T'Chucky One Shots

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The one where Bucky finds a stray cat and finds the owner equally amusing

Bucky pushes open the fire escape and breathes a sigh of relief as a breeze hits his face. It’s his day off from the shop and he’s spent it working on tattoo designs for the customers he’s got queued up.

He can remember joking that his freaky metal arm attracted people to the shop. That people were just curious, wondering how something so violent could do such delicate work. But after being beaten over the head enough by Steve and Nat, Bucky is a little more confident in himself.

Natasha’s his piercist, the best in the city by far. Bucky’s got her work decorating his left ear, he can justify that claim.

Steve’s his best friend, a better artist than Bucky by far. After Afghanistan he used every bit of his savings to open a shop, somehow he’d roped Stevie in too.

It worked out for the best though, Wintershield is one of the best shops in the city.

And Bucky’s working on his off day.

He’s thankful though. A few years ago he had nothing to look forward to but more war. His tattoo skills, his art - that was all forgotten. Put on the backburner. It wasn’t until Bucky lost his arm did he start to miss it. Ache for a pencil and a sketch book.  

Luckily for him, Stark Tech had been looking for a body to try their new hardware on. The freaky metal arm? It gave him his life back.

Bucky sighs, shaking his head as if to clear his thoughts as he sits up against the brick of his apartment. He’s itching for a smoke, he can feel it in his veins, but all Bucky has is the stupid vape contraption Steve’s got him on.

He always feels like a douchebag when he uses it, but that type of talk always gets Steve into his ‘better a douchebag then dead cause of lung cancer’ diatribe.

Bucky supposes he’s right.

Peach flavored or otherwise, it’s nothing like a real smoke. But it helps. Bucky leans his head back to blow out the smoke. When he opens his eyes he sees that he’s got a guest.

“Hey there,” he whispers to the cat.

It’s nothing more than a kitten, really. It can’t be bigger than two of his hands. The little black thing blinks owlishly at him like it knows it’s being talked about.

“Come here, baby.” He’s never had a pet, and he’s always made fun of people who reduce to baby talk when they’re around animals and babies. But here he is, whispering to this little cat.

The cat seems to like it well enough. It crawls toward him, prior trepidation gone. Stopping by his foot, the cat purrs up at him pitifully.

Scooping the cat up with a gentle metal hand, Bucky reenters his apartment, in search of milk.

“Do cats really drink milk?” he mutters as he opens his fridge. “Or is that just a myth?”

Unsurprisingly, milk is just about the only thing in his fridge, and Bucky pours the remainder of it in a shallow bowl. The kitten hurries to it quickly, and Bucky grabs himself a Kind Bar from a cabinet so the cat doesn’t have to eat alone.

It’s only now that Bucky notices the subtle tag hanging from the cat’s collar. There’s no name, simply a phone number. He’s vaguely disappointed, but pulls out his phone anyway.

“I’m gonna get you home, little kitty.”

Bucky dials the number, and after only a couple of rings a voice answers.