Breathe

Months passed, more names were struck from the list in the little black book, and Steve was exuberant over his friend’s improvement.

The haunted flat blue of Bucky’s eyes now shone with a familiar gleam, and his verbal sparring with Sam was evidence that his sense of humor was returning.

Every Tuesday Bucky walked with Elle to the Library, checking out books of his own while she read to her usual group of kids. She’d even convinced him to join the monthly art class she taught there. To his great astonishment, he’d found smearing the paint across the canvas enjoyable, and no one paid more than passing attention to the glove he still wore over his prosthetic hand.

And Bucky wasn’t the only one who jumped when a jug of paint fell with a smack to the floor, Matt had shared a sympathetic smile under the table they’d both ducked under. The boy had been a constant surprise to Bucky ever since he’d been confronted by the kid a few weeks after his first library visit.

“Third time you’ve been here at the same time as Miss L. Why?”

Bucky had looked up from the comfy armchair he’d claimed, shocked to find himself under the stern gaze of the teen. Scrawny and much too thin for fourteen, Matt confronted Bucky with the confidence of a much larger boy.

“I, uh-.” Bucky shrugged, seeing Elle approaching over the boy’s shoulder and rising to greet her.

“Hey James, I’m ready for that coffee now, if you are.” She gave him a warm smile and turned to the bewildered boy, “hey Matt, what are you still doing here? Mrs. Dougherty will be looking for you, don’t keep her waiting.”

Matt looked unconvinced, his skeptical gaze shifting from Bucky, “you know this guy Miss L?”

“James, this is Matt, Matt, James is a friend of mine.”

“Right.” Matt squinted, puffing out his chest a little as he looked up at the much larger man. “Well James, if that’s even your real name, if anything happens to Miss L, just know, I’ll find you.” He cracked his knuckles aggressively.

“Matthew!” Elle said, hiding a mixture of scandalized amusement behind her hand.

Bucky chuckled aloud, and offered the boy his hand, “I’m glad Miss L has someone looking after her.”

And with that handshake a new friendship had been born. The next week Matt had greeted him with a quiet: “Sarge,” a salute and a whispered, “Elle already knew, but I won’t tell anyone else who you are, promise.”

The deeply suppressed shame Bucky experienced when called by his old rank rose up in him again, but it dimmed under the brilliance of Matt’s grin.

The boy had stuck at his side at every opportunity since.

The sounds of the group slowly resumed after the offending jug of paint had been returned to its place on the table and no one laughed as Bucky and Matt re-emerged from under their table together.

“That’s a great dog, Sarge.”

“It’s a motorbike.” Bucky bit out in frustration at the mess of paint before him.

“Very cool motorbike.” Matt grinned and had his hair ruffled in response.

“And your painting is supposed to be?” Bucky asked, scratching his chin and pretending to question the subject of Matt’s canvas. “A plum? I’m kidding, it’s incredible.”

The cat wasn’t perfect, but its piercing yellow eyes seemed to be alive, looking back into the viewers soul. And Bucky’s own dour mood was lifted as Matt’s grin grew wider under the influence of his praise.

“I want you to have it.”

“Are you sure?” Bucky asked, his eyes widening at the gift.

Matt’s smile faltered. “I mean, if you don’t want it. but if I bring it back to the home…”.”

The group home where he lived could be rough it was true, but he’d told Buck it was a lot better than the other options: “I can eat as much as I want now, and we’re allowed to snack whenever.” He had demonstrated his point by pulling a pair of chocolate bars from his scuffed-up backpack and giving Bucky one.

Bucky shook his head slowly, “No, that’s not, I mean. Thanks kid.”

The lifting corners of Elle’s mouth were the only indication that she’d heard the exchange from her position at the front of the class.

“Alright, we’ve only got a few minutes left, so if you could begin to clean your brushes, that’d be great.”

Elle smiled when Bucky walked her back to her bus stop, carefully cradling the cat painting in his arms while his own attempt at a motorcycle was stuffed roughly in his backpack.

An hour later her phone chimed and she opened the message from James to see the acrylic cat hanging proudly next to the first watercolour she’d given him and another painting (Skipper’s Bay) that she’d done in oil.