Some people, maybe they’d see an apartment: brand new; barely lived in. Others would kick off about the bare walls, compare it to the inside of your skull; tut over whether the lack of fruit bowls meant you were more a risk to society than someone who sat a fucking orange in the center of the coffee table.
To Frank, the place is bare and smart: somewhere to sleep, shower, take a piss; designed to be wiped clean and emptied out in 10 minutes or less. It’s not paranoia when someone’s got the kinda heat and attention Barnes does.
Checking in with the head-shrinkers every 24h like they knew shit. Tagged like some common perp.
– not a choice he’d make. Not a choice he agreed with. But not his choice.
Frank dropped his jacket over the couch back, eyes subconsciously trailing along the ceiling for cameras. Figured Barnes would know where they were; figured he wouldn’t invite him here if they weren’t accounted for. ( Habits still died hard. )
“ – nice place. They give you a pension with that pardon?”
The freedom was more than he deserved, even if that freedom was thoroughly conditional and came with more clauses than a corporate disclaimer. Bucky had never expected to be allowed anything other than to rot in a box somewhere for the crimes he’d been used to commit.
There was a part of him that bridled at swallowing the full guilt - the full responsibility - for things he’d never stop having nightmares about, lives he’d never have taken of his own volition, choices that’d been made for him and about him and blood that stained him, only him, and never seeped into the cuffs of the handlers who pulled his trigger. Nobody else was willing to own that guilt, so it was his to choke on.
Bucky jerked his chin slightly to the space between where the open-plan kitchen’s cabinet ended and what was meant to be a living room wall began. (What people these days had against separate rooms, separate spaces, was beyond him. He hated feeling exposed, and he sure as hell hated the smell of cooking following him around the entire place.) The camera was just subtle enough that a civvy would think it was part of the trim, but obvious enough once you knew what you were looking for.
“I killed the mics; they haven’t bothered replacing ‘em.” Not that he didn’t check. “Stay away from the fridge/sink/microwave triangle. There’s more eyes in the bedroom.” It explained the pile of blankets on the floor, between the TV and couch. “Guess they think I’m gonna get creative with a garlic press or decide to dive out the bedroom window specifically.” He sucked air through his teeth. “Pardon’s for heroes, Castle. I’m on permanent probation. Beats the alternatives, though.” I guess.
The fridge was empty except for a bottle of mustard and four bottles of lager. Bucky snagged two of the beers, used the cap of one to open the other out of habit, then flicked the second cap off using his metal thumb before passing the bottle to Frank.
“There was some sort of Tony Stark memorial fund for heroes in financial straits. I declined.” Bucky swallowed the grimace down with some beer. “I don’t need much.” The irony of that, considering how much the apartment must be worth, wasn’t lost on him. But that was conditional, too: an open-air prison cell where he could be kept under observation. Contained. The very thought made his skin crawl. “Things good?”
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