“Don’t know why, I just figured you for a dog person.” Sam’s standing off to the side with his hands in his pockets, and no he is not finding it difficult to keep a straight face, thanks for asking.
“You gotta choose? Is that another stupid twenty-first century rule?” Bucky looks up, that befuddled-old-man line between his eyes really is a work of art. Oh, and he’s got a kitten on each shoulder. “I like dogs too.”
“Oh. Great. So today I’m bringing a kitten into my house, tomorrow I’m gonna wake up and find a dog chewing on my slippers? Is that what’s happening here?”
“Your house?”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Our house, the house. You gonna pick one or what?”
Bucky gently detaches them, one tiny kitten-claw at a time, looking into each of their little faces, stroking the grey spotted one between its ears before setting it down among its litter mates. “This one, I think,” he says, cradling the orange tabby in one arm. Hilariously, its little razory talons can’t get a grip on vibranium and it looks like a deranged fluffy octopus for a minute, scrabbling for purchase.
“All I’m saying is,” Sam mutters as he pulls out his wallet, “that thing starts bringing mice into the house, I’m putting you both out to sleep in the shed.”
You know what Sam did? Sam didn’t just indulge his ridiculous ex-assassin boyfriend and buy him a kitten, he somehow bought his traumatized ex-assassin with the shredded psyche an alert kitten.
Tiger (‘Aw, look at you two, the tiger and the wolf … please tell me you’re joking, I thought we agreed on Marvin. Marvin, Bucky!’) figured out the litter box right away and so far hasn’t brought anything dead into the house and they’ve just switched him over from kitten food to cat food. He’s got a strict ‘no cats in the bedroom’ rule and most days Sam hardly notices he’s there, so it’s all good. First time he does notice, he and Bucky have been hollering at each other from opposite ends of the house. Sam wants to know if Bucky’s ready for dinner, Bucky’s trying to figure out if the movie he wants to watch is on Netflix, and neither of them’s willing to actually make the trek to hold the conversation in a normal tone of voice. So when Buck doesn’t reply to a particularly epic witticism, when Sam then strains his ears and hears the tell-tale accent of that dickbag Fox News reporter, he mutters, “Oh, hell,” and quick turns off the stove and heads into the living room.
‘…among others are calling for the full pardon and return of the shield and good standing to John F Walker or, as we like to call him around here, the Captain.’
Bucky’s holding the remote control in his right hand which is good news for its longevity, at least, and Sam approaches him slowly, hands at his sides, waiting for Bucky to look at him. Buck is giving the TV that dead-eye stare that makes Sam think of the first time he ever laid eyes on the Winter Soldier. He’s willing to bet the news station is flashing that picture of him from New York with #NotMyCaptain splashed across his face.
“Buck…how ‘bout some dinner?” Sam asks softly. Bucky doesn’t reply, but then Tiger is winding around his legs, stretching up to hook his claws in the denim of his jeans, and Bucky is bending to scoop him up, nuzzling his face against Tiger’s downy white belly while the cat starts purring to beat the band.
“Yeah, you’re right, buddy. Okay,” Bucky murmurs, clearly talking to the cat, turning off the TV and tossing the remote onto the couch.
“Oh, great, cat hair, what a turn-on,” Sam mutters, brushing off his face after Bucky presses a kiss to his jaw in passing. Then he follows Bucky and Tiger out of the room, wondering what just happened.
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timeasmymeasure
fill 1/3 ... oh my god what have I done, I am in love with this cat now
Date: 2021-05-28 02:32 am (UTC)“You gotta choose? Is that another stupid twenty-first century rule?” Bucky looks up, that befuddled-old-man line between his eyes really is a work of art. Oh, and he’s got a kitten on each shoulder. “I like dogs too.”
“Oh. Great. So today I’m bringing a kitten into my house, tomorrow I’m gonna wake up and find a dog chewing on my slippers? Is that what’s happening here?”
“Your house?”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Our house, the house. You gonna pick one or what?”
Bucky gently detaches them, one tiny kitten-claw at a time, looking into each of their little faces, stroking the grey spotted one between its ears before setting it down among its litter mates. “This one, I think,” he says, cradling the orange tabby in one arm. Hilariously, its little razory talons can’t get a grip on vibranium and it looks like a deranged fluffy octopus for a minute, scrabbling for purchase.
“All I’m saying is,” Sam mutters as he pulls out his wallet, “that thing starts bringing mice into the house, I’m putting you both out to sleep in the shed.”
You know what Sam did? Sam didn’t just indulge his ridiculous ex-assassin boyfriend and buy him a kitten, he somehow bought his traumatized ex-assassin with the shredded psyche an alert kitten.
Tiger (‘Aw, look at you two, the tiger and the wolf … please tell me you’re joking, I thought we agreed on Marvin. Marvin, Bucky!’) figured out the litter box right away and so far hasn’t brought anything dead into the house and they’ve just switched him over from kitten food to cat food. He’s got a strict ‘no cats in the bedroom’ rule and most days Sam hardly notices he’s there, so it’s all good. First time he does notice, he and Bucky have been hollering at each other from opposite ends of the house. Sam wants to know if Bucky’s ready for dinner, Bucky’s trying to figure out if the movie he wants to watch is on Netflix, and neither of them’s willing to actually make the trek to hold the conversation in a normal tone of voice. So when Buck doesn’t reply to a particularly epic witticism, when Sam then strains his ears and hears the tell-tale accent of that dickbag Fox News reporter, he mutters, “Oh, hell,” and quick turns off the stove and heads into the living room.
‘…among others are calling for the full pardon and return of the shield and good standing to John F Walker or, as we like to call him around here, the Captain.’
Bucky’s holding the remote control in his right hand which is good news for its longevity, at least, and Sam approaches him slowly, hands at his sides, waiting for Bucky to look at him. Buck is giving the TV that dead-eye stare that makes Sam think of the first time he ever laid eyes on the Winter Soldier. He’s willing to bet the news station is flashing that picture of him from New York with #NotMyCaptain splashed across his face.
“Buck…how ‘bout some dinner?” Sam asks softly. Bucky doesn’t reply, but then Tiger is winding around his legs, stretching up to hook his claws in the denim of his jeans, and Bucky is bending to scoop him up, nuzzling his face against Tiger’s downy white belly while the cat starts purring to beat the band.
“Yeah, you’re right, buddy. Okay,” Bucky murmurs, clearly talking to the cat, turning off the TV and tossing the remote onto the couch.
“Oh, great, cat hair, what a turn-on,” Sam mutters, brushing off his face after Bucky presses a kiss to his jaw in passing. Then he follows Bucky and Tiger out of the room, wondering what just happened.