, and partly because it makes him feel like he has a claim on the cat.
The cat is bundled up in his jacket again with its head peeking out the top of the zipper as he enters the vet’s clinic.
The clinic is welcoming, not cold and sterile at all. The walls are painted a soft sky blue and the couches look like they’re on the right side of broken in. The storefront has wide windows, dousing the entire reception area in natural light.
“Coming!” he hears from the back room. The vet steps behind the reception desk and Steve’s breath catches in his throat.
He’s so pretty, is Steve’s first thought. The man is tall, wearing a doctor’s coat over fitted slacks and sleek black boots that make his legs go on and on. His hair is fluffy, with the least bit of curl urging Steve to run his fingers through it – to make it messy and disheveled. And his eyes, Christ, Steve could write prayers about that clear, gray gaze.
Suddenly, the cat jumps from his arms and breaks him out of his reverie. It runs to the pretty vet and starts pawing at his shoes. The vet – James, according to the name tag on his coat – picks it up to hold to his chest.
“Alpine!” he coos at it. “I was so worried about you. How’d you even get out?”
It's obvious that they know each other. Fuck, the cat even has a name. Alpine.
Not a street kitten after all, Steve thinks as he stares at the kitten held to James’ torso. Frankly, he’s a little disappointed, the lightness that filled him beginning to drain like slow drips from a leaky tap. He was looking forward to having something else to look after. At least it explains why such a raggedy cat was so friendly. Steve hadn’t even bothered to name the cat – Alpine, he corrects himself – yet, so maybe he knew in the recesses of himself that she wasn’t fully his.
The vet looks away from the cat in his arms to face Steve.
“Hey, I’m Bucky,” he starts, “thanks for bringing my cat home.” The man wears a grin; it’s not a polite service worker smile, with genuine gratitude evident in the quirk of his lips.
“Uhh, yeah,” Steve responds, eyes flitting from Alpine, to Bucky, and back again. “Steve. Yes. That’s me, I’m–uh. I’m Steve.”
He feels awkward, like his skin fits too tightly over his frame, all big and unwieldy.
He’s never been good at talking to pretty people– it’s never been an issue because they never used to want to talk to him. When Peggy approached him in the forties, she was commanding, upfront. Steve never had to dance around her or stretch to read subtle cues. She knew what she wanted, and she went for it. It just so happened that what she wanted was Steve, and Steve was hopeless but to follow.
He’s still lost in thought when he jerks his head up quickly. “Bucky? I –hm, sorry. I thought your name was James?”
“It’s an old childhood nickname from my second name, Buchanan,” Bucky states, voice robotic and rehearsed, a marketer’s spiel. “Becca, my little sister, called me Bucky because she couldn’t say James.” Bucky says all this with a small grin, his lips pulling up to one side and revealing a dimple on his chin.
Steve shoves his hands in his pockets suddenly, scared he’ll reach out and press his thumb to that little divot.
“Actually, I do go by James professionally.” Bucky nods at his name tag. “But I figured that the cute guy who rescued Alpine deserves the name I actually chose for myself.” He grins cheekily at Steve.
That’s what finally snaps Steve back to focus. Cute guy. He called me cute.
Steve looks Bucky in the eyes and lets his eyes crinkle, hinting at the possibility of a smile.
“I’m glad I could give you your cat back. I found her in my apartment, figured she must’ve entered through an open window or something.”
He keeps his initial impression that Alpine was a street cat to himself – he doesn’t want to offend Bucky in that way.
“Her name’s Alpine?” Steve asks, wanting to keep the conversation going. “That’s a nice name. Not common at all.”
“Yeah. I found her as an injured kitten behind the clinic in the middle of winter years ago, and named her Alpine because of the snow. ‘S why she looks so beat up, actually.”
Bucky sets Alpine down and watches her scamper to the backroom. It’s clear that she’s familiar with the place – just more evidence that she does, in fact, have an owner.
“So, the sweater?” Bucky raises an eyebrow inquiringly. It brings out the small lines in his forehead and Steve is putty on the floor. “Why the Captain America motif?”
Steve winces slightly. He doesn’t want Bucky to recognize him as an Avenger. Every time that’s happened with a date, they stopped treating him like a normal guy. He trusts Nat completely, but every girl he met on her recommendation wanted a selfie, a signature, and a celebrity hook-up story, not him.
But if Bucky was a Cap fan, he probably would’ve asked for something already, Steve reasons to himself. All this chatter has been perfectly normal so far, and if he does just want Captain America, he can just join the pile of failed romantic endeavors. It’s not like adding another would make a difference.
“When are you free?” Bucky says, interrupting Steve’s thoughts. “Let me buy you a coffee.” He leans on his elbows on the reception desk and flashes a smile again. It makes Steve’s knees want to buckle. “Y’know, for rescuing my cat.”
Steve nods dumbly. He opens his mouth to agree, because when the pretty vet asks you to coffee you say yes.
“Yeah. Let’s get coffee, so you can thank me for the rescue,” Steve agrees. “Besides, my services don’t come free, Buck,” he adds, choosing to tease and push his boundaries. “Give me your number and I’ll consider all debts fully repaid.”
Steve is fairly sure the advance won’t be rebuffed. Bucky offered first, and he thinks Steve is cute. Besides, nothing wagered, nothing gained. He didn’t become Captain America without taking any risks.
He sees a blush spread over Bucky’s face. Ha, success.
Then, Steve hears the door to the clinic open; another customer is coming in to see Bucky.
Bucky spies the clock and the wall and curses under his breath. Steve can’t make out the specifics – just ‘stupid clinic’ and ‘why now’ – but they don’t sound friendly.
He scrambles to grab a pad from under the reception desk, opening two different drawers and a cabinet before he turns around victorious. Pulling a pen from his coat, he frantically jots something down and tears the note from the pad.
“Sorry, sorry. I don’t get off until 7pm, but take this!” He shoves the note at Steve before looking at the new arrival.
Bucky greets the new man, his voice shifting from sing-songy flirtation to something even and polite – distant.
Steve knows when he’s being dismissed, and gathers to leave.
Steve looks down at the paper in his hand, holding it tightly so as to not lose it. It crinkles under his grip. He turns to exit but as he nears the door he hears Bucky yell over the shoulder of the other client, “Steve! Don’t forget to call me!”
Steve turns around to wave and laugh as he jogs backwards out of the clinic. “I won’t!”
When he’s sure he can’t be seen from the clinic, he leans against the wall and lets out a breathy laugh. His heart beats quick and strong, like he tried to climb stairs while skinny and asthmatic all over again. He’s giddy.
Steve looks at the note again, reading the writing on it for the first time. Under Bucky’s number it reads, “I love Alpine’s sweater, Cap. Call me! - Bucky, xoxo”.
It’s clear from the writing that Bucky clocked him as Captain America from the first second, but he still treated him fairly – like a person, not a national icon. Steve feels genuine joy and excitement bubble up from his chest for the first time in Steve doesn’t know how long.
He doesn’t know where this will go. Maybe he and Bucky will have the most awkward first date in the history of awkward. Maybe Bucky’ll find out Steve intended to steal Alpine, though unintentional, and get cross with him. But maybe, they’ll learn to love each other fiercely, with just enough softness to fill in each other’s cracks.
Steve laughs again, face turned to the bright shine of the sun. So maybe, if I can’t have the cat, I can have the owner.