New Territory
Title: New Territory
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Word Count: 14k
Warnings: Soulmates, explosions, kissing, mild language, sharing a bed
Summary: Soulmates are born with their match’s initials printed on their arm. After years of searching for your soulmate on your own, you give in and turn to SLMTS to help you find him.
A/N: This technically takes place around Christmas, but that is not integral to the plot. I just forgot to post it here! I have loved soulmate AUs for a very, very long time, though I don’t write many of them. While this is an old trope, I hope you enjoy it as if it’s a new one. Thanks for all you do to support my writing!
Dividers by @firefly-graphics
Your mark has never changed. It’s never felt itchy or prickly, it’s never stung, and the skin never gets irritated, even when sunburned. You know that at some point it will, but until then, your soulmate’s initials are simply part of your skin, like a freckle or a birthmark. Sometimes it feels like the stories about peoples’ marks reacting when they meet their soulmates are less fact and more fairy tale.
Like every other mark holder, you were born with your soulmate mark. It started out as a small black dot, and as you grew older, the initials formed. They were legible around the time you said your first word. Your mom spent hours searching for people in town with last names beginning with the letter ‘B’, but nobody’s initials matched.
For years you’ve wondered about the person it belongs to. When you were younger, you would stare at the initials during class as if they would transform into something new or magically give you some new piece of information. You would lie awake at night trying to conjure up an image of your soulmate in your head, and you searched extensively online for anybody with those initials. The results felt endless, and instead of making you feel closer to finding him, the internet proved to you just how far away you really were.
You run your thumb over the tidy black letters on the inside of your wrist as you sit and wait for Day to come in. Her office at SLMTS is warm and welcoming, with honey-colored furniture and soft lighting, but you still find yourself anxiously bouncing your leg as you stare at the back of her computer monitor—the monitor that could hold the name of a man you’ve been waiting to meet your entire life.
“Sorry to make you wait,” Day greets as she opens the door and bustles in from the hallway. You hear laughter from somewhere outside her office, but then she closes the door again and comes around the desk, taking her seat in the rolling office chair across from you. She smiles and sighs as she sits. Day sets the teal file folder in her hand beside the computer keyboard, but keeps it closed.
“No worries,” you reply, giving her a polite, closed-lipped smile. You truly don’t mind, especially since you know that she and the other Searchers are busy. The waiting room had been packed when you came in, and it had gotten even fuller by the time you’d been led back to Day's office. The holidays are a busy time for Searchers.
Cuffing season, you think, remembering the words of your oldest cousin at last year’s Christmas party. She’d found her soulmate only days before the dinner, and she’d been the one who’d given you the idea of getting professional help with your search.
Day smiles a little wider, and her almond eyes crinkle at the corners before she looks down at her screen and taps at the keyboard. You glance down at her hand, immediately clocking the gold band on her ring finger. It brings out a richness in her dark skin, like sunlight does on a balmy summer afternoon. You hadn’t noticed it the last time you were here.
“You’re married,” you dumbly say, then quickly backtrack, “I mean, I assume that most Searchers probably are. It’s probably easier to find other peoples’ soulmates if you’re not distracted by finding your own. Not that your staff is distracted, they’re great—“
She chuckles good-naturedly and opens your file, mercifully interrupting your rambling. “Most Searchers are married, yes, but you’d be surprised at how many are still single. Some by choice, others not.”
You can’t imagine why someone would choose to be single if they had a soulmate. The whole point is having a partner who’s perfect for you in every way.
Why would someone choose that for themselves?
Forcing an awkward smile, you shift a little bit in your seat and glance out the window. The rain has lessened since you first arrived, and a steady drizzle is now coating Manhattan and filling the air with a thin gray mist. It’s not quite cold enough for it to turn to ice or snow, but they’re saying it will within the next few days.
“Alright,” Day sighs, and you drag your eyes away from the gray sky. She flips another page in your file before looking up at you. “I take it that you listened to the voicemail we left you last week and that’s why you made this appointment, yes?”
You nod. “Yeah. Yes. I mean, it was pretty vague. You said that you haven’t found them, but that you might know why they haven’t shown up?”
She nods and taps at her keyboard again, then swivels the computer monitor so that you can see it. The preferences screen you’d first filled out during your first appointment has been pulled up.
“Yes. We have yet to find your soulmate, but I wanted to ask… Have you considered broadening your pool? It looks like so far you’ve only been meeting with men. Would you like for met to check the other boxes listed so there are more matches?”
“Oh…” You can feel the blood rush to your face, and you resist the urge to squirm in your seat. “No, that’s not… really my thing. I don’t want to be rude, but I’m really only into guys…”
Day’s expression softens in understanding as she regards you from across the desk. “Soulmates can be platonic, too, you know. I can make a note that if you’re matched with someone who’s not male, you aren’t meeting with them romantically.”
“You can do that?” You hadn’t even known that soulmates could be platonic. “I didn’t even know that was a thing. Is that common?”
“Not particularly, but it’s been known to happen. We have more records of it nowadays than in the past, though, so it’s hard to tell.”
Nodding slowly, you stare at the screen for a long moment before asking, “So if I get matched with a guy, it’ll be a romantic pairing, but if it’s anyone else, it’ll be platonic?”
“Not necessarily. You may have a platonic soulmate who’s a male.” She shrugs. “Usually if it’s your ideal gender, it will be romantic, but I’ve seen a few cases where it hasn’t been.”
You consider Day’s offer for a moment, then nod. “Okay. Will that cost extra?”
You’re already scraping the bottom of the barrel. Your savings are mostly gone, and your minimum wage paychecks are barely getting you by, but you pull out your wallet anyway. A large part of you is screaming to put it away, and yet you can’t. You’ve lived your whole life wondering why you haven’t met your soulmate yet, and now you have a possible answer—you were just looking for the wrong kind of soulmate. You’ve been clinging to the possibility and the hope of finding them ever since you met Day for the first time, and you can’t let go of that hope now, even if it means missing some meals or lowering the heat in your apartment even further.
Smiling, Day shakes her head. “All I have to do is click a few boxes.” She does just that, ticking off the boxes on the computer screen for all the genders before scrolling down to the very bottom, where you notice a box labeled “platonic” that you hadn’t seen during your initial appointment. She ticks it off with one final click before saving the changes and swiveling the monitor back to its original position.
“There,” Day says, satisfied with the changes she’s made. “It’ll probably be a few days before we start getting any matches, since there are so many profiles in the system it will have to re-sort through, plus all the ones you haven’t been checked against, but you’ll get an email with any positive results, just like you have in the past. It will specify if it’s romantic or platonic, so you know what to expect.”
You nod and quietly tuck your wallet away, your mind suddenly whirling with questions. As if reading your mind, Day says,
“The match is never one-sided. If it’s platonic for you, it will be platonic for them.”
“You mentioned before that there are lots of Searchers that remain single by choice. Is that because their soulmates are platonic?”
She nods and folds her hands in front of her, resting them on top of your open file. “Sometimes. Other times it’s because there is something about their soulmate that they don’t like, enough so that it affects their willingness to be partners.”
You frown and clutch your bag in your lap. “I thought soulmates were supposed to be a perfect partner. What kinds of things would deter someone from that?”
Day considers your question for a moment, and when she speaks, she’s a bit hesitant, as if she’s afraid she’ll say something wrong. “We have very few restrictions when it comes to who can become a client here. There are people in the system who have things in their past that are not publicly disclosed, but that they might tell their soulmate when the opportunity arises.”
“Things in their past? Like… bad things?”
“Sometimes, yes.”
You let out a slow exhale and look back out the window at the rain. The drizzle has turned back into a steady downpour, likely flooding the street of your apartment building. It’s a good thing you chose to wear boots and a jacket.
“We can choose to exclude those people from your results…”
Your stomach lurches at the thought and you frown deeper. The thought of that gives you an aching feeling that claws at the inside of your ribs, as if to tell you that excluding those people is the worst decision you could possibly make. You feel a bit breathless as you shake your head and look back at her.
“No. No, it’s okay.”
Day searches your face with a curious expression, her hand now hovering over the mouse. “Are you sure? It’s just another box to tick, it’s not a big—“
“No. Keep them,” you tell her, forcing yourself to sit taller in your seat, though inwardly you’re trying to figure out why her suggestion has knocked you so off-kilter.
After a moment, Day nods and pulls her hand away from the mouse. “Okay. Well, then I guess we’re done, unless you had any more questions for me?”
You shake your head and she closes your file, then stands. You mirror her, slinging the strap of your bag over your shoulder as she gestures for the door behind you. The waiting room proves to be just as full as it was before your appointment, and when you make your way out of the building, you pull your hood up over your head and start the walk toward the nearest subway station, intent on making it home at least mostly dry.
The first set of results lands in your inbox two days later, and you stare at the notification for a solid ten minutes before actually opening the email. Your mouth feels like it’s full of cotton as you silently read through it once, then twice.
Day has found you two matches. The first is platonic: a girl roughly the same age as you. She works at an insurance call center in Brooklyn, but it lists her hobbies as crocheting, baking, and puzzles. Her name is Janiya, and she seems nice enough. You briefly consider not even scrolling any further, and instead messaging her right away to set up a meeting, but your thumb seems to move all on its own.
The second match is a romantic one. As you read through his information, you wonder why he hasn’t shown up before. Day had mentioned in the voicemail before your last appointment that you’d gone through practically every profile in the system with no success.
His name is James, and his profile isn’t as detailed as the others you’ve been matched with. There’s no picture. It says he works in security and that he’s from Brooklyn, just like Janiya. There are no hobbies listed, but it does say he has a cat.
“I like cats,” you mutter to yourself as you scroll back up to look at Janiya’s profile. Your head is telling you to meet with her first. You know more about her, and it seems like she’s genuinely interested in meeting someone. James’ profile is so empty that for a second, you’re suspicious.
Who tries to find their soulmate with so little information?
Still, your heart is stuck on him. You hesitate, your thumb hovering over the messaging icon in the email. After a few seconds, however, you close the app and instead dial Day’s office.
The receptionist puts you on hold and you transfer the call to speaker phone while you make yourself dinner. You’re just pulling your leftovers from the microwave when the hold music stops and Day’s voice rings out from your phone.
“Hi there. What can I do for you?”
You hurriedly set down the bowl on the stove and grab your phone, taking it off speaker to wedge it between your shoulder and ear.
“Hey! Hey, Day.” You try to sound as casual as possible, as if that will somehow hide the way your heart is suddenly hammering in your chest. “I have a question about the matches you sent me.”
“I was wondering if that’s why you were calling,” Day replies. You can hear her typing in the background, no doubt pulling up their profiles. “Is this about one of them in particular?”
“Um… yeah, kind of.”
Grabbing your food, you carry it back to the living room and sit down on your normal side of the couch, carefully cradling the hot dish in your lap.
“Alright then. You know I can’t tell you specific details about them, but if it’s a general question, I can definitely help. Which profile did you have a question about?”
“James?”
The line goes quiet. Day doesn’t say anything. There’s no typing on her end of the call and you sit up, moving to hold the phone against your ear with your hand.
“Day? Are you there?”
She clears her throat. “I’m here. What would you like to know about him?”
The way she’d gone silent so suddenly makes your stomach twist and you set your food aside. Your heart is still racing and you pull a blanket over your lap so you have something to fiddle with.
“I couldn’t see very much about him in the email—just his work, where he’s from, and that he has a cat. Is that… correct?”
“That’s correct,” Day answers. There’s a hint of exasperation in her voice, which makes you frown.
Is she irritated with me? Or him?
“So I’m just supposed to decide if I want to meet him or not based on that? I mean, I can tell you more about the people on the subway last night than I can tell you about him!”
On the other end of the call, Day chuckles, and you relax a little bit. You feel your shoulders drop and your grip on the phone loosens ever so slightly, thankful that your attempted humor has landed.
“I can promise you that James is a good man. I’ve met him myself. He’s just… private.”
“You’ve met him?”
“I have. I’m the one who set up his profile,” she tells you.
“It seems a little strange that someone that private is using a service like this. I mean, they had to know that people would want to know more about them than just the basics, right?”
“Everyone has the right to make their profile as open or as private as possible. Most people choose to disclose more details to make it easier for prospective matches to get to know them a little bit before they choose to meet, but people also have their reasons for putting only the basics.”
Reasons like what?
You reach forward to grab your food again. Steam is still rising from the bowl and you hold the phone away from your ear for a second to blow on your meal, as if that will immediately make it cool enough to eat.
“I thought I’d already been tested against all the profiles,” you say, changing the subject before you can feel guilty for questioning his right to privacy. “His is new then, right?”
“That’s correct. He’s only been in the system for a few hours.”
You pause, unsure if you’ve heard her correctly. “A few hours?”
“He was in earlier today.”
“That’s… fast.”
The call is quiet for a second again, but then Day says, “Y/N, I’m not supposed to tell you anything that’s not in the email you received, but I promise you that James is a good man. Your match with him is…” She trails off and you shift on the couch, waiting for her to continue. She doesn’t.
“Day?” you ask. When she doesn’t answer, you repeat a little louder, “Day? Are you there?”
“You should message him,” she finally replies.
“What were you going to say about my match with him?”
“That’s all I can tell you.”
“Day—”
“Is there anything else I can help you with?” she asks, her tone suddenly more professional than it has been the entire call. “I have a patient waiting on me.”
You pause, then relent. “No. No, that’s it.”
“Promise me you’ll message him?”
It’s strange to hear those words from a Searcher, especially one that you don’t know very well, but you recognize the heaviness of it all the same. Searchers are well-regarded, and their known for being impartial. Their job is an important one, and one that affects the entire world, even if they largely live quiet lives. To have one invested in your match like this, rather than simply matching you and moving on, is a rare occurrence.
“I promise,” you hesitantly agree. “I’ll message him.”
“Good. Have a good night, Y/N.”
“You too.”
You hang up the phone and toss your phone onto the opposite cushion, then stare at the dark TV. When you’d called the office, you’d been hoping for a little bit of information on James—maybe a hobby or his favorite band. You hadn’t been expecting the strange nervousness that sprung to life inside of you as soon as Day answered the phone, and you certainly hadn’t been expecting her to emphasize your match with James as much as she had.
While the promise you’ve made to her thrums in your chest, you force yourself to eat your food before it grows cold, but the phone sitting on the cushion beside you is like a physical presence that you can’t ignore. Finally, you can’t stand it any longer. You set aside the mostly-empty bowl and unlock your phone. You go straight to the email and thumb the messaging icon before you can think twice.
You: Hey. I’m Y/N.
You send the message, then immediately regret it and think of a thousand things you could’ve said instead. Each and every option would have made you seem cooler and more put-together.
James: Bucky.
Frowning, you read his message and type out three replies before you finally send the final draft.
You: I thought your name was James?
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” you mumble. You grab your dish from where you’d set it on the coffee table. After eating the last few bites on the way to the kitchen, you stuff your phone in your pocket and grab a sponge. You’re setting the bowl on the drying rack after scrubbing it clean when your phone dings again, then twice.
James: My friends call me Bucky.
James: Do you want to meet?
You blink at the text bubble. Before you can even process the message, another one comes through.
James: I’m not great at texting, I’d rather talk in person.
Smiling a little, you reply quickly, hoping it will make it through before he can send anything else and before you can chicken out.
You: I’d love to meet, Bucky. Can I call you that? I know we’re not friends yet.
His reply is simple: Yes.
An hour passes, then two, and you find yourself messaging Bucky with one hand while brushing your teeth with the other. You’ve set up a coffee date for tomorrow afternoon, and while he says he’s not great at texting, his messages prove otherwise. Bucky is funny, and he’s good at asking questions. Finally, however, he wishes you goodnight, and your phone’s notifications clear for the first time since dinner.
You lay in bed and stare at the wall, wondering what Bucky looks like. You’ve created a mental picture of him in your head while you’ve been talking all evening, and you’re hesitant to hold onto it.
What if he’s ugly? What if I’m totally wrong and he’s not attractive?
You squeeze your eyes shut. It would be easy to look him up online. How many people named James have the same nickname as him? There’s bound to be a couple, but you know he lives in Brooklyn and he works in security. You could find him in less than an hour, maybe even less.
Go to bed, you silently chide yourself. It doesn’t matter what he looks like if you’re actually soulmates. You repeat this to yourself a few times before you start to drift off, and when you open your eyes again, the room is brighter and your alarm is ringing, reminding you to drag yourself out of bed so that you can clock in on time.
Your workday moves slowly, and your schedule is jam packed. The only redeeming part of the day is that it’s Friday, which means you get to work from home. Despite this, every meeting you have feels like it takes hours, and you barely get through your daily tasks before it’s time for you to log off for the weekend.
The project that’s been looming over your head for the past three weeks gets pushed out of your head as you close your laptop and hurry to your closet. Bucky had agreed to meet you at your favorite coffeeshop shortly after four o’clock, which means you only have thirty minutes to find something to wear and catch the train.
You settle for a pair of jeans, boots, and a newly favorited shirt, then exchange your jacket for an actual coat as an afterthought. The city is quickly descending into its nighttime December chill, and you know you’ll regret it later if you don’t have a heavy outer layer.
Slipping your arms into the sleeves, you hurry down the stairs and down the street to the subway, where you catch the train right as it pulls up. It feels like a miracle, and when you get to the coffeeshop and there’s an open table, it feels like you’re destined for some luck. On a Friday in December, finding a table is usually next to impossible.
The cozy interior of the cafe is one of the reasons you’d picked this shop to meet up with Bucky. It’s been one of your favorites since moving to Manhattan. It’s nearby one of the city’s older parks. You’d found it by accident one day when you were exploring. The smell of espresso and pastries had lured you inside, but it was the art and the overstuffed chairs that had held you captive all the way until closing that day.
The owner has clearly leant heavily into the holidays. String lights are strung around the room and someone has tucked garland above the windows, tucking the lights into the branches. It’s warm and comfortable inside, and the scents of cinnamon, peppermint, and chocolate wafting through the air make you jittery and excited, as if you’re a kid coming home to a table full of sugary treats. Some vaguely familiar singer is crooning over a speaker somewhere as you tuck yourself into a corner seat where you can see the entrance.
This is a good sign, you tell yourself. Maybe he’s the one.
There’s a finality in those words and you have to pause and breathe for a second. You glance up at the door again, feeling a little like someone’s watching you, but everyone is looking down at their devices or talking to the people at their tables. There’s only one person not doing either one of those things—a short woman with a frizzy white perm—and she’s telling the barista about her granddaughter’s dance recital. She even has her phone held out over the counter so she can show off the pictures she’d taken.
You stifle a smile at the way the barista is nodding along as the woman continues to add more and more details to her store, then pull your own phone out of your jacket pocket. There’s a message from Bucky. Your smile droops a little when you see it.
James: I’m sorry, I can’t make it today. Work emergency.
You stare at it for a minute, then glance up at the entrance again, as if the message will disappear and he’ll miraculously be standing near the glass doors. Slowly, you look back down at your phone and type in a response. It feels like your brain is full of static and you have to hold back tears as you press send.
You: It’s okay. We can find another time. Hope everything’s okay.
Much to your surprise, he replies right away.
James: I was looking forward to meeting you.
You: Same, but at least I still have coffee. :)
The smiley face at the end feels entirely too fake, but you keep it. You’re tucking your phone in the pocket of your coat when you sense someone standing nearby.
“Y/N?”
Lifting your head, you meet the eyes of a tall black man in a leather jacket. He smiles warmly when you see him, and something about him seems oddly familiar.
“Can I help you?” you ask, a sitting up a little taller. Though you don’t sense anything threatening about him, you’re not about to admit to anything unless you know he means absolutely no harm.
“Bucky sent me. He’s sorry he couldn’t make it, but he wanted to make sure you got this.” The man holds up a small bouquet of flowers. They’re pink and dainty, and you wonder if Bucky picked them out for you specifically or if this man had. “He also wanted me to tell you that he called and gave the barista his card information, so anything you want is on him. Go crazy.”
You blink at him in surprise. It’s a thoughtful gesture, and your brain is still trying to process the fact that you’re not meeting your soulmate, but rather a stranger sent on his behalf. “What?”
“I’m Sam.” He holds out his free hand for you to shake, and you do after a second, when your brain starts to catch up with what he’s saying. “Bucky and I work together.”
“Oh. Were you not needed for the emergency?”
Sam winces a little. “No. Not yet, at least,” he adds. “If we’d had any say in it, I would’ve stayed back to care of things, but they specifically asked for Bucky.”
“So he sent you to give me flowers and tell me I could order coffee on him?”
Nodding, he replies, “And to make it very clear that he’s sorry he couldn’t be here. Emergencies in our line of work can’t really be ignored.”
“I mean, I guess, yeah. Security emergencies probably have to get fixed right away before the issue gets any bigger, right?”
Sam’s eyebrows shoot up and he gestures to the chair. When you nod, he sits down and sets the flowers between you on the table, then folds his hands.
“Security,” he repeats, a bit questioning, and you nod again.
“Yeah. Isn’t that what you two do? You said you were his coworker, right?”
“Yeah. Our job is… complicated, but I guess security’s the best word for it.” Sam leans back in the chair and crosses his arms over his chest. His eyes search your face for a moment before he asks, “How did you and Bucky meet?”
His expression is neutral, but you can tell when you’re being scrutinized, and you fight the urge to make yourself small. Something inside of you is saying that in order to win over Bucky, you need to win over his friends. You need to prove yourself.
“Through a Searcher.”
Sam raises his eyebrows again and lets out a long whistle. “A Searcher? Bucky didn’t say anything about that.”
Shit, you think, inwardly cringing. You hadn’t realized that Bucky wasn’t as open as you when it came to your plans. Then again, you probably should’ve guessed based on how locked down he kept his profile.
Wait, why is he keeping it a secret? Why wouldn’t he want people to know that he’s looking for his soulmate?
“That would make you the pretty girl he’s been texting,” Sam says, and a slow smile spreads across his face. He lets out a chuckle. “We didn’t realize you guys were soulmates.”
You can feel your face and ears growing warm, and you shift uncomfortably in your seat underneath his gaze. His eyes are twinkling with excitement and pleasure at finding out his coworker’s secret. There’s a pit in your stomach now that you know you should have said as little as possible.
“Well, we’re not— I mean, we haven’t—” you splutter, searching for the right words. “We don’t know for sure yet.”
“You mean that you haven’t met up yet? This was the first?”
When you nod, Sam straightens up again. The merry look in his eyes is quickly fading and you pull your hands from the table to fidget with the zipper on your coat. You haven’t even had the chance to take it off yet.
“Would you excuse me for a second, Y/N? I gotta check in with work real fast.”
Hesitantly, you nod again. “I’ll… get something to drink. Do you want anything? Since Bucky’s paying?”
That earns you a grin, and you feel your anxiety ease when his expression lightens. “I knew I liked you. Yeah, get me one of those peppermint mochas. My girl told me I’d like ‘em from here.”
You catch yourself glancing down at his left hand before you can stop yourself. There’s a gold band on his ring finger, and when you flick your eyes back up to his face in hopes that he didn’t notice you looking, his smile softens, enough that you can’t help but think that his wife is a lucky woman. In just a short amount of time, he’s proven himself to be a kind, genuine person.
If Bucky’s anything like him, I’ll be the luckiest person in the world, you think, allowing yourself to smile at the thought.
“It’s only been a few months,” Sam tells you. “I still can’t believe it.” He chuckles and shakes his head in amazement.
“Is she your soulmate?”
He nods. “Yeah. I’m lucky I found her. Well, she found me.”
Normally, you’d feel jealous. Every time you’d sat through people telling you the story of how they found their soulmate, you’d leave feeling like your face must be an unnatural shade of green. You’d go home seething with envy and cursing the universe over your lack of a present soulmate, and then you’d sulk on the couch for the rest of the evening. Now, however, you smile wide. You just feel happy.
As he heads outside, already typing on his phone, you join the short line at the register, your smile still lingering. The sun outside is setting quickly, casting a syrupy, golden glow throughout the cafe as the light slips between the buildings and spills in through the windows. The string lights twinkle merrily and the heat is working hard to keep it warm, however, and for a second, you can ignore the fact that you’ve been halfway stood up tonight.
You’re sipping your drink back at the table when Sam comes back inside. He picks up the red to-go cup you’d gotten for him, then nods at the one in your hand.
“I’ve gotta go, but you should stay here and finish that.”
You tilt your head, opening your mouth to ask why, but he shakes his head in response.
“Work thing. It was nice to meet you, Y/N. I’ll see you soon,” Sam says, and then he’s walking back out the doors to the street again, leaving you sitting alone at the table in the corner.
Though it’s a little strange that he left so quickly, you can’t hold it against him. He’d said it was work-related, and if Bucky was working an emergency situation, maybe Sam was too. Still, you stare at the door for a second before picking up your drink to take another sip. The coffee is warm and buttery and you close your eyes, trying hard to enjoy it.
You’re setting your cup back down on the table and reaching for the danish you’d purchased when there’s a loud explosion outside. You scramble out of your chair and away from the shop’s glass windows as an SUV rolls down the street, banging into a light pole and a bus stop in the process. The light explodes at the top of the pole and sparks rain down as the last of the sun slips below the horizon. People run screaming in the opposite direction, looking for safety as another explosion rattles the building. Furniture wobbles and tips around you. The lid on your coffee cup pops off, spilling the coffee when it hits the floor, the table only inches beside it. The danish is crushed.
You and everyone else in the coffeeshop watch in horror as pieces of buildings, cars, and items on the sidewalk go flying by, illuminated by streetlights and the colorful strings of holiday lights strung up in windows. Something hits the cafe’s window, cracking the glass, and you back up even further, bumping first into the wall beside you and then the person from the table between you and the counter. They steer you around them before you can apologize, and then the baristas are shouting, directing everyone into the back of the shop. You have no idea if it’s any safer there, but at least then you’re hidden from whatever or whoever is causing the chaos and destruction outside.
As you head toward the storage room, you take one last look out the windows. A man with dark hair in a black leather jacket is standing on the other side of the street. His figure is shrouded with shadows, enough that you can’t quite make out where the darkness ends and where he begins. You meet his eyes and a shiver runs up your spine. You rub at your wrist, wincing at the pain flourishing there. The man is staring at you with a look of utter horror and dismay, but before you can process what’s happening, you’re being pulled back by another customer and the man turns just in time to duck out of the way of an assailant dressed in dark red leather. You manage to grab your jacket and bag from the floor before you’re herded to the back of the store for good.
“What the hell is happening?” somebody asks as you enter the storage room. You’re the last person, and one of the employees shuts the door behind you. A man pushes a table in front of it and you move out of the way as another comes to stack boxes on top of it. They’ve already blocked the exterior door that leads into the alley with a set of metal shelves.
Several people are sitting on the floor—a woman dressed in business professional who clutches a laptop with both hands, two men sitting side-by-side and murmuring to each other, a college student texting frantically—and you join them in silence, waiting for an answer to the question that you were all thinking.
“Some kind of attack,” the college student says after a few moments. You glance over to see them scrolling through social media. “Captain America is out there, though.”
“More aliens?” asks the woman, and you feel the air of the storage room electrify at the word. Since the Snap, everyone has been on edge when it comes to extraterrestrials. Every single person on earth, not just New York, is painfully aware that another attack could come at any moment. Life is excruciatingly fragile, which is part of what convinced you to connect with Day. If you’re going to live a life that could be cut short in a split-second, you want to live it with your soulmate.
“It doesn’t say.”
You look around and then scoot back until you’re leaning against a box of pre-packaged coffee. There’s no telling how long you could be here. Another explosion makes the building shake and the lights flicker once, then twice, before finally turning off entirely, plunging the storage room into darkness. The building goes silent after that. There’s no hum of refrigerators or freezers, just the noise from the fight out on the street. If not for that, you could hear a pin drop in the storage room. Everyone seems to be holding their breath, as if you’re all waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I can’t die before I’ve met my soulmate. That’s not fair, you muse, closing your eyes when there’s another loud boom, this time farther away. It’s hard to keep yourself from spiraling, but you have to. The back room of a coffeeshop is no place for a breakdown. Nonetheless, your wrist feels like it’s on fire and your head is pounding. You can feel your pulse right behind your eyes.
The college student keeps track of the time and the battle for you, and the light from their phone slices through the darkness as they scroll through various apps, gathering information. When the noise outside starts to fade, they report that the battle has moved south, but that the city has ordered everyone to shelter in place until they’ve stopped the attackers and contained any major fires or damaged buildings.
After a half hour, you hear noise in the coffeeshop. It’s the closest anything has been since the start of the attack, and your heart thuds against your sternum once, then stops for several beats. Everyone freezes, and you look up from your phone. You’ve been trying to stay off of it and save the battery in case you’re here all night, but you wanted to see if Bucky had messaged you again. He hadn’t. You run your fingers over the letters on your wrist, which are red and irritated from the stress of the day. The sensation of your own touch sends pins and needles up your arm and you wince. It’s abnormal that the skin is affected at all by what’s going on in the world, but then again, you’ve never been caught in the middle of a potential alien attack. You hadn’t even been near the epicenter of the Snap when it happened—you’d been on a cruise off the coast of Alaska.
You lock your phone again and strain to listen past the heavy door. All you can hear are footsteps on shattered glass, but then the door handle jiggles. It’s locked, and after a second, the person on the other side starts knocking.
“Hello? Is anyone in there?”
Looking around at each other, one of the men who’d originally blocked off the door shakes his head. He stands slowly from where he’d been perched on the edge of a folding table, and the other man does too. One of them has a pocket knife, the other has a long-handled broom. You can’t imagine how they think those will last long in a fight against anything, but you’re grateful for their courage all the same. The college student points their phone flashlight at the door.
“It’s safe to come out now,” the voice says from the other side of the door. You frown, staring at the tile for a long few moments.
Why do they sound so familiar?
“Y/N, are you in there?” they ask.
Jerking your head up, you stare at the door with wide eyes. Whoever’s on the other side, they know you, and they know you’re here. You hadn’t told anyone else you were coming to the coffeeshop today.
“Y/N, it’s Sam Wilson.” The door handle jiggles again. “Everything’s contained, it’s safe for you guys to come out now.”
You get to your feet slowly, wincing at the stiffness in your legs from sitting in the same position for so long.
He came back to check on me? Did Bucky send him?
“Do you know him?” the woman whispers.
You’re still trying to process the fact that you’d been smack dab in the middle of an Avengers-level threat to acknowledge her question. Carefully, you step over the legs of one of the baristas that had moved to sit on the floor only five minutes before.
“Y/N?” Another knock.
You swallow against the dry, sandy feeling in your mouth that always comes when you feel anxious. “I— I’m here,” you call back.
There’s a moment of silence on the other side of the door, and then Sam asks, “Is anyone hurt? Can you open the door?”
The two men exchange glances, then look over at you. When you realize they’re waiting for you to say if it’s actually safe enough to open the door, you nod.
“We’re okay. We’re opening it now.”
All around you, the rest of the baristas and customers start to stand, stretch, and gather their belongings. The storage room stays eerily silent as you watch the two men deconstruct the barrier they’d created. When the way is finally clear, they unlock the door and pull it open.
Sam Wilson stands on the other side of the doorway, but you wouldn’t have recognized him had he not told you who he was.
The college student behind you speaks up first, and he says what’s going through everyone’s heads. “Dude, it’s Captain America!”
He offers polite nods and reassurances to the people around you, but when he finally sees you standing near the center of the storage room, he holds out a hand.
“Bucky asked me to make sure you got home safely,” he says.
You blink at him and it’s like your brain has finally started firing on all synapses, because you’re putting together the pieces of the puzzle you’ve been missing all day.
Sam Wilson. Captain America. James. Bucky. Bucky Barnes. The Winter Soldier. The Avengers.
“Holy shit,” you mumble, and then you step forward, letting him take your hand to lead you safely out of the destroyed coffee shop. Your boots crunch over glass as Sam helps you step through the rubble. Your headache is edging toward a full-blown migraine.
“Is he—”
Sam glances back at you when you stop mid-question. You want to ask where Bucky is, if he’s safe, and why he didn’t come find you himself, but you can’t bring yourself to pull the word from your thoughts. There’s a nagging fear in your mind that you may not like the answers. Your chest aches.
“He’s helping clear buildings farther south,” Sam answers, as if he’d been waiting for you to ask the whole time. “I’m supposed to be there too, but he asked me to come check on you first.”
Your mouth betrays your mind when you ask, “Why didn’t he come himself?”
That question earns you an irritated huff, and you immediately loosen your grip on Sam’s hand. He stops walking to look back at you.
“Do you want my opinion or what he’d want me to tell you?” he asks.
“Your opinion,” you reply, surprising yourself. You don’t know why, exactly, but you feel that you can already trust Sam to tell you the truth.
“He’s afraid that you’ll think of him only as the guy in the reports,” Sam tells you, glancing back into the coffeeshop, where the others are now traversing the remains of the shop and making their way out into the hazy city street.
Sirens blare somewhere behind Sam and there’s smoke sifting into the air from half-crushed cars and destroyed storefronts all around you. The smoke and fumes stings your eyes and makes them water, and you pull your shirt up over your mouth and nose. More people have started to venture out from their hiding places when your phone’s emergency alert goes off. Looking away from Sam, you read the notification telling you that it’s safe to head home, and that emergency shelters are open for those affected. You shiver, suddenly realizing that it’s still cold out and you’re not wearing your coat. You’d taken it off in the storage room when the close proximity of the others had been heat enough. Sam takes it from your hands and holds it up so you can slip your arms in.
Captain America is helping me put my coat on, you think as you do just that. Bucky Barnes was my date. How much more bizarre can this day get?
“We can talk more later, okay? I gotta get you home and safe so I can go help him.”
You nod in agreement and let Sam lead you down the street and around the corner, where a black SUV with tinted windows sits at the curb, eerily pristine in the wake of all the carnage and damage around you.
Sam approaches it easily and opens the back door, revealing a dark leather interior and a woman in the driver’s seat who turns around to smile at you. She’s beautiful and seems friendly, and her voice is chipper when she says,
“You must be Y/N.”
“Uh.. Hi?”
“This is Jen. She’ll take you home from here.” He reaches for your bag and you hand it over reluctantly.
“Do all Avengers have… chauffeurs? Just… on hand?” you ask, staring into the backseat of the car. There are water bottles in the cupholders and a little trash can attached to the back of the front console.
You really did trust Sam, but the day was getting weirder and weirder by the minute. You half expect Hawkeye to climb out of the passenger seat at this point. Silently, you peek over the backseat headrests, but there’s only empty trunk space.
He shakes his head and holds out a hand to help you into the car. “No. I called in a favor with a friend of mine. Believe it or not, we usually drive or take the subway.” Sam hands you your bag and you stare at him through the tinted window as he closes the door and waves. You’re too shocked by what’s happening to even try and picture Thor riding the subway, though you vaguely think that you’ll have a good laugh about it later tonight.
Jen starts driving and you sit back against the seat, then think twice and buckle your seatbelt. The car ride is silent except for the low drone of the car and whatever music Jen plays over the radio. It’s barely audible in the backseat, but she bops her head along to the beat and mouths the words as she navigates the crowded streets of Manhattan, which are made even worse by emergency vehicles, road closures, and mobs of people and cars evacuating away from the worst of the fight.
“Do you know what happened?” you ask, staring out the window at a woman on a stretcher being loaded into an ambulance. Flashing red and blue illuminate the crowd of crying people standing on the curb, watching the EMTs work.
“No idea,” Jen answers, her earlier bright tone dimmed slightly. “The first six blocks were only partially damaged—that’s where you were—but further south it’s…” She trails off, looking for the right word. You understand before she can find it.
“I’m glad that they’re there, then,” you murmur.
Jen hums in agreement and smoothly turns onto your street. It’s oddly quiet, given all that’s happened. You’d expected some of your neighbors to be outside the building, but the sidewalk is empty. The power is still on—holiday lights blink on balcony edges and in windows, and your downstairs neighbor’s Christmas tree is visible through the gauzy curtains of her living room.
“This it?” Jen asks as she slows to a stop, then parks against the curb. You nod and meet her eyes in the rearview mirror. “Stay safe, Y/N.”
“You too,” you tell her, and you mean it. “Are you going home after this?”
Jen nods and you grab the door handle, then pause. As nosy as it is, you have to know. “Sam said he called in this ride as a favor?”
“Yep.”
“Must’ve been a pretty big favor. I wouldn’t have gone out in these conditions unless I absolutely had to.”
She grins at that, turning around to look at you over her shoulder. “I used to be a Searcher.”
You pull your hand from the handle to look at her properly. “What?”
“I quit when I realized I didn’t like the pressure everyone put on me, but not before I met Sam and helped connect him with Day.”
“Day?” you ask.
How many Days live in New York? It can’t possibly be the same one…
“It was love at first sight.” Jen chuckles at your shocked expression. “But it always is for soulmates. She and I both worked at SLMTS. She’s your Searcher, if what Sam told me is correct.”
You nod, trying to connect the dots. “So when Sam said he called in a favor…”
She shrugs. “It was Day’s favor, technically, but she shared it with him. When she told me it involved soulmates, I couldn’t say no. I’ve always had a soft spot for true love.”
“He’s not my soulmate, or at least, I don’t know if he is or not. I’ve never even met him,” you admit. “We were supposed to meet for coffee today, but he didn’t show up. He sent Sam instead, and then…” You gesture toward the window and the chaos that lay somewhere behind it.
“Are you sure you’ve never met?” she asks, frowning slightly. “Bucky seemed pretty certain he’s at least seen you.”
“Yes, I’m—” You pause, remembering the man you’d seen from across the street before you’d hidden in the storage room. Pulling out your phone, you go to search up a photo of him, but it’s dead.
Another phone appears in your line of vision. “Here,” Jen says.
You take it and immediately open the internet, looking up pictures of Bucky Barnes. Your breath catches in your throat as soon as they load. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen a picture of him that isn’t from a courtroom or from his past, but the first result is crystal clear. Your heart leaps in your chest and tears prick at your eyes.
“It’s him!” You look up at Jen, who’s smiling fondly. “I have seen him! He was across the street from the coffeeshop before the baristas had us all hide in the storage room and block the doors!”
“And his initials?” She takes the phone from your hands.
Pushing up your sleeve, you hold out your wrist for her to see. Your heart is in your throat as she tenderly takes your wrist in her hands and turns it from side to side, inspecting the red, puffy skin bordering the thin black letters.
“It show all signs of a match,” Jen confirms. “The irritation and all other symptoms will lessen once you’re together again.”
“All other symptoms?” you ask, pulling your wrist back so you can look at the mark yourself.
“Your body’s adjusting to being near them. Having a soulmate affects every part of you, from your gut to your brain to your skin, and everything in between. It’ll take some time for your body to settle down again, but having him near will make it easier. That’s why most companies have soulmate leave.”
You swallow and nod. The headache makes sense now. “I should call them. My boss, I mean. I remember them saying something about that when I first started.”
“Get inside where it’s safe and get all of that sorted out now. You won’t want to have to worry about it once Bucky’s free to come find you.”
“You think he’ll know where to find me?”
That makes her chuckle. “Go upstairs, Y/N. He’ll show up eventually, I’m sure.”
Unable to stop yourself, you smile wide at her and grip the door handle again. “Thanks, Jen. It was nice to meet you.”
“You too.”
You head upstairs to your apartment with a new sense of purpose and a family of butterflies making their home in your stomach. You can’t remember ever being this excited for anything, and the fact that you don’t even know when Bucky will arrive make it all the more nerve-wracking.
Though all you want to do is wait by the door, you force yourself to go through your daily routine of tidying up your apartment, doing laundry, making dinner, and going through your workload for the next day, though you message your boss and explain the situation in case Bucky comes back tonight. They respond immediately, telling you that they’re glad you’re safe and that they’ve noted your time off in your team’s calendar.
The anticipation builds all evening, and as it gets later and later, you try to keep yourself busy. You adjust the ornaments on your Christmas tree three times before you put them back the way they were to start. You pop a pain pill when your headache worsens again, then sit down to watch a news report about Sam and Bucky helping with evacuations and clean-up. The sight of him, even digitally, makes the pain lessen and sends the butterflies back into a flurry.
As it nears midnight, you start to give up on the idea of Bucky finding you tonight.
I might as well head to bed, you think, trying not to feel too upset, though the word “heartbroken” comes to mind when the butterflies pound against your sternum, then fall flat at the bottom of the pit in your stomach. Maybe he’ll come by tomorrow. Or maybe I should go find him?
There’s a clattering noise out on the street as you pull open your dresser, and you pause, listening. Someone shouts, and against your better judgement, you peek out through your bedroom curtains.
Bucky is standing outside, still dressed in black. If it weren’t from the colored lights on the balconies and the singular streetlight on the corner, you wouldn’t have seen him. He meets your eyes immediately, like he’s been waiting for you to look out all night.
Frantically, you run to your living room and open the sliding door to the balcony, then step outside into the cold night air. Bucky has his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. His breath comes out in small white clouds that crowd around him, then float up into the city.
“What are you doing down there?” you call, hoping he can hear you despite the fact that you’re eight stories above him.
He watches you for a long moment, making you wonder if the internet had been wrong about his enhanced senses. When you open your mouth to repeat yourself, this time louder, he speaks up.
“I’m wondering if it’s a good idea for me to come up,” he calls back.
“Why?”
“Because you’re a very beautiful girl, and I’m not so beautiful right now.”
You squint down at him, trying not to smile at the compliment. There’s a smear of red on his face, and you can tell even in the poor lighting that his clothes are covered with dust and dirt. His eyes are tired.
“Would you believe me if I said I didn’t care?”
Bucky stares at you for a long moment, searching your face from far below. When he finally replies, his voice is softer, and you have to strain to hear him when he says,
“I’ll always believe you.”
Before you can reply, he starts toward the entrance to your building. You stand on the balcony long enough to watch him go inside. When the exterior door swings shut, you launch yourself back into the apartment and slam the sliding door shut hard enough that you think it might shatter. After a second, you close the curtain, too. You don’t want anyone looking in and spying on your first meeting with your soulmate.
The apartment is clean and cozy from your earlier cleaning, but now you stand in the middle of your living room, turning in a circle and wondering if Bucky will like it. You’re contemplating lighting the gingerbread-scented candle on your coffee table when there’s a knock at the door and you freeze. Your heart thuds heavily in your chest and the butterflies flutter back to life, sending a burst of energy through you, like you’d just had a shot of espresso.
Carefully, you cross the room to the door and look through the peephole. Bucky is standing in the hallway, looking entirely out of place against the light gray paint and drab carpet.
“You’re here,” you say as you open the door. “Like, actually here.”
He nods and searches your face. There’s a cut above his right eyebrow, though it looks like it’s healing, and he’s covered with a sheen of dust and sweat. The red smear you’d seen on his jaw is dried blood, but it doesn’t look like it’s his.
“I was worried you wouldn’t come,” you admit, trying desperately to fill the silence.
“I was worried you wouldn’t want me to,” he murmurs.
You frown and step aside, motioning for him to enter. He steps inside your apartment, being careful to stay on the square of vinyl tile right inside the door. You look the door with both the deadbolt and the chain, then turn. With both of you on the tile, you’re almost nose to nose, and you can feel the heat coming off of him. It makes your heart skip a beat and you swallow nervously.
“We’re soulmates. Of course I want you here.”
Bucky licks his lips and then briefly looks away, taking in the quiet of your small apartment. It’s a one-bedroom that you’ve lived in for years now, since moving back to New York when your mom disappeared during the Snap. You’d wanted to be close to where she had lived, and when she reappeared, you stayed. The previous tenants had decided to move away from the city—and the Avengers—after reappearing themselves, and they’d graciously allowed you to stay without a legal battle, unlike some of your neighbors. Your mom decided to move out of the city, saying something about wanting to enjoy a quiet life. Since then, you’ve made the place your own.
“You know about my past,” he says, more of a statement than a question, and you nod in response. “And?”
“And…” You begin, knowing that your next words are critical. You hadn’t thought up an answer to this question in advance, though you’d thought up the answers for a thousand others, so you’re slow to reply. “And I know that you’re a good man despite all of the bad things you’ve been forced to do.”
“Forced?” There’s a trace of self-hatred in the word and it makes your heart ache. The idea of him hating himself makes you want to cry.
I don’t want anyone to hate him, you think.
A surge of protectiveness wells up in your chest, making you stand a little taller. You grab his hand, immediately realizing that it’s his real one when the skin gives under your grip, and squeeze.
“Would you do those things today? If somebody asked you to?”
He looks you in the eye and answers immediately, “No.”
“Then you were forced. You’ve more than made up for everything, at least in my book. You brought my mom back after the Snap.” There’s a lump in your throat at the memory of being suddenly without her for so long.
Much to your surprise, Bucky squeezes your hand. “I’m sorry you lost her.” He pauses. “My friends were the ones who brought her back. I was gone, too.”
“But you fought Thanos. If you’d lost, who knows what would have happened. Whether or not you were gone for those five years wouldn’t have mattered then.”
He nods in agreement, then takes another look around your apartment. You fall silent, watching and waiting for some kind of reaction. You want him to like it—you want him to feel as much at peace here as you do. It’s your sanctuary, and you hope that he’ll feel that way too.
“Can I—?” He gestures toward the living room and you nod quickly, stepping out of his space, though it’s more difficult than you’d like to admit to be out of arm’s reach of him.
“Yes, sorry. Come in.”
He toes off his boots without being asked and nudges them into place next to yours. Then, Bucky steps further into your apartment. You wait for him to move, not wanting to intrude on his train of thought as he takes in the photos on your walls, the furniture you’ve collected over the years, and the trinkets you’ve picked up on your travels and received as gifts from your friends and family. He lifts a gloved hand to touch the plastic needles on your Christmas tree, then rest a glass ornament in the palm of his hand. The contrast of the glittery, fragile glass in his hand is striking, and you watch with bated breath.
“You’ve made it a home,” he finally says, meeting your eyes.
Your heart lifts and you smile wide at him. When he smiles back with a cautious, unsure kind of smile, you’re struck by the vibrant blue of his eyes and the crinkles that form at the corners. You’re distracted by just how handsome his is for just a moment, and then you clear your throat and divert your gaze, feeling the blood rush to your cheeks when he says your name.
“I was staring, I’m sorry,” you say.
“It’s okay.” He shakes his head and re-enters your personal space, making you look back up at him. “I'm used to it.”
You furrow your eyebrows at him. “That doesn’t make it okay.”
He hums quietly and you watch him quietly as he looks over the living room again. His eyes catch on the dirty pan on your stove. You’d left it there after dinner, unwilling to stay away from the door long enough to properly wash it. When you’d decided to go to bed, you’d fully planned on leaving it to soak in the sink all day tomorrow.
“Let me make you something to eat,” you find yourself saying, realizing that he’s probably starving after the fight and, consequently, the aftermath.
Bucky shakes his head. “I’m okay.”
Narrowing your eyes, you cross your arms over your chest and stare until he sighs and relents. As soon as he gestures toward the kitchen, you drop your arms and hurry to the fridge to find something for him.
“You’re not allergic to anything, are you?”
“I’m… lactose intolerant. At least I used to be, before HYDRA. I still eat that way sometimes.”
“Do you like eating lactose intolerant?” you ask.
He pauses, then shrugs. “It’s not… a conscious thought. Sometimes I just find myself making or eating something without dairy out of habit.”
“That’s nice,” you reply after a second. “That your body remembers that, even if you don’t really need to anymore.” He hums in response.
Opening the fridge, you stare at its contents for a second before you start to pull out containers and packages. Bucky takes them from you before you can protest, and he arranges them on the counter beside him.
You straighten up and close the fridge. After a second, you let your eyes trail down over Bucky’s clothes, which are still covered in dirt and grime. It looks even worse close up, though the cut near his eyebrow looks like it’s healed a little bit since he’d first knocked on the door.
“You probably want a shower, and to get out of those clothes,” you say. “At least, that’s what I would want if I were in your shoes. If you want, you can shower while I make you a plate.”
“Are you sure? I can stand while I eat.” Bucky searches your face for any sign of trepidation or lying, but you know he won’t find any.
“I’m sure,” you tell him, nodding. “If you hand me your clothes through the door, I’ll put them in the wash while you’re in the shower. Unless… they can’t be washed?”
You’re lucky enough to have a washer and dryer in your apartment, which would come in handy if he was wearing regular clothes, but you look over the leather jacket and tactical pants skeptically. Making their gear machine washable probably wasn’t something the Avengers ever had to consider, nor was it probably one of their top priorities.
“I’m not sure,” he answers with a small frown.
“Better not, then. My neighbor’s husband is roughly your size. I’ll see if they have anything you can borrow while you’re in there and I’ll just knock and leave it right outside the door if they do. Otherwise, my towels are really big, so… That should work until we can find something else. The bathroom’s the second door on the right, okay?” You gesture toward the short hallway that leads from your living room to your bedroom.
He nods, then hesitates.
“Is that okay?” you ask. “If you’re not okay with just the towel, maybe you could shower and then come right back?”
Bucky shakes his head. “I don’t want to leave. I just… You’re really okay with me being your soulmate? After everything?”
It hurts to think that Bucky doubts your connection with him. Slowly, making sure he can back out if he wants to, you take both of his hands in yours.
“I’m your soulmate, and you’re mine. We can’t argue against that, Bucky. I have waited for you and I have looked for you for years, and you’ve been doing the same thing for even longer, even if it wasn’t always conscious act. I want you. I want you more than anything in the world, and I’m going to fight for this with everything I’ve got for as long as I live. Nothing could convince me that you and I weren’t meant to be together. Okay?”
His eyes are shiny as he nods, then looks up at the kitchen cabinets behind you. He blinks a few times, trying to stave off the tears that have formed. Before he can do anything else, you release his hands and lean in, wrapping your arms around him in a tight hug, dust and dirt be damned. You know there’s more blood on his jacket—blood that doesn’t belong to him—but you don’t care. Showers and washing machines exist for a reason, and you’ve waited decades to hug your soulmate.
Bucky seems to have a similar idea because he hugs you back, but then you find yourself being pulled out of his grasp and picked up by the hips. You squeak in surprise, grabbing onto his arms for support as the floor disappears from beneath you. Almost as soon as he’s lifted you up, however, Bucky places you down on the edge of your kitchen countertop, in between a jar of salsa and a package of tortillas, and he crowds close. Your legs bracket him on either side and he threads his fingers through your hair. His metal hand rests on your thigh, a heavy presence that simultaneously calms your racing heart and stirs up the butterflies in your stomach. With one thumb near your jaw, he tilts your head back ever so slightly, then presses his lips to yours.
The world disappears from beneath you, and it feels like the butterflies have somehow lifted you up from inside. Bucky’s a good kisser, and you grip his jacket with both fists, clinging to what little extra fabric there is. He kisses you long and hard, only pausing to let you catch your breath, and by the time he finally pulls away, your heart is pounding again, your lips are swollen, and you’re likely only a few degrees away from a full-blown fever. On the other hand, your headache has long since disappeared.
“Too much?” Bucky asks, his breath hot against your face as his blue eyes search your expression.
You shake your head and grip his forearm with one hand. “No… No. That was… That was great.”
You’re dazed, embarrassingly so. It’s as if Bucky kissed all common sense out of you, because you lean forward and rest your forehead against the dusty shoulder of his jacket. He chuckles and runs his hand up and down your spine in long soothing strokes. You shiver underneath his touch.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks again. You can hear the pride in his voice and if you’d been any more put-together, you would’ve teased him about it, but you’re still gathering your wits.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been kissed like that. Is that a 40’s thing?”
Bucky huffs out a quiet laugh and helps you sit upright again. “I don’t think so. It’s just a you thing, sweetheart. You bring out the best in me.”
“I should bring out the best in you more often,” you reply, feeling a bit cheeky now that you’re sitting upright on your own now.
He grins and gives you a peck on the cheek. “I have to shower, still. You probably should change clothes, too.”
Glancing down at yourself, you realize that the filth from his clothes has transferred to yours. You can’t help but laugh. Carefully, Bucky helps you down from the countertop. You hold onto his hand even after your feet are firmly on the floor again, and when he walks down the hallway, you trail after him.
“One more,” he says, and you find yourself being pressed against the wall outside the bathroom door. Bucky kisses you gently, though his grip on you is firm, and you melt against him.
“If you keep kissing me”—you tease in between kisses—“then we’re never going to get clean, and you’ll waste away from hunger right here in my hallway.”
“I can think of worse ways to go,” Bucky replies.
You know that he can—literally—and you put your hands on his chest, pushing gently until he takes a step back.
“Shower, soldier. Let me clean up and make you something to eat, alright?”
“Y/N…”
“Let me take care of you. You’ve been taking care of people all day.”
The guilt in his expression melts into something new, and you can’t help but smile at him.
“When your initials started burning outside the cafe, I was worried that it meant something bad,” he admits, and your smile falters. “Now I know that it’s the opposite. You’re one of the best things to happen to me.”
The butterflies flutter again. “You hardly know me.”
“I know enough,” replies Bucky.
Smiling a little bit, you open the small linen closet beside the bathroom and pull out your biggest, softest towel, then hand it to him. He takes it gingerly, purposefully brushing his fingers against yours.
“Take as long as you need,” you tell him, and he nods, then steps into the bathroom and closes the door.
Silently, you change into your second set of clean clothes since coming home, then you head to the kitchen and brace your hands against the counter. You close your eyes and take a slow, deep breath to try and calm your galloping heart, but you only succeed in letting out a giddy laugh. You press your hand over your smile to try and keep quiet. Though you know he’s your soulmate and that logically, he shouldn’t be bothered, you don’t want Bucky to know just how excited you are. It feels silly and girlish.
I’ve waited forever for this, you think, turning around so you’re leaning against the cabinet. I can’t believe I finally found him.
Pushing up your sleeve, you look down at the inside of your wrist where the letters “JBB” are permanently etched into your skin. The letter are black and small, and you’d once spent hours in middle school comparing them with different fonts on the computer until your best friend had decided that “Didot” was the closest match. Only days ago you’d thought that going to SLMTS was a waste of time, energy, and money, but now you knew otherwise. The pink, itchy skin around the letters was proof, as was the man in your bathroom. The hero in your bathroom.
You stand in the kitchen for several long minutes, staring at the letters and rubbing your thumb over them with a stupid grin on your face, until the sound of the shower squealing to life in the bathroom brings you back to the task at hand.
Dinner for Bucky.
It’s a little nerve-wracking to think that you’re making dinner for both your soulmate and an Avenger combined, but then a snippet from your middle school history class stored deep within your brain reminds you that Bucky was alive during the Great Depression, and then you remember that he was also a soldier. The knowledge that he’s probably had a lot of truly terrible food in his life eases the pressure, so you push your sleeve down and get to work.
The door to the bathroom opens as you’re piling reheated grilled chicken onto the tortillas you’d warmed for him.
“I hope tacos are okay, I figured they’ve got lots of pro—”
You stop speaking as soon as Bucky appears at the end of the hallway. The towel is wrapped around his waist. He’s tucked it into itself near his hip. His metal arm gleams in the dim light of your apartment and you swallow thickly when you see the planes of muscle that had been hiding underneath his protective gear.
“I forgot to check with my neighbor,” you dumbly tell him, unable to take your eyes off his bare skin for a moment. When you finally look up to meet his gaze, he’s grinning at you.
“You’re staring again,” Bucky replies.
Your face feels hot and look away to flip off the stove burner, moving the pan away from the heat. You busy yourself with finishing his plate, and when Bucky approaches you, you keep your eyes down.
“Hey.”
Cautiously, you look over at him, pointedly looking straight at his face so you don’t get tripped up by his bare chest again.
“I don’t mind. I’m just teasing,” he says. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.” His smile is gone, replaced with worry, and you shake your head.
“No.” You clear your throat. “No, you didn’t. I’m just… adjusting. To having you here, you know?”
He nods. “I do. Not just to having you here, but being here. It’s a lot different from where I live.”
You hold out the plate and he takes it. “Tell me about your house?”
Bucky follows your lead back into the living room and he sits down on the couch, setting the plate on the coffee table in front of him. You grab your water bottle from earlier and curl up on the other cushion.
As he eats, he describes the various places he’s lived, starting with the apartment he grew up in. He pointedly skips over the places where HYDRA kept him prisoner, but you know better than to press. He’ll tell you when he’s ready.
It’s long past midnight by the time Bucky finishes his food and his stories. By then, you’re leaning against the back of the couch, blinking drowsy-eyed at him and reveling in the warmth of his hand on your knee. His thumb rubs a soft arc over your sweatpants, back and forth, over and over again.
“Pretty girl?”
You blink your eyes open to find Bucky leaning in. He chuckles when you squint at him, then grunt a little.
“You fell asleep. I think it’s time you head to bed.”
A yawn escapes and you bring your hand up to cover your mouth. You screw your eyes closed and duck your head in a poor attempt to hide it, but the yawn is a jaw-splitting one. Your ears pop and you shake your head. When you finally settle back down again and open your eyes, Bucky is disappearing into the kitchen. His empty plate and your water bottle are both gone.
“Bucky?” you call, biting back another yawn. You push yourself up with one hand just as he comes back around the corner. He’s found a gray t-shirt and pair of navy sweatpants and you frown, rubbing your eyes with a fist and pinching grit out of the corners.
“D’you go next door?”
He shakes his head and sits back down beside you, though he stays on the edge of the couch. “Sam dropped some stuff off for me,” he replies.
Nodding, you scoot forward until you’re seated on the edge of the couch, too. “I’m sorry I fell asleep.”
“S’okay. You held out until the very end.” Bucky pauses, glancing at the curtains behind you before looking back at you. “Would it be alright if I spent the night? I don’t know how fast this soulmate thing is supposed to go…”
You nod again. “It’s okay. You can stay as long as you want, James.”
He stares at you, his expression unreadable. “James?”
“I was just trying it out,” you quickly explain, shaking your head. “I must be more tired than I thought. It’s just… your initials have always been JBB to me, so I—”
“James Buchanan Barnes,” he murmurs. He looks down at his hands, then turns his wrist over to reveal your initials.
You smile a little. “Bucky for short.” You keep your voice low as you reach out and touch your fingertips to the tiny black letters on his skin, saying your full name for him.
“You can call me James, if you want. Not many people do.”
“No?” you ask, taking his right hand in yours. You stand and he copies you.
“My ma, mostly. Steve, if he was really mad at me. Drill sergeants, when they felt like being casual.”
“Did they feel that way often?”
He chuckles and shakes his head. “No.”
A beat passes and you smile at him, then squeeze his hand and step around the coffee table. Bucky follows you down the hallway to your bedroom, quietly letting you lead him down the path you’ve taken every night for years.
You drop his hand once you’re both inside. “This is it,” you announce, nervously clasping your hands in front of yourself. You hadn’t realized just how personal it would be to let your soulmate see your bedroom until now.
He surveys your tiny room—your haven, your retreat away from the world outside, including the living room, where you often work from home—and smiles softly.
“I like it,” replies Bucky.
Exhaling heavily, you nod and smile when he looks over at you in surprise. “Sorry, I’m just… I’m a little nervous. I don’t know.”
“It’s okay to be nervous.”
“Is it? You don’t seem nervous at all. You seem to be taking this whole soulmate-thing in stride. Not that I’m not,” you quickly add. “I’m— I'm ecstatic that we’re soulmates. To find the one person who’s supposed to complete you, the person I’ve been searching for my whole life is a big deal, and I’m thrilled! But it’s…”
“It’s a big change,” Bucky finishes. “I may not seem nervous, Y/N, but I am. I’m nervous as hell.”
“Really?”
He gives you another small nod. “This is new territory for me, too. I’ve faced a lot of scary things, but the prospect of my soulmate not liking me or being upset that I don’t like her…”
You grab his hand again and squeeze. “I like you, Bucky. I promise. I meant what I said before.”
“I know that, in my head. It just might take me a while to believe it.”
“Then I’ll remind you as many times as you need me to.”
Smiling, Bucky pulls you in for a hug. You close your eyes as he tucks you against himself, holding you securely in his arms. It feels right to be close to him like this. After a long while, he pulls away to look you in the eyes.
“You’re sure you’re okay with me staying here overnight? We could take things slow. I probably won’t sleep anyway, I’ve got insomnia, so I tend to watch TV or read at night.”
You nod. “I’m sure. Besides, it’s just like a sleepover right now. Nothing has to happen, and I’m a heavy sleeper. You won’t wake me up.”
“Nothing has to happen,” he confirms, and then he releases you all the way.
You step back and go around to the opposite side of the bed to start your nighttime routine, though you’re ultra aware of the fact that Bucky is watching you. As you gather up your pajamas, you glance at him.
“I’m gonna shower. You can… There’s books, if you want, and the remote for the TV is on my nightstand. Watch whatever you want, okay?”
He nods and before there can be any more pre-bedtime awkwardness, you duck into the bathroom and shut the door behind you. You feel the butterflies stirring as you shower and get ready for bed. All you can think about is how your soulmate is in your bedroom waiting for you, and though you’ve both already agreed that nothing will be happening tonight besides sleep, it’s the first time you’ll be able to fall asleep next to someone you’re certain loves you, and to wake up beside them again in the morning.
When you finally emerge, feeling clean and cozy in your pajamas, you pause in the doorway. The TV is on, playing an animal documentary at a volume so low you can barely make out what the narrator is saying, but Bucky isn’t watching it. He’s fast asleep under the covers. He’s tucked himself underneath the covers on the side of the bed you don’t normally sleep on—clearly he’d made a note as to which nightstand had all your things on it and which one was mostly empty—and he’s snoring softly.
I should’ve figured he’d fall asleep right away, you think as you tiptoe into the bedroom and finish your routine in silence. He was out fighting the bad guys earlier today. I’m exhausted and all I did was hide.
You crawl under the covers, being careful not to bump into him, and curl up. The bed is already warm, a testament to the benefits of soulmates that you hadn’t thought of before now. You smile to yourself when Bucky rolls over to face you, his eyes opening just a sliver as you reach over to turn off the bedside lamp.
“You gonna sleep?” he asks, more a slurred mumble than an actual question. When you hum in response and snuggle further under the blankets, he reaches out for you and pulls you against him so that your back is pressed up against his chest. His arm drapes over your side and you can feel his breath on the top of your head when he exhales.
“This okay?” he asks.
“Yes. Goodnight, James,” you whisper.
“Goodnight, pretty girl.”
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