You and a Test of Will

In a Most Peculiar Way

A week after Bucky saw Star Wars with Steve Rogers, he had one of his good days. The good days felt strange to him; a good day for Bucky was an exception that proved the rule. For a few hours he broke out of his haze, because that's what depression felt like, a lot of the time – a haze, a pollution, thick clouds of exhaust from his broken-down beater of a brain.

Today, he felt clear. He wasn't happy, exactly, but clear days were close enough to happy that Bucky would take what he could get. He showered, even brushed his teeth, dressed and took his ever-growing laundry pile down to the communal building washers. He didn't know anyone in his building, didn't know if they were cool or shady, so he sat with a beaten copy of some scifi pulp he bought forever ago at a used bookstore for two bucks and ended up liking more than he thought he would.

No one showed through the duration of the wash cycle, but as Bucky threw his clothes from the washer to the dryer, a guy as built as Steve and his blond hair in a knot on his head shouldered his way into the cramped room with a full laundry basket under each arm. Bucky shifted, kept his six to the wall, and dicked with the dials on the dryer from the side of the machine until it roared to life, vibrating in place.

At first, the guy just stuck his laundry into the washer without speaking, but he turned to Bucky and nodded in acknowledgment. He pointed to Bucky's arm, "Where did you serve?"

"Kunar," Bucky said slowly, "Two tours. Part of a third."

The guy didn't thank Bucky for his service, or any of that stuff people usually did. He just nodded again, and said, "You are in 101, yes?"

"Yeah," Bucky said, "How'd you know?" Part of his brain told him that he should be uneasy, but he was having a clear day. He let it slide. Something in the set of the guy's jaw, in the way that he carried himself, alluded to military service of his own. That and the monster build of his arms, Christ. Bucky's arms weren't anything to sniff at, but they sure as shit didn't look like this dude's.

"I have met everyone else in the building," he shrugged, "You – more elusive. Thor."

Thor stuck out his hand, and Bucky couldn't help his next question as he shook, "What, really?"

"My parents are eccentric people," answered Thor.

"Huh. I'm Bucky."

"That is also an interesting name."

"I'm really James, but nobody calls me that but my friend Nat," Bucky said.

"I prefer James, I think."

"Then use it. I don't give a fuck."

Thor let out a booming, belly-deep laugh. He said, "If you ever want company, James, my Jane and I live in 205. We don't get out as often as we should." He didn't touch Bucky, but did give him a lazy salute before he exited the laundry room, leaving his baskets and the clothes cycling in the washing machine. Thor trusted more easily, then. Maybe he'd been out of the service longer. He had an air of a well-adjusted guy.

Bucky put a new crease in the spine of his book while he waited for his clothes. He didn't fold them when the dryer shrilly beeped to signal the end of its cycle, just dumped them in his plastic laundry basket. He put a warm towel up against his face and almost smiled. Bucky forgot how nice clean things were.

The haze hadn't yet returned by the time he threw his basket of clean clothing onto the floor of his bedroom, so he embraced the clear. Bucky stuck shoes on his feet and threw a coat over his shoulders, made sure to pull gloves on so nobody would stare. He walked to the nearest Starbucks. It wasn't the best coffee, but he liked sugary shit as much as the next person.