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The posters have been popping up everywhere as far as Bucky can tell. He’s seen them in his apartment building, stuck to trees, tucked under wiper blades. All with big writing in a loud shade of purple at the top.
‘LOST DOG’ they say and Bucky’s been ignoring them because he can’t bring himself to think about it right now. But this morning there are more than ever, the new posters clearly distinguished by their unfaded ink. So he goes over to one and sees a picture of a dog. It already looks the worse for wear, with one eye shut in a permanent wink. But its mouth is flopping open happily, its tongue hanging out, and the camera shutter hadn’t closed fast enough to capture the tail as anything more than a blur. The only other thing in the picture is a leg in ragged denim and a strip of well-muscled arm, hand clearly busy stroking the dog behind its ear.
“Answers to Lucky” the poster reads. “Loves pizza.” It’s been a week since the dog was last seen and Bucky thinks that this is a story that’s bound to end in tragedy, but he pulls off one of those little phone number strips at the bottom just in case. If this is one of those times when the world isn’t full of shit, he wants to be prepared.
*
He doesn’t think of it again. Gets caught up in giving Sam shit as they go through their physiotherapy sessions, texts Steve randomly about whatever crosses his mind, grabs a sandwich for lunch that has too much mayo and not enough mustard. It’s a usual sort of day. He doesn’t even think about that little piece of paper he slid into his wallet until he’s on his way back home again, dog-tired and barely keeping his eyes open, when he hears a small “squeak” from somewhere nearby.
Bucky almost keeps walking. He’s on the verge of telling himself that it’s his imagination, he didn’t hear a thing, when there comes a more distinct noise, a whine, long and plaintive, and Bucky turns to see what it is.
It’s the dog, of course it’s the dog - the one from the poster, and Bucky blinks at it stupidly. He looks both ways, as though expecting the owner and their well-muscled arms to appear from behind the nearest lamppost.
“Hey boy,” Bucky says, crouching down. He sets his bag down next to him. “Hey, you’re… uh…” he racks his brains trying to remember what the poster said. The name comes to him in a flash of inspiration. “Lucky, right?” The dog’s tail wags a couple of times. “Lucky, your owner’s looking for you,” Bucky croons. “You wanna come with me, huh? We’ll get you home? Get you some… pizza?” The dog perks up at the word pizza, but then its tail droops and its head turns to look behind it. Lucky whines again and looks at Bucky with one big, soppy eye full of sorrow.
“You want to go home, right?” Bucky asks. “I mean you seemed pretty happy on that picture. Unless… you don’t like it there?” He pauses, then realises that he’s waiting for some kind of coherent response from a dog about whether or not it’s being abused. Bucky shakes his head. “Come here, boy. Here, Lucky. It’s okay…” He extends his hand, fingers curled under and tries to look non-threatening. It’s not a look he really cultivates these days. Lucky takes a step forwards and sniffs at his hand cautiously, then steps back and barks.
“Shh, shhh,” Bucky says, suddenly aware that it’s way past sunset. “Shh, boy. We don’t wanna disturb people, do we. Why don’t you just come with me?” He inches forwards.
Lucky darts forwards and Bucky thinks he’s going to bite. For a heart stopping second, he sees Lucky’s mouth open and all those sharp canine teeth coming towards his arm and he thinks ‘this is how I lose the other one, huh?’ But there is no pain. Lucky’s teeth close around the sleeve of Bucky’s jacket and he starts to pull.
“Hey, drop that,” Bucky says, leaning back as far as he can, just to avoid being pulled off balance. “Let go! Lucky!” he snaps.
A couple walks past, obviously thinking that Lucky is his dog, and gives them both a dirty look. Bucky ignores them. But Lucky’s still pulling.
“What’s up?” Bucky asks. “What do you want?” Of course, the dog can’t tell him, but Lucky renews his efforts and then Bucky hears it again - that first little noise. A ‘squeak’, too small to have ever come from Lucky himself. “Is there something in that alley you want me to see?” Bucky asks, slowly standing up.
As he starts to move towards the alley, Lucky drops his sleeve and barks again, running around his legs, herding Bucky forwards.
“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” Bucky says. “I’ve got it. What is it, boy?”
Lucky runs into the alley and starts to drag at a big cardboard box. As he drags it, above the scraping of cardboard against concrete, Bucky can hear a whole lot more squeaking. He peers into the box and draws in a sharp breath.
Inside there are a whole lot of small furry bodies, and a larger furry body that isn’t moving. Bucky crouches down again and strokes Lucky, who is looking between him and the squirming, meowing kittens expectantly.
“Good boy,” Bucky says.
He reaches into the box and there’s no helping the mother. But three of the kittens are still doing okay. He earns scratches all over his hand as he gently picks them up and gathers them into the front of his jacket. They are so small he can barely feel them in there, except for the pin prick of claws as they dig in.
And that’s when he runs out of ideas. So he pulls that number out of his wallet and looks at Lucky.
“I really hope your owner is a good guy,” he says.
The phone rings eight times, long enough that Bucky doesn’t think the guy’s going to pick up. He’s about to end the call himself when finally there’s an answer.
“Hello?” a voice asks.
“Hi, Uh… hi,” Bucky says. He’s suddenly very aware of how long it’s been since he talked to a stranger. “I’m… I found your dog?”
“Really?” Bucky grins at the excitement he hears.
“Golden lab with one eye and a soft spot for saving things?” Bucky says.
“Lucky?!” The man shouts. It’s loud enough that Bucky has to pull his phone away from his ear, and loud enough that Lucky hears it and woofs, his tail wagging happily. “Lucky, boy… I missed you. Where are you? I’m on my way.”
“Actually,” Bucky says, cutting in. He can hear the jingle of keys on the other end. “I was hoping you could tell me where the nearest vet is?”
“What?!” Bucky winces at the alarmed tone, realising that maybe he shouldn’t have started with that.
“Lucky’s fine!” he says quickly. “He just… picked up a few strays.”
“He did… oh…” Lucky’s owner reels off an address. “Ask for Mira, she’s great,” he says. “I’ll meet you there.” Then he hangs up. Bucky looks down at his jacket full of kittens and the excited dog sitting next to him and shakes his head.
The vet clinic is two blocks away, although Bucky’s still worried that the kittens won’t make it. He doesn’t even know if he’s doing the right thing, but there was no way they could have survived out there without their mother.
Lucky runs in ahead of him and is greeted by a short, South Asian woman with long black hair in a thick braid. She greets him happily, then looks up as Bucky comes in, cradling the front of his jacket.
“You’re not Clint,” she says, frowning at him.
“No,” Bucky agrees. “You’re Mira, right?” She nods. “I just… Lucky went missing, I found him. Uh…Clint’s meeting us here.”
“He doesn’t look injured, but we can do a check up,” she says, giving Lucky a careful look.
“No- I mean, maybe, you’d have to ask Clint about that,” Bucky says. “I’ve got… I mean… Lucky found these.” He unzips his jacket and a small white face pushes out. Mira’s eyes go wide. “They were in a box, the mother was dead, I didn’t… can you check them over?”
“Of course,” she says, and she ushers him through.
It takes surprisingly little time for the kittens to be checked, but longer for them to be wrapped up in warm blankets and convinced to eat something. Mira is talking about vaccinations and feeding schedules and fostering when Lucky jumps up from where he’s been lying across Bucky’s feet and barks, his tail wagging happily.
There is the sound of a door opening, and thudding footsteps, then the door to their little examination room is pushed open and a strangely familiar tall blond man stumbles in with day old stubble and his t-shirt on inside out.
“Lucky!” he exclaims, dropping to his knees.
Bucky grins at the enthusiastic reunion.
“Where did you go?” the newcomer - and Bucky’s going to guess this is Clint - asks. “I looked for you everywhere.”
“It seems Lucky decided to do some superheroing of his own,” Mira says, raising an eyebrow and Bucky realises with a shock why the man looks so familiar to him.
“Hawkeye?” he asks. The guy looks at him, eyes wide with shock for a second, before grinning.
“Hi! You must be the guy who found my dog,” Hawkeye says, standing up to hold out his hand. Bucky takes it, feeling a little like he’s having an out of body experience. You don’t just find an Avenger’s missing dog. That’s not a thing that happens.
“Bucky,” he says. “James Barnes, but people call me Bucky.”
“Nice to meet you, Bucky,” Hawkeye replies.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Bucky replies. He glances at Mira, who is clearly very amused by this turn of events.
“Fuck, you need a reward, don’t you?” Hawkeye says, and Bucky’s shaking his head.
“No, that’s good,” Bucky says. “I’m good. Uh… Hawkeye… I’m just glad I could get Lucky back to you. And…” he looks down at the kitten in his hand, who is now enthusiastically suckling from the formula he’s holding. “I think I got something already.”
“Huh,” Hawkeye says. “First off, call me Clint, and second, you’ve got to let me take you out for dinner or something. Please.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Bucky says.
“Maybe I want to,” Hawke- Clint says, winking. It’s a really obnoxious wink, but Bucky finds himself flushing in spite of it. “I mean, I’m pretty sure you’re going to have to share custody of pint size over there with Lucky.” Bucky looks down to see Lucky’s head by his knee, watching the tiny kitten avidly. “And I’d really like to thank you properly.”
Bucky nods before he’s even finished registering the word ‘properly’.
“Yeah, okay.”
“It’s a date,” Clint agrees, grinning broadly.
Steve is never going to believe this one.