#alkali

Overthinking was something he was good at, and the too many choices displayed in front of him only added to his indecisiveness. He didn’t think it was possible to have multiple sorts of apples, or that there was any difference in which country they came from. Didn’t every one of them grow from the same trees and under the same sun?

He dropped the Pink Ladies back into their respectful shelf, not all that interested in the fruits anymore, the frustration of not knowing which ones to pick making him lose his motivation to continue down his shopping list.

But, right now, he only had a dozen of eggs (the biological ones, his heart doing a pathetic flip at the thought of the little innocent birds living the same life he had), one sad bottle of plum juice and one pack of ready-made lasagna staring up at him from the basket hanging from his left lower arm.

So, he strolled further, his eyes skimmed across the peaches and tangerines, searching his tastebuds for what he was craving. Next to the tangerines lay oranges, packed in nets of 4.5 pounds. He halted, blinking down at the round fruits with a sudden increase in appetite. He couldn’t remember the last time he ever had an orange, but the vivid image of drops of sap leaking down onto a black, marble kitchen counter with bitten off orange peels discarded to the side, was enough for him to throw them next to his plum juice.

“Did you know the sweet orange isn’t even a real fruit?”

Yes, he did.

He couldn’t remember how.

The products now present in his cart were not nearly enough to last him even a day, but he ignored the rest of the names sprawled across the paper, stuffing it angrily into the pocket of his leather coat with a furrowed brow. Today had been a good day, with at least 4 hours of uninterrupted sleep and a beautiful sunrise to greet him on his morning walk.

But, just like that, he was pushed back by the cold grip of his past, taking him back to the unknown of Winter’s history. It felt like a dream, those where you run with all your strength and might, with your heart driving through your ribs, but you just can’t seem to move forward.

How a single fruit could push itself in between the folds of his brain to force out moments of his life he wasn’t even conscious of. He was well aware it might have only been a lie. Sometimes, he got his memories wrong. Mixed up or glorified by his own mind to keep him away from the dark pits of his truth.

He didn’t take the change from the cashier behind the checkout, only muttering a ‘have a nice day’ under his breath while the older man continued his actions of scanning the next items in a inhumanly slow fashion, creating a domino effect of frustration on the queue behind Bucky.

The walk back to his single bedroom apartment was a long one, but this was the only supermarket away from the crowds and the only one that had employees just, if not more, grumpy than him, allowing him to get lost in the crevices of his thoughts without having to be conscious enough to paint a forced smile on his face. It always resembled more of a grimace, anyways.

The sun was relentless with it’s warmth, cooking Bucky alive in his dark clothes, the fabrics sticking to his skin. The light reflected off the buildings, blinding him even through his sunglasses, like some merciless god was putting in extra work to annoy the super soldier. He could step out of the way of a faux fur coat just in time, or he would most definitely have gotten a Guess handbag to his head.

The only thing that greeted him once he lazily kicked the door shut of his sleeping place, was a lonely Chinese Money plant, its round leaves (turning yellow, which Bucky tried to fix by giving an extra cup of water, resulting in even more discoloration) hanging pathetically off the side of the windowsill, lower than he knew they should hang. He got it as a gift from Sam, because nothing said ‘I forgive you for trying to kill me and my friends’ like a plant that looked like little pancakes and still had the price tag on it.

Bucky clung to it like its his own heart.

His fridge was as empty as the rest of the room, even with the newly bought products. He left the net of oranges abandoned on the counter, after doing a 360 turn, looking for any kind of bowl or dish he could put them in, but realizing he had absolutely nothing.

This temporary stay was getting to be more and more permanent, six months being by far the longest he stayed in the same place, and it scared him. It was a taunt, a fever dream that made him dizzy and he could not shake himself out of. The small sliver of hope and promise that came unvoluntarily with it crawled across his skin like a centipede, every little leg pushing into his skin, urging him to get out, to run away again.

It was still as lucid as it had been six months ago.

Taking a shower helped with the insistent nerves, and by the time the third episode of The Real Housewifes started playing, he was back in a semi-peaceful state of mind, the previous black kitchen countertop now only an incessant bug in his mind.

The slightly burned lasagna had been devoured within minutes, and Bucky was still hungry.

He was too indolent to make himself eggs, and so he settled on the round fruits instead, knife in hand gripped unnecessarily tight.

He stared with narrowed eyes down at the food, willing another flash of whatever his mind was trying to provoke out of him.

He cut off the front and behind, before slicing the knife right through the middel. The smell alone was enough to get him to close his eyes, a nostalgic sensation washing over him without a real direction. For a moment, he was gone, swimming in the sweet scent while his tongue was dancing with it’s sap. A taste of the sun, which seeped through the thick skin and glowed in its center, now gliding down Bucky’s throat.

He cut off one slice, eagerly setting it between his teeth, ripping the flesh off its peel in one clean motion. A drop of sap escaped out of the corner of his mouth and dripped down his chin, landing onto the cheap, brown countertop in a perfect drop.

Nails made crescent shapes into its orange husk, only a hairs breath away from the serrated knife. The wooden cutting board now held a large stain, the slight force which the fruit was held down with making its sap leak away. Despite the dim lit room, he could still make out the pair of defeated eyes across from him, liquid honey consisting of a warmth he could not ever begin to comprehend.

An outstretched hand held out a slice for him.

He ignored it.

He forced down another slice with a grimace, like every piece was another segment of his memory, despite the protest his throat was giving him.

“Did you know the sweet orange isn’t even a real fruit?” The voice was quiet and melodic, like the juices of it’s core had sweetened their vocal chords, playing his cochlea like a perfectly tuned violin.

He gave no response, but his companion didn’t seem indignant at carrying the one sided interaction.

“It was created from two other fruits, somewhere in Asia, I think. It’s a modified berry, actually.”

Slice after slice went up into their mouth, the meat ripped off with force, until all that was left was the skin, now laying forsaken beside the white plate.

Excess sap was wiped off their face with their sleeve, unable to stop the few meandering drops from escaping in time, that now rested like fallen stars on the black marble.

He couldn’t see the face, like he was staring at a ghost, his eyes refusing to focus. The only memorabilia he could take with him from this quick gaze into his past, was the feeling of serenity enveloping his entire being.

He dropped the half eaten orange into the trashbin, his tastebuds not experiencing the same, unfamiliar glorification of the fruit that his mind was convincing him of.

Real or not, he basked in this strange presence, holding it close to his heart with utter devotion.

☆

Walking the same streets up and down almost everyday should have made him tired, but routine was exactly what Bucky needed.

It diminished his social anxiety to only a dull ache across his chest. Tiresome, but manageable.

Steve told him it would get easier.

That was four months ago.

But, he had a place to sleep - one he didn’t have to leave again after a few weeks -, his childhood best friend back, and the terrorist organization who previously held Bucky’s live and future in their hands, were now only present in his dreams.

Yes, his soul was still scattered across the earth, taken apart piece by piece by every person who’s stared into the barrel of his gun or who’s breaths fogged up his knife in their throaths. But that wasn’t him, not really.

He was starting to see that now. And with every name crossed out, he felt he was slowly replacing those gaping holes in his heart. He would never be James Buchanan Barnes again.

But, maybe, he could just be Bucky.

And right now, Bucky needed some much needed vitamin D. Socialization was also a requirement to the road of rediscovering his identity (something Bucky responded to with many grumbles and much defiance), but the only reason he had agreed to meet up with Steve and Sam, was because Bucky’s kitchen was pathetically vacant, and they promised to pay for the food.

He rounded the corner, stepping over the protruding tile three tiles left of where the grey, cemented road started. He ignored the flyer pushed in his face, ‘Jezus loves you!’ printed in bold yellow letters on the cover while the long haired blond stayed persistent with his yelling, even after Bucky’s third month of walking past the fanatic.

Another left, his eyes greeting the texas shaped crack in between the two dark red bricks about two feet away from the advertising board, this week showcasing a shirtless man who looked to come straight out of Ancient Greek, riding a beautiful palomino horse on the beach. Bucky didn’t know what he was advertising.

The redhead nodded at Bucky as he passed while she placed two cappuccino’s and one cheesecake with two forks down on the table, conversing with the same elderly couple who spend their every single morning at that café.

He always let his features soften ever so slightly when he passed the shop window of Pets&Co, the same grey British shorthair that had been there since Bucky started this routine still occupying the space on the windowsill, it’s fur flattened against the glass. It didn’t look up when he passed, busy licking its paw clean with lazy strokes.

He wondered when the other shoe would drop.

When things would change again, when something would come crawling out of his own shadows to snuff out even the littlest sparks he had experienced since his return. Dr. Raynor says it’s paranoia, but Bucky would be a fool to believe a past the magnitude of his own would stay hidden and quiet.

Six months of roaming Brooklyn like a forgotten phantom, without consequences, was far too long to be real.

How was it, that he had marked his fists with the blood of his brother no more than three years ago, and he was now on his way to dine with said man and his friend, like nothing had happened?

He hoped Sam had brought beer

-

He stepped over the protruding tile and ignored the flyer smashed against his chest, shaking off the man’s hand on his shoulder with something that could only be described as a growl.

Texas was still there to greet him in between the red bricks, like it was every day.

The advertising board had changed its poster from the palomino horse and Greek god, to the newest Iphone, with four different colors to choose from and an one time only sale for new members.

The redhead nodded as he passed. So did the elderly couple, their cheesecake halfway gone.

The british shorthair blinked up at him, exhibiting a row of sharp teeth with its left upper canine missing when it yawned. It immediately closed its eyes again and went back to sleep.

He wondered when the other shoe would drop.

-

Step over the tile and duck out of the way from the unabating believer.

Texas was not Texas anymore, an extra crack directly beside it made it deformed, forcing a wave of annoyance through Bucky.

A new poster took the place of the previous one.

He nodded back at the redhead.

Its grey fur was rolled up into a little ball, not even poking its head out to regard the young girl in front of its cage trying to catch its attention. Bucky wondered if maybe he should take the cat with him, just to get it away from all the prying eyes and-

He halted.

Beside the feline was another enclosure, this one new, housing a white ball of fur with two large ears poking up into the air.

His heart gave a tug as two bright red marbles stared back at him. It twitched its nose, hopping one step forward, closer to the glass separating the two of them. Bucky could almost see the blue waistcoat around its small body, its paw disappearing into the pocket to take out a golden pocket watch.

“You know the story?”

Silence.

“I hope you don’t, or else I’ll just be reciting.”

Bucky cocked his head to the side, the picture disappearing from his retina like a puff of smoke, taking the deep and hot feeling of longing with it, like it hadn’t been there in the first place.

He turned to his initial goal of the day again, walking under the brown sunshade (pondering when the last time the fabric had seen the inside of a washing machine, like he did every day) as the little wave of Mr. Takemoto wiped the frown from his face, previous state of mind forgotten.

-

Step over tile.

What day was it again? Friday?

Avoid flyer guy. Bucky seriously considered taking another route just to evade the man.

Greet Texas- No, not Texas anymore.

Another perfume ad.

Redhead wasn’t in today, because she’s always off on Sundays. Right, it’s Sunday today.

The old couple is, and he nods.

The grey feline still there, nose turned away from its white, next door neighbor. Bucky believed the cat should really try and be more open, since it is stuck in a 3 by 3 feet cage and didn’t really have that many choices for socializations.

He understood, though.

-

Tile. Flyer. Not Texas. Ad. Redhead with two cappuccinos and a cheesecake. White furball.

Bucky hadn’t even noticed when grey turned into white, but as he was at the end of yet another week gone by, and he had step to the left to let some pretend rich man slide past, he spotted the empty right cage for the first time.

And he felt disappointed, because it was yet another part of his well structured routine that was now gone. First Texas, and now grey cat.

It had been a sad looking little thing, with more attitude than should be possible to hone in such a small body, but, now that it was gone, it was like a missed opportunity.

Not that he would have ever bought it, but still. The choice was there, and now it wasn’t.

The other animal, the one taking Bucky in with a thorough inspection, as if now he was suddenly the one on sale, looked extra lonely without his unbothered friend beside him.

He’d love Chimney, Bucky guessed, since Nat’s incessant orange tomcat could not have been more demanding. A shrill, whining sound - it can not be called meowing - coming from the back of it’s throat like it had the world on its tiny, uneven shoulders and he was the president commanding his people.

Natasha was a loyal citizen of its world, of course, worsening its already spoiled behavior by meeting every demand of her president.

He could bring it with him whenever he and the ex-widow would meet for training, so that it didn’t have to feel lonely. Not like he- it, did now.

Or not.

No. No, definitely not.

He could barely take care of his Money plant, he’d didn’t want to imagine the damage he would do to an actual living thing.

He didn’t need to imagine it.

-

The steam rolling off his fresh coffee helped him turn inwards.

The older, - technically, younger - red lipped waitress sweetening Bucky up with a roll of her tongue. ‘You tell me if you need anything, Sugar’

It always took a good moment of staring blankly ahead, watching a couple display an uncomfortable amount of pda right across from his booth, to make his thoughts set straight.

He knew by now he was a regular customer in the coffee joint, every waiter that worked here knew his order by heart.

Medium black coffee.

He didn’t even like it.

But, it kept him going enough, the bitter taste shocking his nerve system like he was swallowing poison. Might as well.

It was a hoax. Something that should come with a warning sign. The stark black liquid did not live up to the immaculate smell of its original form. It made you think you had discovered a new world wonder. Standing in a field under the trees, watching the flowers work and feel the wind singing with a reclaimed love for oneself and life.

The drink tastes like unnecessary ache.

The leather scratched his fingertips as he opened the overly used notebook, turning to the page he last worked on, pointedly ignoring the sentences he wrote on the left page.

His coffee was his company.