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New York. 2017. December.

Bucky rings up yet another hot coffee and sends yet another freezing customer back out into the snow. Long sleeves and gloves hide his metal arm. He's had this job for a solid three months now, and has been missing for many more. Nine dollars an hour at an understaffed Starbucks is enough.

"What can I get for you today?" he asks, jaded, as a woman turns her nose up at him and orders her over-complicated drink.

And so the day continues.

And then his shift is almost over. Ten minutes to close and he's been working all day and it doesn't look like anyone else is going to come in so he's just about to close up and - oh shit.

Someone had a bad day.

A man walks in, wearing an oversized hoodie and sweatpants, the purpose of which is most likely to hide the dirt and blood that Bucky can only assume is all over his body given the scratched up state of his face. The man puts a five-dollar bill on the counter and places his order.

Bucky eyes the man as he counts his change. Sliding the two dollars and some odd cents back to him, he notes that his nose must have been broken a few times - albeit with expert care afterwards. He makes the drink, still looking at the man. His brown hair is cut short, and his mouth is pressed into a thin - if irritated - line. He can't tell for sure because of the hoodie, but he's utterly convinced from the way he's standing that the man is incredibly muscular.

Since visiting the Smithsonian and subsequently regaining most of his memories, Bucky has taken a few more showers than he did when he first went MIA from Hydra. Which amounts to slightly less of not enough. Of course, ever protective of his smooth, unobstructed jawline, Bucky never forgets to shave. But cutting his hair is a different story.

He becomes hyperaware of the fact that he isn't exactly the cleanliest person when he feels the man's eyes on him.

Averting his eyes and snapping a lid onto the cup, Bucky hands the man his drink.

"Thanks," the man grumbles and walks back into the snow.


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