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(Just like my hobbies, I can't stay on one kind of thing too long. Yesterday my hobby was embroidery, and today it was cake decorating. Yesterday, my writing interests were A:TLA, today they are Marvel.) 

Bucky POV 

"I think I did something wrong..." Steve mutters to himself, glaring at the instructions. He's sitting, defeated, in my room, trying to figure out how to put together a bookshelf. I'm sitting on my bed, watching him fail.  

"Stevie," I say softly for maybe the twelfth time since he began building. "It's okay. Really. I don't need a bookshelf." 

"You need a place to store your notebooks," he insists. 

"They're fine where they are." And they are. In my backpack is a good place for them. I keep my backpack on my person. No one can look through my notebooks if they're with me. Not that I don't trust Steve or anything. I just don't want him to get a look into my mind and decide he doesn't want me anymore. 

"Then it'll personalize your room more." He's not gonna let this go, huh? "And you don't need to put your notebooks on it. You can put other books on it." 

"I don't have other books." Just give it up, punk. 

"We can get you some." 

"I don't like reading." 

"Maybe we just need to find you the right book." No. I don't want him to get me things. I don't want my room to be personalized. I don't want him to think this is permanent. None of my living situations have been permanent, so why should this be?  

"Just drop it, Steve. Please." 

Steve looks at me and sighs, folding up the instructions and putting them down.

"Okay. I'm sorry." 

"It's okay." 

"Oh!" he suddenly exclaims and I mimic him with a small 'oh' of surprise. "I forgot to tell you. I've got a date tonight." 

"Ooh, nice," I congratulate, pretending to be happy for him. "With who?" 

"I finally figured out online dating." He sits down next to me on the bed and I chuckle at our shared inability to properly use modern technology. "I met this woman, Jennifer. We've been texting a lot and we're going out for dinner tonight. Here's a picture of her." 

He takes out his cellphone and opens up a picture of this Jennifer lady. She's got light brown hair, gathered up into a high ponytail with a green ribbon. Her eyes are brown and she looks all around boring. Her eyeliner is perfect. Everything about her picture is perfect and maybe that's what I find so boring about her. Or maybe that's why Steve is interested. She's perfect. 

"She's..." Ugly? Not his type? Not me? "She looks nice." 

"Yeah." He grins, looking down at the picture. "I hope it goes well." 

I hope it goes well, too. For Steve's sake. I may already hate this lady, but if she'll make Steve happy, then I have no right to interfere. All I want is for Steve to be happy. 

"It will," I assure him, putting on a false smile. He smiles, too, and pats my shoulder. 

"Anyway, the whole reason I'm telling you this is because I'll probably be home really late. I got something that might calm you down if you have a nightmare while I'm out." 

Steve gets up and comes back with a frog stuffed animal.

"Steve, I'm a hundred and six. I don't need a baby* to sleep." 

"No, it's lavender scented. Jennifer is into natural stuff. She said lavender is calming. Don't worry, I wasn't talking about you." 

I was worried. I love that about Steve; I don't have to tell him what I'm thinking all the time because he usually just knows. Maybe he doesn't like that. Maybe he likes Jennifer because he doesn't see into her complex thought system. Maybe her thought system isn't so complex. Maybe he likes that Jennifer sleeps properly and doesn't have to be comforted after waking up screaming. Maybe- 

"Buck?" Oh. I guess I zoned out. Apparently, people think that's creepy. I know Steve's new best friend, the Bird, hates it. Wait. That's not right. Falcon. Yeah. 

"Bucky?" Steve asks again. "You with me?" 

"Yeah," I confirm. "Yes. I'm with you. Thank you." 

He places the frog on my bed and leaves, telling me he has to go get ready. 

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Steve POV 

"You're sure you'll be okay by yourself?" I ask for definitely not the last time. 

"Yes, Steve," Bucky assures me, clearly exasperated. "Go. Have fun. No fonduing." 

I laugh at the jab to my own stupidity. 

 "'Fondue is just cheese and bread, my friend,'" I quote. "How do I look?" 

"You look great, now get out of here before she thinks you stood her up." 

I wouldn't ever do such a thing, and Bucky knows that. But it's better to be early just in case. I grab the car keys and head out to pick up Jennifer.  

It's a nice little restaurant. There's tablecloths and candles and I'm sure the wine would be great if I knew anything about wine. The only thing I know is that there's two colors: red and white.  

"I don't know anything about wine," I admit, looking at the wine options on the menu. 

"I don't either," Jennifer giggles. "I don't buy wine. I only drink it when my mother throws Christmas parties." 

"I don't party. Or drink much. I know I like wine but apparently it's all different." 

Jennifer laughs again. It's a nice laugh. It's soft and genuine. 

"I'm just going to order water," she says. "That way I won't try the wrong wine and end up hating it." 

"If you never order wine in fear of getting the wrong wine, you'll never discover the right wine." 

"More like you'll never discover the 'white wine,'" she murmurs and then snorts at her own joke. "I'm sorry. That was dumb."  

"No, it was funny!" I say. 

"It really wasn't," she insists. "Okay. I have to ask. You look exactly like your pictures, which is just... wow. I wasn't expecting for you to really be this muscular. But on your profile, it says that you're a hundred and five? What's that all about? How old are you really?" 

"I'm really a hundred and five," I tell her truthfully and she just laughs, though I'm being completely serious. "No, really. I was born on July 4th, 1918." 

"And I'm four hundred and thirty!" she jokes and sighs, smile still on her face. "Have you tried using lavender to calm your friend down?" 

Alright, so I lied to Bucky. We were talking about him when Jennifer suggested the lavender idea. But I didn't refer to him by name. All I told her was that my roommate is a war veteran who gets frequent night terrors. 

"Yeah, he's trying it tonight. I got him a scented stuffed animal. I think it'll help more than just putting lavender under his pillow would. It's a physical thing for him. I usually hug him to calm him." 

"He sounds needy," she mutters to herself. It's quiet, so maybe I hear her wrong. I go with that so that I don't mess up our night by adding drama. At normal volume, she says, "I hope it works." 

"I'll let you know," I promise. 

*(I've always called stuffed animals (plushies, stuffies, etc.) "babies."idk if anyone else does that)