So okay, Punk the Kitten has been acting mopey and depressed and hell if the Soldier knows why. He’s already managed to make contact with Skye and they’re going to meet up and the Soldier’s pretty worried about that kill order on his kitten because it doesn’t make fucking sense and on top of that where the everliving fuck is Steve?
So the Soldier thinks, finally, that maybe Punk is picking up on his disquiet and he’s got to calm down, somehow. Right now, they’re both in some motel down the highway in the middle of Fuckitall, Maine. Bucky doesn’t know it, but the place eerily resembles Bates Motel in Hitchcock’s Psycho. Despite his ignorance of that particular bit of pop culture, the motel does give him an uneasy feeling, though he’s checked it out and judged that there are no immediate threats.
Then again, any psychopath might find it difficult to take down the Winter Soldier and Death by Adorable - the Soldier is amused to find out that this has become the codename for his fierce little kitten.
At least this motel has some decent movies and he settles down to watch Gene Kelly in Singing in the Rain. He’s slouched down on the bed, Punk curled up on his stomach, having finally come out of the Soldier’s hoodie pocket. Apparently, the kitten is enjoying the movie too, fluffy tail moving in time to the beat of the music.
"Steve would love this," the Soldier murmurs, absently stroking Punk’s fuzzy blonde head. "He doesn’t think so, but I think he’s a lot like ol’ Gene here - always dreaming big. Pegs would be Kathy Selden and I’d be Cosmo - hey, OW."
He levels his best Winter Soldier glare on Punk, who has nipped at his fingers. And of course, Punk would go for his actual flesh fingers, not the metal ones, vicious little critter that he could be.
"Okay, so maybe Stevie don’t dance that good. At least not without me teaching him the steps." He smirks at the kitten, who puffs up.
He’s not an idiot. He knows animals tend to understand humans better than they let on and apparently, Punk’s no exception. It’s just that he tends to fill in Punk’s responses with a familiar disconcertingly deep voice in an equally familiar Brooklyn accent coming from a tiny fellow who never did know when to back down from a fight.
"Oh don’t you look at me like that. S’God’s honest truth."
"Meow!" You’re such a jerk.
"He could be really graceful when he forgets to be self-conscious about things. Loved teaching him how to dance, how to box, how to move… at least until he started wheezing. Fucking asthma."
"Meow." Punk passed a paw over his face, oddly looking a bit self-conscious as he tried to groom himself.
"He was a superstar, just like Gene," the Soldier murmured, stroking down between Punk’s eyes, gently booping him on the nose.
Good morning! Good maaaawnin’! It’s great to wake up late. Good maawnin’! Good maawnin! To you!
The Soldier found himself singing along as Punk curled around twice on his stomach, settled down and purred.
- tbc -
Note: This was totally unplanned for but thunderboltsortofapenny made me do it. So. Ta-DAH!