bucky was living in your apartment.

you did not have much say in the matter–hell, you could hardly figure out how he'd even gotten past your building's meticulous security protocol (a single, slightly grimy camera at the reception) in the first place, let alone into your flat.

you'd assumed the soldier, had been wandering around the city after the destruction of the triskelion– it was hardly beyond belief that he had been flung from a burning airship into the potomac, his survival evidenced by the dried blood that had marred your floor.

calling the cops would be logical, maybe even hitting up america's golden boy. but you were still in half a mind that barnes would kill you before you did so.

bucky occupied much of his time seated ominously within your threadbare armchair, his form hunched as though burdened by the weight of the world—or, at the very least, by your inexplicable fondness for playing music at what he deemed an intolerable volume. he didn't speak much, other than hoarse comments or vague threats.

it was hard to tell whether he was in the winter soldier trance, thinking, or just sulking.

"who're you calling?" like clockwork, the moment you reached for the landline, he'd decided to voice himself. he knew you weren't calling anyone of note–even if you were calling the cops, they weren't much of a threat to a super soldier–but after a few weeks, it was an unorthodox habit.

he'd been sat in that same armchair, cybernetic arm crossed over his flesh one like a disapproving football coach. you could feel the glare of his blue eyes on the side of your head, his shaggy brown tresses framing his face in sharp shadows. lucky you.

"and the landline? really?" bucky added rather derisively, sitting forward so the navy shirt stretched taunt over his shoulders. its fabric bore the faint aroma of your neighbor, from whom it had been pilfered—at least fit him. his brows were slightly pinched–he was sulking and had a staring problem. "don't you people just use your phones?"