Chapter Text
Bucky thinks it’s a joke when Sam searches the address he is to report to from 1400 to 1800 on Thursdays for the next… however many weeks. On the computer, a satellite image of Brooklyn appears.
“Enhance, enhance…” Sam mutters. Until— “No fucking way, man.”
A shed, four small greenhouses, and a rectangle of green in a solid wall of concrete appear.
“Bucky Barnes, gardener,” Sam says. He scrolls around, finding the business address and heads to the website.
“This looks like you could’ve set it up,” he mutters. Ignoring this, Bucky grabs the mouse and scrolls. It’s an outdated website, even he can tell. But charming and well-organized, even if Sam makes jokes about the font choices.
“Oh, looks like they’ve partnered with the VA,” he says. Bucky sits back in his chair, heels of his palms pressed into his eyes. One is cooling, the other rough. He’s not sure which one he hates more. It’s not the idea of community service that bugs him. In fact, he’s clawing at the walls to get out of the damn compound and do something productive. Preferably something without guns and knives and the taste of iron in the air.
“You might wanna check this out.”
Bucky peeks out from behind one hand. There, on the screen, is a whole-page photo of Steve in a blue t-shirt and jeans, his arm around a girl with an easy smile and dirt-covered gloves.
“Looks like Cap helped get this program off the ground… Stark, too. Right at the beginning of the Blip…”
Sam’s voice fades into the background as Bucky studies the picture. Black trays of seedlings sit on concrete stepping stones arranged two-by-three, shaded by raised wooden tables with more seedlings. A sign in the back reads “Vegetables” and beyond them, “The Orchard” and “Swamp Corner”. Two kids chase each other, captured and blurred in motion as Steve rests his arm around you. Walk-ups peek over a few oaks and cypresses, creating a simple skyline.
But what really catches his attention is you — the sun flare on the film could’ve been caused by you, for all he could tell, your smile glowing even through the lens of the film camera. He’d be a damn liar if he didn’t admit you were stunning, in simple jean shorts and a botanical tee with dirt streaked on your arms. You were laughing at something, hand reaching up to cover your face as Steve’s hand rests on your left shoulder.
“…You aren’t even listening, are you?”
Bucky’s frown deepens as Sam snaps him out of whatever haze he was in.
“Yeah. Sure.”
Sam sighs, world weary (or, realistically, tired of babysitting him — Steve was in DC for the day and Sam wasn’t very subtle about sending updates).
“You alright, man?”
Bucky nods once, then walks out.
—
He runs into Steve and Nat later that evening. Well, ‘runs into’ in that he directs his wandering about the compound by their floor knowing they eat at 1830. They’re having a quiet dinner in the lounge and invite him to sit, like always. It’s pasta tonight. Usually Bucky wouldn’t notice. Usually, he would sit for all of five minutes before his stomach twisted in knots and he retreated to his room to read the books the team kept slipping under his door — right now he’s halfway through The Hunger Games series.
He likes Katniss. Older sibling, survival focused, traumatized by the world and traumatized by war. Someone who understands how true emptiness feels — what it feels like to live without, only propelled forward by the need to protect someone else. She keeps saying everyone has a hard time with her personality. Bucky thinks she’s rather reasonable, actually.
He assumed the book was Steve’s but the handwriting in the front of the book isn’t familiar. It’s too careful, too connected — like print and cursive blurred into each other somewhere along the way. Steve’s chicken-scratch isn’t half as pretty.
“You want something to eat? There’s leftovers in the fridge if you don’t like pesto,” Nat offers. He shrugs and grabs a plate, pretending not to notice the hopeful look in Steve’s eye.
“Sam said you swung by earlier.” Steve pushes the giant bowl of swirly noodles towards him. “Funny coincidence about the garden, huh?”
Bucky stares at the green noodles on his plate, still steaming. There’s little flecks of red — sun dried tomatoes. He used to sneak those into his sister’s lunches when she had a bad day. His hand travels to his jacket pocket where the miniature notebook and pen rest. He jots this down.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “They’ve got a big picture of you on the website.”
Steve blushes, noticeable even in Bucky’s periphery. “Thought they would’ve taken it down by now.”
Nat nudges him with her elbow. “You know Sunny. She’s not ever taking that down.” Her voice is tinged with familiar amusement that makes Bucky’s chest ache, dull and removed, but there all the same.
“Who?”
Steve doesn’t look up as he answers. “The gal in the photo. That's her nickname. Tìa Manzano said all the plants grow better when she’s around, so, fitting.”
Bucky tucks this information away and forces himself to eat a bit of pasta. It’s good. It’s rustic, home cooked, and thaws a bit of the chill that has made itself at home in his chest. Nat and Steve keep talking, moving from topic to topic and coaxing small responses out of him until he truly loses track of the conversation.
“I think I’ll go… read,” he says. He offers to do the dishes but Steve waves him off. He washes his own plate anyway.
—
Thursday rolls around slowly. He watches the clock tick midnight from his bed. Then two a.m. from the floor. Four from the lounge. He forces himself up and out for a run at five.
Dew coats the grass as the sun rises, rolling from pale blue to brilliant pink and orange (Peeta’s favourite color) and into the gentle blue of late spring mornings. The trees sway as a quinjet flies overhead, carrying a team of SHIELD agents to their next assignment.
Bucky leans against a pine tree, letting the rough bark and crisp scent fill his senses. Left foot, right foot. Right hand, left hand. Touch points.
A gentle whir catches his attention and before he can think, a rock is launched in the exact spot Red Wing hovered a moment before.
“Woah there, David. Just letting you know Fury wants to see you when you’re done,” Sam’s voice crackles over the loudspeakers. Bucky glares, then begins jogging back the way he came. Running is more of a meditation than cardio, anyhow. Might as well get this over with.
When he arrives at Nicholas J. Fury’s office, the door is open. Bucky hovers at the entrance anyway. Fury doesn’t acknowledge him for a solid five minutes, then suddenly speaks.
“Look, you know my opinions on this arrangement,” he says, not bothering to stop flicking through the dossier on the table. “So don’t think this is anything other than me covering my ass with the vultures in Congress. Ayo and Queen Ramonda have assured me that you are no longer under threat of triggering your programming.”
If Bucky flinches, Nick doesn’t react. That’s how it is between them; professional, clipped, vaguely uncomfortable but not as bad as it could be, considering Bucky flipped Fury’s truck and tried to kill him a few years ago.
Nick sighs heavily, signing and stamping a paper and flipping to the next. “I didn’t choose the damn place so don’t complain to me. If you miss an appointment, if I hear about anything I don’t like — your ass has a one-way ticket to the Raft. Capisce?”
Bucky nods. He stares at the framed photo of Fury and a blonde woman in a leather jacket on his desk. She wears dog tags, aviators, and generally has the vibe of someone with more important things to do than take a photo with a young Fury. But still, she smiles.
“You hear me, Barnes?”
Fury never raises his voice. At least, not with Bucky. He appreciates it, even if his face is permanently frozen in a frown.
“Yes, sir,” Bucky replies, almost automatic.
Fury waves him off. “If you have questions, don’t ask me.”
—
Steve and Nat offer to drive him out to the city. Steve even offers to stay for a bit, maybe help with introductions. But as the buildings curl closer into each other and the verdant forests that separate the Avengers Compound are replaced by concrete towers, Bucky can barely breathe, let alone respond.
There’s that window; like a motion picture, pulling him away from the present moment and tucked into the velvet seats of a freezing movie theater. The city passes by in 1.90:1, frosted grain blurring the light as they drive. Even with the dark tinted windows, Bucky’s already fighting off a migraine.
There are two large black SUV’s tailing them. Bucky finds this as annoying as he does deprecating. He can barely drag himself out of bed most days. What do they think he’s gonna do? Run for it? And go, where? The apartment Tony offered in Manhattan just to ‘get Tin Man out of my damn sight’, as he so delicately put it?
Soon enough, Steve pulls into a parallel park next to a diner, a used bookstore, and a bakery. Bucky almost smiles as he watches an elderly man stock loaves of bread in the display window. He waves. Bucky almost waves back, just for a second, he’s a teen again, greeting the neighborhood staple. His left arm twitches, and he’s grounded back in reality. The charcoal and gold vibranium rests in his lap. Long sleeves cover the majority of the technological marvel that is his arm, but he was told he would be given gloves for gardening here and would have to show his hand to change them anyway. So no gloves.
Across the street, green overtakes the space. A block long and half as wide, a park complete with a pond, shed, and red dirt pathways looms. Bucky can hear ducks quacking at each other from the corner.
Nat rapts her knuckles against the window and smiles when he startles. “Sorry,” her voice is muffled behind the glass. “Don’t wanna be late on your first day, sweetie!”
He rolls his eyes. But the bit has already caught on.
“Sorry Mom and I couldn’t pack your lunch, I was busy fixing the printer and she had one too many glasses of wine last night,” Steve adds dryly, holding out a dime. “This’ll cover it right?”
Bucky glares. “Punk.”
Steve breaks into a grin, all warm blue eyes and soft confidence. Bucky keeps his frown, but it’s nice seeing Steve like this — joking, relaxed, not giving orders or saving the world.
Nat snorts. “Honey, I think we’re embarrassing him.”
Steve pats his shoulder. “Get in there, jerk.”
They walk off, already discussing whether or not the book store might carry records as well. Bucky takes a deep breath in. Doesn’t look like anyone is around. He wanders in, following the signs to the shed, which has a wooden sign on the door carved with flower designs that reads ‘Rogers Center’.
He smirks.
“Steve hates that sign.”
For the first time in decades, Bucky nearly jumps out of his skin. He reacts before he can think, stepping back and reaching for where his knife should be, but isn’t. He’d had to leave it since it’s a civilian area and there’s no active mission. As his heart almost pounds out of his chest, his eyes settle on the culprit behind the jumpscare, and his heart rate picks up for an entirely different reason.
Oh, the photo doesn’t do you justice. Not with the soft light filtering over your features from the giant oak stretching across the path, illuminating your eyes that crinkle with amusement. Not with the small upwards quirk of your lips and the light breeze swaying through your hair. Your hand rests on your hip, a pair of blue gardening gloves dangling from one hand and a tote bag filled with a truly Mary Poppins level of what appears to be garden supplies.
“You gonna stand there or you wanna introduce yourself?” you ask. Bucky’s brows furrow.
“What?”
Your lips press together, barely suppressing a smile. “There’s a handsome man standing in front of my office. I’m assuming he’s here to volunteer, but he’s thirty minutes early, so maybe he’s a burglar. Just a heads up, the computer in there is fifteen years old and only works if you hold the spacebar down while moving the mouse,” you say, letting out a small laugh. Bucky blinks, realizing his sunglasses are in Steve’s car. He looks like an idiot just staring.
Calm down, man, he thinks. It’s just a person. A really, really pretty person. Who is admittedly charming and smiling at me like I’m not… well, me.
Bucky used to be like that. Easy charm.
His face must do something alarming, because concern flickers across your features for only a second. You take a half step forward, extending your right hand to shake but keeping a comfortable distance. Bucky forces his shoulders to drop, pulls his face into something resembling calm (hopefully), and carefully grasps your hand.
“James,” he says. Because you must know who he is. But you aren’t reacting to his presence with the watchful stare of the agents at the compound, or with the bittersweet smile Steve tries to hide and can’t, or with the open glares he’s become accustomed to.
No, you’re shaking his hand like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal.
Just for a second, everything comes into sharp focus. His heart thuds into the background as the leaves overhead rustle, the ducks quack down the road, a car passes by. Your hands are soft. Calloused from the wooden gardening tools peeking out of your bag, but soft all the same. Your eyes crinkle at the edges as you smile — blinding, brilliant. Your lips curve like the horizon.
Bucky can’t help but think they look soft.
You murmur your name, not taking your eyes off his. “But friends call me Sunny.”
He studies you for a moment. He gets it now, the nickname. You stare right back, keeping the same brightness in your expression even as your smile relaxes and eyes soften.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” you say quietly. “I’ve been told I’m light on my feet. Old habits… need to get better about that I suppose.”
Your eyes drift down. His gaze follows.
Bucky is still holding your hand. If you mind the extended contact, you don’t show it. The realization sends a jolt through his arm, his fingertips tracing your palm as he retracts quickly, folding his hands behind his back.
“There’s AC inside if you promise you aren’t going to burgle us,” you murmur. He meets your eyes again.
God , he thinks, she’s gorgeous.
“Not planning to,” he says. You break into a smile as bright as, well, the sun , and produce a key to let yourself in. The door swings open to reveal a small space split in half by a bookshelf — on one side, a desk is shoved against the wall with a computer he’s sure was built in the early 2000s and papers neatly stacked with sticky notes on top. The bookshelf sags under the weight of books. Bucky wanders over, tracing the worn spines and noting the titles; Field Guide to the Natural World of New York City, The Secrets of Great Botanists, Native Plants of the East Coast, Native Plants of New England, Hydroponics…
He stops his perusal as he hears a joint pop. You’re standing beside the tattered leather spinning chair, tote sitting in the seat, rolling your shoulder back with a wince. Bucky catches a glimpse of gold under the collar of your shirt, a light green tee with ‘New York Botanical Garden’ in faded letters.
You notice him staring. “Old injury. Acts up occasionally. Sorry.”
He shrugs. “I get it.”
He repeats his mantra in his head — three word sentences. If he can just get through the day with three word sentences, then maybe all hope is not lost.
Turning, Bucky assesses the other half of the room. A closet with a paper sign designating it the “Seed Bank:)” has a light hum coming from it. Windows along the tops of the walls let in chlorophyll-tinted light, illuminating the space where the small golden desk lamp fails. A flourescent light hangs overhead, above a folding table with chipped wood veneer. Nine chairs are tucked around it.
“How many…” oh, okay. Three words may be difficult to stick to. Bucky frowns, watching the round clock on the wall spin from 1:33 to 1:34. Bastards. Steve and Nat left him here to suffer early.
Probably a good thing, considering his reaction to the one person currently shuffling around the room and prepping materials.
“Uhm, Thursday afternoons we don’t get too many folks. There’s a group from the VA that comes sometimes, but—” you pause, knocking your hip into a cardboard box filled with old newspaper cut outs and what looks like scientific journals as you cut a corner. “There won’t be kids, if that’s what you’re worried about, so it shouldn’t be loud. Thursdays are the middle school’s baseball games, most kids either go watch or go home. Saturdays, though…”
He takes a deep breath. Okay. No kids, that’s good. At least for now. Small groups. He can handle that. Leaving the bookshelf to adjust the cardboard box so it’s straight, he wanders after you. You stop in front of a shelf, frowning at two unlabeled ziploc bags, muttering under your breath.
“Need some help?” he offers, before he can think. You turn, brows arched in surprise.
“Sure! Uh… d’ya think you can get those boxes down?” You nod with your chin towards a few boxes sat atop the cabinet, almost touching the ceiling.
“Usually I climb on the chairs but Tía yelled at me after I fell and twisted my ankle,” you explain. Bucky crosses the room, already reaching for a box. “’Twas not that bad. She worries, though. This garden is her baby. And I’m her only employee, so—”
“It’s just you?” he asks. He sets the first box down, finding an assortment of shovels and trowels inside. He looks around the space. One desk.
“Yeah, usually. Tía— oh, sorry, that’s her—” you point at a framed photo hung on the wall of an older Colombian woman with her arms full of pots, each with small green sprouts pushing through the dirt. “She saved this park from development, like, probably a dozen or so times since the 60’s. She grew up here and wanted the same green space for her kids. They’ve moved away, but Tía stayed. She kind of adopted the neighbourhood, in a way. Saw me trying and failing to grow vegetables on my windowsill two blocks over, brought over spiked iced teas, and asked if I wanted to work on a project she’d been planning.”
You huff, tearing a piece of tape and labeling one bag H. angustofolius (?) and the other R. hirta (?) . Bucky blinks as he grabs the next box.
“Now, I’m technically the head gardener, but I’m also the accounts manager and the volunteer coordinator and public outreach director…” you explain, smiling wryly. “We’ve got a work-study kid from the Urban Sustainability program at Brooklyn College, but she’s home to the summer.”
He nods. That's… a lot of titles. Bucky is, technically, unemployed. Kind of. He’s on SHIELD’s payroll, but not an active agent. His only job description is ‘do better’.
“So… vegetables?” He winces. He used to be so good at this. Not just talking to girls, though he was pretty proficient if he remembers correctly. But talking to people . He would visit the corner grocer and ask the clerk about his young son and wife, would walk by the bakery and greet the elderly woman who smoked a pipe on the balcony above. He used to feel so comfortable with people. He used to be a person.
The boxes aren’t very heavy, but he tries to make it seem like they have some weight as he drags the last one down.
“Yeah. Finding fresh produce is difficult enough, but affording it is an entirely different story.” You pause, just long enough for Bucky to look up at you. Your smile drops, just a flicker of something beneath, then it vanishes into thin air.
“Back home, we had farmers markets every Saturday. Anything that wasn’t sold was brought to church and swapped like currency. Mom grew sweet potatoes, my sister would trade cans of pickled okra for apple butter…” you trail off, but your smile returns. “They do something similar here at the baseball games, with whatever people grow at home. I don’t get to go much. Between trying to get back on track with grad school and, well, this job, there’s not much time.”
Bucky nods. He’s trying to listen, really. But you talk kind of fast and he’s staring at the bookshelf again, failing to find any sort of organization system.
“Sorry, I know it’s a mess in here. We’ll be heading out shortly, just waiting ‘til a couple more people show up,” you say.
Bucky turns, finding you already standing next to him. Your arms are crossed over your chest, eyeing the bookshelf like an impassable mountain road. Boots crunch outside and he picks out three voices, two female and one male. He turns a second before you do.
“Oh, you’ll love these guys,” you shoot him a wink and jog to open the door, greeting the trio with a lively hug
The man trudges inside, glancing up at Bucky once and dipping his chin in greeting. He wears a Vietnam hat and what appears to be a fishing vest, with small gardening tools tucked into each pocket. Bucky nods in return, tucking his arms behind his back. The two women draw his attention as you laugh, your arm slung over the shorter one’s shoulder.
“James, this is Bobbi and Del Jones,” you say, pointing to each. Bobbi, a tall middle-aged woman with graying blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, gives him a tight smile. The other, Del, also middle aged but less gray, waves warmly. “And that’s Pete Baird. James, these guys are the MVPs of the garden.”
Del swats your shoulder lightly, unwrapping her arm from you and immediately sliding it around Bobbi. Their height difference is almost comical, he thinks.
“Anyone else coming today, sugar?” Del asks.
You shrug. “They’ll find us outside. I’ll leave the door unlocked.”
“What’s on the agenda?” Bobbi asks quietly. Bucky notices a flash of chrome from where her boot doesn’t quite cover her ankle, how she walks stiffly behind you. Bucky releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
Still. Probably best to keep the vibranium arm under wraps.
“Summer veggies today!” You beam. “I’m waiting on sweet potato slips from José, but we can get started with the seed trays.”
Everyone nods, seemingly understanding, and head out with their assignment.
You cross back to where he lingers by the bookshelf, holding out the pair of blue gloves.
“These should fit. It’s a thin material but shouldn’t get caught in the plating,” you assure him quietly. His hand flexes behind his back.
“Thank you.”
You nod. “’Course. We’ll be out by the veggies. Take your time.” You make your way to the door, stopping shortly to grab a few things from your tote. “If you didn’t see on the way in, the beds are down the path to the right with the herbs. Shouldn’t be hard to find, we can be a lively crowd.”
He stares at the gloves in his hands. The door slips shut quietly. He tugs on the gloves — they fit just fine. Flexing his fist, he discovers that you’re right, the material doesn’t snag.
He walks out to the garden a few minutes later, finding two additional people have joined the party. He stands awkwardly next to Pete. The man adjusts his hat and hands Bucky a trowel that is truly tiny in his hand, and gestures to a tray already prepped with damp soil and a bag of cucumber seeds.
Maybe this won’t be so bad.