Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Sam’s body expected it. To hear the sound of paws running on the cat wheel. Bucky not-so-secretly giving Figaro exercise after Sam gave her an extra large gourmet breakfast. It was only natural after coming in from a long mission. The automatic cat feeder and Stark tech litter box could only do so much, right? His baby had to eat.

When Bucky used to assign himself as cat personal trainer, Sam would hear the squeak of her cat wheel and he’d roll his eyes and smirk into his coffee; extra cream, shot of espresso, and a drizzle of cinnamon and seasonal syrup.  

The fine things in life kept him going in between the stresses, and he saw no reason why his fur baby shouldn’t be allowed similar luxuries. Besides, the high-stress job kept him fit. Meanwhile Figaro kept fit through Bucky’s intervention: the Wilson-Barnes cat wheel. 

After every mission, she’d make her slow little walk to greet him at the door, tail flicking with pride, a rumble of a purr so loud it seemed impossible for such a small body. Sam swore she waited for his footsteps before lying back down.

That was who she was. Always making sure he came home.

After the divorce, Bucky would sometimes fly in to check on her. He would use the key under the mat to catsit when Sam didn’t ask him to. He wouldn’t even call in advance, either. They both knew the home security system alerted Sam that the former winter soldier was there through Redwing. Sam didn’t fight it, and had actively ignored Bucky’s presence in his home. Super breakups were weird that way. 

Figaro didn’t care about the breakup. She’d hop up beside either of them and demand affection. She’d sleep with whoever was still in the house and yell at the door when someone left too long.

She didn’t take sides. She was just there. A grounding presence. A ridiculous, furry little guardian.

A sudden flash hit him.

“Sarah… she’s gone… it happened overnight, we couldn’t even… I couldn’t even-“

Sarah’s brows dramatically rose. “That fat ass cat!? Oh no, Sam…” She leaned in, quieter, “It wasn’t a cat diabetes attack, was it?”

Sam laughed so hard that the tears started to squeeze out as he shook his head. “You wrong as shit for that, sis. You wrong as shit…”

“Sam,” Bucky said in his ear, almost too close. The cadence was soft but the slight echo made him jump. 

As he flinched, next came a pressure on his hip, a hand to ground him—to make him realize he hadn’t been completely present. Hell, he hadn’t been since that one night coming in from an overseas flight. Campaign season. The one time Bucky couldn’t fly in. They both were busy. Not that Bucky should have even flown in. They’d divorced. They weren’t together any more. It wasn’t supposed to be that way. 

She wasn’t supposed to be gone. 

“I’m fine,” Sam quickly stammered, and he realized his hand was shaking when Bucky’s other arm came around him and lowered the coffee mug for him.

“Sweetheart…”

“You don’t get to call me that anymore,” Sam hissed on instinct, and the flash of surprise—of vulnerability—made him bite his tongue.

“You’re right,” Bucky muttered, letting him go easily.

“Funny, it only took you years to admit that,” Sam said under his breath, closing himself off toward the sink.

“Oh, fuck you,” Bucky muttered, and then he made a sound in his mouth, palming his forehead. “Shit, I didn’t mean that.”

“You did.”

Bucky exhaled sharply.

Sam did the same, and they stood in silence. 

Birds chirped outside the kitchen window and the morning draft set in. Life still chirped outside. Neither moved, and a raw stillness settled in.

Finally, Sam said in a low voice, “It was just the cat wheel. I-I thought I heard it moving.”

The slight echo of his voice felt awkward in the newfound silence.

Bucky moved around him, and Sam just stared out the window into the sunrise. He vaguely registered Bucky pouring the coffee in the sink, but he didn’t feel like fighting.

“I want to donate it.”

Sam flinched, replaying the words. 

Before, Bucky had said: You should get rid of it, or, I’m gonna put it out, or, I’m fucking disassembling it, okay, Sam?

“Why?” Sam’s mouth moved.

Logic knew why. Jesus, he’d already donated the last of her food and toys to the nearest cat rescue, but his brain couldn’t seem to wrap around why he’d get rid of her wheel. It was the one thing that made her distinctly Figaro. That made her his fat cat that battled the war on feline obesity. That made her the only constant when everything else in his life felt like it was splintering.

Sam walked into the living room so that he could look at it again. The wheel was starting to collect dust, denoted by the specs rising from where the morning sun rays hit it. There was a meticulously tied rope around it so that it wouldn’t move or squeak — previously fastened by Bucky so that Sam could distinctly recognize when the sound was in his head.

“What do you mean why? Seeing it upsets you,” Bucky answered matter-of-factly as he followed Sam in. 

Sam didn’t know how to respond to that yet, and his mind drifted elsewhere, staring at the wheel. 

“She hated being seen as fragile,” he murmured, taking a deep breath. “You remember she’d fall off the couch and then act like we imagined it?”

Bucky smiled faintly. “She used to give me a whole-ass side-eye when I tried to help her up.”

“She was proud. Stubborn.”

“Sounds like someone I know,” Bucky muttered, nudging him gently.

Sam ignored it, then sat down on the couch, his bones sinking into the worn cushions with him. The house smelled slightly like citrus from his latest nightly sudden urge to clean. The breeze from all the cracked windows made it chillier than most mornings.

“It doesn’t upset me,” Sam finally mumbled between bundling up under a man-sized throw blanket and kicking out the recliner, “I just… remember, like it was yesterday.”

Bucky sat next to him. “You loved her.”

“I thought we both did,” Sam said with a little snark.

He wondered if he’d pressed too far, and then Bucky scoffed.

“Of course I loved her. You’re kind of an ass when you don’t sleep, Samuel.”

“You don’t get to call me that,” Sam said, mimicking the tone Bucky once used.

Bucky groaned out loud, face in his hands. “That’s on me for sitting with you at fucking 7 AM.”

Sam smirked. His body definitely hated him for not giving it due rest, but knowing Bucky wasn’t a morning person made his inner divorcee smile.

“Didn’t ask you to be,” Sam reminded him lightly.

Bucky’s eyes cut over, deadpan. “And you never will ask. Ever.”

Sam chuckled, somehow feeling like he’d won something. Like maybe it was evening out the petty divorce score. Or, that was the delirium of sleeplessness.

Before Sam knew it, he’d leaned back fully and started to half-close his eyes. He caught himself before sleeping, his thoughts still probing—the urge to have the last word keeping him.

“It doesn’t upset me… by the way.”

Bucky hummed, crossing his arms. 

Sam turned in toward the arm of the sofa away from Bucky. “You made it for her because you loved her, too.” The sleep deprivation lowered his personal filter, and he added dumbly, “You used to love me.”

Bucky tightened. “Yeah, you’re definitely an ass that needs to go to bed.”

Sam chuckled, closing his eyes. “You used to love this ass, too.”

“Oh, shut up.”

The wind rustled against the house, and Sam felt Bucky reach over to layer another light blanket around his shoulders. 

“I didn’t—I didn’t stop loving you-“

“I know,” Sam’s voice felt far away, “We’re just too messed up to coexist…” 

The only way we could was by keeping a cat, and pretending it needed us both, even though both of us weren’t here in the end.

“Sam?”

Sam hummed tiredly.

“It’s so another cat family can use it. Not because I want to hurt you.”

“Okay,” Sam murmured. “Take it.” While he didn’t have the energy to fight about it. While everything was fading into a dreamscape.

He barely registered the couch edging as Bucky got up, and soft sounds of things moving, and then it was silence, the weight of Bucky sitting next to him. 

And, like an ass, Bucky started watching the television. Probably was eating Sam’s imported snacks, and making a yuck face at the flavors he didn’t like, then still eating them. But the familiar sounds lulled Sam’s body into a trance.

Just before sleep truly claimed him, a sharp squeak cut through the quiet.

It wasn’t the ghost of a memory this time. It was real—Bucky, finally untying the rope and starting to take the wheel apart.

Sam’s eyes stayed shut, but the sound reached something deep. Not the present-day wheel, not Bucky’s careful hands on it—but the memory of Figaro, determined and clumsy, padding onto it with that same soft creak. Her ears would twitch back every time it squealed too loud, but she never stopped. Not even toward the end.

She’d slowed down. Slept more. Ate less. But she waited for Sam to get home. And once he did, she’d haul herself onto that damn wheel and give it a run—wobbly legs and all—just to prove she could still do it.

For him.

“I’m still here,” she’d seemed to say. “You’re not alone.”

The metal groaned again, and Sam felt his chest cave in. He turned into the couch cushion, breath hitching. His hand clenched where her warm, round body used to curl against him.

“She waited for me,” he whispered hoarsely, his voice half-muzzled by the throw.

The squeaking stopped.

This time, Bucky didn’t say anything.

Because they both knew what Sam meant.

And in the quiet, Sam swore he heard it again—the sound of her paws, the tiniest patter, just one last time.

***