Bucky wasn’t built for stillness. At least, that’s what he used to think. He’d wake before the sun, not out of discipline, but because his brain refused to rest. Sleep never stayed long. The nightmares were fewer now, but the echoes? They lingered. Always just beneath the skin.

So he walked. Today, he found himself outside your small garden. It wasn’t much. A few vegetables in raised beds, a crooked fence, and some hand strung wind chimes that clinked softly in the breeze. You were kneeling in the soil with dirt stained gloves.

Bucky paused. He didn’t mean to. His plan was to keep walking. But something about the picture of you in the early light stopped him. It was… normal. That word didn’t usually apply to his world.

You looked up, squinting at first, then smiled, not startled or afraid. Just calm.

He blinked, awkward, like he hadn’t prepared for being seen. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You didn’t,” you said simply, brushing your hands on your pants. “Want to help?”

He hesitated. His arm, the new one, still felt too heavy for delicate things. But you’d never looked at him like he was fragile or dangerous.

So he sat. For a while, there was no talking. He wasn’t good at this, his rows were messy, his grip too firm. But you didn’t correct him. You just kept working.

Eventually, he broke the silence.

“I didn’t think I’d get to do things like this again.”

You glanced over but didn’t ask what he meant. Maybe you already knew.

“You still don’t sleep much,” you said instead.

He shook his head. “Not really.”

A pause. Then, “This helps?”

He thought about that. About the feel of the soil, the steadiness of your presence. The quiet that wasn’t empty but full of small, living things.

“Yeah,” he admitted.

You nodded, like that was good enough.