Eighth entry in the widow!jack ficlet series. minor spoilers for the finale. As always, thanks to @tanely
wc: 900
Previous Series Masterlist
“I have a plan for tonight,” Jack said as the two of you walked into the building side by side. “Something to get the shift off on the right foot.”
“You don’t have a right foot,” you responded without missing a beat.
Jack’s steps stuttered to a halt and he turned to you with a pout, hazel puppy eyes in full effect. “Baby…”
You looked at him with a raised brow. “Yes?”
A slow grin covered his face. “That was really good. I’m stealing that one.”
“Thank you. I’ve been sitting on it for months waiting for the opportunity to use it.”
He placed a hand on your back and steered you into the department. Once your things were stowed away and handoff had been completed, he called for night shift to gather up.
“Alright, we’re going to try something new tonight. A little pep talk of sorts.” He crossed his arms and gave a nod of his head. “We are the night crawlers. We deal with the weirdest and wildest because we are the weirdest and wildest of them all. Hooah!”
Everyone just stared at him.
He threw his arms out. “Well come on. Hooah with me. Hooah!” The response was less than enthusiastic and Jack scowled. “Get to work.” Once they moved off, he turned to you. “They’ll get used to it.”
You just watched him with a blank face.
“What’s the matter?”
“You think I’m a worm.”
His brow furrowed. “What? Baby what—”
“Night crawlers are worms Jack. I saw you step on a worm just yesterday.” Your even tone never fluctuated.
“Baby, no. I love you. That’s not what I meant.”
You gave him one last disappointed expression and turned away to start checking on the residents. He started to follow and you glanced over your shoulder. “Get to work, Jack. Worms don’t need supervision.”
Jack backed off but muttered to himself. “Yes, they do. They get eaten all the time. They’re weak. Who’s going to protect her from a bird?
Lena just blinked at him over her glasses and shook her head.
The night continued in that vein until around 04:00 when you intercepted a coffee delivery in the ambulance bay. You carried the multiple drink carriers to the hub. “Where are my night crawlers at?” you called.
In no time at all, various staff members, who weren’t otherwise occupied, crowded around you at the hub. They thanked you as they took their drinks and wandered off. You sipped at your coffee as you turned and found Jack standing behind you, arms crossed, scowl on his face. “Yes, dear?”
“That’s my thing. You can’t just steal it.”
You took another sip of your coffee. “Steal what?”
“Night crawlers.” When you didn’t say anything, he continued. “You said it was stupid.”
You scoffed. “I did not. You said I was a worm. That’s rude.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “That…I didn’t…You know what? Fine. You’re a worm. I hope a bird eats you.”
You gasped. “Jack Hector Abbot, you take that back.”
He snatched the coffee from your hand (which was really his anyway) and walked away. “Nope. Be nice or I’ll use you to catch a fish.”
When Robby arrived in the morning, you and Jack were standing on opposite sides of the hub. He looked between you then to Dana and Lena. “What happened?”
“Jack said he hopes I die,” you answered.
“What?” Robby found that really hard to believe. Jack was crazy about you.
“I did not,” Jack protested.
“You did.”
“Not.”
“So.”
Robby held up his hands and sighed. “Okay. Enough.” He turned to look at you. “Mrs. You first.”
“He called me a worm and then said he hopes a bird eats me. Threatened to feed me to a fish.”
That…was not even on Robby’s long list of all the things he thought you might say. He turned to Jack. “Mr. You next.”
“I called her a night crawler as in one who dwells in the night. Not a worm. And of course, I don’t want her die. I’d love her even if she was a worm.”
Robby wondered, not for the first time, why he had to exist in the same space as the two of you.
“You would?” you asked. “Really?”
Jack nodded making his way around the hub toward you. “I’d get you a little terrarium and everything. You’d love it.”
You laid a hand on his chest and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. “I love you, too. Probably not if I was a worm though.”
“Why not? That’s—”
Robby held up a hand again. “Please don’t continue this conversation. I beg of you.”
Jack huffed in annoyance but you nodded. “Of course, Mike. I understand. Emotions make you uncomfortable.”
Robby tipped his head back with a groan. “Can we please just do handoff like regular doctors? You know like they do in literally every other hospital on the planet? Please? Just once.”
You patted his arm as you walked by him. “Sure. I’m sorry. We’ll behave.”
As you continued down the hall, Robby called after you. “Where are you going?”
You just waved and kept going and he turned to look at Jack who shrugged. “She can’t do handoff. She’s just a worm. What do you expect? Get it together, man.”
summary: 5.2k. you drunk-dial your ex-situationship
cw: pov switching, thunderbolts era, fluffy caretaking, mild angst, day-drinking, hurt/comfort, mild brat-taming, Bucky has the patience of a saint, mentions of sex/hooking up
an: inspired by “Go Go Juice" by Sabrina Carpenter. this turned out so much mushier than I expected and with no explicit smut, who am i
| masterlist
Somehow, and for reasons that were almost certainly not your fault, your day-off mimosa had turned into three cosmopolitans (if you could call vodka with a whisper of whatever pink mix you had in your pantry a cosmo) and two shots of whiskey. You think they were roughly shot-sized. Close enough, at least.
You tipped the bottle back again, amber liquor sloshing into your mouth, and you grimaced as you swallowed. It wasn't yours. It was Dylan's—gag—, but you weren't about to let perfectly good liquor go to waste. Not when you could put it to use, blunting the sharp edges of your broken heart.
Six months, including a whole holiday season, you'd sunk into that capricious fucker, and he'd dumped you via text en route to the Valentine's Day dinner you'd planned.
You took another swig of whiskey, glaring at the offending device on your coffee table. Full of nothing but fuck boys and fuck heads and fucking limp-dick bitch boys—and him.
The bottle hit the table with a clatter as you set it down. Nope nope noooope. You weren't supposed to think about him, especially not after a few drinks. You'd built a firewall between that year, those memories, and yourself.
Do not pass go. Do not think about B—
You snatched up the bottle again, poured the lukewarm dregs of it into your mouth. Letting the liquor burn away the forbidden thoughts. Fuck, you needed an omelette and a nap.
And therapy, probably.
Omelette first.
You pushed to your feet and the room twisted, your body floaty and a little numb as you picked across your apartment to the kitchen. Reached for the pan, missed, decided on popcorn instead. Grabbed the bottle of strawberry vodka still in your freezer from Galentine's while the kernels popped. Checked the oven clock, 10:44 a.m., and you pretended you hadn't seen it.
Popcorn bowl in hand, you landed safely on the couch once again. The strawberry vodka went down too easily, viscous and syrupy on your tongue.
A memory slipped free, lubricated by the liquor. A date night at his apartment in Upper Manhattan. Billie Holiday playing on the record player in the corner. He cooked for you, despite still relearning how, and spun you around the kitchen like the lead in those black-and-white films he made you watch. For dessert, you'd had strawberries, whipped cream, and his mouth between your legs on the kitchen counter.
The liquor turned bitter on your tongue, but you still drank it.
You didn't remember picking up your phone, but the LED screen was bright in the dark hole of your apartment, thumb scrolling through your contact list.
Shawn? No.
Jake? Married now.
Harry? Hell no.
Dylan? Too soon.
Bucky? Your thumb hovered over his contact. His picture was still the selfie he'd taken of the two of you snuggled up in your bed, your hair half-covering his face, but his grin was palpable as he gazed down at you. It still sent your heartbeat galloping away every time you saw it, but you couldn't bring yourself to change it.
You'd met not long after the Blip, when the world was trying to reorient itself after half the population suddenly returned. You and Bucky had created a safe-haven of sorts, a solid place to land while you both healed.
It had been almost three years since he'd broken things off without warning. All but ghosting you not long after the night with the strawberries. Just days after that photo was taken.
It was never official, you reminded yourself. Just a situationship. A months-long situationship in which you felt more for him than anyone else you'd ever been with combined—but a situationship nonetheless.
The liquor had hold of you now, thick and pounding through your bloodstream, phone screen pulsing, then splitting as your eyes began to cross. Double vision, like the relationship you thought you'd had with him, and the reality of it.
Your thumb was moving before your brain could catch up, and his voice suddenly filled your apartment. Gruff and impersonal, but it still made your heart flutter.
“You’ve reached Bucky Barnes. If it's important, leave a message. If not…don't.”
Beeeeeeep.
—
Bucky’s fist connected with the punching bag, the thwack echoing loudly through the empty gym. He’d lost track of time in the concrete, windowless space, and that's exactly how he liked it. Buoyed by the quiet, the shelter from reality.
Therapy this morning had gone poorly. His therapist wanted to talk about his relationships, his emotional connections that went beyond obligation, and Bucky hadn't been able to provide a satisfactory answer, apparently. Mostly because he refused to talk about you.
Thwack. The energy from the hit reverberated up his metal arm, buzzing across his shoulders and down his spine.
He never let himself think about you, never let himself wonder if he'd made the right decision, never let himself imagine what things would be like if he had stayed. If he had been honest with you.
Thwack.
It didn't matter, anyway. He was certain you'd moved on, had seen the photos of that weasel on your social media pages. And he genuinely hoped you were happy with him, even if you were lightyears out of his league.
Thwack.
That's all Bucky ever wanted—for you to be happy and safe.
It's the reason why he did what he did, even though it felt like taking a lamb out into the yard and shooting it at the time.
Thwack, thwack, thwack—SNAP.
The chain holding the bag snapped, sending the bag flying across the space and slamming into a rack of dumbbells with a deafening crash.
Bucky shook out his fist. That was probably enough exercise for today.
He took a few gulps of water from the bottle and gathered his things. Pulled out his phone to check the time.
1 missed call from DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT.
1 new voice message from DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT.
He froze, staring down at his phone screen. You hadn't called him since the week after the breakup, when you'd left him a message to tell him you'd left some of his things outside his apartment. Nearly three years ago.
His thumb hovered over the message. It could be nothing, he told himself. Or, you might be in trouble.
“Fuck it," he muttered to himself, and hit play.
“Heeey, Bucky, it’s—hyuk—meee.” God, you sounded drunk. “I, umm, just wanted to see how you were d-doing. Maybe we could—hyuk—hooks up, er, no—hang out sometime?” you trailed off, faux-cheeriness slipping away. He could practically hear the sadness in your voice, and it made his chest ache. “Actually, f-forget I said anything—I’m just, fuck, ignore me. Sorry, I—I hope you're doing good, B.”
The call ended with an abrupt click.
Oh, you poor thing.
Wasted and crying at 11 a.m. on a Tuesday. So very unlike you, which meant something must have gone very wrong.
He showered quickly, racing the voices in his head telling him this was a mistake, and set off in the direction of your apartment before he could talk himself out of it.
You answered the door after about a dozen increasingly frantic knocks. He'd been pulling his phone out to call you when he heard the dead bolt slide into the wood.
It took you a second to adjust to the bright light of the hallway, lashes fluttering over red-rimmed eyes. You were still dressed in your pajamas, a tiny tank top, and shorts with delicate scalloped edges. Even in this state, you were more beautiful than the rose-colored lens of his memory.
With some effort, he glued his eyes to your face as you finally processed who was standing in front of you.
“Your hair is longer," you said finally, the words a little gooey, syllables sticking to the roof of your mouth.
God, he'd missed you so much. “It is," he replied, and you said nothing, doe-eyed and blinking. "Not a fan?” he pressed, running his fingers through it to smooth it back, still damp from his hurried shower.
He could practically see the gears turning in your head. You opened your mouth, closed it, then sighed. “Bucky, what’re you doin’ here?"
“You called," he shrugged. Trying to play it cool, like his insides weren't a tangled mess of worry.
You looked exhausted, bleary-eyed, and unsteady on your feet. He wanted to scoop you up and carry you to your bed right then and there. He maybe would have if he thought you wouldn't kick and bite like a feral cat. No one was safe when you were a little bit drunk.
“Sounded like you could use some company," he continued.
“Didn't think that you'd pick up. I’m f-fine," you lied, picking at the chipping paint on the door.
“Can I come in anyway?"
You contemplated this, gaze sweeping over him, and he resisted the urge to puff up his chest.
“Don't you have like, hero shit to do?"
“Nah, it's quiet today," he lied. The Thunderbolts were actually scattered across the city right that moment, gathering intel. But they could handle it. Right now, the only person he was concerned about saving was you, even if it was just from a nasty hangover.
He saw the moment you relented flicker across your eyes, and you turned your back on him, disappearing into the cave of your apartment. He followed closely behind, closing and locking the door behind him.
It was unusually dark in there, the only light coming from the edges of the curtains and the glowing TV. You were watching some 90’s sitcom he vaguely recognized, and returned to your nest on the couch, drawing the blanket around your body.
The apartment was mostly how he remembered it, with some new art and a larger bookcase. It was definitely messier, though, with empty cups and bowls on the coffee table, dishes piled up in the sink, and a small mountain of laundry in your reading chair by the window.
“You're judging me," you accused, that drunken lilt tripping over the g’s.
“I am not." And he wasn’t, though he could tell you were a little embarrassed, even when thoroughly intoxicated. "I'm the last person to be dispensing judgment.”
“Please, your place was always immaculate." You rolled your eyes and reached for a bottle of something pink on the coffee table.
“Yeah, because I knew you were going to be there." He snatched it out of your hand before you could neck it.
“Hey—excuse you," you bit, trying to grab at it.
He held it high, suppressing a smile while he read the label. “Frisky Vodka?" he raised an eyebrow. “Salacious Strawberry—" he took a few steps towards the kitchen as you jumped to your feet, lunging at him, clumsy and slow from the alcohol.
“Bucky! Stop it—"
“—serve alongside a summer salad, vanilla cake, or at the beach with a handsome lifeguard—”
“Can you not—"
“140 proof!" he gasped, pausing by the sink. “Doll, this will strip paint."
“I swear to fuck—" You threw yourself at him, grabby hands batting at his chest and shoulders. You always were a spirited little thing.
He adored you so much it made his ribs ache.
Bucky tsked. “Language." He tipped the bottle over and poured it into the sink.
“Who the hell do you think you are barging in here—"
“You let me in," he countered, washing the liquor down the sink. The smell alone made his teeth ache. "You called me, sweetheart. You knew how this was going to go. I’m not one of the little party boys in your phone.”
You sucked your teeth, glaring daggers at him. You knew he was right. If you wanted a random hook-up or meaningless attention, you would have called any of the other drooling dogs on your phone. The thought alone made his stomach twist, his vision fill with blood. But instead, you'd called him.
There was a reason, whether or not you'd even admitted it to yourself.
“So, are you going to let me take care of you, or are you going to keep being a brat?"
“I hate you.”
“You can hate me while walking. Go take a shower, and I'll make you something real to eat.” Yes, he'd noticed the half-eaten bowl of popcorn. You’d need a lot more than that to soak up the strawberry-flavored lighter fluid you were drinking.
“You can't tell me what to do in my own apartment!"
“I believe I just did." He started collecting things to make brunch, surprising even himself with how well he remembered the layout of your kitchen.
Your eyes narrowed, arms crossed over your stomach. “You're different."
He paused his rummaging through your alarmingly empty refrigerator. “Good different?" he asked, glancing at you over his shoulder.
“I haven't decided."
“Well, I always do my best thinkin’ in the shower. So get to it." He retrieved the carton of eggs at the very back, and by the time he straightened up, you'd stalked down the hallway. A door slammed shut a moment later.
Twenty minutes later, he plated a cheesy omelette and some tater tots—they were basically hashbrowns, right? Along with a few orange slices and the largest bottle he could find, filled with ice water. He’d also taken the liberty of starting a load of dishes and cleaning out the old food from your fridge.
He'd been about to run the trash when you came padding down the hall, dressed in a new set of pajamas, your hair tied up in a towel. The smell of your body wash caught him across the chin like a sucker punch, and he had to grip the edge of the counter so he didn't fall to the ground and start panting.
He was here to take care of you, nothing else.
You looked decidedly less hostile as you sat on one of the stools, even offering him a timid, melty smile when you took in the cleaner kitchen and steaming food. “Thanks, B," you mumbled while you tried to stab a tater tot. You missed, trying twice more before giving up and grabbing it with your fingers, popping it into your mouth.
Bucky didn't trust himself to speak around the heart-sized lump in his throat, so he nodded and nudged the water towards you.
“I promise I'm not an alcoholic," you said, and he snorted a laugh. “It's just been…" You trailed off, pushing eggs around your plate.
Bucky leaned on his elbows across from you, getting down to your eye level. “You don't have to explain anythin’ to me. Not ever," he said, and you nodded, swallowing hard. “Eat up."
But before he could turn back to the dishes, you spoke up again, all in a slurring rush. “He ghosted me on Valentine's Day. Used the reservation I made to take another girl. I should have known he just wanted to fuck me, he was always so weird and flakey and god—it was so fucking stupid. I just never thought he'd do something that shitty, y’know?"
Bucky contemplated this, untangling your scrambled words. “You dumped him?"
You nodded, unable to meet his eyes.
“You want me to kill him?"
The corner of your mouth tilted up a tiny bit.
“I've got the clearance. I can make it look like an accident—”
“No, no," you giggled, shaking your head. "No murder.”
“That's what the clearance is for. It's not technically murder," he corrected, unable to stop himself from smiling back at you.
“No assassinations, then." You pronounced the word with about a dozen extra s’s, and he felt like he might keel over if his heart didn't return to a normal rhythm soon.
“Fine, no assassinations," he said. "I’m sorry he treated you like that. You aren't stupid, and it wasn't your fault. You don't deserve to be left hanging.”
Your smile faltered, gaze dropping back down to your plate. “And yet, it keeps happening,“ you muttered.
He realized his mistake, then. “Doll—"
“I know, Bucky, I know," you cut him off, waving your fork in the air. “You’ve got more important shit to do, like saving the world from purple aliens and, like, Russians or something. It's fine. We don't have to talk about it."
It felt like you stabbed the fork between his ribs, twisting the tines through the fragile skin of his lungs.
“Just—just forget it. It's fine. Thank you for breakfast.” You pushed the plate away, jumped to your feet too fast. Your balance failed, legs moving too slowly to catch you, but luckily, Bucky was quicker, and he caught you around the middle before you cracked your head on the counter.
“Easy now, I gotcha’." He shifted you back onto your feet, grip tight around your body to ensure you didn't fall again. You were trembling and hot to the touch, hands clammy against his arms. Your hair towel had fallen off, cold strands tumbling over your shoulders. You seemed very pale all of a sudden. " Let me get you into bed, yeah? C’mere, honey—”
“No—" you tried to protest, but he was already scooping you beneath your knees, lifting you carefully into a bridal hold. Trying his very best not to jostle or move you too quickly.
“You look like death warmed over, doll. Pipe down and let me help you." He started moving towards your bedroom, the path so familiar he could chart it with his eyes closed.
You swatted weakly at his chest, but didn't protest, head lolling against his shoulder. You were so limp in his arms, so trusting, and he was deeply grateful you'd had the foresight to call him, and not one of those other dipshits who might have taken advantage of you. It healed something in him to know how much you trusted him, even after everything he'd done. Maybe he really wasn't the monster he saw in the mirror.
“Just wanted to fuck you," you mumbled into the hollow of his throat, lips brushing his skin.
He barely stifled a laugh at your bluntness. “Did you?" he asked, stepping over a pile of clothes and into your bedroom. “That's why you called, huh?"
You nodded. “But you're being mean." Your voice was barely above a whisper, fading as you drifted closer to sleep.
“I know, doll," he hummed, unable to resist placing a kiss on the furrow between your brows. You wouldn't remember it anyway; he was being selfish. “And you can curse me out all you like tomorrow."
“Bet your ass I will…”
“Oh, I'm counting on it." But his words hung empty in the air. By the time he got to your bedside, you were fast asleep, tiny snores tickling the hair around his throat. Careful not to wake you, he tucked you beneath the covers, arranged your hair so it wouldn't soak your pillowcase.
He retrieved a wastebasket, your water, and a few Advil, setting them all within arm's reach on your nightstand. Then he plugged in your phone, turned on all your little ambient lamps around your room to make it cozy, and put your comfort show back on, volume all the way down.
Satisfied that you were settled and safe, he debated whether he should stay. What if you woke up and needed him? What if you really were ill?
He decided to stay just a little longer, to finish cleaning up the kitchen and take the trash. That's the last thing anyone wants to do when they're hungover.
But when that was done, he decided to tidy up the living room, just a little bit. Throw away the old flowers and dust the shelves, straighten your desk, and put any stray items where they belong.
But then he might as well fold the pile of laundry. It was taking over your favorite chair after all, and you'd probably want to sit there later. So he folded your laundry, pretending not see the more delicate items in the pile that made his blood pressure rise, or the old t-shirt he'd been missing, the fabric significantly more worn than the last time he saw it.
And then the chair was bare, so he put a blanket over it and a favorite stuffed animal. Sure, it just so happened to be a bear he'd won you on Coney Island, but that wasn't the point.
And if you were going to enjoy your reading chair, you'd need a few snacks. Plus, your fridge was mostly condiments and beverages, so you needed groceries, too. He ordered some on Instacart, only needing mild assistance from Yelena, and waited around for the delivery to put them away.
By then, it was nearly six o’clock, so he might as well prep you some dinner.
It occurred to him that he was being a little bit insane, maybe a lot a bit, but he missed you so much, and just wanted to make sure you were okay. He had to know if you were okay.
And being back in your apartment, surrounded by your favorite colors and little trinkets and hobbies, it felt like coming home. A home he hadn't been to in a long, long time. It was like double vision, seeing the place he'd once loved, knowing it didn't really belong to him anymore.
With every hour that passed, the gravity of his mistake grew heavier, harder to ignore. He should never have let you go, should never have thought you'd be better off without him. That was your choice to make, not his, and all he'd done was hurt you both by making it instead.
He’d been a coward, and now he wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to make it right. Not when you were clearly still hurting, still angry with him.
But, he thought with rare optimism while he dumped the pasta into the boiling water, maybe this could be a first step.
—
You woke up to a familiar laugh track and a kick-drum pounding behind your eyelids. Spotting the water on the table, you guzzled it, along with the painkillers sitting beside it—wait, you didn't remember setting that glass there, or the pills, or the wastebasket. And you definitely didn't turn on all of your ambient lights, or... was your hair wet?
Okay, you did remember taking a shower, and eating the best omelette you'd had since—
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
Bucky had made the omelette for you. Bucky had been here, in your mess of an apartment. Made you take a shower, eat, and dumped out your booze.
Then, the smell of frying garlic reached your nose, and your stomach gave a fierce growl.
Someone was cooking in your apartment.
Moving slowly to not irritate your head any further, you pulled on a hoodie and exited the dark safety of your bedroom.
You couldn't believe what awaited you.
Apartment? Spotless. Laundry? Folded. Lights? Dimmed. Candles? Lit. Bucky? Dressed in a too-tight t-shirt, chopping zucchini at your kitchen island.
“Thought the garlic might summon you," he said, his voice a low baritone alongside the thunkthunkthunk of the knife that soothed the ache between your eyes. "Hungry?”
“Did you…” You looked around, struggling to comprehend what you were seeing. Bucky had cleaned your entire apartment while you slept and was making you dinner, acting like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like he didn't stomp on your heart and blow you off three years ago with no explanation. “Why did you do all of this?”
He finished chopping and scraped the vegetables into the pan. “You called me," he said, as if that explained anything.
“Yeah, for a hook up, not—" you gestured around the apartment, "—not for you to babysit me.”
“Don't act like a baby then." He turned back around, setting the cutting board on the counter. Those blue eyes were like fucking arrows, piercing straight through the soft parts of you.
“I am not—" you caught yourself. "You didn't have to do this.”
“Obviously." He braced his hands on the counter, his metal arm whirring faintly at the pressure. Fuck, how had he gotten even more buff than before? And you felt personally attacked by his newly long hair. You'd pestered him to grow it back out for months.
“So why did you?"
“How about a ‘thank you’?" He was deflecting.
You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. Too hungover to filter yourself anymore. “Are you ever going to be honest with me?"
The question shattered like glass on the floor between you.
His jaw flexed, gaze lowering to the counter.
You waited for his response, the vegetables undoubtedly burning behind him. Your head was still pounding, stomach gone sour, and your tongue felt like it had a sock wrapped around it.
“Just go, Bucky. You've done enough. “ You turned on your heel to hide in the dark of your room, when he finally spoke.
“I’m sorry."
“What?" You turned back towards him.
“I’m sorry," he repeated, lifting his head to look at you. The hurt in his gaze was unmistakable. A bone-deep pain you'd only witnessed when he talked about losing the one person that meant everything to him. "It was a mistake, I made a mistake, and I—” his metal hand combed through his hair, scrubbed over his face. “I just wanted to help you, to do something for you. I know it doesn't change or erase what I did, but—fuck, I’ve missed you so much, and even just being in your home, around you was so...” he fell silent, letting his confession hang in the air between you.
Maybe you were still a little drunk—okay, definitely still a little drunk—but that look in his eyes was all the confession you ever needed. And deep down, you knew that you called him because you needed someone to take care of you, someone to love you, and Bucky was the only person you trusted to do so without taking more than they gave.
You hadn't called for a hook-up; you called because you missed him. Because you needed him. And he'd come because he missed you, too. He stayed because he needed you too.
With hurried steps, you crossed the apartment. Your arms found their way around his waist, tucking your head under his chin. Immediately, his arms encircled you, holding you tightly against his chest, his nose buried into your hair. The connection between you thrummed to life, sparks jumping every place your skin brushed his. The years fell away like autumn leaves, leaving just the two of you, and the love you both had tried so hard to bury.
“Thank you, B," you murmured.
“Anytime, doll," he hummed, the words resonating in the drum of his chest.
The two of you stayed quiet for a few minutes, unwilling to relinquish the fragile moment, but an acrid smell started to make your nostrils itch.
“Your veggies are burning.”
“Fuck ‘em," he said. “You just want the pasta anyway."
You giggled, nuzzling even closer, the smell of his skin turning your thoughts to static. “Yeah, I do."
His metal hand skimmed up your spine, sliding into the hair at the nape of your neck. The coolness of his touch made you shiver, and he started gently pressing into the knots in your neck, loosening the tension that was like a vice around your skull.
“How's your head?" He asked.
You let your head fall into his palm, unraveling under his touch as your pain melted away. A moan slipped out when he dug into an especially tender spot, and you felt his breath hitch.
“Poor thing," he cooed. “You really did a number on yourself, didn't you?"
“I was stupid," you muttered, petulant.
His fingers tightened in your hair, craning your head back. “You were reckless, not stupid. Stupid would have been calling one of those other losers on your phone."
“Wouldn't have all those losers in my phone if you—”
“I know, I know,“ he pouted, loosening his hold. “Don't have to rub my nose in it."
“James Buchanan Barnes, are you jealous?" You teased, tugging at his pursed lower lip with your thumb.
He nipped at your fingers, his flesh hand wrapping your wrist to immobilize you.
“Maybe I'll call one of them right now, since you seem more interested in being my personal butler than hooking up—"
He pressed his mouth to your captive wrist, a hot, hungry kiss that shot up your arm and through your body, making your toes curl in your slippers. “Hooking up doesn't even begin to cover what I want to do to you," he gruffed, trailing his lips down your forearm while his metal hand fell to your lower back, pressing your body closer to his.
“So what are you waiting for?" you asked, a little breathless.
His lips moved to your throat, feather-soft against your hammering pulse, up towards the shell of your ear. “First, you're going to eat and hydrate. Then we're going to watch a movie, something mushy and romantic, and you're going to fall asleep in my lap,” his voice was slow and sinful, stoking the fire in your belly to an inferno.
You clung to him, head bobbing. Yes, yes, yes.
But he wasn't finished. “And when you wake up in the morning, bright-eyed and clear-headed, I'll seek my penance between those perfect thighs.” He leaned back to look into your eyes. “Sound good?"
You nodded, jaw a little slack. It was like he tipped your head over and all your thoughts came pouring out of your ears. “S-sounds great."
He pecked your lips, which was practically a crime against humanity after winding you up so much. “Now, go sit your butt on the couch. I got frozen pizzas as a backup."
You perked up at that, pout falling away. “Did you get my—"
“Your favorite? Of course I did. Go on and pick your movie." He turned you loose with a pat on the butt, and you scampered off to the living room.
usually when you have a stomach bug your body is like yes sir we'll get this punk out of here, 48 hours tops. then you get a cold and your body is like I dunno ... between a few hours and eleven months ... maybe a week minimum .... you gotta understand we're short staffed
tbf to the body, stomach bugs are easier to flush out since they are already in The System That Flushes Things Out From The Body, and that includes BOTH ends.
with a cold you gotta wait for the macrophages in your blood to start Eating Everything, and they are. not big. it takes them a while. please be more considerate of your macrophages in the future, theyre doing their best
janainaart
baratheonpilled
pixelskylines
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