The living room Bucky sat in was dusted in the evening glow of the setting sun, and dust specks floated around in the air. It was an old house, with old floral curtains and that light yellow wallpaper that was so old it was starting to peel in places.

A clock on the other side of the room ticked quietly—an ever present reminder that the world still continued and moved on around him; while he remained stuck here. Wherever here was.

This wasn’t his choice. Or even anyone’s, really. He knew most of the Avengers would have rather watched him rot in a prison cell. Bucky couldn’t say he disagreed.

He wasn’t the kind of person who should’ve been given a second chance.

But you and Steve rooted for him, and in the end, he was given a chance to prove himself to the others that he was no longer the Winter Soldier. A chance to prove he was no longer the weapon they crafted him to be.

“The perfect machine,” HYDRA said to him.

But that was difficult to even consider when Bucky didn’t believe it himself. It was always there, like an itch in the back of his mind he could never scratch. And if it wasn’t that it was the memories that haunted his every waking and sleeping moment.

The nightmares never went away. Neither did the paranoia.

He spent years with his free will and sense of identity stripped away to nothing. To simply remnants of himself. He was their entertainment and their creation.

To use and do with what they wished.

Every creak of the house made his hand twitch, ready to reach for a weapon he didn’t have. He didn’t know what to do with himself. He barely knew who he was.

The minute you left the house that morning, he’d sat on the couch and didn’t move; too scared that he’d fuck something up. It was your house after all.

You were entrusted with his ‘rehabilitation’ and getting him accustomed to modern day life. But he knew that was just kinder words for a babysitter. You were tasked with keeping him in line and making sure he didn’t go rogue.

You would have never admitted to it though. You were kinder than he deserved.

He heard you out there before you’d even gotten to the front door, so when the door knob twisted and he heard the front door open, he didn’t move.

He turned, glancing in your direction. His gaze dropped to the brown bag in your hand. You noticed.

“I picked up some early dinner. Do you want some?” you asked, voice careful.

His voice was rough and low as he slowly asked, “What?”