Sleeves

                There are things you're not taught before you become men on the run.

1) Convenient stores are very convenient, 2) Showers are rare, and 3) Articles of clothing are a lot less durable than you think they can be.

Steve Rogers learned most of those lessons very quickly. He caught Bucky Barnes fiddling with the seventh discovered hole in his cotton shirt. His jeans were hanging onto dear life with just dirt and a few strings. Both of their pairs of shoes were unmentionable.

So that's how Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, one a wanted criminal, another a brainwashed super-soldier assassin, ended up in a hole-in-the-wall thrift shop, that probably didn't even exist in legal documents, rifling through men's clothes.

"Can I help you two young men?" the old woman at the desk looked at them with kind eyes.

Steve looked at her and smiled. "No ma'am, I think we've found everything just fine, thank you."

They were both wearing their disguises. Not too conspicuous, not too revealing. Bucky was wearing a brown leather jacket, and his grimy jeans (the only ones he had), along with his navy blue baseball cap, and wide-rimmed glasses. Steve was wearing a coat, his grimy jeans, and a golfing cap. He felt ridiculous.
Steve looked over at Bucky, who was one clothes rack in front of him. Bucky had his jaw set, and his eyes determined, looking through the clothes, and flinging an occasional shirt over his left arm to save for the dressing rooms. He looked panicked, like he was afraid men were going to hop out of the racks and start shooting.

Steve made his way slowly but surely to Bucky's side, and leaned in towards his ear. "Relax, Buck, no one's watching us." He reassured.

Bucky made eye contact with Steve for a moment, and then relaxed his face a little more. His eyes flitted for a bit more, and then he continued to look for more clothes.

They were the only ones in the shop, and the old lady was busy with her thirty year old newspapers, so Steve knew they were safe. He looked through the men's shirts and jeans, finding the ones in his sizes. Or, whichever shirts could fit the broadness of his shoulders and arms. He would never get use to that.

Once Bucky had obtained around ten or twelve shirts, he timidly made his way to the dressing rooms, and closed the light weight door, making sure not to rip the door from its hinges. He faced the full length mirror, which surprisingly showed his entire form. His removed his jacket and under shirt and stared at his bare torso. Burn scars and scraps tattooed his chest and arms.

Bucky studied his left arm. It weighed a lot more than his right, and he tried to remember how long it took him to get used to the shift in body weight. He tightened his metal fist, and then relaxed it.

He started with a few pairs of jeans, which ended up fitting pretty nicely. With the shirts, he began putting on one of the first shirts, a blue navy long sleeve, made of thin cotton. It stretched a decent amount, so he was confident as he put his head through the neck hole. However, when he struggled to fit his left arm into the sleeve, he realized it wasn't going to fit. 

He tried again, with a red short sleeved. The seam dug into his shoulder uncomfortably. He took off the shirt in frustration, and threw it onto the floor. His head began to pound, causing him to wince.

Bucky heard a soft knock on the door. Steve.

"Buck?"

"I'm fine."

But every shirt was too small for his arm. That blasted arm.

His last shirt was an XL men's. He had high hopes for this one.

The shirt sleeve ripped as he tried to force it into it.

He finally snapped. He grunted as he tore off the shirt and accidentally kicked the wall.

Steve opened the door and stared at Bucky, who was sitting on the dressing room bench. "Buck, what's going on?"

Bucky needed to catch his breath. His head was pounding furiously. This stupid arm was keeping him from buying clothes. Clothes. People see prosthetics as blessings, and life-saver. But this was a burden. Along with everything else Hydra had given him. Hydra took everything from him. Everything. Oh but maybe a metal arm could make up for it? Make up for the 70 year torture nightmare?

Not even close.

"Buck." Steve repeated, looking at him firmly and concerned.

Bucky glanced at him, "None of the shirts fit." He said.

Steve furrowed his brow, "They have bigger shirts."

Bucky clenched his jaw, and struggled to find the right words. "The sleeves...they don't fit."

It finally dawned on Steve that Bucky was having a real issue. He stood there in the doorway, looking at his hurting friend, breathing heavy, and he started thinking. 

Steve bent over and picked up all the shirts that Bucky had went through. Then he sat next to him and laid each shirt on top of each other in uniform. He could tell Bucky wanted to ask what he was doing, but didn't feel like emoting his thoughts. 

Steve gripped the shoulder seam of the navy blue long sleeve, and pressed his thumbs into the fabric. Without using much muscle at all, ripped the entire left sleeve off.

Bucky's reaction wasn't big, but it was there. His eyes widened behind his plastic lenses, and a flicker of concern crossed his face. And then a hesitated grin

The sleeve fell to the floor, and Steve put the newly modified shirt in Bucky's lap with a smile. Then he continued to tear the left sleeve neatly off of each shirt Bucky had trouble with. Soon enough, sleeves littered the dressing room floor. 

What a sight to see, two super soldiers in a tiny closet-sized room, grinning like fools, and tearing the sleeves off of shirts.

The last shirt had been laid into Bucky's lap, and Steve picked up all the sleeves up and threw them into the small trash can. Bucky stood up, holding the shirts tightly against his chest. The dressing room was incredibly small and neither of them noticed this until they were both standing, and they could barely fit.

As awkwardly as possible, Steve squeezed his way out of the door, laughing uncomfortably. Bucky kept his eyes to the ground until they both made it to the counter. 

The elderly woman noticed the missing sleeves and attempted to protest in the most polite way possible. "Oh! Oh my...well, if you damage the merchandise, you need to pay for it, sir." She stuttered.

Steve motioned for Bucky to place the shirts on the counter, and he did. "Good thing we're paying for them, ma'am." He smirked and placed a few tens in her open palm.

Bucky stayed behind Steve while he paid, and smiled to himself. Thank you, Steve.

As they left the store, Bucky noticed something as they were walking down the street.

"Steve, you didn't get any clothes."

Steve looked at the bags in his hands and smiled, impressed. "Huh, I guess you're right."

Bucky was genuinely concerned. "Should we go back?"

Rogers thought about it for a moment, and then shook his head. "Nah, I'll just use some of yours."

Thank you, Steve.