Mimi - bi, she/her, 30s. Space Nerd ✨ Live Long, Prosper, And May The Force Be With You! (I reblog a lot of NSFW stuff... so minors DNI) ~Currently on a break from Tumblr - Burned out
Hey there! First of all I wanted to say that you're an amazing writer, as a beginner writer I'm so impressed by your works, I hope I improve to be as good as you some day!
If it's alright, I would like to request the Bad Batch with a medic!reader, like fluffly short one-shot/headcanons of each Batcher with their medic s/o taking care of him.
If you write this, thank you so much for taking the time to do so, take as long as you need and if you don't want to do it feel free to delete my request.
Have a good day/night 💖
Vitals Holding
Clone Force 99 X GN!Reader
warnings: suitable for general audiences, teen and up. Established relationships, gender neutral reader, no physical descriptions of reader, medic!reader, fluff, ‘vitals holding’ used as a comfort phrase, light angst, mentions of injury, minor blood mention, stitches, stubborn clones, emotional vulnerability, kisses and flirting.
authors note: thank you so much anon for the kind words! Hope to read something of yours one day. Please enjoy, sorry for the wait.
Echo
word count: 399
Echo lay on a makeshift med-bunk, a frown on his face as he held his arm aloft, looking at his scomp-link that reminded him of the endless modifications that kept him ‘operational’.
The mission on Felucia had been a slog. The muddy terrain, relentless droids, and a stray blaster bolt that grazed his prosthetic leg and shorting out a servo. It was nothing life threatening, but enough to sideline him.
You knelt beside him with your kit spread out. "Hold still," you murmured, your voice a soothing barrier to the ship's low rumble. Echo's eyes met yours, a mix of frustration and fondness flickering there.
"It's just a glitch," he protested, though he didn't pull away as you gently detached the lower panel on his leg. Your fingers brushed against the cool metal, tracing wires that intertwined with what remained of his organic flesh. You'd learned his systems inside out over the months, not just as a medic but as his partner.
"A glitch that could turn into a full shutdown if we ignore it," you replied, scanning the damage with your device. The readouts blinked green mostly, but a red warning pulsed for the servo. You reached for a tool, your other hand resting on his thigh for stability. Echo's breath hitched slightly; not from pain, but from the warmth of your touch cutting through.
He watched you work, smiling lightly at the way your brow furrowed in concentration. "You know, before you joined, Tech sometimes just would slap some tape on it and keep going." His voice was light, but there was a hint of vulnerability.
You paused, setting the tool down to cup his face. Your thumb tracing along his jaw. "Well im now here to looking after you, Echo. You’re not alone in this." Leaning in, you pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.
He closed his eyes, leaning into it, the tension easing from his shoulders.
Resuming the repair, you rerouted the wiring. As the servo whirred back to life, Echo flexed his leg experimentally. "Feels good," he admitted, sitting up only to then pull you into his lap.
You smiled, checking his vitals one last time: heart rate steady, systems nominal. "Vitals holding," you whispered, echoing the phrase that had become your shared mantra after tough days. Echo's lips found yours in a grateful kiss, a silent thank you for seeing him whole.
Hunter
word count: 536
The Marauder’s engines idled low as the ship settled into a quiet landing on a forested moon, far from any Imperial patrols.
The mission had been simple reconnaissance but the dense undergrowth and sudden rain had turned it into hard work. Harder than it had to be.
Hunter had pushed through without complaint, as always. The usefulness of his enhanced senses guided the squad but the constant barrage of scents, sounds, and electromagnetic pulses had left him quietly frayed.
Now, he sat on the edge of a bunk, elbows on knees and head bowed. The infamous bandana was off with dark hair falling loose over his face.
With a look of concern, you stepped up to him quietly whilst carrying a damp cloth and a small vial of soothing balm of your own recipe.
“Rough one out there?” you asked softly, kneeling between his legs so you were eye-level with him.
Hunter exhaled through his nose, a sound that was half sigh, half reluctant admission. “Everything was loud. Too loud. The rain on leaves, every insect wingbeat for klicks around…” He rubbed at his temple. “Felt like my skull was vibrating.”
You reached up, fingers brushing his cheek before sliding into his hair. He leaned into the touch instinctively, eyes fluttering closed. Your thumb traced slow circles at his scalp, right where the tension always gathered. “You carried us through it anyway. Like always.”
A faint, crooked smile tugged at his lips. “Had to. Couldn’t let you get lost in the mud again.”
You chuckled quietly, dipping the cloth in cool water and pressing it gently to the back of his neck. He shivered once from relief. You worked in silence for a moment, letting the damp fabric ease the ache.
“Lie back,” you murmured.
He hesitated, the leader in him reluctant to fully let go, but your hand on his chest was steady and grounding. He reclined slowly, stretching out on the bunk. You sat beside him, one hand resting over his heart.
With careful fingers, you massaged the balm into his temples, then down along his jaw, working out the tightness. Hunter’s breathing depened, slowing as the sensory storm inside him began to quiet. Every so often, he’d hum softly, a low sound of contentment that you know he’d never admit to making.
“You don’t have to be on all the time,” you whispered, leaning down to press a kiss to his lips. “Not with me.”
His hand found yours, lacing fingers together. “I know,” he said, voice rough but soft. “Just… takes time to turn it off.”
“Then let me help.” You shifted closer, tucking yourself against his side. He wrapped an arm around you without hesitation, pulling you in until your head rested on his chest. The steady thump-thump beneath your ear.
Hunter’s free hand came up to stroke your hair, mirroring the way you’d soothed him. The ship’s hum faded into background noise; the galaxy outside could wait.
After a long while, he murmured against your temple, “Vitals holding.”
You smiled into his chest. “Vitals holding.”
He pressed a lingering kiss to the top of your head, the last of the tension melting away in the quiet safety of your arms.
Wrecker
word count: 614
The Marauder’s cargo hold was quieter than usual, the usual clatter of Wrecker’s laughter replaced by a low, frustrated grunt. He sat on an overturned crate, one hand pressed to his lower back.
The mission had wrapped up hours ago but Wrecker had insisted on hauling the last heavy munitions crate aboard himself. “I got it!” he’d boomed, grinning wide. That was until a sharp twinge hit, deep in his back muscles. Now here he was: the strongest clone in the Batch, felled by his own enthusiasm.
You found him like that, shoulders hunched, staring at the floor as if it had personally betrayed him. The embarrassment was written all over his face. Jaw tight and eyes avoiding yours.
“Hey, big guy,” you said gently, stepping into the hold with your medkit slung over one shoulder. “Heard you took on a crate and lost.”
Wrecker huffed, a sound that tried to be a laugh but landed somewhere closer to a groan. “Didn’t lose. Just… reminded it who’s boss. A little too hard.” He shifted, winced, and immediately tried to play it off with a forced grin. “I’m fine. Really. Jus’ need a minute.”
You set the kit down and moved to stand in front of him, close enough that he had to look up at you. “You’re not fine. And it’s okay to not be fine.” Your voice was calm, no judgment, just the steady certainty he always leaned on. “Let me see.”
He hesitated, pride warring with the ache, but eventually he let his hand drop and turned slightly so you could reach his back. You knelt behind him on the crate, fingers gentle as you pressed along his lumbar muscles. The knot was tight, hot and angry from the sudden strain. Wrecker sucked in a breath through his teeth.
“Easy,” you murmured, already reaching for the warming salve. “You pulled something good here. Nothing torn, but you’re gonna feel this tomorrow if we don’t loosen it up now.”
He let out a long, defeated sigh. “Hurt by liftin’ a kriffin’ box.” His voice cracked just a little on the last word, the embarrassment giving way. “What kinda soldier does that?”
You paused, hands still on his back, then leaned forward until your forehead rested lightly against the back of his shoulder. “The kind who cares more about getting the job done for his squad than looking invincible.” You kissed the spot between his shoulder blades, right over the scar from an old explosive. “And the kind who’s allowed to hurt sometimes. Even the biggest ones.”
Wrecker went still, then slowly relaxed under your touch. You worked the salve in with slow, firm circles, thumbs digging just enough to ease the spasm without pushing too hard. Every time he tensed, you eased off, waiting for him to breathe through it. Gradually, the knots began to give.
“Better?” you asked after a while.
“Yeah… a lot. Still stings, but not like before.” He turned his head, catching your eye over his shoulder. The grin was smaller this time, but real. “Thanks, mesh’la. Didn’t mean to be a baby about it.”
“You weren’t.” You slid around to sit beside him, tucking yourself under his arm. He wrapped it around you immediately, pulling you against his side like you were the most precious cargo he’d ever carried.
You rested your hand over his heart, feeling the steady, powerful beat. “So, are your vitals holding?”
Wrecker chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest into your palm. “Vitals holdin’. Thanks to you.”
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, lingering there, and for once didn’t try to hide how much he needed the quiet comfort.
Tech
word count: 661
The back room of Cid's Parlor smelled like stale smoke and cheap liquor.
As the main cantina buzzed faintly beyond the beaded curtain, Tech sat at Cid’s desk that she had grudgingly given and one leg propped up on a crate from the fracture he had endured form the cargo container collapse.
You pushed through the curtain with your medkit, the beads clacking softly behind you. Cid had cleared out at that point, muttering something about "not running a free clinic", leaving just the two of you.
Yet he was no longer sitting down, instead he was standing awkwardly and looking through the grumpy Trandoshan's collection of random stuff she had collected.
"I told you to stay off it," you said, setting the tray down on the desk with a deliberate clunk.
Tech didn't turn around. "I am off it. Most of my weight is on the good leg. Statistically, this qualifies as minimal load-bearing.”
"You're also standing. On a fractured leg. In a bacta cast that's still setting."
He glanced over his shoulder, goggles catching the low light. "The cast has reached its polymerisation point. I was just… looking at possible useful junk. For later."
"Uh-huh." You stepped closer, "Sit. Before I make you."
He let out a quiet breath, half annoyed and half amused, but he didn't fight it. He eased himself back onto the chair, leg stretched out.
You knelt in front of him, "You're doing that thing again," you say softly, voice warm and teasing. "Talking tech to hide that you're hurting."
"I'm not hiding anything. Pain is just… information. I was only—"
You placed your palm lightly over his chest, right where his heart was beating faster than usual under his armour. "Your heart's telling a different story."
Tech went still. His eyes dropped to your hand, then flicked back to your face. "That is… an elevated heart rate attributable to—"
You tilted your head, fingers trailing up to brush along his jaw, nudging his goggles up just enough to see the heat on his cheeks. "Or maybe because you like when I take care of you?"
He blinked rapidly behind the lenses, processing. "I… find your presence efficacious for recovery. Statistically speaking, positive emotional stimuli can accelerate—"
You leaned in, lips brushing his. Tech froze for a second, then leaned into it, one hand coming up to rest carefully at the back of your neck.
The kiss deepened just enough to make him forget the ache for a moment. You pulled back barely an inch, forehead resting against his. "Better?"
He let out a shaky breath, "Much better. Though I'd like… more proof it's working."
“Behave, Tech.” You playfully roll your eyes, smirking quietly at his disappointment of not getting another kiss just yet.
With steady hands, you adjusted the bacta cast and started the compression wrap carefully. He usually makes a comment on how uneven it is but this time Tech stayed quiet, just watching, breathing steady, his fingers occasionally brushing your arm like he needed the contact.
When you finished, you started to stand, but Tech's hand caught yours gently. "Come here." He tugged lightly, but insistent.
You raised an eyebrow, but let him guide you. With a careful shift of his good leg to make space, he pulled you down onto his lap, settling you sideways across his thighs so your weight didn't press on the injured one. His arm wrapped around your waist immediately, holding you close against his chest. Moments like this with him are rare so you wasted no time in tucking your head under his chin.
With one hand, you rest it over his heart again, feeling it slow to a calm, even rhythm now.
The parlor's distant noise felt miles away. Just the two of you in the cluttered back room, tangled together in the chair. You smiled into his neck. "Vitals holding?"
Tech pressed a soft kiss to your temple, voice low and content. "Vitals holding."
Crosshair
word count: 544
You found him in the refresher to your shared apartment, door half-open, the mirror fogged from a recent shower. He stood shirtless, one hand braced against the sink, the other fumbling with a bloodied cloth pressed to his left side. A shallow but stubborn gash that caught on jagged durasteel ran along his ribs.
It was not life-threatening, but it wept fresh blood every time he tried to clean or close it one handed. The angle was impossible now; his missing hand left him reaching awkwardly.
Crosshair never asked for help. Not ever. So when you stepped in quietly, he didn’t look up, just kept trying, jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumped.
“Out,” he muttered.
You didn’t move. Instead you stepped fully inside. “You’re making it worse. Sit.”
“I said—”
“Crosshair.” Your tone was quiet and firm. You reached past him for a clean towel from the rack, then guided him to perch on the edge of the low tub. He resisted for half a second but let himself be moved.
You knelt in front of him and you peeled the soaked cloth away. The wound was angry but clean enough to stitch. You exhaled slowly through your nose, fighting the urge to scold him for being reckless with his own body.
“Why do you do this?” you asked, voice softer now as you reached for the bactaspray. “You know I’m right here.”
He stared at a point over your shoulder, refusing to meet your eyes. “Habit. Fix it myself. Always have.”
“Not anymore.” You dabbed the wound clean, careful around the inflamed edges. He hissed once, barely audible, but didn’t pull away.
When the first stitch went in, his remaining hand twitched toward yours like he might stop you. Instead, his fingers curled loosely around your wrist. Just… holding.
You paused, needle hovering. “Talk to me.”
Crosshair’s gaze finally dropped. “Can’t reach it anymore,” he muttered, so quiet you almost missed it. “Feels… wrong. Needing you for something this basic.”
You resumed stitching, slow and precise. “It’s not wrong. It’s just different.” You explained. “And I’m glad I’m here for the different parts.”
He didn’t argue. Just watched your face as you worked, the tension in his shoulders easing stitch by stitch. When you tied off the last knot and smoothed a fresh bandage over it, he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for hours.
You stayed kneeling there, hands resting lightly on his thighs. “Better?”
He finally looked at you, really looked. The usual guarded sharpness had cracked, leaving something raw underneath. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re stubborn.” You rose enough to lean in, brushing your lips against his in a kiss that was gentle and unhurried. He froze for a heartbeat, then tilted his head to meet you properly.
When you pulled back, you rested your forehead against his. “Vitals holding?”
Crosshair’s lips curved, just the barest hint of a smirk. “Vitals holding.” His thumb brushed your cheek. “Thanks to you.”
You helped him stand, steadying him as the adrenaline crash made his legs unsteady. He didn’t protest when you wrapped an arm around his waist, guiding him out of the refresher and toward the bed. For once, the sniper let himself be taken care of quietly, stubbornly, but completely.
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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✦Read on a03! - Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist✦
✦pairing: Bucky Barnes x female!reader✦
✦summary: You know Bucky hates you. He's not secret about it. He hates you so much, he can't seem to stand you even getting along with an agent on a mission, and can't help but rush to your side when you need him. That's what hate is, right?✦
✦warnings/tags: thunderbolt!reader, (not) enemies to lovers, pushy and creepy men, emotionally constipated Bucky Barnes, protective Bucky Barnes, light angst, fluff, pining, shameless smut, love confessions, (fingering, p in v sex, feral!bucky, possessive sex, softdom!bucky), no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: Slight warning for creepy men being creepy. Not Bucky tho. My king would never. Also shoutout to @deanwinchestersunhappythoughts for convincing me to finish this one!✦
Everyone knows that Bucky hates you.
It’s not something he hides, and if he’s trying to, he’s not doing it well. He leaves every room you enter, slipping out with a scowl and not a single word. If there’s a meeting, he sits so far across the table that it’s like he thinks you’re carrying the plague. Once he had to stand next to you in the back of a transport truck, and he spent the whole trip making a face like he was about to vomit.
You try to ignore it. There’s not much else you can do. It’s not like you haven’t spent countless nights staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what you did to him. If it’s just your general face that he can’t stand, or your personality, of if you did something to deeply offend him the first time you met, and now you have no shot at even a friendship.
You don’t think you did. There hadn’t been a bump in the elevator, or a misunderstanding in the lobby, or some time a while ago where you’d been in the same Subway car, and sneezed on him. You’d know by now, because you’ve replayed every single subway ride you’ve ever taken over and over in your head, looking for a flash of Bucky’s face. There, on the street, in a coffee shop or some random building where you might have told him to go fuck himself, and forgotten entirely.
It seems unlikely. You don’t have a habit of telling people to go fuck themselves.
That’s the whole reason you have this job in the first place.
You’re the nice one. The diversity hire, who’s only there because she knows how to smile and not look like someone holding a gun to her head. You don’t run into conflict, and you always stick to the plan, and you don’t even like to leave a dirty dish in the sink for later, because you don’t want to force someone else to clean up after you. Let alone your grumpy, brooding roommates.
It’s painfully stark, the difference between them and you. It’s only grown more apparent, as time has passed. You run training with Yelena, and she has to give you time outs every time you apologize for punching her in the face. You’ll eat dinner on the night that Ava cooks, tell her that it’s good—it’s not amazing, but it’s food, and you know she worked hard on it—and she’ll look at you like you just announced you were blowing your brains out after dessert. John has taken to covering your mouth with a hand during meetings, because you always try to offer motivation or sympathy with the targets, and none of them care about that.
“You are weird little bird,” Alexei once told you, frowning at you from across the room.
You’d laughed softly, folding the corner of your book between your fingers. “Yeah?”
“Yes. You smile.”
“You smile.”
“I am complex man. I live full of happiness and anger. You are only happiness.” He’d narrowed his eyes. “Is there silent anger, brimming below songbird’s surface?”
“Don’t call her that.” Bucky had muttered, and you’d blinked. You hadn’t even realized he’d entered the room.
He’d walked over to the bookshelf, hands in his jacket pockets, not sparing you a single glance. Alexei had scoffed.
“Bucky Barnes, I am doing investigation. This is serious business, do not mock-“
“I’ll mock, Alexei, when you’re doing something pointless. There’s nothing to investigate.” He’d grabbed a book, and turned to Alexei, his back firmly to you. “She’s clean. We’ve checked.”
He’d walked out without another word, and you’d bitten on your lower lip until you tasted blood. Of course it hadn’t been a real defense. Bucky doesn’t care enough about you to defend you. He just didn’t want Alexei to waste his time on something as pointless as you.
So you know, that Bucky hates you. And he has no secret reason, because it’s just you. The rest of them got used to you after a few months, and even like you know. Yelena doesn’t bitch about the breaks, and lets you hold her guinea pig as long as you let her hold your crows. Ava sits with you while she reads, and doesn’t roll her eyes at every single thing you say. John once called you not entirely useless, which is John for incredibly important and useful.
Alexei made you a—rather poorly constructed, but very sweet—cake for your last birthday, and insisted everyone buy you at least one gift. They all put a shocking amount of effort into it as well, and it had been clear that you weren’t just Valentina’s happy, pretty invader anymore.
Even Bucky had gotten you something, and you’d pretended it meant something. That it hadn’t just been because Alexei threatened to rip out his spine if he didn’t.
It had just been a jacket. Thick and warm, shoved into your hands like he couldn’t let go of it fast enough.
“You get cold.” He’d grunted. “On missions.”
“I- I don’t-“
“Yes, you do. Your fingers shake, and your heart picks up. It’s dangerous.” He’d nodded to the jacket. “Wear that.”
You’d swallowed, as he’d walked away.
And you do. Wear it. You’re the exact kind of over-emotional and pathetic fool he thinks you are, so you wear it on every mission, and look at Bucky to see if he’s noticed.
He never has.
The rest of them love you, but Bucky doesn’t. There doesn’t seem to be much you can do about it, but you don’t give up. You’re still nice to him, and it’s only a little in the pathetic hope that he might look at you one day and realize that he was wrong. Until then, you cling to the fact that the rest of them like you. That it was a long, natural curve to get there—given how you got here, and what you are—but they all genuinely like you.
Of the team, Bob gets on with you the best. None of them question why—they likely assume you both just don’t like fighting—but you eat breakfast together every day, do the crossword puzzle, and go out for walks at least twice a week.
You’ve seen Bucky glaring at you, when you get back. He might think you’re wasting time, or putting you both in danger by just going outside as superheroes. As if he doesn’t know that if anyone is least likely to be in danger of an attack, it’s you and Bob. Like you didn’t have your fucking GPS’ on the whole time, and he’s not your boss anyway.
“You’re going to catch a cold, if you keep goin’ out there.” He’d grunted once, as you’d made tea in the kitchen after.
“That’s- Not actually how colds world.” You’d mumbled. “And I don’t get sick anyway.”
“Hm.” He might have been looking at you. You weren’t going to dignify it with a glance, because you’d see the loathing in his eyes, and your heart might split down your chest.
He’d just walked away. You’d stood in the kitchen for about five minutes after, head bowed, taking deep breaths through your nose.
Everyone loved you.
It was the in your nature, quite literally, to have everyone love you. That’s why you’re here. Not to whine about your own problems, not to burden people with your pain, but to be the lighthouse. Your powers and sweetness smooth over the violence and anger of the team. Your presence calms down press events, because none of them are ever mean to you. If there’s hand to hand combat you’re entirely, hopelessly useless, but no one even throws a punch at you, so it’s not a problem.
You’ve wondered if that’s why Bucky hates you. Because he thinks you’re messing with his brain, and he’s had enough of that for a lifetime.
But you’ve told them. You turn it on and off, and you never use it on people you’re close to.
Maybe Bucky didn’t believe you.
It doesn’t matter. He still hates you.
And it hurts more, than if anyone else did.
Because you’re an idiot, and you’ve had a crush on him since you were in fucking middle school. You watched all the Howling Commandos documentaries in history, and stared dreamily at him in the grainy footage. You’d liked his smile, and his loyalty, and his general, pretty face. When the news about Hydra, then Sokovia had broken, you’d had some friends mock you about your old man crush was a war criminal. When he’d been pardoned and ended up on the news with Captain America, you’d watch the footage maybe a little longer than you needed to.
You’d never wanted to meet him.
You’d never wanted to be a superhero in the first place. But college was fucking expensive, and the job market was shit, and you’d needed money fast. Valentina had offered it, as long as you used your powers.
That was something you hadn’t wanted to do either. You didn’t want to do most things. Didn’t want to go places people could hurt you. Places you could mess up, or disappoint someone, or be seen.
And this has been your greatest dream and worst nightmare.
Everyone can see you. You’re in the public eye every day, and held up like a shiny diamond to be admired.
They all love you. Last month a magazine ran a s hit piece about the New Avengers, and still called you The Princess, because you were all smiles and sweet words, lovely to look at and talk to, but not worth much in a fight. Compared to what they said about everyone else—calling John the Prince, because no one took him seriously, and he was a foolish ass for thinking they did, and Bucky The King, because he used fear from his past to enforce the New Avengers and their status now—they might as well have sent you flowers.
People had even been mad online, that they’d ever say something mean about you.
Bucky had heard that in the damage control meeting, and snorted.
Your heart had turned to fractured, tiny piece of glass that cut at your stomach and hands. You’d felt sick, and hadn’t been able to do much for the rest of the day, as his cruel little snort played over and over in your head.
He’d been your foolish dream, since you were a kid. You’d never wanted to meet him.
Because exactly what you thought would happen, did.
He hates you.
Bucky Barnes hates you.
And he doesn’t even care enough about you to do it behind your back.
“I don’t want anyone arguing with me about this one.” He says in the jet, and you don’t bother to look up from your feet.
You know he’s looking at you. You can feel it. And you don’t argue with him, not like the rest of them do. You just offer some ideas for how to improve the plan, or point out holes in his idea with polite words. He always looks at you like you spat up vomit on his suit.
So you don’t say anything.
That’s your goal for this mission. Be as nothing to Bucky as possible. Don’t let his glowers and cold words loop in your head for hours after, making you feel like you’re even less than you already know you are. Don’t think about if he’s looking at you, don’t try to be his friend, don’t indulge the fantasy of his attention.
Any attention. Even if he’s sneering that you’re an insufferable brat who needs to be coddled, it would be attention. Even if he touched you with anger in his hands and hatred in his eyes, at least he’d be touching you.
You’ve realized, that him hating you isn’t doing anything to make your crush on his go away. If anything, it’s making the whole situation worse, because apathy is harder to indulge than the idea of him slamming you against the wall and fucking you until all his frustration feels eased.
Which is the exact type of thought you’re not supposed to be having.
So you just keep staring at your hands. Bucky clears his throat, like he’s waiting for something, and you don’t give him the satisfaction.
He moves on.
“I got us a connection with a mercenary in the area, who’s been hunting these people down for years. We’re working together, so everyone is going to be civil with him. Right?”
Ava raises her hand next to you. “What are we calling civil?”
“I don’t know. Use your judgement. Or- Actually-" Bucky sighs. “No name callin’, no yellin’, and- Try to act like you’re a damn adult for two days. Can we do that?”
“You name call all the time, Bucky-“
“I’m the oldest, Walker. I’ve earned it.”
John rolls his eyes, and Yelena jumps in.
“Can we pheromone him?” She looks to you. “Can you pheromone him?”
“Um-“ You flush, your eyes instinctively shooting to Bucky.
His jaw is clenched, hands braced on his hips, and glaring at you with the usual silent disgust. You swallow, heat crawling over your skin. You can’t tell if it’s shame, or just the usual hunger for him. It doesn’t really matter anyway.
“I technically can.” You mumble, ripping your gaze away from Bucky. “If we need it. But- Bucky says he’s on our side. I don’t think I need to, right?”
You look to Bucky again. His nostrils flare, the fury on his face almost leaking into the air.
“Right.” He grunts, glare moving to Yelena. He launches into a longer brief, about the drug ring you’re going after, the agents details, but you don’t hear most of it. You’re too busy staring at the floor, hiding the tears brimming in your eyes.
Useless.
You can’t even make a choice by yourself. Fucking useless.
When you land, you’re first out of the jet. Your arms wrap tight around your stomach, head down, not glancing back to check if Bucky’s venomous glare is still trained on you. If it is, that’s fine. It’s fine. You’re fine, because it’s nothing new, nothing you didn’t expect, nothing you’re not just going to have to grow the fuck up about and get over-
You’re too lost in your own self-pity to see where you’re going.
You slam right into someone’s chest.
“Woah!” A deep voice laughs, big hands grabbing your shoulders and steadying you against a firm body. You squeak, trying to back up, but the hands just tighten. “Hey, are you-“
“She’s fine.” Bucky’s snaps from behind you, and whoever’s grabbing you stills.
“Barnes, you look like shit-“
“Six hour flight. We all look like shit. Let her go.”
The man releases you, and you stumble back a few paces. Into Bucky’s chest.
He grabs your upper arm, and your breath hitches pathetically. It’s the metal hand, and it’s solid and firm through your jacket, and your head starts to race with images of it running down your thighs with that same tight grip, sending shivers up your spine and molding you exactly how he’d want you-
He doesn’t want you.
Bucky’s hand flexes like he can’t bear to touch you, and he moves you off to the side. You swallow down the shame. He doesn’t get the satisfaction, doesn’t get to see how he’s slowly fucking killing you.
“What’s wrong with her?” The new man asks, and Bucky grunts.
“Told you. Long flight.”
You bite your lower lip, fingers curling on your side. If he didn’t just hate you, this might be considered cruel. It might be cruel anyway. But your skin is still burning where he touched it. And your heart still skips a beat when he says your name.
“This is Mulder. Mulder, this is-“
“I know who this is.” Mulder cuts Bucky off with your name, and you blink up at him in surprise.
He’s not bad to look at. Same dark hair as Bucky, just beardless and a little more of a haircut. His eyes are blue as well, if not a little more gray. He’s got a strong jaw. Thick build, and a friendly smile.
That’s directed at you. You return it tenitivly, and he laughs.
“Wow. You’re even prettier in person, sweetheart.”
You flush, standing a little taller. “Oh, um- Thank you?”
“No problem. You’re my favorite, you know.” He winks, still grinning. “I like these assholes just fine, but you? Very excited to work together.”
“I’m- Me too.” You offer, and Mulder opens his mouth—maybe to compliment you again, which you’re not sure you can emotionally handle right now—but Bucky cuts him off.
“We have time for talking later, Mulder. You bring the car?”
Mulder rolls his eyes. “Course I brought the car, Barnes. You think I’m a damn idiot.”
Bucky doesn’t answer. When you risk a glance over, he’s looking at Mulder with a coldness in his eyes you’ve never seen before. Even when he glares at you, there’s some heat in the hatred. Like he’s trying to figure out what kind of fire will smoke you out, like he hates you so much it’s making him recoil and physically tense at your mere existence.
He’s tensed as he glares at Mulder, too.
But rigid. Not a live wire set to snap. Something deeper, and less forgiving, that seems to be making his tongue sharper and words clipped.
“You live in these… Woods?” Yelena asks as Mulder piles you into his truck, and he shrugs.
“No, just been here for years, trying to catch these bastards. They’re slick, keep figuring out how to avoid me, I’ve chased them half across the world. Who knew they’d be holed up in the backyard of my damn operation.” He chuckles, glancing over to Bucky. “But that’s how Hydra stayed underground, wasn’t it? Plain sight?”
Bucky grunts. “Don’t know. Wasn’t exactly invited to all the strategy meetings.”
Mulder laughs again, and you frown. Bucky doesn’t like to talk about his time in Hydra with anyone. And laughing about it makes your gut prickle wrong, your tongue aching to jump in and say something about how it’s not really anyone’s business anyway, let alone Mulder’s to comment about. But Mudler continues before you can.
Probably for the best.
The last time you defended Bucky at a press event, he didn’t look at you for a week.
“We’re going to have to head into the city for a few days. Trace these asshole to their exact base, play it careful. I’ll send some of you in first, they know I’m looking for them. ‘Course, they’ll be thrilled to see me, but I’m trying to play it humble. Makes the attention I do give all the more exciting.” Mulder winks at you, and you flush.
Bucky didn’t mention if this man had powers. If that comment was just a coincidence, of if he’d known what you’ve been thinking about Bucky. If he’s a mind-reader, that’s going to be a real problem. You don’t know how to guard against a mind reader, and all your thoughts are pathetic, and what if he tells Bucky about them-
“How you know Bucky Barnes?” Alexei jumps in, staring at Mulder with almost open affection. “You go to pretty assassin school together? You take super solider serum?”
“Nope.” Mulder laughs again. He does that a lot. “I worked with Wilson, a while ago. Back when he was just a normal guy like me. Trained in Shield, left to figure out where my life is going after the fall. I admire the enhanced, though. You’ve gotta be a good person, to go through that change and come out the other side a good person.”
Bucky, Ava, and John all tense across the Van, Alexei puffs out his chest, and you just shrink into yourself.
Mulder says your name, still wearing that charming smile. “You especially, with what you can do? A worse person would abuse that.”
“I- I don’t-“
“She barely uses it.” Bucky grunts, and your nails dig into your side.
“Wow, Barnes. Didn’t know you spoke for her.”
Bucky works his jaw, and you really don’t understand what’s going on with him. He’s the one who said to play nice.
The least you can do is try and play nice for him.
“He’s right, Mulder.” You mumble. “It’s kind of- For emergencies only.”
“Again. Admirable.” Mulder grins at you in the mirror. “And you can call me Jack.”
You nod, still smiling, and glance back to Bucky. His face has settled into an almost unreadable stone mask.
Almost. You’ve spent so much time silently staring at him that you can read.
He’s furious.
You haven’t even started the job yet, and Bucky looks like he’s about to rip someone’s spine out. You don’t understand why—no one’s messed up, Mulder seems like a bit of an ass, but no more than the rest of you, and you haven’t done anything to piss him off yet—but you’re not foolish enough to ask.
You just let out a slow breath, and tip your head back against the rattling wall of the truck.
The mission is going to be long.
And you’re going to be caught in the center of it, just trying to keep your head above water around Bucky, and be a little fucking useful to the team.
To Mulder.
Because even if he’s an ass, you’re his favorite. And that makes the hair on your arms stand up, because what if you disappoint him. What if, when this is done, he decides that you’re not at all worth what you seem to be on paper.
That, at least, is something you can try to prevent. You’ve already lost Bucky—though you know you never had him in the first place—so you don’t need to waste the mission worrying about if he’s seeing you. It’s going to be all about Mudler.
“Jack,” he reminds you again, as you unload equipment in his makeshift base of a motel room. “You can call me Jack, sweetheart.”
You won’t mess this up.
“Okay.” You smile at him. “Jack.”
He grins right back, and across the room, there’s a loud crack as something breaks.
“Fuck, Bucky!” John shouts, and you look up to see him gaping at the mess of a computer on the floor. “What the hell, why did you-“
“It was weak.” Bucky grunts, and you can feel his glare on you again. “Just fuckin’ snapped when I picked it up. Not my fault.”
Mulder laughs, giving Bucky another lazy grin. “Well, don’t go breaking any of my other shit. I might start to take offense.”
“Noted.” Bucky grunts.
He doesn’t even crack a smile.
And you’ve seen him be grumpy on missions before. It’s almost his default setting, to act like a dad with a pack of unruly children who refuse to be house trained. But this is different. He looks like he’s seconds away from either breaking his own jaw, or slamming his fist into the wall.
The next few days are spent gathering intel about the operation, taking what Jack already has and blending it with anything the rest of you can find. Alexei translates some Russian documents, because every time he’s thrown into a field like this he just ends up getting drunk with the gang members. Yelena and John track down a few of the inner circle members. Bucky and Ava grab them and drag some information out with questionable methods, before dumping them in the snow. You and Jack track down a few of the known bases, as well as some of Jack’s informants, and get whatever you can.
“You should do your thing.” Jack mutters in your ear. He’s taken to standing rather close behind you. Close enough that you can feel the heat of his body.
You don’t mind it. It’s just a little strange.
“I don’t do my thing unless it’s an emergency.” You remind him softly, and he shrugs.
“If you don’t do it, I’ll never get to see it, and we might have to be on this case for weeks.”
“Jack…” You sigh—this isn’t the first time he’s tried to make you do it, and it probably won’t be the last—but he shakes his head, cutting you off smoothly.
“Actually,” his lips brush your ear, and you swallow. “Don’t do it. I want to stay on this case together.”
You weren’t going to do it in the first place. But there’s not really any good response to that, so you just hum and laugh weakly. The man you were waiting for walks through the door, and you’re saved from the conversation.
When you get back to the motel room, Jack runs the team through what the man told you. And for once, Bucky isn’t glaring at you. He’s glaring at Jack.
He’s been glaring at Jack a lot.
“We should reshuffle teams.” He grunts after a week, and Ava mock pouts.
“Aw, you’re sick of me already, Barnes?”
“No.” He snaps. “I just think it’s bad to stick to the same pattern on a mission like this. They’ll pick up on it.”
“Good point.” Jack nods, and Bucky shoots him such a withering glare you’re shocked it doesn’t actually kill him. “But it might be even better if we move into teams of three and four.”
Bucky opens his mouth, still glowering, but John cuts in first.
“Can I be with you two? If Yelena keeps shit-talking me in Russian, I’m actually going to punch her.”
Yelena snorts. “Walker, you could not lay a single little finger on me-“
“You wanna fuckin’ bet-“
“Hey.” Bucky snaps, and they both fall silent. “The hell did I say on the jet?”
“Not to insult him.” Yelena nods to Jack. “There was nothing about each other.”
“Yeah, Yelena’s right, we can fight, that’s our right as teammates-“
“John. Shut up.” Bucky rubs a hand over his face, letting out a low, long groan.
His eyes flick to you, then away just as fast. He lets out a heavy breath like someone’s physically hurting him.
“Fine. Whatever. John, you’re with them. Yelena, me and Ava.”
John grins, marching over to your side and raising his hand for a high five. You give it awkwardly, Jack a little more enthusiastically, and John flips off Bucky’s scowl.
“Suck it, Team Loser. We’re going to grab those dipshits first.”
You sigh, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder. “Not a competition, John.”
He rolls his eyes, grumbling something about how it could be, but drops it fast.
Bucky keeps glaring at you. You bite down the pain of it, same as always.
There’s still a job to do. Jack still likes you enough to want you on his team. You won’t mess that up.
The next few days pass in a blur. You’re closing in on the gang, Bucky’s still acting like everyone is insulting his mother to his face, and Jack hasn’t stopped trying to get you to use your powers.
He just wants to see it, is what he says, over and over. Even John jumped to your defense at one point, but Jack just laughed again, and said that John’s luck enough to be around you all the time. He just gets this moment.
“Unless you want more.” He smirks at you, and you flush.
John groans. “Jesus, no wonder Bucky hasn’t been sleeping.”
“Bucky hasn’t been what?” Your eyes shoot away from Jack, and John just shrugs.
“We’ve been bunking together. And Alexei, but I’ve tuned him out, he snores like a fucking monster truck-“
“No, I- I know that. Why isn’t Bucky sleeping?”
“Oh. ‘Cause.” John waves a hand, then moves on down the hallway. You open your mouth to call after him, but Jack stops you with a hand splayed on your lower back.
“Don’t worry about Barnes, sweetheart. I know how he can be.”
You frown at him. Bucky can be a dick, but you can all be a dick. And he’s got a lot on his shoulders, and a lot of shadows behind him. It’s amazing he’s standing at all, let alone still fighting. He’s earned being a little bit of an ass, even if it rips your heart out of your chest every single time.
“Bucky-“
“Come on.” Jack cuts you off, rubbing his hand up and down your spine. “Let’s go find this ass. So you can do the thing.”
You smile at him weakly. You won’t do the thing. But Jack, also, doesn’t seem willing to give up on asking you.
It’s almost three weeks, when you finally have a solid lead. Three weeks of Bucky looking like he wants to shoot someone and Jack being stuck to your side, before you finally have an ending in sight. There’s a bunker in the mountains, that should have all the evidence you need to bring the gang down.
You have one day, before a snowstorm blows in, and it becomes inaccessible for months. So you’ll move out in the morning, and spend the night doing what you do before every big move on a mission.
Drinking.
It’s a tradition they started before you joined. It’s time honored and well-kept, to the point that you’re pretty sure Alexei would throw actual tantrum if anyone forgot. You find somewhere with a pool table, a jukebox, and liquor. Everyone drinks until the room is spinning, and you’re all giggling and forgetting about your problems. The morning seems a million miles away, and the pain seems even further. It’s not drinking to celebrate. It’s drinking so that if tomorrow goes wrong, at least you were alive tonight.
Then you’re up at the crack of dawn, and you finish the job.
Usually, you spend the evening next to Yelena, having whatever she puts in front of you, giggling at stupid jokes, and pretending you’re not staring at Bucky’s handsome profile down the bar. He usually sits with Alexei or Walker, silent and annoyed by the whole thing, but slowly loosening up over the night. He’ll go play darts or chat with the bartender. If she’s lucky, he’ll be in a good enough mood to give some random girl a little attention, and you’ll go to the bathroom with your mouth tasting like bile.
You’ll splash your face, remind yourself that he hates you and you have no right to be bitter about this, and try not to look at him for the rest of the night. Which usually means dancing, trying to learn how to play pool—it’s been two years, you’re nowhere close, no matter how much John yells at you—and turning in the moment you spot Bucky’s random girl sitting on his lap.
But tonight, there’s no girl. A few of them have walked up to him, and he’s flat out ignored them. You feel a little bad for them, as they storm back to their friends. You understand, more than they could ever imagine, what it feels like. The sour sting of Bucky’s rejection, that feels like an open, infected wound. At least their’s will heal. You just keep poking at yours, until your guts are spilled all over the floor, and you can’t be bothered to pick them up.
You really are trying, not to look at him. To pay attention to what’s in front of you, because there’s no point. Bucky hates pity, even more than he hates you, and combining the two isn’t going to do anyone any favors. But he looks so sad. Still angry and hostile, but with a slump to his shoulders that tugs on your heart. Maybe now, if you just extended a slim, delicate olive branch—just an offer to listen, that will snap in half and take you with it—he’d accept it.
That’s all you can think about. Yelena’s sliding drinks in front of you, and Jack is cooing in your ear, but you can’t see or hear anything but Bucky. His gloved hand is turning the glass, his gaze trained on the movement of the water inside. His chest heaves, jaw ticking and mouth setting in a thin line. Jack says your name, but it sounds far away, so you just hum in acknowledgment.
“You’re gorgeous.” He murmurs in your ear, and you tilt your head at Bucky.
He’s oddly tense. Like he’s bracing for a fight.
“And you smell like sugar.” Jack is still talking. Bucky’s stopped turning his glass, his head bowing lower than before. “Look like an angel. Do we know if God is real, yet? Did he send you?”
“I dunno.” You mumble. Bucky’s spine just stiffened. Maybe there’s danger, and he just doesn’t want to worry anyone.
Jack plays with a strand of your hair. “If you’re not an angel, you’re a siren. I mean,” he laughs. “Cheap joke. That’s your code-name. But shit, you really nailed it. So smart, too.”
“She didn’t come up with her name.” Yelena says, some distance away. “Valentina did. She doesn’t like being called it, either.”
“Hm. She doesn’t like using her powers, doesn’t like her codename.” Jack laughs. “Maybe she should retire. Come live with me, sweetheart, you’ll never have to worry about anything again.”
You can hear Yelena respond something sharp, but you don’t really hear it.
A new, brave girl approached Bucky. He’d looked her up and down slowly, expression almost unreadable. The same stone mask from before, but just a little heavier.
He’s tired.
And he looks to you. For a split second, Bucky’s eyes lock with yours. You stare at him, leaning a little further forward. Jack is still playing with your hair, and you can feel his hand slide up your spine.
That pure coldness flashes through Bucky’s gaze, and he looks back to the girl.
Smiles at her.
He never smiles at you.
“I’m going to bed.” You tell no one particular. You don’t want to keep drinking. You’ll just start crying.
Jack volunteers to go with you. He keeps his hand on your back, as he walks you out of the bar. You can feel Bucky staring daggers at your back as you leave.
You’re able to hide your tears, in the sting of the cold wind. If Jack suspects they’re anything else, he doesn’t say anything. He’s mostly just babbling about how long he’s been working on this, and what he wants to do after, and what he likes doing with his free time.
“Do you like Vegas? You must be fun in Vegas.”
“I’ve never been to Vegas.” You mumble, wiping your nose on your jacket. It’s the jacket Bucky gave you.
Your throat hurts. He’s a good man. He’s a strong, good man who sits with Bob when he doesn’t feel well, and mocks John relentlessly but has his back in fights. He helps Ava with her suit upgrades, gives Yelena advice, and indulges all of Alexei’s stories about the Good Old Days, even throwing in a few extra facts if he’s in a good mood.
It’s just you.
You’re the only one who he treats like this.
So, somehow, it must be your fault.
“What the hell is up with Barnes anyway?” Jack says, and suddenly your brain decides to pay attention.
“He’s under a lot of stress.” You mumble, and Jack rolls his eyes.
“We all are. You know, last time I met him he wasn’t like this, he must not have gotten laid in a year.”
You make a face, but don’t say anything. Jack rubs your back, sighing dramatically.
“He’s such a damn ass to you, sweetheart. Can’t stand it. You deserve better than that.”
You might. You probably do. You’ve told your heart that over and over, but it doesn’t seem to be willing to hear it. The rhythm of its beat falls in line with Bucky’s name.
You’re starting to hate yourself for it.
Jack doesn’t need to know that, so you only hum.
“Have you tried your thing on him?” He asks, and your body recoils.
You stumble away, eyes wide in disgust as a foul, sickening taste creeps up your throat.
“No- I- No.” You shake your head frantically. “I would never- I don’t use it for anything like that, I’ve never used it for that, and I- Bucky isn’t- How could you say that?”
“He’s just such a dick to you,” Jack says your name, taking a large step forward. Pressing you back against the wall. “Come on, you’ve at least thought of it-“
“No, I- I would never-“
“You don’t have to lie, it’s just me-“
“I’m not lying-“
“Sweetheart.” Jack coos, taking another step forward, leaving your back pressed against wall. “It’s not wrong, to have thought about it. I would have thought it. But I also,” he reaches up, tracing a hand over your cheek, and you shrink back into your body. “Would never be so mean to something as pretty as you.”
You swallow, tears still burning at your eyes. Jack’s breath smells like liquor, fanning over your face, and it’s making the room feel like it’s flipping and spinning. Not in the pleasant, dizzying way that Bucky’s body near yours does.
This feels wrong.
“Can you please back up?” You whisper, and Jack chuckles.
“Why would I do that, sweetheart.”
The tears slide down your cheeks. “Please?”
Jack shakes his head, his lips brushing over yours. You try to lean back, but there’s only the wall.
You close your eyes. He did want to see it. He begged to.
“Jack.” Your voice slips into the other one. The sweet, musical one that’s almost floats through the air. Less of a voice. More of a call. “Can you please back up?”
He’s frozen for a moment. You don’t dare to breathe, in case it breaks the spell.
Then he vanishes. His hands near your head, his smell, his lips and the sticky, suffocating heat of his body. You pull your eyes open, and let out a shaking breath.
He’s just standing. Face entirely void of himself. Nothing more than a puppet.
You hug yourself tight, voice almost cracking as you speak again. “Walk away. And- Please don’t speak to me or look for me, until the morning.”
Jack nods slowly, and turns away. His eyes stare at the floor, and he almost glides down the hallway, away from your room.
You swallow, and slip into your room without another word. It feels like there’s a thin layer of grime over your skin, but no matter how you rub at it in the shower, it doesn’t go away. You sink to the floor, pressing your face into your knees, and cry in the safety of the burning water. If the veil it offers, to mask the sound of your sobs, to hide you in the steam.
You don’t know how long you just sit there.
You know when you go to bed, you’re still sniffling.
And when you fall asleep, it’s like the tide dragging you under.
Impossibly pain in your chest. A feeling like you can’t breathe, as you fold yourself into the cushion.
Then just black. And a long, heavy sleep.
Bucky didn’t count himself a good man.
It wasn’t just that he’d done bad things, and he’d done… A lot of bad things. The kind of bad things that people, apparently, made documentaries about. The kind of bad things he shouldn’t be forgiven for, no matter what Sam used to say about it not really being him who did it.
It had been his hands. His body.
His mind, that had caved to the programming. That hadn’t fought back against Hydra, and let them use him as a weapon.
He might not have chosen to do the things, but he still did them. And it didn’t matter anyway.
He still wasn’t a good man.
It wasn’t about only his actions. It wasn’t about everything he did to repent, and how people now looked at him like he was a hero, when he knew the truth. That he was tricking them, and if they saw the ugly beast under the surface—the part of him that was barely better than an animal—they’d shoot him in the goddamn skull.
Because he thought things. Craved things. Was hungry for things he had no right to desire.
One thing.
Really, it was just one thing, that drove him out of his mind every fucking night. That made him glare at himself in the bathroom mirror, trying to drill it into his stupid head that he was barely more than a mutt, and had no right to ask for something so priceless.
Her.
Bucky wanted Her.
He had to right to even want anything at all. Wanting Her felt like a crime.
She was made of soft things he’d long lost to the bottom of the ocean, swept smooth and empty with the water of time. She had the kind of shine Bucky had only ever been able to dull, and the kind of gentleness that did go well with biting guard dogs. Bucky was a weapon. She was stained glass, casting the light soft and gentle through his life. He’d been gone the moment Valentina had showed them the picture of the new hire.
Then She’d walked into the room, smiling and bright eyed, and Bucky had known.
He wanted Her on his arm during events, smiling mostly at him instead of the cameras—Her real smile, not the well-polished, overdone one she gave the photographers—then hanging off his body as they drank and whispered in the corner. She’d sit next to him on missions, his hand on Her thigh and her foot bumping his under the table. They’d hold hands and… Do whatever modern couples did. Go for walks and eat food. Not dancing, because he’d seen where people danced now and it was pretty damn loud, but maybe just sitting in the living room together. His legs over Her’s, Her head on his chest, talking about nothing at all.
And he’d have Her in his bed. Fantasies of Her lips on his, bodies pressed tight together and whispers soft and teasing, it was what he thought of in the shower. In his own big, lonelier bed as he groaned Her name to the dark.
Bucky wanted Her like he wanted to touch the sky, when he was a boy.
So much he dreamed about it.
Impossibly, and desperately, and knowing fully well that if he ever did, he’d never want to go back down to Earth.
Bucky was never going to want anything as bad.
And under no fucking circumstances should he be allowed to have Her.
He set distances. Made boundaries, less to keep Her away and more to keep himself at bay. Whenever he accidentally touched Her, she’d mold into him, and he’d have to rip his hand away like it was burning. If he didn’t, it might mold into Her, and he’d never let go. Or worse, She’d rip herself away, and he’d have to remember what it was like to touch Her, then lose Her.
It was a fate he could tolerate, to watch from afar. But holding Her, having all that sweetness in his hands then letting it slip through his fingers, he’d never forgive himself. He saw how soft She got, how deeply she took everything, how much She glowed under praise. He wouldn’t be able to live with breaking Her heart, because she’d shatter. Hell, She pouted to herself when Yelena so much as told her she misinterpreted some intel. Her actually crying, and Bucky being the cause of it, that might destroy him.
And he wasn’t being arrogant. He wasn’t blind. He saw how desperately she smiled at him, heard the extra light in Her voice when she spoke to him, basked in the extra attention she gave him, because it was a sliver of Heaven he got to steal, and keep all to himself.
But She didn’t know what she was doing. She was young, She’d develop feelings, and they’d pass once She found someone better.
Then Bucky would just sit here. Alone in the dark, torturing himself with what could have been.
At least they’d be friends. Bucky could live with friends. He tried to be nice to Her—even if he hadn’t been sure how to do that, in at least a decade—and made sure to give Her respectable friend distance and words. He bit down every inappropriate or slightly wanting comment on his tongue.
It was most of them.
Almost all his thoughts around Her had slowly become that he wanted and needed Her, that she was beautiful and kind and maybe the best person he’d ever met, and they were lucky to have Her on the team, powers or not.
He didn’t want to send mixed signals. Didn’t want to get Her confused about what he could give Her, because it wasn’t much.
One day, She’d find someone who could give her everything, and Bucky would just be Her friend.
He’d been ready for that.
He hadn’t thought it would happen this fast.
Jack’s eyes had glinted, when they’d stepped off the jet. Bucky had known that look. He saw it in the mirror, every damn morning. And She’d smiled at Jack. Stuck with him the whole fucking mission. Bucky had felt like he was going to drive himself out of his goddamn mind.
She wasn’t his. He had no fucking claim to Her. It was his own damn fault, that She hadn’t been talking to him at the bar. The he hadn’t been the one touching Her, wasn’t the one who walked Her out.
Knowing that hadn’t stopped the creeping rage and disgust with himself. The ice-like, almost painful hated of Jack, festering into a vileness that curled his fists.
At one point, it had gotten so intolerable that he’d suggested they switch up the teams. He could put himself with Her. Steal just a little bit more of Her attention.
She’d been drawing away from him a little big before the mission as well. Bucky wasn’t sure what he’d done, but She hadn’t even been looking at him. He’d wanted to ask, to fix it, to do anything that would make things go back to normal. He might’ve asked the night they landed, if it wasn’t for fucking Jack.
And now they might be in Her room.
Which Bucky was fine with. They were adults. She was smart, and could make Her own choices, and he didn’t deserve Her anyway.
He still lingered outside Her room for hours, thinking about going in. Shouting his love to Her shocked face, then watching Her turn away from Jack and run into his arms.
The last part was just in his head. There was no way She’d do anything but throw him out of his ass, after he waited so long to tell Her.
If Jack was what She wanted, she deserved to be happy.
Bucky still didn’t sleep that night, his mind racing with the idea of someone else touching Her. Having Her, how he wanted.
Jack wouldn’t treat Her as well as Bucky would. He’d treat Her like a Queen.
Then lose Her. That kind of closeness was always something he lost.
He had to haul himself out of bed in the morning. He didn’t want to see Her and Jack standing next to each other. Didn’t to live in the world that was coming, where Her pretty eyes glazed right over him, like he was nothing more than a potted plant.
It was only to desire to get the hell out of this job, that got him moving.
But when he got to the group, She wasn’t there.
Not just late.
Missing.
Jack was there. When asked, he just shrugged. Bucky narrowed his eyes—the man had been fawning over Her last night, he’d had Her on his arm, and she was pretty damn hard to lose sight of—but Yelena just sighed and stomped off to go grab Her.
They waited awkwardly, shifting on their feet.
“Storm’s coming.” Walker muttered, and Bucky shot him a glare. “What? I’m just saying, we should be heading out-“
“No.” Bucky grunted. “Team first, John.”
Walker sighed, and gave him a flat look. Somehow he was the only person who knew. About a month into Her being on the team, Walker had cornered him and asked what the hell his problem was with Her. He didn’t let up, until Bucky shouted that he might have some feelings for Her.
He’d, shockingly, kept the secret.
That didn’t stop the silent mocking and pointed looks. Bucky had learned to ignore them.
“She does not feeling well.” Yelena announced, storming back into the room. “She wants to stay here.”
Bucky frowned. “She looked fine last night.”
“You were across the bar, Bucky Barnes. You could not tell.” Yelena grabbed her baton, moving on before Bucky could protest. “We have to beat the storm. She will wait, but I left her gun. In case someone tries to mess with her, she can-“
Yelena made a mock gun sound, and Bucky’s frown only deepened. She never missed a mission. Once he’d been forced to bench Her, because she had a fever and was trying to join the field work. Even then, She’d talked him into surveillance and intel.
It was probably a good thing Yelena had checked on Her. Bucky would’ve caved to damn near anything She told him, long as it didn’t put her in danger.
But She’d volunteered to stay.
It didn’t sit right. Bucky didn’t have a choice but to let it happen—the wind was picking up, the sky turning gray—but it kept turning, in his skull.
He knew almost everything about Her, because he listened and watched and memorized Her like a song he wanted stuck in his head forever. He knew that She loved animals, and got cold fast, and enjoyed those romance movies but always liked books better. She didn’t like to feel useless, so he tried to remind Her of things she did after missions, and she liked learning so he’d throw in suggestions for how she could improve.
She never used Her powers, even if they could let Her take over the world in an afternoon.
And She never just sat out a mission. Especially not one that would be really damn useful to have Her for.
“Would be useful, for songbird to be here.” Alexei echoed Bucky’s thoughts, dragged the guard they’d knocked out over to the thumbprint pad. “Her song, soothe angriest man.”
Bucky grunted an agreement, but Jack-
Jack scoffed. And rolled his eyes.
Bucky wasn’t the only one who caught it. Yelena’s eyes narrowed as well.
“What was that?”
Jack waved her off. “What was what?”
“That face. The one that you just made.” Yelena mimicked it. “What was this?”
“Oh. Nothing.”
“No, it was something. Say what.”
Yelena wasn’t suggesting. She was ordering. And it was hard, to be stupid enough to defy her.
“It’s not a big deal. Just,” Jack said Her name, and Bucky’s jaw clenched. He didn’t like the tone, like She wasn’t something holy, gracing their tongues.
“What about her?” His voice was lower than he wanted it to be. The fury felt like it was boiling over inside of him.
“Nothing. She’s- I don’t know, why all make such a big deal about her, when she’s such a bitch.”
Bucky saw red. Jack was still talking.
“I mean, she used her powers on me last night.” Jack looked around between them, lips curled in disgust. “Isn’t that fucked up?”
He expected sympathy. Bucky could read that, all over his ugly, about to be flattened face.
But Bucky knew Her. They all did.
She didn’t use her powers on people.
Not unless she was forced to.
For a moment, Bucky wasn’t thinking. His body was reacting, without needing his mind to command it. His fist flew up, and collided with Jack’s jaw. There was a sickening crack sound, as the man fell to the ground, but no one lunged to help him.
Bucky turned. The red behind his eyes was turning white, turning from wrath into worry. She was just alone, after what Jack had done. No one there to take care of Her, no one she trusted to talk to.
He’d would be there. Damn the mission, the rest of the time could work it out themselves, then leave Jack to be buried in the fast-falling snow.
Bucky was going to be there for Her.
It had gotten so cold, so fast.
You’d been lying in bed, when Yelena came to check on you. You’d mumbled that you didn’t feel like doing much today, and she’d let it go. She knew you wouldn’t ask if you didn’t really feel horrible. You’d gotten an awkward pat on the head, a feel better, and she’d left you to wallow alone.
You’d twisted. Turned. Stared at the ceiling, then been unable to keep your eyes open to see your own body and flipped over. Your tears stained the pillow, so you flipped that over too, and the blankets on your body were suffocating but still couldn’t be heavy enough to make you feel safe and warm.
Slowly, as the day stretches on, everything gets darker. Not just in your head, spinning around the hallway last night—Jack, Bucky’s apathy and cold stares, everything that had been bending all week set to snap any fucking second—but literally. It was 9am, when you had to turn a lamp on to see. There wasn’t any sunlight leaking through the curtains, and when you forced yourself up to shuffle over and check the windows, the world was gray.
It was snowing. Snowing so heavily, you couldn’t see anything but the flurry an inch outside the glass. There was a chill on your face, just from being near the glass, and your fingers shook as you closed the curtains again.
The team had left hours ago. The bunker was only an hour away, and if they did their jobs well, they’d be fine.
There might be fifty percent chance they’re already dead.
You drag out your personal computer, and turn on the local news to keep an eye for avalanches. You even keep your phone face up as you huddle in your blankets, in case they need to message you.
The tears are still falling randomly and heavily, freezing on your cheeks like snowflakes and coming from a hollow in your chest.
A part of you had expected that, from Jack. You hadn’t wanted to, when he’d been so nice to you, but people fascinated by your powers rarely seemed to care for you. For the weight of it on your shoulders, never able to understand that you weren’t just making people to do something.
You were stripping them down to puppet.
You watched the person fade from their eyes, and become just a doll for you to move around. You could never bare it. The first time it happened, completely on accident, you hadn’t spoken for a week out of fear you’d do it again.
So you hate him for it. Hate Jack, for forcing you to use it, and hate yourself for not being able to find another way out. You could’ve said please again, could’ve shoved him, could’ve screamed. There’s no promise it would have worked—it probably wouldn’t have—but at least you would’ve tried harder.
He wasn’t doing something good.
There’s an itch and crawl over your bones, because you did something worse.
This is why Bucky doesn’t want you. What you are. Deep in your core below the smiles and lies, you’re just a something Bucky would never want to touch, and you’re going to turn into a forgotten, hollow shell trapped in the cold, frozen in your own body and alone.
You gather the sheets closer, pulling them up to cover your face. The news is nothing but a muffled mumble in the background, and your fingers are still shaking.
Your phone buzzes, but it’s not Yelena. It’s a notification from the motel, informing you that the power has gone out and the heater is broken. They’re lighting a fire in the lobby. You can’t bring your legs to pick up and carry you out of bed.
The sun is gone behind the storm, and time passes like snow melting. Slow and fast all at once, building up and up and up until you’re unable to move or dig yourself out. The skin under your nails is the wrong shade, and when you flip your camera on, so are your lips. You’re shaking under the layers, but it’s nothing to warm you up, and when you dig your fingers into your own sides, they’re like icicles. Maybe you’re still crying. Maybe your eyes froze, and you’re never going to be able to cry again. It doesn’t really matter because you can’t feel anything but that hollowness.
You don’t think you’ve ever been more alone in your life.
And your eyes are hooded and fluttering, when there’s bang on your door.
Bucky’s voice calls your name, and a whine leaves your throat that’s too small to be heard. Maybe he wouldn’t even hear it if you screamed. You’re sure your voice would crack like ice, and he doesn’t even like you anyway. You’re not sure what he’s doing here at all.
He calls your name again. He sounds urgent.
Maybe you’re just dreaming. You’ve certainly had dreams like this before, where he swoops in and declares that he secretly loved you the whole time, and you laugh and kiss on a giant, floating pink cloud.
It’s more likely a nightmare. He’s going to storm in and turn to a monster, snarling and sneering about how useless and cancerous and wrong you are.
He’s shouting now, and any second his voice with turn to a growl. You burrow further under the covers, another weak whine leaving your throat.
Bucky slams against the door, and you cower. You’re too cold to even brace yourself, but at least you know you can still cry.
It breaks open, and you’ve never heard Bucky use that tone before. It’s broken and desperate, strange for a man who can’t bear to look at you. He may think you’re dead, and is just upset nature got to you first.
He says your name again, and you feel strong arms wrap around you. He could just be trying to choke you out anyway or going to dump you out in the snow to preserve your body, because there’s no other reason for him to be lifting you up-
“You’re- Why the hell are you so cold-“ He swears under his breath, and you feel the mattress dip down.
He’s sitting.
That can’t be right.
“Can you say something, doll? Anything so I know you’re hearin’ me, ‘cause-“ A warm hand brushes over your brown, then lingers near your mouth. “You’re breathing. Shit, you’re breathing, but- Say something. Please.”
He asks so nicely. You pull a deep, ragged groan from your chest, and you feel him tense around you.
“Alright, that’s- Good. Can work with that.” He seems to mostly be talking to himself. “Basic hypothermia, nothin’ that’ll kill you. Not if I’m here, and- Gonna kill that ass, I swear- There are some tall building that don’t have very good safety nets, and- ‘m sorry about this, sweetheart.”
You want to frown and ask what—what could possibly be making Bucky sound frantic—but you can’t feel your tongue enough to move it. There are shuffling noises, and he disappears from your side. You curl further into yourself, trying both to dredge up a plea for his return, and shove it down so you don’t make a fool of yourself.
Then suddenly, you’re cold, so so cold, so cold you think it’s going to drag you under something you can’t get out of-
And you’re warm.
The warm comes slower. You can hear muttered apologies, and shocks of warmth on your skin. You feel bare, and even colder, then there’s nothing but heat.
It’s pure heat wrapping around you, tangling between your legs and dragging over your arms and spine.
“Arm’s got a heater in it.” Bucky mutters, his voice somewhere near your head. “Wakanda, huh?”
There’s a dry chuckle, and your brain is slow to understand what’s happening. It’s dragging through the draft of the wind, the cold pushing back against you, and sometimes you’ll almost connect something, then the strings will fly out of your hands.
But you get warmer and warmer, and there’s a pleasant sound that’s deep and vibrates near your chest, and-
Bucky.
Bucky’s in your bed. Stripped down, and holding you. You’re stripped, to nothing but your underwear, and in Bucky’s arms.
He’s heating you up.
And this is a different kind of heat. It’s uneasy, staining shame for him having to do this for you. Shame and twisting guilt, for how you like it. You really have dreamed about this, and you’ve held sheets at night to pretend they’re the shape of his body, but it’s nothing compared to the real this. To the dips and curves of his chest near your cheek, the strength of his thighs and rippling arms around you.
There’s shame for how the heat is pooling, slowly but steadily, near your stomach. It feeds the shame, and something in you likes the embarrassment—at least it means you have Bucky’s attention—and that just makes you more shameful, and it feeds into itself like a raging wildfire.
You can speak again. You’re afraid to.
You might moan.
At last, breaking the silence, you pull the soft words from the hollow in your chest.
“You came back.”
Bucky stops humming, then sighs heavily. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Jack. Knew he made you use your powers. Wanted to check on you.”
You frown against his skin. That doesn’t make sense. “Check… On me?”
Bucky grunts. “Make sure he didn’t hurt you.”
“He couldn’t-“
He says your name sternly, and your words die fast. “We both know you don’t just use your powers. Whatever he did to make you-“ Bucky cuts himself off, his voice straining oddly. “Are you alright.”
“Yeah.” You breathe out, voice still hung with confusion. “I- I’m okay.”
Bucky makes a low sound, and it rolls through your whole body. Between your legs.
You shift against him, trying to relieve some friction. He holds you tighter. He smells good, like pine trees and something warm that’s just Bucky, and it’s intoxicating. You manage to twist so that you’re facing away from him, because being this close to him and keeping yourself from moaning—whenever his hand dips too low on your back, or his thigh flexes too close to your core—is almost impossible.
“I punched him.” Bucky breaks the long silence.
“Who?”
“Jack.”
You swallow on a lump in your throat. That wants that to mean something, when you know it doesn’t. “You didn’t have to do that-“
“I did.” He grunts, and your lips press in a tight line.
“And then you… came back?”
He sighs, breath warm near your ear. Nods.
“Why?”
“I told you.” Bucky sounds heavy. It’s nothing compared to the weight of him on your ribs, over your heart.
“No, I-” Your voice wavers. “Why for me? You- You don’t even like me.”
Bucky stills completely. His hands splay against you, branding your skin, and you can hear him lick his lips near your ear.
“What are you talkin’ about?” His voice is oddly rough, and you frown at the air.
“You- You don’t like me. Which is- It’s fine, you don’t have to, but-“
“I like you.”
You blink, at the harshness of his words. “No, you don’t.”
“Yes. I do, we’re-“ His voice is getting lower, like he’s trying to convince himself. “We’re friends.”
“No, we’re not?”
“Do you… Not like me?”
It’s so painful, the way the end of his sentence drops off. Hesitant. Unsure.
You really don’t understand what’s happening.
“I- I don’t-“ You’re stammering, heat flooding your cheeks. “That’s not- You don’t like me, so I-“
“Doll, I-“
“You don’t like me,” your voice is rising. It’s not helpful, to have his bare body so close to yours for him. “You don’t, you- You’re always glaring at me, and we don’t hang out-“
“We sit in the kitchen together-“
“Yeah, but- You never talk to me!”
Bucky’s fingers are digging into your sides. “Yes.” He grunts. “I do.”
“Only when you tell me how I fucked up a mission-“
“I’m givin’ you tips, and- Fuck-“ His voice caves a little again, until it’s only a rasp. “Do you really not think I like you?”
He sounds hurt. As if you did something wrong, you always do something wrong to him, and-
You’re crying again. The tears stream silently down your cheeks, and you can’t stop yourself from turning your face into Bucky’s shoulder to hide it. Everything is still so cold, and there’s confusion and dread building in your stomach that you’ve twisted something all wrong, and he’s so warm and safe.
His hand flies to the back of your head, and he rolls over you, shielding you from the worlds. A metal thumb comes to your cheek, wiping the tears then trying to angle your chin up.
“This isn’t- Shit- Can you look at me?” Bucky says your name, and you try to twist away. “No, don’t- I don’t hate you. I don’t. I- Fuck, I’m not good at this, but- Look at me-“
Something hotter enters his voice, and your eyes snap up to his. Bucky looks at you with such open relief, you’re not sure you didn’t die.
“Bucky…” You breathe out, grabbing his wrist. “I- I’m sorry, you-“
“Don’t.” He grunts. “Don’t, I’m not- You never gotta apologize. Not to me.”
You shake your head, because that doesn’t make any sense, and Bucky’s throat bobs.
“I like you, doll.” He murmurs, dropping his brow against yours. Like something impossible to hold is on his shoulders. “I like you. Always liked you, I- Fuck, I used to be good at this-“
He stares at you like you’re something priceless. You feel exposed, completely Bucky’s with nothing to show for it, and he’s looking at you like you’re priceless. His thumb brushes over your lower lip. His voice is so deep, you can almost feel it in your chest.
“I like you.” He mutters, thumb tracing the corner of your mouth. “I like you, please.”
Something in you snaps, at the pure, open vulnerability in his voice. At how fragile you feel, and how if his heat doesn’t melt you, it will mend you together. You surge up without thinking.
Press your lips against his, harsh and fast. The timing is all wrong, and it’s nothing but a bumping of nose and smashing of lips. He doesn’t kiss you back, until the very last second, when you’re already pulling away.
He dives down after you, then recoils.
Glaring down at you, an expression identical to what you’ve seen so many times on his face.
The only difference is his mouth hanging open. And his heartbeat, under your hand.
Fast.
He stares at you. You stare back, tears pricking back at your eyes, and-
Bucky almost falls over you. And this kiss is just as sloppy as the first, but it’s anything but awkward. Bucky kisses you like he’s trying to tell you something, that nothing but his body can say. His hands wander, as his lips move relentlessly against yours. He angles his head, deepening the kiss, and all the built-up heat floods you like a wildfire.
Your arms fly around his neck, as you kiss him back. Bucky groans, doubling his force, and you’re pinned between him and mattress. Your legs glide apart to accommodate his space, and you shiver as his metal hand finds the base of your spine, pushing you up into the muscle of his torso.
“Bu- Bucky-“ You gasp, and he growls against your mouth. “Oh- Oh my-“
Your hips roll, because it’s too much to bear. How much you need him, how consuming he is, how happy you’d be to drown if it’s under him. Your legs drag wider, and Bucky starts a warpath down your throat, lips burning every bit of skin he can find.
Your back arches into him, your fingers flying to his hair. It’s wet and messy, a painful pleasure when you try to chase him but find nothing. His teeth graze your neck, and it sends a shiver down your spine.
“Please, fuck-“ You writhe below him, unable to keep still as he works you like an instrument. “More- I, I need you, so bad, Bucky, please-“
He crashes back up, kissing you until your toes curl and your head spins.
“You are…” He pulls your head back, deepening the kiss. “Fuckin’ beautiful. You really didn’t know, did you doll. Just what you were doin’ to me, how much I wanted-“ He pulls your lip between his teeth, and you moan openly. “This.”
There’s a force, behind his kiss and his touch. It’s demanding, and you’re more than willing to give.
Your legs are spread as wide as they can go, your hips humping up into Bucky’s body. His warmer hand slams down, right over your barely clothed core, pressing it back down into the bed.
“Don’t do that. I’ve been tryin’ to keep it together, but if you-“ He groans, as he feels the damp spot on your panties. “Fuck, you- You’re-“
“Bucky,” you sound downright pathetic, lashes fluttering as you try to plea with him. “Need you-“
“No, you don’t-“
“Yes, I do.” Your voice breaks in a sob. He can’t just do this, then not give you more. He must really hate you, for him to torture you like that-
Bucky cuts your thoughts off with another, softer kiss. It’s impossibly sweet, making your heart flutter and a sigh escape your lips.
“Don’t cry, babydoll.” Bucky murmurs. “Nothin’ here to cry about.”
You disagree. “Please.” You whisper, holding his hooded gaze, and his tongue flicks over his lips.
His hand presses harder, and a ruined moan escapes your lips.
“James…”
You don’t know what makes you say it. But Bucky’s reaction is immediate. His breath catches, his eyes flashing, there’s almost a predatory focus on his face. He drags two fingers, slowly over the wet spot.
You shudder below him, moaning again, and his nostrils flare.
“Say it again.” His words are firm, and you obey freely.
“James, please-“
Bucky kisses you again, cutting off your words into a moan. But this time, he builds up. His fingers apply a little more pressure, his palm rubbing back and forth against your clit. His tongue slides against yours, as he drags your underwear to the side, and teases his fingers over your pussy lips.
You squirm below him, and he doesn’t break the kiss.
“Be patient, pretty girl. Waited years.” He dips into your wetness, gathering it up before smearing it on your clit. “Gonna take my time.”
All you can do is scratch at his back and shoulders, trying to urge him on. Bucky just chuckles, rolling around your clit before moving back down, and notching his fingers right at your entrance. You aren’t strong enough, to move against him and pull him inside. Just blunt nails graze you, and your eyes roll back in your head.
Then suddenly, he’s gone.
It’s a split second, where your eyes fly open and you almost choke him, in an attempt to stop him from leaving.
But he’s not even trying to.
He’s just switching hands.
The metal, now cool and biting against your skin, spanks your pussy lightly, and you go limp below him.
“I’ve got you, doll.” He mutters against your lips, his eyes trained between your bodies. On where his hand is resting against your cunt. “So wet, for me. ’S for me?”
He glances up, and smirks when you nod.
“I know.” He plants a mockingly sweet kiss on your lips. “Always knew, just thought you saw it. How much I dreamed about this, you and your pretty fuckin’ pussy-“
He slides a finger into you, and you clench tight around him, still managing to stare up at him and cling to his every word. He groans, as he pushes further in. Presses his cheek against yours, his breath hot on your ear.
“Relax.”
You try to. You close your eyes, and let his body ease you down. Eventually you get it, and your body goes limp. You breathe heavy through your nose, as Bucky pushes his finger fully into you. Starts to pump it slowly, letting you feel him work open your walls, hitting that deep spot inside of you every time with ease.
Bucky groans. “Knew you’d take me so good. Fuckin’- could smell when you got wet, smelled like candy, made me feel like a dog. I would’ve gotten on my knees for you, doll, but I like you like this, too.” He pushes up over you, finger picking up pace. Grins at your open, wanting expression, your arms wrapping around your stomach. “Wrecked on my fingers. Soakin’ the sheets,” he reaches up, brushing a stray tear from your cheek. “So damn needy, and mine.”
You moan, and Bucky smirks. His fingers pick up pace, and it makes you feel like you’re going to burst into starlight.
“Say it,” he grunts, and the glare is back.
Not a glare of hate, you realize in your lustful haze.
A glare of hunger. Desire.
And something dangerously close to adoration.
“I- Bucky, fuck-“
“Say you’re mine,” he lowers himself back down, his lips brushing yours. “Please.”
He asked so nicely again. “I- I’m yours-“ You whimper, his thumb flicking against your clit. “I’m yours, Bucky, I’m-“
You moan into his mouth, as he kisses you open and desperate.
“I can’t believe you think I could hate you.” He mutters against your lips, and you swallow.
“James-“
“Who the hell could hate something so beautiful?”
That does it.
Heat rushes through you, and your vision swims as you cum hard enough to light you on fire. When you float back down, Bucky is still over you. His metal hand is stroking your thigh, and it’s so quickly clear.
That’s not enough.
He must see it on your face, because his brows raise. There’s the glare again.
And a tension in his body, like he’s trying to hold himself back.
“You need more, babydoll?” He mutters, searching your face. “You want-“
“Yes.” You moan, and you’ve never seen Bucky move so fast in your life.
He sheds his underwear like they were burning him, and in the split second you see him, your mouth falls open. He’s beautiful, but thick, and you don’t know if you can take it.
Bucky makes it easy. He mutters a quick check about birth control, tapping his head on your clit. You nod, and he kisses your forehead, breathing raggedly as he slides into your dripping cunt.
“Fuck…” He moans, fingers finding your clit to stop you from fluttering around him. “’S… So good-“
Whatever suave words he had before are gone. Bucky bottoms out, and sits inside of you, chest heaving as he gives you a second to adjust.
And when he starts moving, it’s controlled. Careful, pulling far out of you before slamming back in, his eyes fixed on the way your body reacts. He rolls his hips, grabs your legs and hikes it up, hitting a sweet, deeper angle that makes you see stars.
A broken James falls out of your lips.
And he snaps.
Bucky grabs your hands, from around your body, and pins them over your head. His hips start to drill into you, his cock slamming against every deep and sensitive part inside of you. You can only blink up at him, too cock-drunk to speak, sparks seeming to fly up your spine as he fucks you into a wrecked, blissed-out oblivion.
He’s trying to talk to you, broken praise falling from his lips, but it all comes out in feral sounds. You’ve never seen him like this, his brow pinched and lips parted, body flushed and movements sharp and wild. Almost nothing he says makes much sense, and every single grunt seems to mean the same exact thing that’s lost in the friction of your bodies.
Then his mouth lands over yours, his thrusts turning short and desperate. You’re so close, seconds from tipping over the edge, and-
“Love you,” he chokes out your name, taking a deep breath as he ruts into your g-spot. “Love you so much.”
You cum around him, arching off the bed from the full force of it. Bucky groans, swallowing your every cry of his name with his mouth, and pulls out with a groan.
He fists himself, the head of him still tapping against your clit, and he moans your name as he paints your thighs and abdomen white.
Bucky leans down, the kisses sweet again. Soft.
Taking time.
You’re too boneless to do much but return them, one hand moving up to cup his face. He grabs it, and kisses the inside of your wrist. Stands and grabs a towel from your bathroom, cleaning between your thighs in a comfortable silence. You feel like you’re floating, somewhere higher than heaven. Your head is empty, except for his touch.
You only really know two things.
It’s so cold, while he’s gone.
But warm again, when he slides into bed at your side.
Safe, and warm, and loved.
“I don’t,” he mutters in your ear, voice still rough. “Hate you.”
You smile at the air, rolling over to press your face into his chest.
“Okay.” You hum, wrapping your arms around his chest. “I believe you.”
And as he kisses your hairline, lips soft and delicate, you really do.
✦End note: What is fanfic for if not indulging delusion.✦
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Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky x Assistant!Reader
wc: +18k (WHAT THE FUCK??)
Summary: Being by Bucky's side wasn't new, after having worked for Bucky during his campaign, his short-lived term as a congressman, and now helping him as his assistant with the New Avengers. But after a very needed vacation, you come back to your job at the Watchtower with some particular songs stuck in your mind. It's just a coincidence that the one that you keep singing is about a secretary wanting to get his boss's attention and love.
a/n: Inspired by the Mexican musical and now TV series “Mentiras” (Lies), it's an 80s pop-ballads-inspired jukebox musical. The songs are originally in Spanish, I'll put the translations when needed. The photo used in the banner is the character Lupita, not the description of reader.
Warnings and tags: Mentiras La Serie inspired, references to the musical are described, so you don't need to know it to enjoy this. implied sexy times, cursing. Reader is implied to be fluent in Spanish and English. No use of y/n. Post Thunderbolts, ignoring the post-credit scene. Canon? What Canon?. Boss x Employee. Idiots in love. Friends/boss x assistant to lovers. JUST TALK! Angst, fluff, slow burn, YEARNING ! MCU crossovers. nicknames used: sweetheart, bee, abejita (little bee)
Check upcoming fics and posted fics here
Series Masterlist | Acaríciame: Office Shenanigans
Dime, ¿por qué me dices solamante mentiras?
Tell me, why do you only tell me lies?
Dime, ¿por qué no dices nunca la verdad?
Tell me, why do you never tell the truth?
You sang along while doing your makeup. You had just come back to the Watchtower from some very long-overdue vacations. You were sure you didn’t need them, as you did every time someone pointed that out, but the team had been very insistent since you had been working nonstop even before Valentina announced them as the New Avengers. Originally, you had been part of Bucky’s staff while he was running for Congress, and later joined him in DC during his term as his secretary. Once Val made the announcement and the work started to pile up, he called you to join the team to help him.
The work wasn’t much different than before, so you had adjusted easily. You still worked for Bucky, helping him with the bureaucracy side of being a superhero. Eventually, your work extended to the rest of the team, from scheduling meetings to ensuring that there was always a supply of food to satisfy the metabolism of a team with enhanced individuals. And that said supply, also included their favorites — not an easy job, but you managed.
You were efficient, including things that were beyond your job description. You were the bridge to the rest of the departments – marketing, PR, Val’s team, anyone who wanted something from them had to get through you.
The team trusted you.
Bucky trusted you.
You had learned a lot coexisting with him in his tiny office. Knew when to push him and when to give him space. You could read his expressions and grunts like nobody else and knew if he was overwhelmed, bored, angry, or just hungry. You were… friends.
During his campaign, he would stay by your desk after hours while you worked, even when the bullpen was empty and you were the only ones left there. He wouldn’t leave until you turned off your computer and called it a night, but since you were a workaholic, that meant he would stay there for a few hours, talking over the sound of your keyboard. At some point between talking about his campaign over the bitter flavor of cheap coffee, he opened up to you, telling you about his life and later sharing his insecurities.
Was he doing the right thing by running for Congress? Would people trust him even though he struggled to trust himself?
He didn’t walk on eggshells around you — he had learned that way early after meeting you. You saw him, James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes. Not the Winter Soldier, not Captain America’s sidekick, not the grumpy version of himself that he used as a shield to the rest of the world. You saw Bucky as a human.
And he loved you for that.
Of course, you didn't know about that fact, even though whoever had seen you both together had told you that.
And you, well, you knew you had a crush. For months, you fought the idea of liking your boss, a big no-no rule in your book. But, just like the common saying, the heart wants what it wants. So you only accepted to yourself that you had a crush. Just a crush. The way your heart acted when you were around him or how your smile got bigger and brighter meant nothing — just a crush, nothing more.
Lies.
Mentiras.
A new notification interrupted your routine, and you rushed to unlock your phone.
Besties, please tell me I'm not the only one struggling to get the songs out of my mind.
You chuckled at your friend's message. Of course, they weren’t the only ones. In your defense, it was Bucky’s fault, in more ways than one. First of all, the vacations he forced you to take started just as the series adaptation of Mentiras dropped, which led you and your friends to binge-watch it over wine and snacks in one night. You had told your friends that you were finally taking a break from work, and hours later, they surprised you by making the arrangements to do the same and travel to Mexico with you. Watching the series with them was the first step of your two-week plan away from anything work-related once you landed.
You had the time of your life, singing the songs you didn’t remember you had known. You sang your heart out lyric by lyric — because growing up only made you finally relate to old songs that your mother's generation sang.
And then the Pobre Secretaria number happened.
Look, look at your secretary
Fíjate, fíjate en tu secretaria
Oh sir, what pain, poor secretary
Ay señor qué dolor pobre secretaria
Ask her to copy a hundred thousand times I love you
Pídele que copie cien mil veces yo te amo
Look, look at your secretary
Fíjate, fíjate en tu secretaria
Oh sir, what pain poor secretary
Ay señor qué dolor pobre secretaria
I think she's close to going crazy
Creo que le falta poco para enloquecer
Lupita trying to get her boss's attention. Doing so much work for him, all while looking fabulous, rocking some animal print — so 80s. Yeah, your friends quickly pointed out the similarities. From there, each time Lupita appeared in a scene, your friends couldn’t stop saying that it was you. Lupita was also the most efficient bilingual secretary with a massive crush on her boss.
The main difference was that she managed to get the man. Well, they became fuck-buddies with romantic feelings involved, mainly by Lupita, but with her boss was unclear. Even though he was married, she wasn’t the only mistress he had. But that was another history.
It didn’t help you that the song was catchy.
After watching the series, one of your friends even suggested getting tickets to watch the play while you were in Mexico City. The next two weeks had you playing the soundtrack and the original versions of the songs on loop. So it wasn’t shocking that all of you started humming or singing some song every chance you got.
You texted your friends back and finished your routine, just in time for some coffee and food before dealing with your morning meetings. Thankfully, you had taken Bucky’s advice and accepted moving to the Watchtower with the team. It was way better that way, having in mind that you had moved from Brooklyn to DC to assist with his term, or at least before he quit and returned to the superhero gig full-time.
He had apologized profusely the first chance he got.
Days later, you were back in NYC without a place to stay, having ended your lease to follow him, and into an eternal cycle of interviews and “We found someone else” speeches. You crashed on your friend's couch while you thought about what to do next. Lara, your friend and temporary roommate, assured you that it wasn't a problem for you to stay with her for all the time you needed. But you needed to work for your sanity, since the alternative of being a couch potato would only trigger unwanted thoughts for you.
But then the New Avengers happened, and in a few weeks, you received Bucky’s call.
“Buck?” You answered the call, confused. You had seen him on TV during the press conference that announced the team — even though you didn’t expect a call from him, it brought you relief knowing that he was okay.
He said your name, and you could swear you could hear his smile in his voice.
“Hey, I know right now I don’t have the best references as a boss, but –” He took a deep breath, “I need some help in this new job, and I know you must think that I’m the worst, and I won’t blame you if you do — I just, I can’t think of anybody for the position”
Silence.
“You still there?” Bucky asked, bracing himself in case you would react badly.
“Still here, I’m just confused,” you replied after a beat. “What are you talking about, and how am I even an option for it? God, Bucky, I’m a secretary, I don’t think a superhero needs one.”
“I know it sounds crazy, but I do! Val has been throwing us from meeting to meeting. Talking with the press, attending parties where we have to mingle with rich people. She mentioned that we are gonna have a photoshoot with our new gear for some merch.” He sounded exasperated. “Sweetheart, I swear it feels like I’m back on campaign, the only thing missing is you. I need my best team with me, and that is you.”
Your heart made a jump. Sweetheart. You had missed hearing that nickname. You had missed him.
“Are you sure you’re not just offering this because you feel guilty? We talked about this, Bucky. I’m not mad at you, and you don’t owe me anything.”
“I know, I know. I promise you that this is real. You’re perfect for this job! I trust you, you’re amazing with what you do. I've already spoken with Val, and she's doubled the pay you used to receive. The job description is pretty much the same, but with more perks. Just help me survive all the compromises that Val throws at us. Also, we are moving to the Watchtower. There are plenty of suites waiting to be occupied. You can choose whatever floor you want, that’s part of the perks – that way you can save some money.” He rambled. You could tell the whole thing had him on his nerves. By his voice, you could see him clearly before you. Pacing in front of you, his hand gripping the phone like a lifeline, his free hand brushing his hair back.
The offer sounded good. Too good to be true. You bit your lip and looked at your laptop, the email inbox still open, waiting for the replies to the dozens of CVs that you sent. Bucky’s offer sounded legit. The pay sounded great. And deep down, you knew that the main reason it sounded amazing was because of the man who was calling you.
“You don’t have to say yes if you don’t want to,” he started backtracking, afraid that he was misreading your silence, “I just —I know you’re perfect for the job, and I miss working with you. If you’re not satisfied with some perks, we can negotiate, just read the contract I’ll send you and think about it.”
“Buck,” you interrupted his ramble.
“Yes?”
“When I start?”
That call had been almost a year ago.
“Oh my God, you’re back!” Yelena's voice welcomed you once the elevator doors opened. She rushed to hug you and met you halfway to the kitchen.
“Lena! Hi! I got here pretty late, so I went straight to my floor and fell asleep almost immediately.”
“I can imagine. It's good to see you back!”
Besides Bucky, Yelena was one of the ones you were closer to. And just like most of your friends, she was convinced that Bucky and you were madly in love, two dumb idiots who were just dancing around each other. Her words. Or at least the shorter and censored version.
“Can you believe that even though he suggested your vacations, Bucky got grumpier and sulkier than ever the moment you left?” She said with a smirk while she followed you through the kitchen. You moved with ease around the kitchen, taking out what you needed to prepare your quick breakfast.
“New blouse?” Ava pointed out from her seat while nursing a mug.
You looked down at the silk fabric.
“Yes, one of my friends' gifts.”
The day after watching the play, your friends had dragged you around malls in search of something that resembled Lupita's wardrobe – animal print, miniskirts, stockings, or something orange. It started as a joke, but the moment you tried on one of the animal print silk blouses, they wouldn't shut up until you went back home with a full new outfit.
“Cool, you look good.” Ava smiled softly.
“Good? She looks sexy!” Yelena exclaimed. “Also with that pencil leather skirt? Those heels? That old man is gonna get a heart attack the moment he sees you.”
“That or finally all that sexual tension will break,” Ava mumbled, joining Yelena's side next to you while you waited for your coffee to be ready.
“We have talked about this. He doesn't like me. Besides, he's my boss. At most, we are just friends, nothing more." You recited while you prepared some toast. If you had turned to see them, you would have caught them mouthing your words. By now, they had learned the speech.
“Friends that want to jump each other's bones,” Yelena corrected you.
You sighed. Yeah, this was a typical morning with the team.
“It’s too early for this,” you said, rubbing your temples.
“We have two weeks of pent-up teasing. Let us be. Didn't you miss us?”
You snorted, “You really think that I'm gonna believe that you didn't tease Bucky during that time?” You took a bite of your toast, and with a mug in hand, you took a seat.
“That's different.” Ava pointed out. Both of them follow you and take a seat on each side.
“Two weeks without teasing you,” Yelena corrected. “Happy?”
The girls joined you while you ate, keeping you company and catching you up on what happened while you were gone.
Enlisting every proof of Bucky’s change of humor.
Bucky was in charge of the training plans. Thanks to his experience, he easily found their opportunity areas and wouldn't back up until he saw results. However, those weeks, he had been ruthless with the team. The drills got harder, as if the more bruises and pain they got, the sooner you would be coming back. And that included his own training. Bucky spent more hours in the training room than in his room. Ava was sure he wasn't sleeping enough, finding him there late at night and early in the morning. The team had also caught him countless times staring at your office across his.
“Just call her”.
Bob had told him one of those many times that they found him staring at your empty spot in the common room. That love seat you swear was perfectly positioned. He had agreed once, and since then, it was usual to see them seated by your side.
“I promised that she was going to be two weeks free from work. I'm part of her work.” Bucky always mumbled back and went back to the training room or whatever distraction he had that day.
They also had a couple of missions between that time. They saw the panic in your eyes the moment they said it. So, without a word, Yelena showed you the med bay and debrief records. Each wound had been treated, and they were fine. That was an invasion of privacy, but who could stop her if she wanted to prevent you from spiraling?
You no longer believed them when they said “I'm okay” after a mission. Not since those words were followed by seeing them get off the jet with gunshot wounds, covered in a mix of blood and debris, bruises, cuts, and broken bones. You needed to see them being okay with your own eyes. They were like your family, and call it trauma response, or whatever, but you knew they were as paranoid as you, and they understood your worries.
They gave you the heads up that Bob had finished the books you had suggested to him, so you had to be ready for an extensive review of each of them. Alexei and John had taken up some online cooking courses. They had started a couple of fires the first few days, but the last attempts seemed okay. Or at least edible. You were thankful you weren't there, since the paperwork to repair the kitchen was exhausting. You already knew that, thanks to that pair, too.
Yelena wanted to show you some new knife tricks and couldn't wait for you to resume your training. It didn’t matter that you were in one of the safest buildings on the planet. All of you knew that by being so close to them, you were an easy target, so Yelena had taken it upon herself to show you some moves of self-defense. However, you weren't known for doing things halfway, so now she was full-on training you.
Red room training for dummies, trauma light version.
That was the official name she had given it. It didn’t take long for Ava to join you and to offer to teach you how to shoot a gun.
Bucky didn't know, of course. You would join them in the training room whenever Bucky was away. It wasn't that you were afraid of his reaction, but he had a particular way of acting around you.
One time, you tripped and hit your knee pretty badly, hurting your ankle in the process. You stayed on the floor for a few minutes, fighting back tears from the pain. Next thing you knew, Bucky was by your side and carried you to the med bay and didn't leave your side. Once you could get back to your room, he carried you there and stayed until he was sure you didn’t need anything else. He kept hovering the next few days until he knew you were better, with a cold compress and ibuprofen ready at any sign of pain.
His hovering was something you were kinda used to — it happened when you were sick, whenever you hurt yourself, or when you were overwhelmed and overworked. He was always there for you, just as you were with him. Except your excuse was that it was technically your job, even though you knew perfectly that you were doing more than a regular secretary would do.
But your work wasn’t regular either, so who cares?
After quickly catching up with the girls, you rushed to the first 12th floor of the tower where you had your scheduled meetings. You would typically move around the bottom floors as some of the main departments, offices, and meeting rooms were located there. The highest levels housed the private quarters for the team: suites, common floors with the kitchen, a library and some couches and a big TV, two private training floors with a gym with modified equipment for the enhanced members, a shooting ring and the area for the team drills, the comms room, artillery, the team meeting rooms and the med floor.
The rest of the floors that Val was still working on assigning.
By 11 AM, you finally set foot in your office, and as if they had been waiting for a moment for you to sit and have privacy, a familiar knock on your open door broke the silence.
“Hi, sweetheart. Were you hiding for me?” He asked, acting hurt. As if he hadn’t known exactly where you were since he had access to your schedule. The little menace he was.
“Not at all, just running from meeting to meeting, it seems that some departments had a lot to say after two weeks.” You said with a fake cheerful tone.
“How bad was it?” He grimaced.
“Nothing that I wasn’t expecting,” you tried to hide your smile. Bucky was a professional worrier, so you weren’t surprised by his reaction. “Val, marketing, and PR joined forces, and now I have to schedule a couple of mandatory public appearances, and according to the Marketing Team, you need more merch. You know, the usual.”
“Why do I feel like it is my fault?” He sighed as he left his spot at the door and walked towards the couch you had in your office.
“It’s not your fault.” You assured him while he lay down. He didn't reply and just closed his eyes. After so many years fighting, he knew which battles to choose. Convincing you that everything wrong was his fault wasn't one of them.
You really looked at him once he got closer. Ava and Yelena didn't lie – he seemed tired.
“Sleep a few hours here, you look like hell.” You told him while you were preparing to work for the next hours. Computer on, your favorite pen, sticky notes, and markers nearby, headset fully charged, files ready to be organized by priority.
“Ouch, sweetheart,” he placed his hand over his heart, “I look like hell because I feel like it, thank you very much for the reminder.”
“Bad day?” You asked softly.
He opened his eyes and looked at you. He had missed you, not only the work you did but your presence. He could relax around you; that had been one of the main reasons you had a couch in your office in the first place. He would always find his way into your office — paperwork in hand and coffee or snacks on the other.
Sometimes he would show up empty-handed and start venting about whatever was bothering him — Sam (especially with the ongoing lawsuit, their interactions turned even more tense ), the team, the government, the internet, the plot of the current book he was reading, even gossip he had overheard thanks to his enhancing.
The days when his mind was so loud and the rest of the world tried to be louder, he would walk straight to your couch and stay silent, enjoying the quiet until he felt ready to talk again.
Sometimes he would bring work from his office with him or some snacks. He would listen to you rambling about whatever topic you liked and never complain. On bad days, he would even take naps there, especially after a hard mission or a sleepless night where the nightmares became too much.
“Bad weeks,” he corrected you, and you couldn't stop the thought that maybe your friends haven't exaggerated about him missing you. Your stubbornness told you that anyone in his position would have resented the absence of their assistant.
You didn't ask him to elaborate and just nodded, something you did when you noticed that he was overwhelmed and you would rather wait for him to decide to talk about it.
“Sleep, Buck. I'll be here when you wake up.” You said, dropping the blinds behind you and adjusting the bright light to a softer one, enough for you to read your files and for him to be able to sleep.
“Promise?” He looked at you with such vulnerability that you had to clear your throat to stop yourself from confessing your feelings for him right there.
“I promise,” you finally, barely above a whisper. He gave you a final look and got comfortable on your couch. He took off his boots and unfolded the blanket that you always had ready for moments like this. Once he was satisfied, he let out a deep sigh and closed his eyes.
You allowed yourself to get drunk on the sight of him once he fell asleep. Bucky was handsome. And that beauty was accentuated when he allowed himself to relax. The tension left his features and his body, making him look younger, as if the moment he closed his eyes, the years of coldness and darkness melted away. You knew that he still had a few nightmares, but there, in your office, surrounded by you, the nightmares retreated and allowed him to have peace.
He felt safe.
And that was obvious.
But some shadows and ghosts didn't care about that.
He had only had a couple of nightmares there with you, and they had been after some pretty intense missions where innocent people had died, and some of the members of the team had some close calls and had come back barely alive. He felt responsible for the results, and that translated into his dreams. The other times you could swear he had mumbled your name in his sleep, he woke up agitated and on the brink of having a panic attack. He didn't want to talk about what he had dreamed; he just mumbled: “Hydra, too much blood.”
You never asked him why he had said your name.
But you could guess by how overprotective he behaved the next few days. He followed as if he were your bodyguard, his eyes scanning for threats in each room you entered. Body tense, ready to jump into action in case of a threat. And you knew that whatever nightmare he had that day, it kept coming back.
He kept looking at you, as if in any second, whatever wound he saw in his dream would appear.
You never admitted it, but one of the main reasons you had talked with Yelena to train you was because of the fear you had seen in Bucky’s eyes that day.
The rhythmic sound of your keyboard welcomed Bucky once he woke up. He felt less tired, and the throbbing behind his eyes had stopped. He opened his eyes slowly and quickly found you working on your computer.
A couple of piles of files were in front of you, your eyes jumped from the screen to one of the files, your fingers moving like lightning over your keyboard, only stopping when you reached for your favorite mug — one he had gifted you last Christmas. He shifted so he could look at you better, without you noticing, too focused on the document on your screen, and whatever song was playing on your noise-canceling headset.
You always joked that as long as there was music, the easier your work became.
When Bucky was there, you would work on curating playlists for him. Once done, you would share it with him so he could listen to it outside your office. The curated playlists became the soundtrack of each of his visits — so you having your headphones on meant that you didn't want to disrupt his sleep.
There were very, very few things that Bucky was grateful for about his past after the war. Very specific things. The serum had brought him some perks, but there were things he hated. Like how he had to constantly remind himself of controlling his strength, how he had to focus to drown most of the sounds he could pick up now, and how some smells could trigger a migraine. But there were some perks too — he could smell your perfume even from far away, if he focused enough, he could use the sound of your heart to ground himself after watching you die in his arms in his nightmares.
And right now, he was grateful that he was able to hear you singing even though you were barely making a sound.
Beloved boss, you've done it
Jefe querido lo has conseguido
I don't know if I can take it anymore
No sé si pueda aguantar más
Look, look at your secretary
Fíjate, fíjate en tu secretaria
Oh sir, what pain poor secretaria
Ay señor que dolor pobre secretaria
Ask her to copy a hundred thousand times I love you
Pídele que copie cien mil veces yo te amo
Bucky blinked slowly. No, he wasn't dreaming. He was used to dreaming about you. But, it wasn't one of those usual dreams where he would find yourself and him dating. God, he still remembers the one where you had a ring on your finger and you called him husband.
Something he would add to the list was that HYDRA had been very insistent on the number of languages that the Winter Soldier was fluent in, so he could infiltrate whatever government they needed. He had invested countless hours in becoming fluent in most of them. Spanish was one of those that he still secretly practiced since noticing that, just as Yelena, you would slip into another language from time to time.
He also knew that you were completely oblivious of the fact that he could understand you. He had learned that when Val had come over and basically called all of them idiots, when she turned around and was far enough, you had mumbled under your breath, “Un día de estos le voy a partir su madre,” and then you had looked at him with the sweetest and innocent smile as if you hadn't just said that you would kick her ass someday.
He acted as if he didn't understand you, and from then noticed every single time your Spanish slipped through. More than once, he had wanted to tell you, but something stopped him.
You kept singing about a secretary begging for her boss to notice her — notice that she loved him.
Did you feel the same as him? He felt his heart beating faster. Do you love him as he loves you? Do you also go out of your way to have his attention because you can't live a day without seeing his smile or hearing his voice?
“Mierda, Bucky! One of these days you’re going to kill me!” You exclaimed once your eyes wandered and found him looking directly at you. After removing your headphones, your hand moved to your chest, trying to ease your fast-beating heart.
“Sorry, you looked so focused, didn’t want to interrupt you.” he looked at the clock on the wall and quickly sat up. “Damn, I slept for that many hours?”
“Yup, how was your nap?” You asked while grabbing a few documents and placed them on the pile of files that you needed the team to read and sign.
“Great, as always,” he stretched his arms, making his shirt rise and showing a bit of his skin. Your mouth went dry at the sight, and you quickly took a sip from your mug. “Wait — fuck, did we miss lunch?”
You nodded, “It’s okay, I’m behind in so much paperwork, I was going to skip it anyway.”
“Sweetheart, you know that that’s the main reason that we have lunch together every day,” he got up and folded your blanket. “Come on, you have to eat something.”
“I’m fine, Bucky,” you tried to ignore the way his eyes burned your skin.
He said your name with a serious tone. Fuck. It rolled off his tongue so smoothly that you wondered how it would sound if — NOPE, you weren’t going there.
“We're not having this conversation again, come on,” he walked towards you and before he got closer you rushed to save your documents and shut down your computer, you knew him so well that you knew he was capable of turning your computer off without a warning — he had done that once, even if you had an unspoken rule of keeping him away of your desk if not needed.
“I hate you,” you said, getting up, unplugging your phone, and grabbing your purse.
“No, you don't,” the corner of his mouth went up with a playful smirk.
Oh, how bad you wanted to kiss him. Just to erase that smile, not because you dreamt about how his lips would feel against yours.
“Mhm, keep telling yourself that,” he walked beside you out of your office, his hand resting in the small of your back to guide you to the team-only elevator.
The conversation flowed with familiar ease as you walked through the city. He barely left your side, only moving away when you got to your favorite diner. Bucky and you usually liked to try new places out. It started as a way for him to get familiar again with the city, and after eating, he would take out his notebook and rate the food and place. Eventually, you joined him on his ritual, and now the notebook was filled with his and your handwriting.
He guided you to your favorite boot and sat down across from you. The familiar waitress saw you from afar and quickly placed your usual order.
One of your many perks of being a regular.
“So, how was your trip? You barely posted anything,” he asked once your food arrived.
“Barnes,” you gasped dramatically, earning you a laugh from him. “Were you seriously stalking my social media? Should I place a complaint with HR?”
“You’re so funny,” he tried to bite back his smile, and then he did the Bucky Barnes tongue thing. His tongue darted out of his mouth and slid over his lips. “Seriously, did you have a good time?”
“I did,” you smiled, “Sorry for not keeping in touch with you and the team. I said vacation, and my friends heard phone detox. They took my phone away and only gave it back when we were sightseeing for pictures.”
You didn’t add that you also did it since you were afraid that you would send him a drunk text confessing your feelings and how you wished he would kiss you breathless, ran his hands over your whole body and that you didn’t care if you didn’t make it to the bedroom you would like — you took a deep breath, feeling your cheeks blushing. You tried to play it cool, reaching for your drink.
“You do work a lot, I'm glad they helped you clear your head.”
You huffed, “I was suffering from withdrawals from the movement we landed.” That was true, “And hey, don’t make it sound like I can’t talk with you outside of work-related stuff. You asked me to take a break from work, not from you.”
He looked at you with such intensity that you had a hard time keeping your eyes on him. “Is that true?”
“I'm not lying!” Against your better judgment, you reached across the table and grabbed his metal hand. “Buck, I’m serious, I enjoy talking with you. You don’t make me feel like I’m too much, and you listen. Do you know how hard it is to find someone who cares? My life is better with you in it. So shut up, eat your fries, and don't ever imply that you’re just a work thing for me ‘cause you're not, you're so much more to me than that.”
You took a deep exhale and tried to move away, but his hand rushed to grab yours, as if losing contact was unbearable. Your eyes went from your joined hands to his face. His blue eyes stared directly at you, and his mouth opened and closed, and you could see the wheels on his head trying to figure out how to respond.
Feeling the intensity of his gaze, you suddenly felt self-conscious.
Wait, why was he taking so long to say something?
Oh.
Oh no.
Fucking excellent.
You didn't tell him that you loved him, but you might as well tell him something very close to that. If your friends could see you now, they would've said that during your speech, you were looking at him just as Dulce had to Emmanuel. You had looked at him with raw intensity, as if he were the oxygen you needed to survive. You wanted to laugh, you went from Pobre Secretaria to De mi enamorate.
Since I saw you, I lost my identity
Desde que te ví, mi identidad perdí
In my head, you are, only you and no one else
en mi cabeza estás, sólo tú y nadie más
and it hurts me to think that you will not be mine, fall in love with me
y me duele al pensar que mío no serás, de mí enamorate.
Look, the day you fall in love with me
Mira qué el día que de mí te enamores yo
I will be happy and with pure love
voy a ser felíz y con puro amor
I will protect you and it will be an honor
te protegeré y será un honor
to dedicate myself to you, may God want it.
dedicarme a tí eso quiera Dios.
And here you thought that the only thing you had in common with Dulce was your horniness.
Bucky was still speechless, something that didn't help your anxiety. You cleared your throat, as if you knew exactly what you were to say.
I'm sorry for being so straightforward? I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable? I don't know what you're thinking, but of course I didn't mean that I love you — that would be insane, right? Hey, so, do we kiss now? If you don't feel the same, maybe just one kiss and I'm gonna be out of your sight?
Great, you were already spiraling.
Can we make out but make it bad so I can move on? Forget what I said because we are not telling our children that I confessed my feelings in such an embarrassing way, but hey, they know their mother, so obviously, they know I would totally do it that way.
Thankfully, none of those thoughts got out of your mouth. The bubble you were immersed in popped up when a familiar ringtone filled the space between you.
Bucky blinked, almost fearing that you would disappear in any second, “Sorry, I have — I have to take this,” his voice sounded low and coarse. He let go of your hand and reached into the inside of his jacket, where he had his phone.
His mumbled ramble was drowned by your thoughts.
What have you done? You were just thinking that you had avoided sending him a drunk love confession via text, and now here you were contemplating whether your words had been vague enough to backtrack and assure him that you meant it in a friendly way.
But Bucky wasn't stupid. Sure, sometimes he would be oblivious to modern flirting, but he was still a man. A beautiful, charming man from the 40s who wasn't new to the sight of girls yearning for him. A man who used to be a heartthrob, and your heart was prof enough that he still was.
Jesus, you had heard the stories. The first time you met Sam, he had made sure that you knew every embarrassing story that Steve had shared. You knew about his countless dates, how he would save every penny he could just to take them to dance, to diners, and organize perfect, cute dates. That beautiful bastard who, once upon a time, used to smile more and, with his disarming charm, made every single girl he met fall in love with him.
And the worst part?
He didn't even fucking try. He just was himself.
You tried to relax, taking deep breaths and doing the exercises that Bucky had shared with you that helped with his own anxiety. Both of you had a personal vendetta against his last therapist — well, his was personal, yours was on his behalf, but you couldn’t lie about some of the tools working. You were in the middle of one of the grounding exercises when you noticed he was calling your name.
“Hey, you okay?” Of course, he noticed your panic. You almost facepalmed yourself. His enhanced hearing probably picked up the thumping of your heart and the agitation in your breath.
“Yeah, just remembered all the paperwork that is waiting for me at the tower, do you mind if I take this to go?” You pointed at your plate and, without waiting for his answer, you called the waitress. He followed your lead — because, of course, he wouldn’t let you go alone, and didn’t talk to you until you both were in your car. He on the driving seat as he always did when you went out together.
He cleared his throat. “So, your trip?” He asked with caution, trying to go back to the unfinished conversation. Careful. He hadn’t started the car yet. He wouldn’t let you go without at least breaking the uncommon awkwardness that was now between you.
“What about it?” You replied. Of course, fake confusion, maybe he is going to forget about your embarrassing comment.
"Did it change your thoughts about taking days off more regularly?” He was looking at the keys in his hand, avoiding eye contact just like you. His voice was steady, but the spinning of your keys told you how anxious he was really feeling.
“Not really, I don't know. I forgot what it was like not worrying about work. But I'm so used to it that it's just weird after a few days.”
“Sorry about that, though.”
You snorted, “Buck, it’s not your fault that I'm a workaholic. You could have given me the simplest job, and I would have found a way to stress about it. And most importantly —”
You finally met his eyes. Even if you wanted to keep your feelings at bay, you could never lie to him. And you had already embarrassed yourself, you had nothing to lose.
“I find myself loving what I do, so thank you for giving me a chance to keep doing that.” You smiled softly, his smile mirrored yours, and with a nod, he started the car.
You’ll see, sometimes you wonder if the universe hates you. Your life growing up was far from a fairytale. The only man that you had let into your life, the one you trusted more than anything, and with the one you wished to wake up next to each morning, was your boss. You loved him, and you were sure he didn’t feel the same.
Your phone rang in that exact moment. The phone call wasn’t a problem; you had taken calls thousands of times with him by your side. No, the problem wasn’t that. The Problem with the capital P was that your friends had changed your ringtone without you knowing. The usual Beyoncé song that used to be your ringtone was now replaced with the chorus of Pobre secretaría. And not only that, your phone was connected to your car the moment Bucky started it, so now the voice of Mariana Treviño blasted out of the speakers.
You squealed, and with panic and trembling hands, you pulled out your phone from your purse. Remember that the world hated you? Well, somehow the call connected (Bucky had pushed a button from the console, but you didn’t notice), and the voice of one of your friends replaced Mariana’s.
“Bee! How is your day going? Long day with your baby?” Your friend made her best impression of Lupita’s voice, saying her boss’s nickname. Su beibis. “Wait, what’s that? Are those wedding bells?”
“Lara, you’re on speaker! Shut up,” you raised your voice while trying to redirect the call to your phone.
“Don’t be rude!” Lara exclaimed, offended, but you could hear her laughing, “So have you told him that you lo-?” Her voice cut from the speakers and moved to your phone.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Lara! Please, stop!” Your panicked voice echoed through the line, and god bless your friend, she noticed, her laugh ceased immediately.
“Are you okay?” She asked with worry. “What happened? Did he react badly?”
“I’ll call you later! I'm with my boss, driving back to the tower!”
“Oh shit, fuck, I’m sorry!” She apologized, and it was impossible to tell who was now in more panic, her or you.
“Talk to you later! Bye!”
Silence met you once you lowered your phone; you made sure to put your phone in do-not-disturb mode before dropping it into your purse.
Bucky didn't know what to do with himself. You had ended your call, and you were now playing nervously with the keychain of your purse; he hoped you couldn't see how tense he was. But it was obvious, his jaw was locked, body tense, knuckles white from the way he was gripping the steering wheel.
Your friend had reacted with panic when you told her that he was with you and had listened to the conversation.
His mind was already drawing a conclusion that he didn't like. It was clear that you were hiding something. Something that you didn't want him to know.
But what?
Did you meet someone on your trip? Was that the reason you were avoiding talking more about it? You usually were an oversharer with him, so something was stopping you. Or worse, were you already seeing someone and now the relationship was serious enough to consider marriage? Had he done something and lost your trust?
Did he lose his chance with you?
None of you said a word during the short trip to the tower. You broke the silence once you got to the parking lot, and you started telling him about your trip. The places you went, the food you ate. You even told him that he would love it and you would make sure to schedule him a trip there soon.
Another thing that Bucky thought he was thankful for was that he could tell when someone lied to him; he could detect deflecting without problem. It was useful in the field, on missions that required interrogation. Right now, he hated it because, thanks to that ability, he could tell that you were doing it. You weren't telling him the truth, at least not completely. He could tell by the way your body reacted, the shakiness in your voice, how you stuttered and redirected in certain parts, and he could hear the fast thumping of your heart. Your eyes weren't meeting his; even when you looked at him, you were fidgeting as if you didn't know what to do with your hands.
It broke his heart thinking that you didn't trust him anymore.
Yes, he could tell that you were indeed bending the truth. Omitting some facts and being vague about others. But you had a good reason to do it. What he didn’t know, and at the time you also didn't, was that besides finally getting to rest from work, that wasn't the only purpose of your vacation.
By day 2, you found out that Lara, one of your best friends, the one that had told you about the series in first place, the one that made you swear that you would avoid spoilers like a plague, who was super vague about the plot and just said “You’re gonna love it, just trust me” and the first to gasp the moment Lupita showed up and pointed at the screen exclaiming that it was you and kept pointing the similarities.
Lara had watched the musical before. More than once. She knew exactly what it was about. Her favorite song was Pobre Secretaria. Lara was the one who convinced you to watch the play at the local theater, even though she had bought the tickets the moment she knew you were going to the city.
Your vacations weren't about resting; they were an intervention.
Over those two weeks, your friends made you open your eyes to your feelings about Bucky. You still downplayed it to a simple crush, but you knew it was a lie. You loved him. And your friends rotted for you. They wanted to see you happy, but waiting for Bucky to look at you as more than a friend and assistant was killing you.
For years, you have loved him in silence. You had proclaimed your love in each playlist, in each conversation where your walls crumbled, one by one. You had found comfort in him, and in doing so, he found comfort in you, each hug and soft smile. Each time your touch lingered more than it should. Your love was loud and electric in each silent interaction.
But it killed you that, after every day filled with him, you went back to an empty bed. That each morning you woke up looking at the wall instead of blue eyes. Each day that you buried your feelings, a part of you felt like a void.
So two days ago, before you ended your vacation, you got drunk. And intoxicated you, had made them a promise that once you were back in the city, and the moment you saw Bucky, you were going to tell him the truth. Enough of hiding, enough of lonely nights. You were going to confess, and if he didn't feel the same – well, you would allow yourself to cry about it for a few days, but you would take it with your chin up.
You knew that you were good at your job, so you weren't scared about losing it. You were professional. Maybe some changes would be necessary, move your office to another floor, maybe move out of the tower so you could have a safe space and don't have to worry about seeing him every day. In the worst-case scenario, you could also ask to move your job to home office, since they didn't need you there, you could just take your meetings on video call and send your reports and files via email.
So naturally, Lara, who was unfamiliar with the term patience, was the first of the group to crack and call you to check on you. Give you support, or apparently, start planning your wedding.
Bucky left you on the floor of your office, excusing himself, arguing that he needed to check something in the common room. Once the elevator doors opened, he walked directly to the couch where Bob was reading comfortably.
“You’re back! Is she in her office? I stopped by a few hours ago to discuss the book she recommended. It's so good, you should read it. She said to talk later since you were sleeping –” he got up rambling, but before he could take a step towards the elevator, Bucky stopped him.
“I need to talk to you,” Bucky grumbled, running his hand through his hair in a clear sign of the storm brewing inside him, and signed to him to follow him. “But not here, c’mon”
“Okay?” Bob followed him, confused but curious.
Bucky guided him towards his quarters, and once he made sure to lock the door behind them, he motioned for him to take a seat on the couch while he sat in a chair in front of him.
“Hmm, so what do you want to talk about?” Bob asked after a moment of silence.
Bucky sighed, his shoulders dropped, and he buried his face in his hands, “I think I fucked up.”
“That’s vague. Go on.”
“Okay, so, a little bit of context. I think I love my assistant.” Bob's eyebrows got up, “Scratch that, I know I love her.”
Bob disguised his laugh with a cough, “Sorry, you were saying?”
“I love her, Bob.”
“Yeah, I heard you." Bob sighed, "Bucky, can I be honest?” Bucky nodded and looked at him, his left hand fidgeting while the other rested against his forehead. “You’re the last one to know this. Well, except for her. If she knows, she hides it pretty well, but in all seriousness, according to what I’ve heard. She might think that she’s only an employee and friend to you.”
“You think?”
“I know. What happened? It was about damn time that you figured it out, don't get me wrong, but you look,” Bob made a motion with his hand up and down, “distressed.”
“I don’t know, everything? She went away, and even though we had been apart before, this time it felt as if part of me had left with her. It wasn’t that I was used to having her around. I missed her, her laugh, her jokes, the way she just knows, I missed how I feel when I’m around her." Bucky stood up and started pacing around, hands gesturing to emphasize his words. "The moment she was back, I could finally breathe knowing she was safe. I just wanted to kiss her. Did you see her in her new outfit? She looks so cute and… sexy, fuck, I wanted to kiss her so bad. And part of me was about to just do it, kiss her, confess, but the other part,”
He shook his head and closed his eyes, as if what he was about to say pained him, “The other part of me is telling me that I have to keep my distance. In this line of work, what if someone finds out what she means to me and targets her because of me? What if I hurt her? Emotionally or…” he raised his left hand, “physically? She was free, but I selfishly pulled her back with me when we started this team. I thought that I would be happy just getting to see her around, but now that’s not enough.”
He sat back in silence after that, eyes glossed over with tears that he refused to let out.
“Damn, there's a lot to unpack there,” Bob added after a beat. “Listen, I understand, I feel like that sometimes, you know? Between the urge to leave so I don't hurt all of you, and wanting to stay since you're my family. She does live with all of us, but if she weren't, she would still be living in New York. She has been living here since the Battle of New York, and she's still here. Sometimes, I even wonder why she doesn't hate me since she was in the void too.”
Bucky cursed under his breath. he didn't know that. He thought you were still in DC when the whole Valentina and Bob thing went down. He knew you had watched the press conference that occurred after — you had told him that. But you had never talked about being in the void, and now he felt like shit again. He wondered if he had known what he could have done differently.
Bob noticed his tension and urged him to look at him. “She told me this once when I asked her, and now I'm going to repeat it to you. You can't shield someone forever, you can’t build a cage around them and hope that they will be okay with it. And yes, maybe you can hurt her, and maybe she’s gonna get hurt by others, but the thing is, you are gonna try your best because you care, you’re gonna protect her when you can, and if it comes to that, you are going to make sure to be there to help her back on her feet if something happens. Like a friend, like family, and in your case… like something more.”
“She doesn't fear us, so don't let your fear stop you, don’t place those fears on her because, honestly, if she thought you would hurt her, she wouldn’t be working with you.” Bob ended his speech with a deep sigh.
“Thanks, Bob,” Bucky took a deep breath and nodded, but then shook his head. “So what do I do now? I think I lost my chance with her. Her friend said – Well, I think she implied she is seeing someone.”
Bob frowned, “Are you sure? Ava and Yelena talked to her this morning, and she didn't mention anything. Maybe it's nothing serious.”
“She joked about marriage. That sounds serious to me.”
“Grandpa, you can be single and joke about marriage.”
Bucky laughed, “You're lucky I like you.”
Bob smiled at him, “Wait! Isn't tomorrow the event that Val wants us to go to?”
Bucky frowned while Bob pulled out his phone, a few seconds after Bob had almost shoved the phone into Bucky's face. “This is your chance!”
On the screen, he saw a poster that you had sent to the team on their group chat. Some stunt that Val had told you the team needed to do. The local animal shelter was hosting a superhero-themed event to encourage citizens to donate and adopt a pet. During the event, citizens would spend some time with animals and the team. Val only saw the opportunity to gain the team some popularity and positive press.
“How is that supposed to help me get her to date me?”
“Don't you remember? Last month, over dinner? When Ava asked her what she was looking for in a partner? She said that she wanted someone who loved animals, like her! It's your chance to show her you could be that man!”
Oh, of course, he remembered that. He had written that list in one of his notebooks the moment he got to his place right after dinner.
“So, what's the plan? Surround myself with pets until she sees me?”
“Don't be silly, wait until she gets interested in something and then go there and make conversation out of it. Easy.”
“Really?” Bob nodded with enthusiasm, “This is why you're not in charge of strategies.”
“Well, Sarge, get those brain cells to work and think of something!”
If anybody walked on them during those next hours, they would think they were planning for war. At some point, Bob left and brought back a whiteboard for one of the meeting rooms. They didn't call it a night until they figured out a plan, or at least a rough idea of what Bucky would do the next day.
“So that's it,” Bob said, looking at the plan written on the board.
Operation Lovebirds.
“Hope it works.”
“Trust me, Barnes! By this hour tomorrow, you and she are going to be kissing and calling each other cringy nicknames.”
“Sweetheart isn't cringy.”
Bob laughed and got up off the couch. “Can I ask you something?”
“After helping me with all of this? Sure.”
“Why me?” Bob mumbled.
“What do you mean?” Bucky looked at him as if he had told him that he had grown a second pair of arms.
Bob shoved his hands in his pockets. “You know, you could have asked for help from anyone else. Someone else on the team, even Mel, but you came directly to me. Why was that?”
Bucky smiled at him fondly and placed a hand on his shoulder, “I trust you, Bob. I know you are a good kid, so I knew you wouldn't mock me and wouldn't be afraid to call me out. As I said, I like you. And you're my friend.”
Bob smiled at him, “Thanks, Bucky. You're my friend too.”
Your morning moved at a fast pace; you had some meetings and had to go over every detail for today's event. You had made sure to make a file with all the logistics that involved the event, and had already sent it over to each member of the team. From time frames that they had to cover, to maps with the exits and security team locations marked — Bucky had mentioned once he felt less anxious knowing that when you first met him, since then, you always added it to the debrief. Each member had been assigned to a specific zone, but you had interjected so the team would be able to choose theirs once they arrived, since you thought it was better if they actually enjoyed their positions.
“Look alive, team! The shelter has a goal of adoptions and donations! Big smiles, aren't you excited to see all those puppies and kittens?” You exclaimed once you got to the common room. The team was by the couches, wearing their full gear, except for you and Bob, of course. Your outfit was different from what they were used to seeing you in, far away from your usual business attire. Black high-waisted trousers with a white crop top and a cap over your ponytail, instead of heels, you were wearing a pair of white tennis shoes.
“How much caffeine is in your veins right now?” John asked with a teasing smirk. You were buzzing with excitement while searching for something in the cupboards.
“Can you believe I only had my morning cup?” You replied, stopping right in front of Yelena and Bucky. They looked at you with confusion, eyes going from your face to the couple of plastic containers between your arms. “You're only allowed to take 2 weapons with you. No guns, though. The rest put them in the box.” You dropped one of them on the couch between them and the other on the coffee table that was by John.
“Is this necessary?” Yelena asked, taking out knife after knife from the compartments of her suit.
Bucky just followed your instruction in silence— after all, he was used to it since you had done the same since he was working on his campaign.
“Yes! You're going to a charity event, a family event, may I add. You're off the field today, let the security team do their job.”
“But what if–” Alexei started, but you raised a hand to stop him.
“If there is a threat, there will be guns in our van. I will allow you 2 weapons each, so you can feel less anxious about it.” You closed the containers and ushered them towards the elevator.
“C'mon, Bob.” You called for him, keeping the elevator open when you noticed he didn't follow.
“I'm not a New Avenger.” He said with a frown.
“You're still part of the team, and aren't you excited to get some puppy cuddles?” You gave him an encouraging smile. He looked at you and then the rest of the team.
“Let's go, Bob! We Thunderbolts have to stick together!” Alexei exclaimed next to John.
“That isn't our name.” John corrected him.
“We're Thunderbolts in our hearts, and New Avengers to the outside world. Bob is a Thunderbolt.” Once Bob was closer to the group, Alexei approached him and steered him towards the group by resting his arm over his shoulders.
On your way to the designated van, Bucky allowed himself to stay by your side. You talked briefly with the driver and with some members of the PR team. At the end of the day, today was a publicity stunt, so Val wanted to have her team at the event to take pictures and have live updates on the team's social media. You, as always, repeated the team's boundaries and reminded them that any post had to be approved by the team themselves and that they had to respect if any of them asked for a moment with no photos.
Once you finished, you got on the van, with Bucky following right after you.
First step of the plan: Stay close. What better way for you to notice that the man you wanted was already in front of you?
Second step: Confess.
Third step: Kiss and live happily ever after.
“Are you okay?” You asked him softly.
“Yeah, why?” His pulse spiked. Was he acting weird? He did what he usually does, by your side as a way of protection —but now he had a different agenda; he wanted to be close so you could see him.
“You've been quiet. More than usual.” You interrupted his thought.
Oh
That. Yeah, he had been in his head, going through his plan for today over and over. He was overthinking every step and what he would do. Was he making it weird?
“Sorry, rough night.” You frowned but didn't question him, just nodded and looked straightforward.
He bumped his shoulder against yours softly, “I'm fine, I promise.”
“I just worry sometimes, more than I should.” You mumbled, loud enough just for him to hear.
“Don't say that,” you turned to see him, “you wouldn't be you if you didn't worry.”
You huffed a laugh while shaking your head.
“5 minutes.” The driver indicated. You nodded and took out your phone to look at your notes.
It was moments like this that he reminded himself that this was your battlefield. The team was your army, you knew each of their strengths and weaknesses, and you used them to make them overcome whatever plan Val threw at you.
“Well, guys, before we get there, does anybody have any questions?” You turned around to see the team behind you.
Bob raised his hand from the backseat. “What am I supposed to do? Do I have a schedule too?”
“Glad you asked, you, my friend, are going to be my right hand today.” You raised your phone and shook it in the air, “Check your phone, I sent you a copy of the debrief, so you're going to help me keep them on schedule. I can't be everywhere, and knowing myself, I'm gonna get distracted. Besides that, have fun, we all need it.”
Bob nodded and took out his phone to read what you sent him. You answered any last-minute concerns before you got to the park, where the event had already started.
When the door of the van opened, a cacophony of sounds welcomed you. Barks, laughs, conversations, and squeaks from some toys. It made Bucky stumble a little on his feet, suddenly overwhelmed. Without saying anything, you took out a pair of earplugs and gently placed them on his hand, closing it around them so they wouldn’t fall.
And just like that, he was back to his campaign, events full of press, eyes and cameras focused on him. You, by his side, your soft touch grounding him and bringing him comfort. Forgotten were the flashes and the politicians. Just you and him.
You made eye contact, and he was met with a kind smile that said, “Just in case you need them.” You softly squeezed his closed hand and turned around to guide the team towards the first stop.
“Oh my God!” Your excited voice took him out of his mind. You had started walking with the team and had stopped suddenly. Your eyes were wide open in glee, your pace quickened, and in record time, you were in front of a big photo station.
The backdrop was a photo of the Watchtower, and the New Avengers logo was on one corner. In front of it? Dogs dressed as each member of the team. You melted at the sight, dropping to your knees in front of them, arms wide open to hug and kiss them.
“You look so cute!” You exclaimed between giggles. Currently, “Doglena”, a young golden retriever, was eclipsing your attention while “Winter Puppy”, a border collie with icy blue eyes, whimpered to get your attention. “You too, big boy! There are enough cuddles and kisses for all of you! No need for that!”
Bucky didn't miss how Bob looked from the dog to him and tried to hide his smile, mocking the irony.
“Well, this explains why they asked us to use our full gear.” Ava pointed out. One by one, the team gathered in front of the dogs, some of them even petting them.
“They don’t bite, Dad,” Yelena elbowed Alexei, encouraging him to get closer.
“I see that you already met the New Puppy Avengers!” Your head snapped towards the voice.
“Megan! Hi!” You quickly got up but kept one of your hands petting Winter Puppy. “So nice to finally meet you in person!” You introduced yourself and the team. “Team, Megan is one of the organizers of the event. ”
“Thank you for making time to join us! I’m such a great fan of yours, so having you here in the flesh is certainly amazing,” Megan said with a smile, staring directly at Bucky. You squinted your eyes at that. You hadn’t missed how Megan had looked at Bucky; her eyes had wandered over his body. Something that didn’t pass unnoticed by Bob, Ava, and Yelena.
“Do you need any help locating your stations? Sergeant?” Megan added, and that was your cue to move closer to him.
“Don’t worry, Megan. We got this from this! The team already knows where to go. Bob and I will help them if we need to.” You said with a fake smile on your face. You didn’t wait to hear her reply and quickly motioned to one of Val’s photographers. “We should take a picture of them with the dogs before starting,” you told the guy.
Once the photo was taken, you told the team to walk around the place and choose where they wanted to stay for the next hour. Bob joined Alexei, John, and Ava. You took the left, followed by Bucky and Yelena.
Yelena rushed her pace until she was next to you. Just one look at her made you roll your eyes and sigh heavily.
“Save it. Whatever you’re going to say, don’t.” If looks could kill, yours would have Yelena five feet under.
“I’m not saying anything!” She raised both hands, but the smirk on her face didn’t leave; on the contrary, her smirk deepened.
Oh, she was enjoying this. So fucking much.
“I just didn’t know you were so territorial, that's all.” Your head snapped towards her with fire in your eyes. You bit your tongue to stop from saying something, knowing that Bucky was within earshot, walking a few feet behind you.
Thankfully, one of the large pet enclosures caught her attention, and she rushed to join the volunteer who was talking with some adults and their kids. Yelena approached and started interacting with the kid and the dog he was playing with.
“For a Val’s idea, I think this one was one of the best. The team needed this.” Bucky said, next to you, he had stopped right next to you, his eyes going from Yelena to you.
You snorted, “My God, Bucky. Do you think it was her idea?” His mouth opened, and you could see realization hit him. “I suggested this since her original idea was to make a reality show for the team."
“Like the ones you made me watch with you?” He teased.
You nodded with a proud smile, “Yeah, and the ones you pretend to hate.”
“I do hate them.”
“Buck, you got all grumpy when they eliminated your fav!” You said, trying to hold your laugh.
“They didn’t see their potential! So disappointing.” He faked annoyance, but when his eyes met you, both of you started laughing. Full belly laugh. "Of course it was going to ruin my day!"
“We were re-watching the show! And you already knew who won since we had watched the episode when it originally dropped!” You said, tears already forming in your eyes from your laughter.
When the laughter died down, he got closer and locked his arm with you, resuming your walk. The tension between you dissipated, leaving behind the familiar feeling of comfort and pure happiness in its place.
This was one of the many reasons you loved him.
He made it all… so easy. Your stress always drains out of your body when you are with him. As if his presence shooed the worries away.
Together, you spent the next hours moving through a couple of the pet enclosures until Bucky decided to stay in the cat zone. You were sitting in the grass, a few kittens by your feet, but your eyes were zeroed in on Bucky.
Bucky, who had let go of your side the moment his eyes landed on a particular cat. He had stood up quickly, barely mumbling that he would be back soon. You saw him pick up one of the cats that was near the fence, where some beds, food, and water were placed. His eyes moved around the enclosure until he located his target.
The volunteer assigned to that area was now talking with him about the adoption process while he kept that same cat in his arms — a fluffy white cat with blue eyes. You took out your phone and took a photo of him.
He looked so relaxed and carefree. Not a soldier, just Bucky Barnes. The cat was carefully tucked against his chest, blinking slowly, and Bucky kept stroking behind its ears. After a few minutes, the volunteer excused themselves and walked away towards a teenager.
“I didn’t know you were a cat person,” you mumbled once he was back next to you, the cat still in his arms.
“She reminds me of the cat I had when I was younger.” He said, his eyes looking down towards the cat in his chest. A shy smile appeared on his face. “We barely had food for ourselves, but my ma made sure to always save something for a stray cat that always came in the night, meowing outside the kitchen’s window. A few weeks later, the cat found their way inside the house and never left. Becca named her Snowball.”
“You’ve never told me that.” You said softly, aware of how hard this type of topic was to him. You could tell by the way his shoulders dropped as if the weight of his past got heavier.
You felt your chest tighten.
Even though you had talked about his life before Hydra countless times, it was always hard. It made him feel exposed. Vulnerable. It made him aware of the open wound that was the past. He still mourned the life he was supposed to have had if he had returned home from war.
“I didn’t remember it until I saw this little one.” He held the cat a little bit tighter. His eyes were glossy when he turned to see you.
Oh, how bad you wanted to kiss him. It would’ve been so easy – to close the distance between you both and meet his lips. You could’ve told him right there your feelings for him. Told him how badly you wished to be part of his future. But instead, you swallowed your words and just shifted until you were side by side, shoulder to shoulder.
A silent way of telling him that it was okay, that you understood, and that you were there for support if he needed it. He leaned against you, a response to your move.
Thank you, I know. I got you, too.
“Are you going to adopt her?” You asked after a beat. Softly.
“I already did.” Both of you let out a chuckle, you raised your hand and touched the fur of the cat softly. Your fingers brushed Bucky’s, and for a second, the world stopped.
You met Bucky’s eyes, and he was looking at you with such intensity that it made your skin warm. You opened your mouth, but it suddenly felt dry. Words stuck in your throat. You licked your lips, and for a second, you swear that Bucky had looked at your lips.
“Hey! Do you mind if I take a picture?” A cheerful voice broke the silence, making you and Bucky snap your heads towards the sound. In a heartbeat, Bucky had moved his left arm in front of you, pushing you back to keep you safe from the unknown threat. “I’m with the Daily Bugle!” The young man raised his badge, and you immediately noticed that attached to it. He had another one that read PRESS in bold letters.
“Wait. Daily Bugle?” You asked. That morning, you had checked the publications that had press access to the event. The Daily Bugle wasn’t part of them. Since Val had ensured that after an untasteful article against the team. Unless — no, it couldn’t be, the only way of them being there was if they had sent an unbiased reporter, or someone who had previously worked with you. Someone who was already cleared by the PR team. Which meant that…
Someone exclaimed your name, breaking your line of thought. Bucky stood up first, and then he offered you his hand. Once you were up, you walked towards the person, shaking your head with disbelief.
“What are you doing here?” You asked once you reached the fence. Bucky was quickly behind you.
“Is that how you say hi to your best friend?” She said with fake offense, you rolled your eyes and hugged her.
“Mr. Barnes, it's a pleasure to see you again."
“Bucky. Do you remember my friend Lara?” You squinted your eyes at her. Technically, nothing was wrong, but she was a hopeless romantic who took your love life as a challenge. Her showing here could mean many things, trouble being one of the main ones.
“Of course, how could I forget one of the very few journalists who unironically wanted to hear about my proposals?”
Lara smiled at him, “What can I say? I never shy away from the truth and a good story. I was also very lucky that my best friend worked for you. Which reminds me,” she turned to look at you, and just one look at her eyes, you knew that she was planning something. “You won’t believe who else is here.”
“Who?”
As if he was waiting for his cue — and knowing the pair, he must have — a voice surged from the background noise. “Abejita!” Your eyes widened, and you turned just in time to be lifted from the ground, spinning you around. Joaquin Torres, the new Falcon,was hugging you, arms wrapped around your waist and holding you up against his chest.
Rom-com material.
If it wasn't for the fact that your Romeo was currently standing away from you, holding his cat.
Bucky cleared his throat. Joaquin let you go just enough to touch the ground again, but kept one arm around your shoulders, keeping you close to his side. “Oh, how rude of me, hello Barnes.”
“You two know each other?” Bucky asked with a blank expression, but you knew him better and could tell he was tense.
“Abejita, didn’t tell you?” Joaquin asked with a teasing smile. His arm tightened around your shoulders.
You closed your eyes. You knew this was coming. Joaquin and Lara were wild carts on their own. But together? They got worse. This didn't look good. Not for you, at least. You were sure they were having the time of their lives.
"We have a bunch of friends in common. Including Miss Lara, here." Joaquin added. "Lara thought we would make a very cute couple. We went out on a couple of dates but decided to stay friends."
You opened your eyes just in time to see Bucky tense his jaw. His eyes were now a darker blue hue than they used to be.
You didn't know if you had to be grateful or mad that Joaquin didn't add that the main reason for you not to become a thing was standing right before them. The jury was still out on that one.
"Oh, would you look at the time!" You exclaimed suddenly, taking a step forward, placing yourself next to Bucky. Who was still sending daggers with his eyes to Joaquin. He looked very villain-y, considering he was currently petting a white cat.
Lara, in the meantime, looked like the cat that got the cream. It seemed that whatever she wanted to accomplish, she had.
"You're not wearing your watch." Lara pointed out, raising one eyebrow.
"I don't need to. I'm counting every second in my mind." You said with an expression that you hoped would make it clear that you would be talking to them about it later. "If you excuse us, we have to get going."
"Wait, no," Lara's smile disappeared. Maybe her plan had worked, but she was still there to do her work. "I wanted to do an interview!"
"Make an appointment! Talk with his manager!" You yelled, pushing Bucky with both hands.
"You're basically his manager!" Lara yelled back.
"Nuh uh, I'm his secretary!" You didn't get to hear her reply. Once you were far enough, you got to a secluded bench. Away from the path and the unwanted looks. Bucky followed you in silence.
"So," he started talking. You turned your body to face him once he took a seat, looking at him with a nervous smile. "You and Joaquin."
"Pff, it was nothing." You said, deciding to play it cool.
"You never told me." He sounded… hurt. He tried to avoid your gaze, eyes focused on the sleepy Alpine in his chest.
"There was nothing to tell, Bucky."
"You dated him." He said with a sharp tone. "It didn't occur to you to tell me that you went out with Joaquin? After everything…" He huffed. "It wouldn't surprise me that Sam is behind this."
"What? Wait, what are you talking about?" You asked, taken aback.
"Don't be naive, sweetheart. I told you how the situation is right now with him."
You flinched. "Wait, James," you said with a serious tone. It was his turn to flinch. That made him finally meet your eyes. "Are you implying that someone would date me only to get to you?"
Hearing you say it, with the venom in your words, made him realize his mistake. "Sweetheart."
"Don't sweetheart me, answer the question, James."
He didn't reply. Instead, he looked at his feet, ashamed.
"Unbelievable." You got up from the bench. Lips tight. You shook your head a few times. Your ponytail moved with each movement. When you turned, he saw that your eyes were shiny with unshed tears. "Do you think I am that unlovable?"
He said your name.
"Just answer!"
"I'm not saying that! Don't put words in my mouth!" He got up. In two strides, he was in front of you, forcing you to look up.
"Well, you're not saying anything!"
"That's because I'm afraid of what I'm going to say if I do!" He raised his voice. He was heavy breathing now. The only thing between you was Alpine, who was now awake and looking at you as if she were watching a tennis match.
You laughed.
"Why are you laughing?" He repeated your name, "Hey! What is that funny?"
You shook your head. "Nothing, it's just that for a moment I thought you were jealous." You spat the word as if it were the funniest joke you had made. That froze him.
Were you laughing because him being jealous was something you could only see as a joke?
"But then I remembered that your main concern was if Sam had somehow devised a twisted plan to get to you. That someone would only date me because that would allow them to take a scoop at the New Avengers and their mighty leader."
Bucky looked at you, stunned.
"Well. I'm sorry to inform you that your skills are getting rusty, and it's actually your paranoia talking." You crossed your arms over your chest. To anyone watching, you were making sure to take a defensive stance. But Bucky knew better. You were closing off. Bottling up your feelings since you learned to do that.
"Lara and Joaquin met in college. They were roommates at one point. I've known him for years. He's part of my friend group." You emphasize. "The reason you and Sam didn't know about it it's because we wanted to avoid exactly this." You waved your hand in front of you. "We are both adults, so we decided to keep our friendship under wraps, far away from whatever playground problem you keep arguing about."
A single tear rolled down your left cheek.
He raised his right arm and attempted to brush it off. But you took a step back.
"I'm gonna go, now. Since Alpine got your tongue." You let out a dry laugh. You uncrossed your arms and pressed your palms together. The side of your palms brushing your lips as if you were thinking something. "Hey, maybe I can still go back and find Joaquin. According to you, we have to go and debrief and maybe tell him to change their strategy since you figured out their devious plan." You gestured with your palms still pressed. "Wait, no, because we had those dates last year, you know, before your whole divorce drama. Add that to your intel, Mr. Barnes." Your voice sounded detached. Gone was the usual warmth in your tone.
His chest hurt. You never called him Mr. Barnes. He was Buck or Bucky to you. Barnes, if you were teasing him. Never, Mr. Barnes.
You looked at him. Silently begged for him to say something. But he only stood there. Mouth agape. Looking at you with wide eyes.
You nodded. Your left hand brushed the tear off, but by the time you were turning around, he saw how more tears stained your cheeks.
"At least you could have said something to defend yourself, boss." Your voice broke mid-sentence. But you kept your head up as you walked away.
Amor, tranquilo, no te voy a molestar
Love, don't worry, I won't bother you
Mi suerte estaba echada, ya lo sé
My fate was already sealed, I know it
Y sé que hay un torrente dando vueltas por tu mente
And I know there's a torrent running through your mind
"Barnes! Open the door," Yelena knocked on Bucky's door again. She had been trying to make him talk since they arrived from the event.
That had been two days ago.
You had left early. Bob had found Bucky sitting on the same bench where you left him. His eyes were puffy, even if he would never admit that he had cried.
For the last couple of days, Bucky had been ignoring everything and everyone — except his new roommate, Alpine. The thought of going to his office and you ignoring him? It made him sick. The team was a problem, too. The moment Bob came back to the van with only him and a cat, questions arose.
Where were you?
Was he okay?
Cute cat, hmm, why do you have it?
Bob followed him to his room when they arrived at the Watchtower. The burning question, "How did the plan go?" hung in the air while Bucky prepared his room for Alpine.
The moment that broke Bucky was finding a box and an envelope, hidden in one of his drawers, while changing after they arrived. A cute souvenir you had gotten for him from your trip. A miniature of the Pyramid of the Sun in obsidian and gold. And a postal, dated the last day of your trip.
I found this on a street market during my trip. The black obsidian with gold reminded me of you. I'm supposed to be having fun away from work, but here I am, being hunted by you in souvenir form. How rude of you.
I'm missing you and can't wait to tell you how this trip is going. I have so much to tell you. This trip has been… eye-opening.
With all my heart, your sweetheart.
You had doodled a heart next to your sign.
His knees gave out, and he cried. Because the postal only confirmed what he had seen in your eyes before, but had been blind enough to ignore.
His sentiments weren't unrequited.
Bob held him while he cried. He listened to him while he expressed his frustration with himself.
Why the fuck didn't he say something? Why didn't he stop you? He could have confessed right there. Told you all the reasons why you were wrong. That you were loved. And he had loved you since he met you.
But he didn't say any of that. And he punished himself for it.
Ya lo ves, la vida es así
You see, life is like this
Tú te vas y yo me quedo aquí
You leave, and I'll stay here
Lloverá y ya no seré tuya
It will rain and I won't be yours anymore
Seré la gata bajo la lluvia
I'll be the cat under the rain
Y maullaré por ti
And I'll meow for you
If you were on talking terms with him, he would have texted you that your playlist "Sing your sadness away", was not working. He had tried. He was still sad. But the songs were good, as always.
"What are you doing?" Bucky heard Bob asking outside his door. It was late. He was probably bringing him food like the days before. Knowing that Bucky wouldn't get up from his bed, and just kept playing sad music.
"I'm not going out of here if he doesn't open the door. He has to fix whatever happened that day."
"She didn't tell you?" Bob asked with curiosity.
"No! She's acting as if everything is okay! But she seems distant! Cold! I-I miss my friend. I know she's hurting too." Yelena sounded desperate. And Bucky knew she wasn't faking it. Or exaggerating. This was a friend who wanted to help his friend.
That was what made him open the door.
"Fuck, you look like hell." She pointed out. Bucky indeed looked like hell. He hadn't shaved. He was still wearing his pajamas. His long hair looked greasy and unbrushed.
Talking about googling depression and the scene before her would pop up.
"Hi, to you too, Lena." Bucky's voice sounded hoarse from all the crying and no use. "Come in."
"So what happened?" Yelena asked once the door closed.
Bucky took the food container from Bob's hands. And strode towards his couch and started eating without a word. Bob, taking up the silent sign that he didn't want to talk, sighed. He took it upon himself and related the events that had led to that day.
Yelena was buzzing with frustration when he was done.
"Why didn't you say anything? She basically begged you to say something, anything!" She had taken a throw pillow and kept hitting him with it, accentuating each word.
Thankfully, no food was affected since the empty container was placed on the coffee table.
"I chicken out, okay?" Bucky mumbled, frustrated. He buried his face in his hands, elbows on his knees. The vivid image of torment. "Every single time I tried to say something, my mind just kept telling me that I don't deserve her, that she's better without me."
Yelana huffed. "It didn't occur to you that, maybe, she thinks the same but about herself?"
"What?" Bucky looked at her, stunned. "Why would she think that? She deserves so much better than me! She is—" He got up, "She is everything I've ever wanted in my life."
"God, you're both so stubborn. Just talk to her!"
"And then what Yelena? Huh? What if I fuck it up and she decides to leave?" Bucky exclaimed, gesturing with his hands in the air. "I don't want to hurt her." His voice cracked.
"I'm sorry for breaking this news to you, but you already hurt her."
Her phone ringing made her stop her scolding. A look at her phone screen confirmed to her that this was going to be an interesting night.
"Get him to shower and shave." She looked at Bob and got out of the room.
In retrospect, going out with your friends while you went through a technically-not-a-breakup that hurt just as bad was a bad, a very bad idea.
Lara and Joaquin had felt somehow responsible for the situation, so they had tried to make it up to you, trying to make you feel better. Taking you to your favorite Chinese restaurant hadn't worked to cheer you up. You had barely touched your plate, so they had taken drastic measures.
Technically, their new plan was your fault. You had been the one who had suggested going to a karaoke place while watching a K-drama. You had been so excited. Naturally, they thought it would help to take you to a Korean Karaoke Bar — they even got a private room with tasty snacks and drinks.
It was on them that they hadn't prepared for the scene before them: You belting your heart out to Castillos while making your best impression of Amanda Miguel. You had already sung the mix of El me mintio/Mentiras/Mentiras, it had been your first song of the night.
They had tried distracting you with Lara's rendition of Espresso. Joaquin even sang Unwritten — he had that song stuck in his mind since the group picked Anyone But You during your monthly movie night.
But when your turn came, Castillos started playing and there you were: with ruined mascara straining your cheeks, wearing one of your favorite dresses that you only wear during nights out, and Lara's blazer over your naked shoulders.
Entonces pude verlo tal cual era
Then I could see him as he truly was
Y lo que descubrí me destrozó
And what I discovered shattered me
Mi rey era un monstruo de piedra
My king was a stone monster
Con el corazón de piedra
With a heart of stone
The worst part? You weren't even drunk. Your drink with Soju cocktail was still untouched on the table.
Pagó por mi amor con piedras
He paid for my love with stones
Rompió mi ilusión con piedras
He shattered my illusion with stones
Yo fui una vez esa ingenua fiel
I was once that naive faithful one
Que este cuento creyó realidad
Who believed this tale was reality
Y pagué tan caro mi estupidez
And I paid so dearly for my foolishness
Que no quiero atreverme a soñar
That I do not dare to dream.
"What should we do?" Joaquin whispered.
"Don't look at me! I already pulled out all of my cards! And that didn't cheer her up!" Lara whispered back.
No quiero más castillos en el aire
I don't want more castles in the air
Ni reyes que lastiman sin piedad
Nor kings who hurt mercilessly
Your voice cracked, but you kept singing while you cried.
"Lara!" Joaquin begged.
"Okay, okay!" She pulled out her phone and scrolled down until a familiar contact photo popped up on the screen.
"Since when do you have Yelena's number?" Joaquin looked at her with a sharp look as her hand hovered over the call icon. "Lara?"
"So you remember, last year, that the New Avengers planned Bee's birthday party?" Lara asked, using your nickname that had been born as a way to call you out for your workaholic nature. Joaquin called you the Spanish version of little bee: Abejita.
"The one I wasn't invited to keep Bucky away from finding out I'm one of her best friends? I remember."
"That one," Lara rolled her eyes, "I may have or haven't flirted with her. At first, it was to help Bee! I swear!" Joaquin lifted an eyebrow. "Anyways! Shush, she might help us."
"Yeah, call your girlfriend to the rescue. She's gonna bring him."
"Maybe, that'swhat she needs." Lara looked up at you. The song had ended, and you kept sobbing, eating fries from a bowl. "Bee? Do you want to call it a night? It's getting late." You nodded. "Do you mind if I call for an Uber for you? I don't trust you driving at this hour and… in your condition."
"I don't mind, thank you." You said, walking over towards them and sitting next to Joaquin, he quickly side hugged you. He pulled you closer to him, so you could rest your head over his shoulder.
"Ánimo, Abejita!" Lara smiled at you and walked out of the room with her phone in her hand.
"Do you want to sing Tiempos Mejores with me?" Joaquin asked you, and you nodded against his shoulder. He reached the control and, with a mic in hand, he sang with you and held you while you cried.
In the end, like the song said.
Siempre vendran tiempos mejores.
Better times will always come.
The cold bite of the night air reminded you of why you always used a jacket with the dress you were wearing. Your face was already cold, since you had cleaned your face with water before getting outside. You didn't want your Uber to think that you were more of a mess than you were at that moment.
Even if your red, puffy eyes were enough for anyone to know that you had a rough night.
"Hey Lara, you didn't text me my Uber's info." You said over your shoulder while you scrolled on your phone with a frown. She hadn't used your phone, but she had just told you that your raid was already outside.
"Uber, miss?" You snapped your head towards the familiar voice.
Bucky Fucking Barnes.
Your boss.
The last person you wanted to see after singing your heart out to pop ballads. Songs that you picked after he unknowingly broke your heart.
You straightened your spine.
"Do you have the pin code?" You asked with a cold tone.
"Do you, miss?" Bucky asked, raising an eyebrow. He was still holding the passenger door of your car open.
"I have it!" Lara exclaimed, still standing just outside the establishment. A smug smile on her face. Of fucking course she was behind this. "It's two-zero - fucking talk it out like the adults you are- two-five."
You sighed. Typical Lara, she always lets you cry your feelings out, but always reminds you to focus on finding a solution. You turned to look at her and flipped her off (with love) after saying goodbye and blowing her a kiss. Thankfully, Joaquin was still inside the building, but knowing them, he had stayed behind to avoid Bucky seeing him.
Bucky called your name when he saw you walking towards the backseat door.
"What? You're an Uber, aren't you?" You asked, closing the door behind you.
He sighed in defeat, and after closing the passenger door, he got behind the steering wheel.
"Hey, I know I hurt you." He started speaking as soon as he hit the road.
"Don't." You met his eyes in the rear-view mirror. "Not here, just… drive."
He looked unsure but still nodded
You closed your eyes and allowed yourself to just be. From your seat, you could smell his familiar cologne. His hair looked wet — you assumed he had just taken a shower. The silence wasn't what you expected. It was comfortable.
You had missed him.
God, how much you had missed him.
Even if you weren't talking, he kept stealing glances through the rear-view mirror, his eyes burning your skin. Even if you acted cold, and had to bury your hands under your thighs to stop yourself from jumping to his lap.
The argument had only dialed your feelings to 200%. It felt like too much. The weight of your emotions was unbearable now.
And now, looking at the back of his head, you realized something.
You needed to quit.
Being around him and not being able to call him yours hurt before all of this, and now? It was torture. You had survived the last days because he had also closed up— he had maintained his distance. Not once had you seen his face in the Tower.
But that wasn't something maintainable. He had missions and meetings scheduled, debriefs where your presence was required.
For fuck sake, your offices were across from each other, glass panels allowed for you to see each other while working because your work was so interlinked with each other. He brought work to your office couch because it was much easier than having to stand up and cross the hallway or worse, writing an email.
You had to protect your heart. Or at least, the pieces that were left.
Suddenly, the door opened, and you were met with his hand stretched for you to take. He helped you out of the car and guided you towards the private elevator.
You'll see, Lara was your best friend. And bless her heart, she knew you like the palm of her hand. That meant she knew where your mind would lead you once you were near Bucky. Cut to her calling Yelena back immediately as you both left the karaoke bar.
"Do you think it's a good idea?" Bob asked as they both entered the security room.
"It might be the only way for them to actually talk." Yelena pointed out. Walking straight to a worker.
"Hi! I'm gonna need you to move for the next hour or two." Yelena said with a smile.
The worker blinked, confused.
"What?" He said. Yelena, still with a smile, patted his back until he got up and walked away, muttering something about hoping that they didn't discount those hours from his salary.
Once she sat on the chair, her eyes searched the monitors until a familiar car entered the parking lot. She smiled to herself and pulled out a menu on the monitor before her. Her fingers flew over the keyboard and mouse, searching for something specific.
Two minutes passed, and then she pressed a single key.
"One hour, start now," Bob told her.
The elevator groaned as it came to a stop abruptly. Bucky, who had been standing on the other side of the elevator, quickly shifted until he was standing in front of you, his arm stretched out so you would stay in the corner you had picked.
"What's happening?" You tried to stay calm and ignore how close he was.
He tilted his head a little, and you knew he was straining his ears to hear whatever was going on outside.
"I don't hear anything outside of the normal; none of the alarms are off." He removed his arm but stayed silent in front of you, his gaze going from the doors to the ceiling. Almost as if he was waiting to hear an alarm going off.
You sighed and pulled out your phone, scrolling through your calendar and emails.
"There are no emergency drills scheduled, nor maintenance." You told him and squeezed yourself against the wall until you were in front of the panel. You pressed the emergency button, the one supposed to connect you with the guard in turn.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
You groaned.
Great. Just great. Excellent. Great timing!
Bucky was still hovering behind you. He had moved with you because when you took a step back, his chest collided against your back. You tried not to react, but still you moved until you were on the opposite corner. Unfortunately, your dress made it a little hard to sit comfortably, so you stayed on your feet.
Bucky cleared his throat, getting ready to say something, but he swallowed his words when he saw you taking out your phone again. He saw you sending emails and trying to call security, but it was in vain.
"Jesus Christ, just talk!" A voice came out from the speakers.
"Yelena?" Your jaw dropped. "Let us out of here!"
"Not until you talk it out!"
"This is not funny, open the door, Lena!"
"Not happening, unless you talk!"
"I can't believe this." You mumbled, tilting your head and resting it against the wall.
"I can," Bucky added, which made you look at him with suspicion.
You crossed your arms.
"You're behind this, aren't you?" You squinted at him.
"I'm—" Bucky tried to say, but you were already shaking your head.
"This is not gonna work," you said, and as a tear rolled on your cheek, you kept your chin up and added: "I'm quitting."
"What?" Bucky paled.
"You heard me." You repeated, still
"I can explain. At the event," He tried to get closer, but you raised your hand to stop him.
"This is not about what happened at the event!" you cut him off. "Well, it is, in part. I'm still hurt about that, but I can understand it and see how it might look to you."
You did, of course, you understood. It had taken you a few moments to see it. Bucky, after everything, still had walls around him, and for a good reason. He had opened up to you — but that didn't mean he wasn't scared and doubtful about how long the calm would last.
You knew it. The whole copyright lawsuit? It had fractured the trust Bucky had started to achieve. Even if Sam was only the face the government used to file the lawsuit, it had put a breach between them. So, thinking that you had betrayed him had made him snap.
But, as you had said, it still hurt.
"I don't understand." He mumbled. He looked so lost and sad. It broke your heart.
"I can do this anymore."
He said your name.
Fuck it, I already quit. You thought to yourself.
"I love you," his eyes widened, "I love you so much that it hurts. I've tried to bury them, God, I tried to date other people, but they weren't you. It wasn't fair to them. So I loved you in silence, knowing that you would never reciprocate my feelings."
That snapped him out of his shock. Bucky closed the distance between you and smashed his lips against you. Your eyes were wide open, your mouth agape as you stared at him in awe. Both hands resting on his chest. It was unclear if you were pushing him or trying to bring him closer to you.
"Don't you ever question my feelings for you." He growled, both of his hands were holding the sides of your face, his thumbs wiping your tears. "Sorry for kissing you without your consent, I just needed you to erase that stupid idea from your beautiful head." He added softly after a beat.
"That's okay," you mumbled, "Hmm, sorry, what do you mean by your feelings?"
"Sweetheart," he smiled at you as if you had asked if the sky was blue. "I love you, too."
You chuckled, "You do?"
He nodded.
This time, you kissed him. Your arms wrapped around his neck, pushing him closer. Lips and teeth clashing since both of you kept smiling like lunatics.
He wrapped his arms around you and lifted you. His metal hand traveled down until it held your thigh and encouraged you to wrap your legs around his waist.
The elevator came back to life, and the door opened on his floor.
"Get out! Now! Keep it PG-13!" Yelena's voice came back through the speakers.
You giggled against his lips as he carried you to his room.
The moment the door opened, you froze. Not because both of you entering the room made Alpine jump from the couch and hide. But because there was music playing. A familiar song.
Acaríciame y ahógame en tus brazos, cuídame
Caress me, and drown me in your arms, take care of me
Y mátame despacio, mírame ¿No ves que estoy muriéndome?
And kill me slowly, watch me. Can't you see I'm dying?
¡Acaríciame! Tan suave como el aire, amor
Caress me! As soft as air, love
Tan fuerte como el huracán que ciega mi mente
As strong as the hurricane that blinds my mind
"What? Everything okay?" Bucky asked when you stopped kissing him. You lowered your legs as you searched the source of the music. Your eyes landed on his tablet, which was resting on his coffee table.
"Uhm, Bucky? What's with that song?" You asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
"Oh, that," he blushed. "I may be going through an '80s music phase." He said, scrunching his nose. Something told you that wasn't the main reason, but you let it go.
You gave him a look. "In Spanish."
"In Spanish." He smiled and kissed your cheek, "¿Puedo acariciarte, cariño?" he whispered against your ear. (Can I caress you, darling?)
Your legs nearly gave out.
"Huh," you looked at him as if he had grown another head, but you still nodded.
"Sorry if my pronunciation it's a little bit off, it's been years since I had to speak it.". He added, kissing the side of your neck, leaving goosebumps behind.
"All this time," he nodded against your skin. "I can't believe this. Why didn't you tell me?" You whimpered when you felt him biting your sensitive skin.
"And risk that you stopped talking freely in Spanish around me? Never. Especially when you sang those songs… how did it go? Fíjate, fíjate en tu secretaria?" He sang with a teasing smile as he pulled you with him until he was sitting on his couch, and you were on his lap, your thighs bracketing his hips. "Sweetheart, my eyes have never left you," he whispered against your lips before kissing you over and over again.
There were many things left to figure out. But his kisses and touch kept those worries at bay. He kissed you until it was clear that he wasn't going anywhere, and that you weren't either. He worshiped your body as if he had found a new religion. His hands never left you until you felt his touch tattooed to your skin. His praises became music to your ears as you showed each other what heaven felt like.
A few things were left clear that night
Long forgotten were the lies you told to yourself.
You loved him.
He loved you.
Bucky's plan had been a disaster, but somehow he had gotten to step 3: Kiss and live happily ever after.
And good luck if anybody dared to keep you apart.
taglist: @houseofhyde @vxllys (leave a comment if you want me to add you to the taglist)
a/n hope you liked it! i worked on this since june ! pls leave a comment + rb if you liked this, feel free to ask me anything ! it helps a lot to keep me motivated to keep writing, lysm !! next post will be my mcu x dc au
warnings: mob!au, possessive!bucky, public intimidation, violence (mostly implied but some described), rival family threats, protective behavior, reader injury (minor), power imbalance, mentions of blood & implied murder, light choking, obsession, language, soft girl x dangerous man dynamic, LOTS of domestic fluff mixed with sharp edges, cinnamon rolls that will ruin your life, and a man who will ruin it even more if you touch his girl.
summary: Bucky Barnes rules Brooklyn with an iron fist and a sharp suit, but nothing could have prepared him for you—the soft, floral-dressed baker who makes cinnamon rolls worth starting a war over. What begins with him lurking in the shadows of your kitchen turns into something louder, sharper, and sweeter than either of you expect. Where he’s all power and blood, you’re warmth and sugar—and somehow, you’re exactly what he’s been hungry for.
a/n: this one got away from me in the best way after receiving this ask. 🍎 this fic is my love letter to the soft girl x dangerous man trope, and honestly? i’ve been obsessed with this dynamic forever. thank you for trusting me with the idea—i hope it hits all the right notes.
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He notices the cinnamon first.
It’s the kind of smell that cuts through a morning like sunlight through blinds—warm and sweet and a little sinful—curling out of the little corner bakery with the blue-painted door and flower boxes exploding with herbs. There’s a chalkboard sign on the sidewalk, the handwriting loopy and earnest: fresh cinnamon rolls. coffee. be kind. The “be kind” has a small smiling face drawn beside it, as if the chalk itself were happy to be alive.
James Buchanan Barnes—Bucky to everyone who knows better than to use his government name—stops beneath the awning and glances through the glass.
He sees a universe he doesn’t belong to. White tile. Mismatched mugs. A corkboard jammed with faded Polaroids and clipped recipes and flyers for neighborhood block parties. A toddler holding a croissant bigger than his head. An old man in a Yankees cap laughing with the barista. Dawn pulling its pale gold everywhere, and the smell of cinnamon filling the room like a promise.
And then there’s you.
You’re not at the front. You’re a blur through the little window that looks into the kitchen—the window that turns ovens and racks and flour-dusted countertops into a stage. From here he can only make out movement: a floral dress swishing as you pass, a messy curl escaping a bun loosely skewered with two pencils, your hand dragging the back of your wrist over your cheek to leave a smear of flour like a stripe of war paint. He catches flashes—glints off the edges of big square glasses, the flash of your grin at someone offscreen. He can’t hear you, but he knows you laugh easily. He knows you hum when you move. He knows you are soft around the edges but fast at the center, precise and relentless the way good bakers are relentless.
He’s not wrong often. It makes him slow down when he is.
“Morning,” the barista says as the bell chimes and Bucky steps inside like a mistake he means to keep making.
Bucky nods, sliding sunglasses up to his hair. The barista—Freddie, if he’s reading the little enamel name tag right—blinks. A flicker of recognition. Everyone in Brooklyn knows him, but knowing him and serving him coffee are different sports. Bucky spares Freddie the performance, gives him a smile that shows teeth but not threat. “House coffee. And a cinnamon roll.”
Freddie fumbles the paper cup, then recovers with a nervous laugh. “We, uh, sell out of those pretty fast. She, um—” Freddie tips his chin toward the kitchen window. “She makes them only on Tuesdays and Fridays.”
“It’s Friday,” Bucky says.
“It is,” Freddie admits, like gravity has become optional this morning.
Bucky leans on the counter while the coffee drips and lets himself watch the little rectangle where you live. You move like you’re conducting a secret orchestra—doughs and timers and trays and steam all obeying a rhythm that belongs to you. The world outside this door runs on what Bucky says; the world in there runs on what you measure and fold and insist upon.
He takes the paper bag, the coffee. He pays in cash and leaves too much, because this is what he knows how to do: make the world a little softer in the places that brighten his day. He does not ask for a second cinnamon roll or for your name. He’s learned that if you press too soon, you get fingerprints.
He eats the cinnamon roll in the back of the car, tearing off a corner while it’s still warm. The icing melts on his tongue. Cinnamon hits like a memory he didn’t know he had—a Sunday morning that belongs to nobody else in the car, some other life where the news doesn’t matter and neither do rival families and the only thing a man has to fear is not getting the last piece.
“Jesus,” he says to nobody. “That’s… christ.”
“What do we think?” Sam asks from up in the driver’s seat, indicating the bakery in the rearview.
Bucky chews, lets a smile creep loose. “We think I’m buying a building if anyone looks at it wrong.”
Sam huffs. “Protecting small businesses now. Real Robin Hood arc.”
Bucky licks icing off his thumb, eyes still on the blue door as the car glides away from the curb. “Not small business,” he says. “This is religion.”
He goes back Tuesday. And Friday. And then a day that is neither. He finds excuses to pass by. He stands in line behind nurses and teachers and the man who sells newspapers on the corner and four teenagers with dance bags and a woman in scrubs whose daughter calls the pastries “breakfast moons.” The bell chimes. The chalkboard evolves as if it has moods. The Polaroids multiply.
Freddie learns his order. A cinnamon roll on roll days. A chocolate babka when the sign says it’s a babka sort of morning. A coffee that is never quite the same because you switch beans depending on what’s good that week, and Bucky learns he likes surprises on your terms. He doesn’t look like a man who likes surprises, but that’s because most of his have been bullets.
He doesn’t talk to you.
You don’t come out to the front much, and when you do, it’s brief: a tray of scones, a word in Freddie’s ear, flour in the shape of a moon on your knuckle. The first time you pass him, you smell like butter and apples and heat. He looks without looking. You glance up and—with the smallest smile, almost private—keep going. The embroidery on your apron says apple in tiny letters next to a stitched apple, which is legitimately ridiculous and breaks something open in his chest.
He keeps his distance because he can. Because he knows he shouldn’t want anything he can’t protect. Because something about the idea of touching you feels like pressing a thumb to icing before it’s ready.
Then one morning he decides he’s done being patient.
It’s not impatience, not really. It’s strategy. He knows the shape of a day like yours. Bakers rise when the city still dreams and scrape flour into the sky to summon dawn. He gets out of bed before the streetlights dim, suits up—charcoal, crisp, a tie in a shade of blue that could cut a man—and heads to the bakery while even the cabs are yawning.
The sky is barely thinking about light when he gets there. The chalkboard is still inside, tucked against a stack of milk crates. The blue door is unlocked. He steps through the quiet where the bell doesn’t chime yet, where the air is colder because the ovens haven’t bothered to make the day warm.
In the back, you grunt.
Bucky can’t help the smile. It slides out easy.
He follows the sound up the narrow stairs toward the kitchen. When he reaches the top, he pauses. There’s no need to observe and catalog—he’s not here for intel. He’s here for the square of you: one foot braced against the wheel of a cart, both hands wrapped around a bag of flour you are dragging like a bull down a hallway.
It’s a fifty-pound sack. He knows because he’s carried them before, back when life was simpler and everything he needed to survive weighed what it weighed and not what it meant. You’ve got it by the neck, hips set, shoulders engaged, one pencil skewering your bun at an angle that should be illegal.
“Need a hand?” he asks, because he cannot help himself and because being useful is one of the things that makes him feel human.
You don’t startle. The smirk arrives before your eyes. You give the flour one last, victorious heave onto the cart, then plant your palms on your hips and look up at him over the rim of your glasses.
“Finally decided to quit gawking and say hello to me?”
Bucky laughs. He laughs like the flour bag knocked the wind out of him. “Caught,” he says, spreading his hands like a magician admitting the trick was always simple. “Name’s Bucky.”
“I know,” you say, amused, like this is the riddle everyone in Brooklyn knows the answer to. You stick out your flour-dusted hand. “I’m the girl with the cinnamon rolls.”
He takes your hand. It disappears in his, small and warm and rough where the dough gets into a baker’s life and stays. “That your government name?”
You roll your eyes, but your smile reaches the corners. You give your name and wait a beat, enjoying his reaction. He tries not to give you one and fails. You grin, proud. “My grandmother named me. The apron is not a bit.”
“It suits you,” he says, and for a second it’s quiet except for the ticking of the cooling oven and your breathing and his.
You nod at his suit. “You look like you could lift flour one-handed,” you observe. “But you also look like you’ve never been allowed to do something as normal as that in public.”
He likes that you don’t ask what he does. He likes that you see it anyway. He likes that you give him a way to be helpful that isn’t about sending men to the hospital. “Let me be of use,” he says, softer than he means to.
“We’ll see,” you say, but you push the cart toward him, and he steers like a man who has finally been given something worth doing.
You let him carry things. That’s how you let him in. Not with questions, not with gossip, not with the way Freddie stumbles and calls him sir sometimes. You let him in with tasks. Trays to the proofing box. Eggs from the walk-in. A pan of caramel he has to keep an eye on while you shape dough into spirals like galaxies.
He tries to flirt once. You don’t let him have it easy.
“You flirting or interviewing?” you ask, not looking up from the roll you’re coaxing into being.
He watches your hands, the way your fingers coax, fold, insist. “I can do both.”
“Men who think they can do both,” you say, “usually can’t do either.” You flick him a look that would ruin a weaker man. “But you can carry flour. So I suppose we’ll see.”
He’s not used to having to try. It isn’t about the money or the reputation or the way his name unclenches rooms. It’s about how, in his world, the straightest line between two points is a statement. He likes that here the line is a process, a proof, a wait. He likes that you will not take his word for anything. He likes that you call him out without cruelty, like you’re already sure he can climb to meet you and you are calmly waiting to watch him do it.
He asks you to dinner like a gentleman. You say no like a scientist. Not yet. Not until you’ve watched his hands enough mornings to know he can do delicate things without breaking them. Not until you’ve seen the way he tips Freddie and says good morning to the old man in the Yankees cap and holds the door for the high schoolers with dance bags who worship you for your free day-old cookies after a show. Not until you’ve asked him, quiet and direct, what he does, and he has answered without spin.
“I run things,” he says, because he will not lie to you. “I make sure the right people eat and the wrong people don’t get to take what isn’t theirs. I’ve done things I’m not proud of, and things I am. I don’t pretend I’m a good man. But I try to be decent to the people who make this place better.”
You weigh that, and you weigh him. “I know who you are, Bucky Barnes,” you say, and he hears what you don’t say: I also know who I am.
He gives you outs, because nothing matters if you don’t get to choose it. He tells you where the exits are and how his life will not always be this calm and that sometimes a line will be drawn that he cannot let you cross. He tells you he will never bring violence to your door, and he tells you the truth, which is that sometimes violence comes whether you invite it or not.
You meet him once outside the bakery, because you decide to. A late walk home, your apron traded for a cardigan, your hair still up with a pencil jammed through it like a wand. He offers you a car. You laugh and say you need your feet on the sidewalk to know what the weather is tomorrow. He tells you he can predict it by the way the pigeons hunch. You tell him that’s ridiculous and he is delighted you told him so.
It goes slow. It goes careful. It goes like building a laminated dough—fold, rest, fold again—until there are layers, and they hold.
Then the morning comes when the opposing family decides to make a point.
You know the shape of threat instantly. It changes the air. The bell over your door rings the same way, but everything after is wrong. Two men who don’t belong to morning. Jackets too heavy for the weather. Hands empty but not soft. Freddie looks at you and you look at the stairs that go to the kitchen and you don’t have time to shape fear into anything but motion.
They don’t come for cash. They come for calm. They come to show that calm belongs to them.
“Cute place,” one says, leaning like the wall should be grateful. He carries the kind of lazy grin that men practice in mirrors when they love the sound of their own power. “Word is the king of Brooklyn likes his coffee here. Be a shame if anything happened to the crown’s favorite cup.”
Your hand is on the edge of the counter. It stays there. Freddie breathes like a fish at the surface.
You’re not stupid. You know what this is. You also know who you are. You straighten your apron. You meet the man’s eyes over your glasses, and your voice is steady. “We’re open for coffee and baked goods,” you say. “If you want either, get in line like everybody else.”
He laughs and reaches—casual as cruelty—for the chalkboard sign. He takes it by the top, puts his thumb right on “be kind,” and tips it until it splinters. It makes a sound like a bird hitting a window. Freddie flinches. You don’t.
“Oops,” he says.
Bucky pushes the door open before the chalk dust settles. The bell doesn’t chime. It clangs.
It’s not that he always knows when he’s needed. It’s that his mornings know when he’s wanted. He thinks of you in a hundred small ways all day long; the day he doesn’t is the day he doesn’t want to be the man he is. Today he was already on the corner when he heard something in the silence. Today he was already angry at something he couldn’t name. Today he is a storm in a suit.
The men know him. Everyone does. Their posture changes without their permission. Bucky doesn’t look at them first. He looks at you. He checks you for breaks with his eyes. You are whole and you are furious.
“Honey,” he says, and the pet name in his mouth is both prayer and trigger. “You all right?”
Your chin tips. “Someone broke my ‘be kind.’”
Bucky’s gaze drops to the sign. He takes in the chalk dust like snow in July. He looks up at the man who did it. The room goes quiet in that way you hear in old churches and on battlefields before the trumpet.
“You got one chance to step outside and apologize to the lady,” Bucky says, with the human generosity of a man who can afford to be merciful.
The man pretends to consider it, glances at his partner like he wants to make a joke to keep his face. He doesn’t get to finish. Bucky’s hand hits the counter like a gavel. The part of the counter under his palm does not move; everything else rearranges around the fact that Bucky Barnes is here now.
Outside. A moment later. The street still hasn’t chosen a temperature. Bucky stands on the sidewalk beneath the flower boxes. The two men are suddenly smaller without the door behind them. It’s always like that—men who are brave when they think the world will hold them up, not realizing the world is just other people’s hands.
Bucky doesn’t shout. He does something worse. He speaks in a voice made of old brick and the years he fought to make this neighborhood safe for things like cinnamon.
“You ever step foot in there again without a wallet and a smile,” he says, “you won’t walk out. You won’t crawl out. There won’t be enough of you left to carry out.”
The man with the lazy grin loses it. The other one looks like he wants to apologize and doesn’t know how. Bucky steps closer. The blue door is behind him. He knows without looking that you’re there, just inside, breathing and furious and steady as a recipe.
“Now,” he says. “Apologize.”
They do. It’s sloppy and quick and they think it means they’ve won something because they kept their teeth. Bucky lets them think whatever they want as long as they do it far away and never, ever near your chalkboard again. He waits until they turn the corner. He waits another second, because patience makes the point sharper. Then he goes back inside and picks up the broken piece of “be kind” and sets it carefully on the counter like a thing that deserves mourning.
Freddie wipes his face with a towel that was meant for cups. You come around the counter and stand in front of Bucky like you’re measuring him for something he hasn’t earned yet.
He wants to touch you. He wants to promise you twenty different safety plans and fifty different ways in and out and a wall of men between this bakery and every sorrow. He does none of those things. He looks at the broken sign he can’t unbreak and then at the person who made the sign matter in the first place and says, “I’m sorry.”
You blink. For a second your anger wavers, surprised to be met by something softer than fury. “You didn’t do it,” you say.
“I brought it into your orbit,” he says. “My life is—” He tries to find the word that isn’t an apology and isn’t an excuse. “Loud. I don’t want my noise to drown out your mornings.”
Your hand lifts without your permission. It puts flour on the lapel of his suit. The gesture is so maddeningly tender he can barely stand up in it.
“My mornings,” you say, “are mine. And I’m not breakable glass, Bucky. I know who you are. I also know that you stood outside my door and told two men to apologize to ‘the lady.’” Your mouth quirks. “I liked the ring of that. Felt old-fashioned in a way that doesn’t talk over me.”
He breathes. It feels like he hasn’t since he walked in. “Let me fix the sign,” he says, because it’s something a man can do with his hands when his heart is trying to crawl toward someone else’s.
“You can commission me a new one,” you say. “From the girl who paints the murals on Myrtle. She’s saving up for art school and uses quality chalk.”
He smiles. “Done.”
Freddie lets out a breath like a wounded balloon and wanders off to pull espresso for a woman who walked in during the spectacle and immediately decided to stay because she has a front-row seat to the good telenovela today. The room’s temperature shifts back toward morning.
After that, there’s no pretending the line between your world and his isn’t tied in a bow.
You still take it slow, but slow changes shape. You leave the door of your kitchen unlocked when he comes before dawn. He touches the backs of your wrists when you’re shaping rolls, a question he waits for you to answer with a press back. He tastes things off spoons you hold to his mouth. He never takes without being offered. He looks at you like he is memorizing instructions he intends to follow for the rest of his life.
You go to dinner with him one night and the city pretends not to stare. Even pretending, it stares. Bucky is carved out of angles and money in shirts that look like they were invented for the bones of his shoulders. You are all soft edges and unruly curls and a cardigan with two buttons you repaired yourself yesterday with a length of red thread. He wants to drape you in the things he can buy; he also wants you exactly like this forever.
He does both.
The first time he slides a small velvet box across your bakery table, you open it to find diamond earrings like dew. They are not subtle. They are not quiet. They are the sort of jewelry that has its own opinions.
“Bucky,” you say softly, the syllables bright with surprise and something he wants to live in. “They look like sugar when it catches the light.”
“Wear them when you bake,” he says, meaning it and not meaning it. He wants the idea of it—a secret only he knows, that under the flour and the aprons you are wearing stars. “Or don’t. Wear them when you feel like letting the room know who you are.”
“Soft girl with knives,” you say lightly, and he grins like a man who has just been given a map.
He buys you glasses that are designer because he learns that sometimes the difference between good glasses and best glasses is a headache and he has sworn—quietly, to himself and anyone who will listen—that you will not have headaches in his house if he can help it. He orders cardigans from a woman in Italy who knits like she’s writing poetry, soft as clouds but cut to your shape, with tiny embroidered apples near the hem. You are not a doll. You are not a kept thing. You are a queen who lets him gift you armor made of softness, and he loves that you accept what is given without surrendering what is yours.
He watches the neighborhood watch you. Brooklyn is a nosy auntie who keeps her judgments in the spice cabinet with the bay leaves and the clove. She notices the new girl on Barnes’ arm. She notices that you still take out the trash yourself and that Bucky doesn’t stop you—he takes it from your hand and walks with you and doesn’t make a thing of it. She notices that you go to Sunday dinner at the old man in the Yankees cap’s place because his granddaughter is turning three and loves your lemon cookies. She notices the way Bucky stands at the edge of the party like a hedge: ornamental, dangerous, smelling dismissively of money—but the hedges at this house have fairy lights thrown over them and children hanging from them and a baker in a floral dress stealing olives off his plate.
The opposing family notices, too. They notice more quietly now. The apology that Bucky wrung from those men landed like a message in a bottle: the contents were private, but the existence of it washed up on every shore. You get looks, but they are respectful ones. You get a few muttered comments about what you’re doing with a man like him and you answer them by selling their wives cinnamon rolls that make them close their eyes at the first bite and say oh, honey.
Bucky does not hide his life from you. He will never make you ask for the parts of him that could hurt you. He tells you where he goes when he disappears; he tells you what it cost to clear a corner for the bodega owner who lets kids run tabs. He tells you about the first time he realized fear could be a tool and the last time he used it when he didn’t have to. He hands you the pieces and stands there like a man ready to be assembled into someone better.
You don’t flinch. You don’t glamorize. You take it the way you take flour: as something that can make bread or a mess depending on how you measure.
“Do you want to be king of Brooklyn forever?” you ask one night, and he looks at you like you’ve asked him for the ocean and he’d never thought it could be carried in a glass.
“I want,” he says slowly, “to sit at your kitchen table when we’re old and argue about whether or not to put raisins in the bread like it’s the central moral question of our lives.”
You smile. “It is,” you say gravely, and he falls a little more in love with the way you keep your kingdom.
The morning you show up to the warehouse—your first time coming to him instead of the other way around—everything shifts.
One of his men calls. Not the way they call when the world is ending. The way they call when the world is changing. “Boss,” the voice says, which Bucky doesn’t allow in your presence because he prefers your name for him, but you’re not here, and this is work. “There’s movement on the south side. Might be nothing. Might be chatter about the bakery.”
The bakery. Your bakery.
He makes the call before he’s fully aware he’s making it. “Lock the doors,” he says. “Clear the block of anyone who doesn’t live there. Nobody sets foot near her unless they’re buying scones.”
It turns out to be nothing more than talk, the kind of talk men do when they want to hear themselves sound like the old days. But you don’t find out until later. What you do find out is that you don’t want hours where you don’t know where he is. You don’t like the weight of maybe on your chest. You are strong as sugar glass baked the right way, and you hate the thought of anyone testing whether you’re brittle.
So you show up at the warehouse with a paper bag of still-warm rolls and a jaw set like a verdict. His men try very hard not to let their smiles show. You put the bag on Bucky’s desk. You look him over the way he looks you over after a long morning with the ovens: counting breath, skin tone, the way he holds his shoulders like he’s wearing other people’s worries.
“Hi,” you say. Your voice is steady and not made of chalk at all. “I realized I wanted to be where you were.”
Something in his thorax—something he has never had a name for because there was never a reason to find one—goes quiet and bright. He stands, comes around the desk. His hand hesitates over your waist in that old way of his, careful like you’re a set of instructions that matter. You solve it by stepping into him.
He kisses you like he’s been thinking about this since the first time he saw you turn dough into spirals. You kiss him back like you have pans in the oven and time for one more thing because that’s life: something to tend, something to taste, something to burn if you forget it. He laughs against your mouth when you nip his lower lip like a woman who has been watching him try to behave himself in her kitchen for weeks and has decided mercy is for people with less imagination.
He says your name when he lifts his head, a little wrecked, a little reverent. He touches the pencil in your hair like it’s a knife. “You sure?”
You don’t answer with words. You unbutton the top two buttons of his shirt like you’re checking the bake, like you know exactly what you’re doing to the room. He groans like a door falling off its hinges. The men outside politely pretend they are not alive.
After that, nobody in Brooklyn pretends not to stare. They do it fondly, like they do when a new baby appears on a stoop and immediately belongs to the block. You on Bucky’s arm is not a spectacle so much as a weather pattern. You appear at parties in dresses that would be precious on anyone else but on you are a dare. He appears beside you in shirts that fit like decisions. He puts diamonds in your ears and you wear them to knead dough because you like the way they feel when the oven door opens and the heat catches the light. He gifts you glasses that don’t pinch the bridge of your nose and you use them to glare at him over the tops when he tries to lick icing off a cake before it’s set. He sends your measurements to Italy without asking for permission because he knows what you like: sweaters that feel like a hand on your back. He commissions a new chalkboard from the mural girl on Myrtle, and it’s a small painting of a cinnamon roll with a crown tilted goofily on it, and underneath, in perfect script: be kind or be gone.
He brings you into rooms that are not built for softness and watches you take them without apology. The boys—his boys, men who belong to him by choice and luck and the gravity of needing a place to belong—learn quickly that you are not to be crossed in small ways any more than large. You give them cookies and you give them a look when they track oil onto your clean floor. You bring a loaf of bread to a sit-down and slice it with a knife you keep in your bag like a secret and push the plate toward the other side. The man across the table takes a piece, chews, and looks up like he’s just remembered what human tastes like.
“Your girl can bake,” he says, forced to respect the thing he wanted to dismiss.
“My girl can do anything,” Bucky says, and anyone who doesn’t take the hint never will.
You still go home with flour under your nails. You still sing in the kitchen under your breath when you are moving the way you are built to move. You also have a man who waits for you leaning in your doorframe like a problem you don’t mind leaving unsolved. He kisses the flour stripe off your cheekbone. He steals a piece of the crust and moans like you planned it. He fills your quiet rooms with body and presence and the kind of care that doesn’t make noise. On nights when he’s late, he still texts you a photo of whatever sandwich someone shoved in his hand with the caption: not as good as yours.
On mornings when you wake before him because you don’t know how to sleep after four a.m., you stand at the window and watch Brooklyn open its eyes. You return to the bed because he reaches for you in his sleep and because you are not stone; you are heat. You tuck your cold feet between his calves and he grumbles, awake enough to recognize you, and tugs you closer.
“Be kind,” you murmur into his chest, because it’s funny, because it’s yours.
“Be mine,” he answers, not thinking about how words become vows when said at sunup.
You hit your stride as a pair the day an elderly woman stops you on the street and says, “I’ve seen you two walking. You look like trouble and home.”
You laugh. Bucky smiles that careful, shy smile that only peeled itself out of hiding with you, and the woman pats your arm and goes on, and you stand in that afternoon for a long time like the street decided its axis should be here.
When fall comes, you knit him a scarf—your first attempt since college, uneven and too long. He wears it like it was cast by an Italian from mythology. When winter comes, he makes sure every sidewalk on your block gets salted before dawn. When spring comes, you plant basil in the window boxes and a tiny secret pepper that will wake up the tomato soup, and he stands beside you, sleeves rolled, looking like the kind of man whose hands could both plant and uproot a city.
One night, months into a life that feels both inevitable and brand new, you find him at the bakery after close. He’s at a corner table with a ledger because he keeps old habits to ground the new ones. You sit down across from him and set a small box between you.
“Raisins,” you say.
He narrows his eyes. “This is a trap.”
You open the box. Inside are two small cinnamon rolls—perfect spirals, iced with restraint, studded with something jewel-bright. You pluck one out, tear a piece, and feed it to him like you feed him answers. He chews. His brow furrows. He considers. You watch like you’re waiting for the weather.
“Cranberries,” he says, finally, respectful. “Not raisins.”
You nod. “No raisins in my house,” you say, mock-severe.
He swallows, licks icing off his thumb in a way that is not polite and makes you consider closing early. “Your house,” he repeats, and looks around at the tile, the ovens cooling, the chalkboard that now says: cinnamon rolls tomorrow, be kind today. “Our house,” he corrects gently, and is not surprised that you do not flinch.
The news cycles start to include small mentions of you like someone has added vanilla to the batter. “Barnes seen at charity gala with mystery baker.” “Neighborhood favorite gets anonymous donation for new ovens.” “Rival family cancels noisy tasting menu after sudden wave of food poisoning—unrelated, says health department.” People talk. People stare. People order cinnamon rolls and coffee and tell their friends that the king of Brooklyn is in love with the girl who wears pencils in her hair.
You don’t stop being soft around the edges. He doesn’t stop being sharp. You are not each other’s opposites so much as each other’s explanations. Steel and sugar. Knife and frosting. Crown and apron. The world can be hard and bright and dangerous. The world can be warm and messy and good. The world can be both, and you can live right at the seam.
The morning the mural girl delivers your new chalkboard, Bucky helps her carry it in. She beams at the sight of her art in the place where cinnamon smells like a decision. You hang it together, you and Bucky, his hand steady on the bottom right corner, yours on the top left, the two of you aligning the world one small level at a time.
“Straight?” he asks.
“Straight enough,” you say, because perfection is for meringue and patience is for dough, and life is for all the ways something can be beautiful even when it tilts.
He looks at it, the crowned cinnamon roll, the command in script. Then he looks at you, hair in a bun stabbed through with two pencils like twin exclamation points, flour on your knuckles, diamonds winking in your ears because you put them in today just to watch his face when you turn your head.
“Doll,” he says, voice rough and sweet at once.
“Bucky,” you answer, and the day starts again like it always does: with cinnamon, with coffee, with a man who used to live by the sword and now lives by something softer he learns to hold without crushing.
The bell chimes. The neighborhood arrives. A little girl points at the crowned roll and giggles. Freddie calls out an order like he’s leading a chorus line. The ovens breathe. Outside, Brooklyn makes its noise, all the rivets and heartbeats and history. Inside, your worlds stitch like dough folded over butter, layer on layer on layer, until what you’ve built is flaky and impossible and strong enough to stand.
Bucky leans down when nobody is looking and kisses the corner of your mouth. “To be kind,” he murmurs.
“To be gone, if not,” you say, matching him, smirking into his kiss like a woman who will not ever be anything except exactly what she is.
He loves it. He loves you. He keeps coming back.
Not just for the cinnamon roll. But he thinks about it nearly every morning. And when he sinks his teeth into it, icing sweet and dough warm, your laugh somewhere in the back, your hand on his sleeve because you need to pass, it hits him again like it always does:
Pairing: Congressman! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Warnings: 18+ just in case. Fluff. Slight Angst. Eventual Smut.
Summary: Bucky agrees to a discreet cleaning service to tend to his apartment while he’s away. He never expected the care of someone he’d never met to become the gentlest part of his daily life.
Word Count: 5.9k
Previous Chapter - Masterlist
They broke apart slowly, as though neither of them was quite ready to let go. Their breath was uneven and warm in the now-heated space inside the car. She shifted in her seat, trying to sit properly again, and sent the forgotten box of red velvet cake sliding down from where it had been wedged between her thigh and the car door.
The soft thud when it hit the floor made her freeze.
"Oh God, I'm so sorry-" She bent forward quickly, fumbling with it, checking frantically that the lid hadn't popped open, that she hadn't just smeared dessert all over the pristine interior of his car.
"Hey, it's alright," he said, lifting a hand in a calming gesture. "Really. It's fine."
She took a shaky breath, nodding, though the embarrassment refused to let go. The kiss had left her off-balance, and now she was fumbling around his car like a girl.
He cleared his throat, putting the car in drive, drumming his fingers once against the steering wheel before he found his voice again. "So, uh... what's your address?"
She rattled it off, watching as his brows lifted slightly. The distance between Santino's and her neighborhood wasn't exactly a quick trip across town. But he didn't comment on it, just programmed it into his phone and pulled out of the alley.
They drove in comfortable silence for a few blocks, the city lights streaming past the windows, before he spoke again. His voice was casual, maybe a little too casual.
"Is Santino's..." He paused, seeming to weigh his words. "Do you come here often?"
She understood what he meant, but the phrasing, so close to a well-worn pickup line, made her lips curve. “Are you hitting on me, Congressman?” she asked, unable to keep the amusement out of her voice.
The effect was immediate. The color crept up from his collar to the tips of his ears, and he nearly fumbled the steering wheel.
“I was trying to ask if you worked there regularly, not-" He caught himself, realizing she was teasing him about the way he spoke. Then let out a short, self-deprecating laugh. “That did sound like a pickup line, didn't it?"
She couldn't help but laugh. "Just a little. And you said you didn’t know how it was done."
"Fuck," he muttered, running his free hand over his face, though she could see the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips despite his embarrassment. "I haven't been this bad at talking to someone since I was sixteen."
"Well," she said, settling back in her seat, the box of cake secure in her lap now, "for what it's worth, your approach in that alley was much more effective than any pickup line I've ever heard."
"Because they weren’t lines," he said quietly.
"No," she agreed, her voice softer now, too. "They weren't. That's why they worked."
----
The rest of the drive passed in comfortable silence as the city gradually transitioned from the downtown district to more modest neighborhoods. Every so often, when he reached for the gear shift, his fingers would brush against hers where her hand rested on the seat. The first time it happened, she thought it was accidental. The second time, she realized it wasn't.
Neither of them commented on it, but she found herself holding her breath each time, the simple touch sending warmth up her arm.
When he finally pulled up outside her building -a converted brownstone divided into apartments- the engine's low rumble seemed too loud in the sudden silence.
"So," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "This is me."
"Yeah," he replied, not moving to turn off the engine.
She turned to look at him and found he was already watching her, his eyes dark in the glow of the streetlight. The air between them felt charged again, the way it had in the alley, and before she could second-guess herself, she was leaning toward him.
This kiss was different from the first. Slower, less desperate but somehow more intentional. His free hand came up to cup her cheek, tracing his thumb along her jaw, and when they finally pulled apart, her lips felt swollen and warm.
"I should..." she started, then lost the words when he rested his forehead against hers.
"Yeah," he breathed. "You should."
But neither of them moved for another long moment, until finally he pulled back and turned off the engine. "Let me walk you up."
He was out of the car and around to her side before she'd even grab her purse and the cake box, opening her door with the same careful attention he'd shown at the restaurant.
The short walk to her building's front steps felt both too long and not nearly long enough. When they reached the door, she turned to face him, suddenly uncertain how to navigate this moment.
"Would you..." she started, then stopped, placing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Would you like to come up? I could make coffee, or-"
He cleared his throat, flexing his hands once at his sides. "Not tonight."
She blinked, and he could see the flicker of doubt cross her face, wondering if she'd misread something, if he was pulling back.
"It's not that I don't want to," he said, stepping closer, his voice low and earnest. "Trust me, I do. But..." He ran a hand through his hair, looking almost frustrated with himself. "I want to do this right. And if I come up there with you right now..." He met her eyes. "I don't trust myself to just drink coffee."
"Oh." The sound came out breathier than she intended, heat blooming across her cheeks as she realized the meaning of his words.
She understood what he was saying. Not just restraint, but the intention behind it. This was how he'd been raised, how men courted women in his time. Properly. With respect and patience and all those old-fashioned gestures that had somehow survived in him despite everything else that had been stripped away.
And God, if that didn't make her want him even more.
"That's very-" she started, then bit her lower lip, searching for the right word. "Sweet."
"I know it probably seems-"
"No," she said quickly, shaking her head. "I like that you want to... take your time. It's been a while since anyone treated me like I was worth waiting for."
Something fierce flashed in his eyes, clenching his jaw briefly before he stepped closer. "You are. Worth waiting for, I mean."
She looked down at the cake box in her hands, then back up at him, suddenly feeling bold.
"What about-" She bit her lower lip again, drawing his gaze down to her mouth. "What about one more kiss? Before I go up?"
His answer was immediate. No hesitation this time, as he stepped closer, backing her gently against the door. His hands came up to frame her face, brushing her cheeks with his thumbs as he leaned down to capture her lips.
When his tongue traced along her bottom lip, she opened for him with a soft sound that made him press closer, caging her against the door. She could feel the warmth of his body, the controlled strength in the way he held her, and it sent heat spiraling down her belly.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, his forehead dropped to rest against hers again.
"Definitely worth waiting for," he murmured, voice rough.
She laughed softly, a little breathless. "Good night, James."
"Good night."
But he didn't immediately step back, and neither did she turn around to open the door. Tomorrow was Thursday. Her regular cleaning day.
"Um-" she said finally, the sound coming out smaller than intended. "Tomorrow is..."
"Thursday," he finished, understanding immediately.
They stared at each other for a moment, the absurdity and awkwardness of the situation swirling between them. After everything that had just happened -the confession in the alley, the drive, the kisses- tomorrow she was supposed to show up at his apartment with her cleaning supplies.
"That's going to be..." she started.
"Weird," he supplied.
"Very weird," she agreed, then bit back a laugh. "I have no idea how to do this."
"Neither do I," he admitted, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "But we'll figure it out, right?"
Here was this man who'd survived decades of horror, faced down aliens and dealt with terrorists, reduced to nervous energy over the logistics of dating his cleaning lady.
"Yeah," she said softly, reaching up to smooth down the hair he'd mussed. The gesture was automatic, intimate, and it made him close his eyes briefly at her touch. "We'll figure it out."
----
She stood outside his apartment door for a full minute before finally sliding the key into the lock. She hesitated on the knob, her pulse picking up like she was about to step into something that wasn’t just a job anymore.
The apartment smelled like coffee and something else, aftershave, maybe. She heard movement from the back room, the soft sound of footsteps, and her pulse kicked up immediately.
She hung up her coat with deliberate care, tied her apron with fingers that fumbled the knot twice, and tried to summon the professionalism that had carried her through four years of this job.
"Morning," his voice came from behind her, rough with something that might have been sleep or nerves.
She turned, and the pretense of normalcy shattered instantly.
He was leaning against the hallway entrance in jeans and a green henley that fit him too well, hair still damp from a shower. The way he was looking at her -soft and unsure, and nothing like how a boss should look at his cleaning lady- made her stomach flip.
"Good morning," she managed, proud that her voice came out normal. "James."
"Bucky". He corrected gently. “If you want.”
She swallowed, then smiled. “Bucky.” The name felt strange on her tongue, too intimate. Too right. “I should-" she gestured vaguely toward the cleaning caddy by the door.
"Right. Yes. Work." He straightened his back, running a hand through his damp hair, leaving it messier than before. "I'll just- I'll be in the back room."
Except he didn't move toward the back room. He stayed right where he was, watching her unpack her things.
"Bucky?" she said, not looking up.
"Yeah?"
"You're staring."
Color crept up his neck. "Sorry. I'll just-" He took a step toward the hallway, then stopped. "Do you want coffee? I made extra."
----
The next hour was a masterclass in distraction.
She'd barely started wiping down the counters when he appeared with coffee in a mug she recognized, the blue one with the chip, the one he used every morning.
"Thank you," she murmured, brushing his fingers as she took it. Warm. Too warm. She immediately took a sip to avoid looking at him. The coffee was perfect. Of course it was.
"Good?" he asked, and she could hear some kind of shyness in his voice, like her answer mattered more than it should.
"It's perfect."
He smiled again, that soft expression that was becoming dangerously familiar, and sat on his usual stool at the kitchen island, long legs perched easily at the footrest, his body relaxed. She waited for him to pull out his phone or a file, to give her the illusion of not being watched, but he just sat there.
"What are you doing?" she finally asked, tossing him a look over her shoulder.
"Watching you work."
His honesty made her cheeks warm. "That's not- you can't just watch me work."
"Why not?"
"Because it's-" She gestured helplessly with the cleaning cloth. "It's weird. I can't concentrate with you staring at me like that."
"Like what?" His tone was innocent, but his eyes weren’t.
Like you want to kiss me again. "Like... like you're doing."
He was quiet for a moment, and when she glanced over, his expression had grown more serious. "Sorry. I don't mean to make you uncomfortable. It's just-" He rubbed the back of his neck. "Hard to pretend everything's normal when it's not."
She set the cloth down, fully turning to face him. The air felt thicker now. “No,” she admitted. “It’s not normal. But I still have a job to do.”
"Right." He stood abruptly, shoving his hands in his pockets like he didn’t know what else to do with them. "I'll go to the back room. Let you work."
But he didn't leave immediately. He hesitated by the kitchen entrance, looking back at her with something almost like longing, and she felt her resolve crack a little.
"Bucky?"
"Yeah?"
"Maybe... maybe you could stay. If you want. Just- try not to stare quite so hard?"
The breath he let out sounded like relief. And something softened in his gaze that made her want to look away and stare at the same time. "I can do that."
----
He couldn't do that.
He tried. He pulled out his phone, scrolled through emails, and even attempted to read a bill summary that had been gathering electronic dust in his inbox. But every few minutes, his attention drifted back to her, and he found himself cataloging things he'd somehow missed in all those months of careful distance.
The way she hummed under her breath when she thought he wasn't listening. Not the pop song from that first day, but something softer, older. The movements of her hands as she worked, like she was caring for something precious rather than just cleaning. How she paused sometimes to adjust things that weren't quite right, small touches that made his apartment feel more like a home.
"You're doing it again," she said without looking up from the bookshelf she was dusting.
"Doing what?"
"Staring."
He was. He absolutely was. "Sorry."
She tilted her head slightly, eyes flicking to him over her shoulder, a ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. “I didn’t say I minded.”
Something warm bloomed in his chest. "No?"
"No." She turned back to the books, but he could hear the smile she was trying to hide. "It's just... distracting."
"Good distracting or bad distracting?"
"I'm not going to answer that."
"Why not?"
"Because," she said, moving to the next shelf, "I'm supposed to be working, and you're supposed to be... I don't know. Doing congressman things."
"I don't have any congressman things scheduled until late afternoon."
She made a small sound that might have been a laugh, but didn’t comment on it.
----
By the time she reached the bathroom, the pretense of normal work had completely dissolved. He'd given up on his phone entirely and was following her from room to room like a lost puppy, finding excuses to be wherever she was.
When she knelt to scrub the bathtub, he appeared in the doorway with a glass of water she hadn't asked for. When she moved to the bedroom to change the sheets, he was suddenly very concerned about whether the pillows were fluffed properly. When she returned to the kitchen to start cooking, he materialized at her elbow, asking if she needed anything, standing close enough that she could smell his aftershave.
"Bucky," she said finally, pausing with her hands in the salad bowl.
"Yeah?" His response was too quick, like he’d been waiting for her to say his name.
"What are you doing?"
He looked genuinely confused. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, you've been following me around for the past hour like..." She trailed off, searching for the right comparison.
"Like what?"
"Like you're afraid I'm going to disappear."
The words hit closer to the truth than she'd intended. His expression changed, something vulnerable flickering across his features before he looked away.
"Maybe I am," he said quietly.
Her hands stilled on the lettuce. "James..."
"I know it's ridiculous," he continued, not meeting her eyes. “Last night was-" He rubbed his jaw, struggling with the words. "Important. And now you're here, and I can't stop thinking about it, and I'm probably making you crazy-"
"You're not making me crazy," she interrupted, turning to face him. "Well, you are, but not in a bad way."
"No?"
"No." She wiped her hands on her apron and, before her nerves could stop her, reached out and touched his arm. "Last night was important. For me too. But I do still have work to finish."
He nodded, looking almost embarrassed. "Right. I'll try to-"
"I have an idea," she said suddenly. "Why don't you help?"
"Help?"
"With lunch. You could... I don't know. Chop vegetables or something."
The suggestion seemed to surprise him. "You want me to help you cook?"
"Unless you have somewhere else you need to be?"
"No," he said quickly. "No, I'd like that. I'd like that a lot."
----
It should have been simple. Chopping vegetables was not exactly rocket science, even for someone whose culinary skills had atrophied during decades of military rations and late-night takeout.
But standing beside her, close enough to brush shoulders every time they reached for something, turned out to be its own kind of torture.
She'd given him the easy jobs -dicing onions, slicing tomatoes- while she handled the more complex prep work. But every few minutes, she'd lean over to check his progress, or she'd reach around him for a utensil, pressing her body briefly against his back.
He was almost certain she was doing it on purpose.
“How’s this?” he asked, holding up a cutting board littered with embarrassingly uneven chunks of onion that looked like they’d survived a battlefield.
She stepped closer, so close her hip brushed his, and inspected his work with infuriating patience. Then she nodded, smiling softly. “Perfect.”
"Really?"
"Well," she said, lips quirking upward, "they're a little- rough. But sometimes that's better than perfect."
There was something in her tone that made him think she wasn't just talking about onions anymore.
"Is it?" he asked, his voice lower now.
"Mm-hmm." She was still standing close, close enough that he could see the way her lips parted slightly when her gaze landed on his mouth. "More character."
"Character," he repeated, like he was testing the word.
"Yes."
They were staring at each other now, the pretense of cooking forgotten, and he felt that same pull from last night. The irresistible urge to close the distance between them, to taste her lips again, to see if she'd make that soft sound when he-
The timer for the oven chose that moment to go off.
They sprang apart like teenagers caught by parents, and she hurried to check on whatever was baking. He turned back to the cutting board, trying to calm his racing heart.
Get it together.
But when she bent to pull the pan from the oven, and he caught a glimpse of the curve of her rear framed by that damn apron, he knew he was fighting a losing battle.
----
Later, when the meals were portioned into neat containers, she half-turned, catching him mid-stare.
“You’re doing it again,” she said softly, no reproach in her tone.
He didn’t even try to deny it. “Sorry.”
“I didn’t say you should stop.”
She was looking at him differently now, not hiding the interest in her eyes, and it was making it very difficult to think about anything else.
He found himself standing, moving around the island toward her, drawn by something stronger than common sense.
She turned around to face him as he approached, and when he stopped in front of her, close enough that her knees almost touched his legs, her breathing had gone shallow.
"Hi," he said softly.
"Hi," she whispered back.
He reached up slowly, giving her time to pull away, and caressed her cheek. She leaned into the touch with a soft sigh that made his chest thud.
"I've been thinking about last night," he admitted. "About kissing you." His thumb traced along her bottom lip. "About wanting to do it again."
"Bucky-" Her voice was breathier now.
"Can I?" The question was barely a whisper.
Instead of answering, she slid her hands up his chest, grabbed the fabric of his shirt, and pulled him closer.
This kiss was different from the ones the day before. Hungrier. More desperate. Her lips parted under his immediately, and when his tongue swept into her mouth, she moaned softly against him, and the sound went straight to his groin.
He gripped her waist hard, dragging her closer, and she slid her arms around his neck, threading her fingers into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan against her mouth.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, her lips were swollen, and his hair was a mess where she’d clutched at him. He didn’t care; he’d let her ruin him a thousand times if it meant hearing that sound again.
"Wow," she breathed.
“Yeah.” He rested his forehead against hers. “Wow.”
They stayed like that for a long moment, just breathing each other in, until reality began to creep back in.
"I should..." she started, then seemed to lose the words when he pressed a soft kiss to her temple.
"Should what?"
"Finish cleaning. I haven't even touched the living room yet."
He pulled back to look at her, taking in her kiss-swollen lips and the way she gripped his shirt again like she didn't want to let go.
"Forget the living room," he said.
"I can't just forget it. It's my job."
"Then I'll clean it later."
She blinked at him. "You'll clean your own living room?"
"Vacuum, dust, maybe move some things around?"
"You don't even know where I keep the vacuum, do you?"
"I don't care about the living room," he said, more seriously now. "I care about this. About you. And I don't want to waste the time we have pretending this is just another Thursday."
She looked at him and saw not her employer but the man who'd waited for her in the alley, who'd confessed his feelings under streetlights, who was looking at her now like she was something precious.
"Okay," she said finally.
"Okay?"
"The living room can wait."
----
They ended up on the couch, though neither of them could have explained how. One minute they were standing in the kitchen, and the next she was curled into his side like she'd always belonged there. His arm -heavy and warm- was resting around her shoulders, her cheek pressing against the soft cotton of his shirt.
Neither of them cared about the television in front of them. She was too aware of the thrum of his pulse against her ear, the way his fingertips traced slow, absent circles over her upper arm that were making her skin burn beneath the fabric of her clothes.
He was drowning in the feeling of the weight of her body against his, the way she molded perfectly to him, the clean scent of her shampoo, and something warmer, something undeniably her that was making it harder to get it together.
“This is nice,” she murmured, almost like she was afraid to break the spell.
"Yeah," he said, his chest rumbling under her ear, voice rougher than it had been a moment ago. "It is."
She tilted her head back to look at him, her hair brushing his jaw, and the simple contact made his breath catch. "Is this what you used to do? Back in the forties? Sit on couches and… what? Listen to the radio?"
The corner of his mouth pulled upward, just barely, and he huffed a chuckle. "Uh, not like this. Usually, there was a lot more supervision involved."
"Supervision?" She shifted slightly, and the movement pressed her closer against him. His fingers clenched involuntarily on her arm.
"Chaperones." His voice was quieter now, more strained. "Parents or siblings in the next room. There was always someone paying attention. Making sure we kept our hands to ourselves."
“Ah." Her smile was wicked as she settled back against him, more deliberately this time. "And did you? Keep your hands to yourself?"
His laugh was rough, breathless. "Most of the time." His hand slipped lower, trailing down her forearm in a way that made her shiver. "But I thought about not doing it. A lot."
"Just thought about it?" Something was teasing in her voice that made his pulse spike.
"Very different times," he managed, and when she turned in his arms to face him properly, the air between them seemed to crackle.
"Do you miss it?" she asked, but her voice was softer now, breathier. "The way things used to be?"
He was quiet for a long moment, hyper-aware of how close her mouth was to his, of the way her fingers had somehow found their way to rest against his chest. "Some things," he said finally. "The simplicity of things, maybe. Knowing what the rules were. But-" He looked down at her, with something soft in his expression. "I never had anything like this back then."
"Like what?"
"Sitting with someone and just... being."
She reached up to touch his cheek, and he automatically leaned into the contact.
"Well, you have it now," she said softly.
His lashes lifted slowly, blue eyes fixed on her like he wasn’t sure she meant it. “Do I?”
"For as long as you want it."
Something flashed in his gaze, surprise, maybe, or hope. Like he hadn't quite believed that this could be real, that she could want this as much as he did.
"What if I want it for a very long time?" he asked quietly.
Her heart did something acrobatic in her chest. "Then I guess we'll figure out how to make that work."
The space between them seemed to shrink without either of them moving. She could feel his breath against her lips, could see the exact moment his gaze dropped to her mouth.
"I was thinking..." His voice was hoarse now, distracted. "Would you like to go out? On a proper date, I mean. This weekend, maybe?"
"I'd like that." Her answer came out breathier than she intended. "What did you have in mind?"
"This might sound-" He swallowed hard. "Boring. But I was thinking maybe Coney Island?"
"Coney Island?" She was close enough now that her lips almost brushed his when she spoke.
"I know it's not exactly-" His words were cut off when she shifted closer, sliding up her hand to cradle the back of his neck.
"James," she interrupted, her voice barely above a whisper. "Why Coney Island?"
He was quiet for a moment, struggling to focus on anything other than how soft her skin felt, how her thumb was tracing small circles at his nape. “I have this… memory. Or maybe just a feeling. I can’t tell anymore. But sometimes I think about being there when I was young. Before the war. It feels-" He struggled with the words. "Happy. Simple. Like something worth remembering."
She could picture it, a young Bucky, probably cocky and charming, walking the boardwalk with some girl whose name was lost to time. Before everything went wrong. Before decades of pain and isolation.
"That sounds perfect," she breathed, and then she was kissing him.
It started soft, tentative, but the moment her lips touched his, something ignited in him. His vibranium hand came up to cup her face, the other sliding around her waist to pull her closer, and she melted into him with a soft sound that made his control snap.
The kiss deepened. She pressed closer, her fingers tangling in his hair now, and he responded by hauling her practically into his lap, both of them breathing hard between kisses that grew more heated, more demanding.
His mouth moved to her throat, and the soft gasp she made went straight toward the tent growing in his pants. She arched into his body, pliant and warm against him, and for a moment, he forgot everything except the taste of her skin, the way she whispered his name like a prayer.
It was only when her hands slipped beneath the hem of his henley, spreading her warm palms against his bare skin, that he came back to reality.
"Wait." The word escaped from his throat, rough and pained, and his hands caught her wrists. "Wait, sweetheart. We need to-" He pressed his forehead against her shoulder, both of them breathing hard. "We need to stop."
She blinked at him, dazed and kiss-drunk, "Why?"
He lifted his head and shook it once. "Look at me," Her eyes fluttered open, bright and wanting, and he gave a shaky laugh that held no humor. "I invite you to Coney Island like some boy trying to do it right… and then I do this."
She stared at him, still catching her breath. "I'm pretty sure I was participating actively in that exchange," she said softly, a hint of reassurance in her voice. "You weren't doing anything on your own."
"I know, but-" He closed his eyes briefly, as if gathering strength. "I want to do this right with you.
She understood what he was saying, but something else crept into the back of her mind, a flicker of self-consciousness that made her pull back slightly. Had she been too forward? Too eager? The way he'd stopped her hands so abruptly when she'd touched his bare skin-
"I see. I-" She cleared her throat, suddenly feeling awkward in a way she hadn't moments before. "I need to use the bathroom."
The shift in her demeanor was subtle but unmistakable, and she could see the exact moment the concern flashed across his features. But she was already extracting herself from his arms, needing a moment to collect herself, to figure out why his chivalry left her feeling like she'd somehow messed things up.
She was halfway to standing when his hand caught her wrist, gently but firm.
"Hey, wait." His voice was rough, urgent. "Don't-" He swallowed hard. "Please don't go anywhere thinking you did something wrong."
She paused, still poised to flee, the doubt written across her features. "Didn't I?"
"God, no." The words came out in a rush. He tugged gently on her wrist, guiding her back down beside him, though she perched on the edge of the cushion like she might bolt again. "Sweetheart, look at me."
When she finally met his eyes, he looked almost stricken. "You think I stopped because of something you did?"
"I-" She bit her lip, suddenly feeling foolish but unable to shake the feeling. "You just seemed so... when I touched you, you pulled back like I'd burned you."
He made a sound that was half laugh, half groan, running his free hand through his hair. "Jesus. That's- that's not-" He took a breath to focus himself. "I'm not some relic who doesn't understand that you weren't being inappropriate. Damn, I was the one who had you practically in my lap."
The tension in her shoulders eased slightly, but she still looked uncomfortable.
"The problem," he continued, voice dropping lower, more honest, "is that you were driving me completely out of my mind. When your hands-" He had to pause, jaw clenching. "When you touched me like that, I wanted to forget every good intention I've ever had. And that scared the hell out of me."
"Why?" The question was barely a whisper.
“Because you matter to me,” he said, voice low and strained. “Because I want to do right by you. And when you touch me like that, all I can think about is how much I want you. How bad I want to throw you into my bed- " He cut himself off, breathing hard. "And that's not how I want this to start. Not when we haven't even been on a real date yet."
She studied his face for a long moment, seeing the honesty in his expression. Finally, she nodded slowly. "I understand," she said softly. "I do."
But then something else flashed across her expression. Consideration, careful thought. When she spoke again, her voice was gentler, more tentative.
"Can I ask you something?" She waited for his nod before continuing. "Is there anything- anything about touch that makes you uncomfortable? I know you've been through-" She stopped, trying again, softer this time. “I know your history with control. I don’t want to do something that- that feels wrong for you.”
The question seemed to catch him off guard. His expression changed, surprise at first, then something darker, grief, before it softened again.
"No," he said quietly. "There's nothing you could do that I wouldn't want. Touch from some people, yeah, sometimes that still feels..." His hand moved, a vague motion like he was brushing away something he couldn’t name. "Wrong. Invasive. But not with you."
He looked down at their joined hands, brushing the thumb over her knuckles. "Fuck, I really screwed this up, didn't I? Made you feel like you did something wrong when all I was trying to do was-" He shook his head, his voice taking a self-deprecating edge. "You were being perfect, and I made things awkward because I can't get my shit together."
Her fingers closed around his, firmly enough to pull him back before the spiral swallowed him whole.
“Hey,” she said softly, waiting until his eyes lifted to meet hers. “You’re the most caring, thoughtful man I’ve ever met.” She held his gaze because she needed him to feel the truth in every word. “And I would love nothing more than to go on dates with you. To just… be with you. And for the record?” A small smile tugged at her mouth. “I think it’s incredibly lovely that you’re not thinking with what you have between your legs.”
His lips twitched like he didn’t know whether to smile or scoff. In the end, a quiet laugh escaped from them.
“Lovely,” he repeated, shaking his head. “I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, but that’s a first.”
"Well, get used to it," she said, her smile widening. She shifted closer to him again, her knees almost brushing his. "So, Coney Island, hm?" Her voice took on a playful note. "Tell me your plan."
He blinked at the change of subject, but she could see relief in his expression. Grateful, maybe, to talk about something that made him happy instead of dissecting all the ways he thought he'd messed things up.
"My plan?" A beautiful side-smile born on his lips "Well, I was thinking we could walk the boardwalk. Maybe ride the Cyclone if you're brave enough. And there's this place that sells the best hot dogs- or at least, they used to." His expression changed, becoming more confident, almost cocky. "And if I dazzle you enough, maybe I'll ask you to dinner afterward."
She raised an eyebrow, matching his tone. "Oh, you think you're going to dazzle me?"
"I'm planning on it." That smile now -slow, deliberate- had a glint she didn’t see before, like a glimpse of a man who used to know exactly how to make someone blush. “I promised I’d win you something, remember?”
"Alright then," she said, leaning back against the couch with a smile. Tell you what: if you can win me a prize at one of those carnival games, I'll accept your dinner invitation."
“Deal.” His eyes held hers for a beat, something sparking there, and before she could think, he leaned in just enough to brush his lips over hers. Soft. Teasing.
She smiled against his lips and kissed him back, sweetly and sure. When they parted, his grin was one of all-boyish charm.
Pairing: Congressman! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Warnings: 18+ just in case. Fluff. Slight Angst. Eventual Smut.
Summary: Bucky agrees to a discreet cleaning service to tend to his apartment while he’s away. He never expected the care of someone he’d never met to become the gentlest part of his daily life.
Word Count: 9.4k
Previous Chapter - Masterlist
She reappeared with her bag slung over her shoulder, phone in hand as she checked the time. He shifted on the couch, his eyes drifting to the rain still hammering against the windows.
"You said you had another stop?" His tone was carefully casual, like he was just making conversation.
She nodded, tucking her phone away. "The bus stop's a couple of blocks over."
He jerked his chin toward the door. "I'll drive you."
A small, surprised laugh escaped her lips. "That's not really... how this works."
"It's coming down sideways out there," he said, glancing at the window again, where the rain was indeed driving almost horizontally. "No sense in you standing around getting soaked, especially with your elbow still bothering you.”
She hesitated, placing a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'll manage. I always do.”
"Never said you couldn't." He was already standing, reaching for his leather jacket draped over the couch arm. "But managing and being comfortable are two different things. I can have you there faster, dry and warm."
The voice of caution in her head returned with a vengeance. Professional boundaries. He's your boss. This is exactly how things get complicated. But then a fat drop of rain managed to sneak through the slightly open window above, landing cold against her neck, and suddenly she could picture it all too clearly, the miserable wait at the exposed bus stop, the cold seeping through her jacket, the long minutes stretching into what would feel like hours. Only thinking about it was exhausting, and a tiny, rebellious part of her wanted to be in his car, away from the rain, and sharing the small space.
“That’s really kind of you, but I shouldn’t.” She shook her head, a little too quickly. "It's completely out of protocol. There are rules…”
“"I know there are rules," he said, his voice dropping to something gentler, more intimate. He moved a step closer—not enough to crowd her, but enough that she had to look up to meet his eyes. "They're there for good reasons. But this is just a ride, in bad weather." He gestured toward the window where the storm was putting on quite a show. "Besides, I needed to head out anyway.”
That wasn’t true, and she knew it. And that rebellious part of her that wanted to see what it would be like to sit in a car with him, with no cleaning supplies between them, won this time.
“I… alright,” she said finally, adjusting the strap of her bag. The lines, she realized, had been blurred again.
“Wait a moment,” he said, pushing off the couch and disappearing into the back room, and for a moment she only heard the faint clink of metal and the whisper of fabric as he moved around. When he came back, his left arm was in place, his jacket hanging from the crook of his elbow.
He crossed to the door and opened it for her, stepping aside with a slight gesture that invited her to go first. The courtesy was so automatic, so ingrained, that she wondered if he even realized he was doing it. But the gesture -small as it was- made something warm bloom in her chest.
"Thank you," she said softly as she stepped past him, catching the faint scent of his cologne as she did.
They crossed the street quickly, cutting through the flow of people and into the parking garage. The air was cooler here, faintly smelling of oil and concrete. He stayed beside her until they reached his black SUV.
The alarm chirped once, and without missing a step, he moved around to the passenger side, already reaching for the door handle.
She paused, caught off guard once again. "James, you don't have to-"
Again, the gesture caught her off guard. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had done that for her. Definitely not recently.
“Thank you,” she said quietly, getting in. The heat on her face clearly wasn’t from the garage’s temperature.
As she reached for her seatbelt, she glanced up to find him still standing there, watching her with an expression she couldn't quite read. His eyes had narrowed slightly, like he'd caught something in her face -some reaction she hadn't managed to hide- and was filing it away for later consideration.
Then, without a word, he closed the door with a soft click.
----
He got in the driver’s seat and put the key in the ignition. After a moment, the sound of the rain hitting the windshield was all the sound he could hear.
He glanced over at her. She was looking out the window, with her hands resting on her lap and an unreadable expression. What did I just do? he thought, the familiar pang of self-consciousness creeping into his brain. The offer to drive her had been a complete impulse. He’d seen the wound on her elbow, pictured her waiting at some exposed bus stop in this downpour, and something in him had simply... reacted. It wasn’t just good manners. It was something else.
His old self, the cocky guy who knew how to talk to a woman, would have had a light joke ready, some harmless line that would have made things easier. But that version of him was long gone. What Hydra had left behind, what he was still slowly, painstakingly trying to rebuild, struggled with moments like this. The silence stretched between them, heavy and expectant, and every passing second felt like a test he was failing. He was hyperaware of everything: the space between their seats, the way her breathing had gone quiet, the fact that he had no idea what to do next.
He had to say something. Anything. Back in the apartment, silence came easy, there was something about the domestic rhythm of her work that didn't make feel like this. But here, trapped in this small space with rain hammering the roof, the quiet felt suffocating. His mind went completely blank.
He stole another glance at her profile. Still staring out that window, still saying nothing.
Fuck. He was going to have to be the one to break this.
He cleared his throat awkwardly, then just blurted out the first thing that came to his mind. "So, this line of work..." His voice came out rougher than intended. "You, uh- have you always done this?"
The moment the words left his mouth, he saw her fingers twitch against her lap. Great. Way too personal. Should've stuck with the weather.
"No." She shifted, gaze dropping to her hands. "It's been four years since I started with the company. I was in a different kind of business before, but that didn't-" Her voice caught, and he could practically see her weighing how much to reveal. "I used to have a flower shop."
The image hit him with startling clarity: her surrounded by bursts of color, her hands gentle with delicate stems and silk ribbons, standing behind a worn wooden counter with fingertips dusted yellow from pollen. He could see it so perfectly that it felt like a memory instead of imagination.
The question escaped before his better judgment could catch it. "What happened to it?"
The instant the words left his mouth, he hated himself for it. What was wrong with him? He hated when people pried into his life, picked at wounds that were barely healed, and here he was doing exactly that to her. Hypocrite didn't even begin to cover it.
He forced his eyes to stay on the road ahead, clenching his jaw as he waited for her to deflect, to change the subject, to put up the same walls he would have thrown up without hesitation.
“It burned down,” she said after a beat. “Faulty fuse in the back room. The fire inspector said it was defective wiring. The insurance… found a loophole and called it negligence. Didn’t pay a cent.”
He turned his head slightly, enough to see her profile in the dim light. She wasn’t looking at him, just down at her hands, tracing her thumbs over each other like she was holding herself together. There was no self-pity in her tone, no theatrics. Just the stripped-down truth.
He knew the feeling of having something essential ripped away from him. He’d lost everything the day he fell off that train in Austria, and nothing since then had ever quite fit back into place.
He debated with himself, jaw working slightly as the wipers clicked back and forth.
"Did you have anyone? Family you could lean on after that?"
She shook her head without turning from the window. "No."
There was a bit of silence. Then she glanced at him, as if remembering something. “This pendant you gave back to me… when I lost it in your apartment?” Her fingers found the delicate chain at her throat.
He nodded once.
“It was my grandmother’s. So… thank you.”
Now it made sense why it had seemed something old and delicate.
“It was the right thing to do,” he said, trying to wave it off.
She bit her lower lip, studying his profile. "Also... I really liked the freesia. You didn't need to do that, but it was a sweet gesture."
For a second, he didn’t answer. Compliments always came to him like a foreign language now, something he had to translate slowly in his head.
He felt the faint heat creep into his cheeks. “I’m glad you liked it. Most women today think it’s… old-fashioned.” He gave a short, self-deprecating laugh. “I found that out the hard way.”
Her brows lifted slightly with genuine surprise. “Well, I can’t agree with the women you tried to charm,” she said. “Though maybe I'm biased because I used to sell the bouquets.” She chuckled lowly.
The sound pulled him somewhere -somewhen- he didn’t expect.
Her behind the counter of a small shop in the 40s, surrounded by galvanized buckets overflowing with roses, daisies, and freesias. His past self would’ve walked in, meaning to buy flowers for another gal, only to change his mind the moment he saw her. He'd have smooth-talked her into making him a bouquet of her favorites, then turned around and presented them to her with that cocky grin that used to get him into so much trouble. And if she’d accused him of being a player, he’d have denied it without missing a beat, told her he’d noticed her long before that day, that the whole thing had been a plan to ask her out. A harmless lie meant to charm her. Then he'd have asked her to the pictures, or maybe down to the corner soda fountain.
The image in his head felt almost tangible, and it must have shown something on his face because she tilted her head slightly, studying him.
“A penny for your thoughts?”
He blinked, pulled back from wherever his mind had wandered, and cleared his throat. "Thinking about flowers. And how times change."
She seemed to take that at face value, nodding thoughtfully. "Well, don't let a few bad reactions discourage you. Keep bringing flowers to your dates." There was something almost encouraging in her tone, like she was offering friendly advice. "Maybe you've just had bad luck so far. Eventually, you'll find someone who appreciates them."
The corner of his mouth twitched into something that passed for a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah… maybe.”
Eventually, you’ll find someone. Someone who wasn't her. She was sitting there giving him dating advice like some kind of well-meaning friend, telling him to go charm other women. The message couldn't have been clearer if she'd spelled it out: whatever he thought might be happening between them, he was reading it wrong.
But she was interested. More than she could safely admit, even to herself.
She kept her gaze fixed determinedly ahead, terrified he might catch her staring too long, or might read something in her expression she couldn't afford to reveal.
Every time the faint spice-and-leather of his scent reached her over the breeze of the heater, a small shiver ran down her spine. She imagined what it would feel like to place that stray lock of hair back behind his ear, to feel the scrape of his stubble against the sensitive skin of her throat. She bit the inside of her cheek, trying to hold her thoughts in place.
To her left, he sat infuriatingly calm, one hand relaxed on the steering wheel, the other draped casually over the gear shift like this was just another ordinary drive. He looked completely unaffected while her pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against her eardrums, loud enough that she was convinced he must be able to hear it.
She shifted restlessly, pressing her thighs together and trying to redirect her focus anywhere else. But it was useless. Every tiny movement he made -the way his long fingers flexed around the wheel, the rise and fall of his chest, the occasional soft exhale through his nose- dragged her attention back like a magnet. She wanted to say something light, something to break the silence, but her words didn’t come out. If she spoke, her voice might betray exactly where her thoughts had gone.
He, meanwhile, read her silence as confirmation of disinterest. But something nagged at him, subtle shifts he couldn't ignore. Her breathing had changed, gone shallow and uneven. Her heartbeat, which he could pick up as clearly as the drumming rain on glass, had developed an irregular flutter. Not panicked, exactly, but not steady either. Was she nervous? Uncomfortable to be in the car with him after he’d practically coaxed her into letting him give her a ride?
He forced himself to keep his eyes on the road, fighting the urge to study her profile. The absolute last thing he wanted was to make her feel cornered, like some kind of predator who'd used his position to put her in an uncomfortable situation.
"Long day?" Her voice cut through the tension, carefully neutral.
"Something like that." He loosened his grip on the steering wheel fractionally. At least she was talking, which had to be better than whatever uncomfortable silence he'd been subjecting her to.
She opened her mouth as if to ask something more, then seemed to think better of it. He caught the aborted movement in his peripheral vision and almost turned to ask what she'd been about to say. Almost.
And so the silence returned, only now it felt more charged, each of them convinced they were the only one holding it in place.
She traced her thumb over the seam of her seatbelt, debating whether to speak again. “How is your arm? Are you… in pain?” The question slipped out before she could second-guess it.
His eyes flicked toward her -quickly, unreadable- before returning to the road. “I’m holding.” The answer was simple, but there was a faint roughness in it.
She nodded, unsure if that meant yes or no. A part of her wanted to press, to make him admit if he wasn’t okay. But another part, the one that kept reminding her they weren’t close enough for that, made her stay quiet.
He adjusted his grip on the wheel, flexing his knuckles. “Why do you ask?”
“I just- you were earlier, and now you are driving in this weather,” Her gaze flicked to the windshield wipers as if that could spare her the weight of meeting his eyes. "I feel terrible that you're going to all this trouble."
"Don't." The word came out harder than he'd intended, almost sharp enough to make her flinch. He caught himself and forced his voice gentler. "Don't apologize. You're not trouble."
The wipers kept their swishing, but his thoughts were racing faster than the rain streaming down the glass. She was worried about him. When was the last time anyone had asked him that?
"I'm the one who insisted on this," he added, his voice softer now. "You didn't ask me to."
He saw her hands twitch faintly in her lap again. He had the sudden, desperate urge to reach out and touch one of them, just to reassure her. But he didn't. He couldn't. He just kept his eyes on the road.
----
The car slowed down, and the tires crunched softly against the wet gravel of a driveway. They had arrived.
Bucky looked from the road to the house, and he couldn’t repress a frown. It was a sprawling Victorian, all turrets and gables and dark wood, with a wide, wraparound porch. It looked like it took a small army to clean it. How many hours does she spend here? he wondered. He didn’t say anything, just put the car in park and turned off the engine. The sudden silence, broken only by the persistent drumming of the rain on the roof, felt even heavier than before.
She unbuckled her seatbelt and reached for her bag. Her eyes were on the distance between the car and the front door, and a sigh escaped her lips. “I’ll be sure to bring an umbrella next time,” she said, more to herself than to him.
Then she finally turned to him, her expression was a mix of shyness and gratitude. “Thank you. For all of this. For the ride. It- it means a lot.” Her voice was soft, barely above the sound of the rain. "You didn't have to do any of this. I'm just- I work for you. But James..." His name on her lips sounded different somehow, softer, more intimate. "Thank you.”
He met her gaze, his eyes showing something she couldn’t quite read.
He wanted to tell her that it meant a lot to him, too. That just having her there, in his car, was the most uncomplicated moment he’d had in weeks. But those words felt too large, too revealing.
"You're welcome," he said instead, offering a single, almost bashful nod. "Just-" He paused, drifting his gaze toward the imposing Victorian waiting beyond the storm. "Stay safe."
There was a brief, suspended moment where neither of them spoke. The air was thick with unspoken thoughts and the sound of the rain, a constant presence around them. Finally, Bucky’s hand moved toward his seatbelt. The buckle clicked, and he began fumbling for his door latch.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice a little sharper than she intended, a small wrinkle of concern appearing on her brow.
He glanced at her, with a look of complete bewilderment on his face, as if the answer should be obvious. “I’m gonna open your door.”
“No, you won’t,” she said, lifting her hands in a small, protesting motion. “You'll be drenched before you take three steps. Just- just stay in the car. I'll open and run to the entrance.”
He didn't argue. Didn't explain. He just stared at her, a silent expression that seemed to say, Watch me. Then, he pushed his door open and stepped out into the deluge, the rain instantly plastering his hair to his forehead and drenching the shoulders of his jacket. He didn't even flinch. With quick and decisive strides, he just rounded the front of the car and opened her door.
He stood there for a brief moment, holding the door for her, his expression shielded by the clouds’ shadows and the sheets of rain. She got out, and as the water began to beat down on her, her gaze softened with a mixture of gratitude and concern for his soaked state, and for a second, it felt like they were the only two people in the world.
She reached out then, her fingertips finding his right arm in the briefest of contacts. The touch was feather-light, lasting barely a second, but it seemed to carry the weight of everything they hadn't said.
"Thank you," she whispered, the words almost lost beneath the rain's steady drumbeat.
He felt her touch like a brand on his arm, a ghost of heat against the cold rain. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved, their eyes found each other through the curtain of rain, and he was certain he glimpsed something there -vulnerable- before she ducked her head and looked away. He didn't say anything, just gave her another short nod. Then she turned and ran, the sound of her footsteps barely audible on the wet driveway as she sprinted toward the wide porch, disappearing into the relative shelter of the Victorian house.
----
The windshield wipers fought a losing battle against the torrent as he navigated the empty streets back toward his apartment. He kept replaying her face in those last moments, the way her gaze had softened when they parted, the way he thought he’d seen… something. Or maybe he was just deluding himself -wouldn’t be the first time- reading into nothing because he wanted it to be there.
He tried to redirect his thoughts, but they kept circling back to everything she'd revealed. The flower shop consumed by flames. The insurance company pointing its finger at her. No family to lean on. Was she with him when that happened, or had she faced all on her own?
The thought made his jaw clench. He didn’t think of himself as a sexist -not in the way Sam sometimes teased him about, poking at his old man manners and comments- but the idea of her going through all that without someone in her corner made him angry. She was the kind of person who instinctively cared for others; she deserved someone who would return that care.
So why the hell was she cleaning strangers’ houses instead of-
He cut the thought off because the first image that came to him wasn’t her working in a new flower shop or behind some office desk. No, what his treacherous mind conjured was her curled up on his couch, his head pillowed on her lap while her fingers worked through his hair as she guided him through one of those hippie mind-tours to bleed away the pain.
Shit. Maybe he really was a chauvinist pig.
----
She closed her eyes, letting the hot water stream over her body as the events of the day kept looping in her head in vivid pictures. His fuss over her injury. The moment she’d stepped across that thin, invisible line between client and something far less defined, offering him the guided meditation. The drive, close quarters surrounded by rain, where she was aware of every shift in his body beside her. His fucking scent that enthralled her like some evolutionary trigger designed to unravel her composure.
And then, the image that stubbornly popped in her head, him in the rain. The deliberate way he’d gotten out despite her protest, his hair and shoulders getting soaked as he opened the door. She could still see the raindrops sliding down his cheek before vanishing into his stubble.
She leaned her head against the cool tile and bit her lower lip. Professional. Right. She was doing a spectacular job of that.
----
She almost said no when she received the call. Wednesday was one of her few pockets of rest in the week. But Santino’s was offering double pay to cover a sick coworker, and the extra cash was too good to pass up. It was only a few hours, and they’d even provide the uniform so she wouldn’t have to go home with more laundry to do.
The car dropped her off at a discreet alley entrance—the kind of unmarked door reserved for delivery trucks and staff who were meant to remain invisible. The moment she stepped inside, a man in a crisp black vest appeared, greeting her with the kind of politeness that marked expensive establishments. He moved briskly through the introductions, leading her down a narrow hallway that opened into the restaurant's beating heart.
The stainless steel counters gleamed under bright lights as a line of chefs moved in precise sync, their voices drowned out by the sizzle of pans.
Her briefing was delivered rapid-fire but thorough: replace the plush white towels in the restrooms the moment they showed any sign of use, keep the toiletries stocked with those tiny glass bottles of hand lotion and cologne that probably cost more than she made in a day, and ensure every mirrored surface remained absolutely spotless. She was handed a small brass key for the candle cabinet, her job would be to sweep in after tables were cleared, replacing burned-down votives with fresh flames, swapping out wax-dripped holders for pristine new ones.
In the cramped staff changing room, she traded her street clothes for the regulation black vest, pulling her hair back into a neat bun and folding her things carefully into a narrow locker. As she was finishing changing, one of the kitchen staff passed by carrying a tray of bread rolls that smelled like heaven, still steaming from the oven. She thanked her and ate it standing, relishing the yeasty perfection while it lasted. Then, fortified and ready, she got to work.
----
The shift was uneventful. She became part of the restaurant's invisible machinery, a shadow moving along the periphery, noticed only when someone needed a fresh towel or a spotless mirror, or a vacated table needed a change of lights. Even then, she was part of the background for the clients.
It was on one of those occasions, with a shiny chandelier in hand, ready to place it where the other, smeared in wax, stood on one of the tables, when a new group of clients arrived at a reserved spot.
They were shown to a corner table just as she bent to swap out the chandelier on hers. The flame in the old one had guttered to a stub, and wax pooled and hardened in the glass.
Her hands halted for a fraction.
Because he was taking a seat at that corner table.
The low lights caught in his combed hair, his metal hand glinting with golden lines. Her chest gave a muted thud. She looked long -too long perhaps- before lowering the fresh chandelier and reaching for the used one.
The wax-smudged glass felt strangely heavy in her hands as she wrapped it in a soft cloth, careful not to drop a flake onto the immaculate floor. But she stole one more glance, just one, across the dining room. To his handsome features, the spotless suit, and his company. Another man and two women. Maybe if she saved enough money for a year, she could aspire to buy one of the rings they wore on their manicured hands.
Then she dropped her gaze, turned away, and began her retreat toward the service corridor, the used votive clutched carefully in her hands.
She didn’t see it, the moment his eyes idly swept across the restaurant, catching the faint motion of her figure in a black vest and bun disappearing toward the back.
His gaze remained on the spot she’d just vanished from, slightly straightening in his chair, ignoring whatever his dinner companion was saying. For a split second, he was sure it had been her -the shape of her body, the way she moved- except it didn’t make sense.
What the hell would she be doing here, dressed like staff in a place like Santino’s?
The conversation at his table blurred. All he could see was the faint glint of her profile in the warm, low light. Either he’d just seen her… or his brain was more fried than he cared to admit.
----
What were the odds? In a city this size, with thousands of restaurants and countless ways their paths could have diverged tonight, somehow she'd ended up here, in his world, at the exact moment he'd chosen to dine at Santino's. The universe had a twisted sense of humor.
Yesterday felt like a lifetime ago, sitting in his car while rain hammered the windshield, shielding the world outside. Tonight, she was invisible labor, replacing candles while he waited for someone to recite the evening's specials to his table.
From her position near the service corridor, she found herself stealing glances at his dinner companions despite every instinct telling her not to look. The women were exactly what she'd expected from the world he navigated now. Perfect posture, glossy hair, designer clothes. Was one of them…? The thought assaulted her before she could stop it, sharp and unwelcome. She bit the inside of her cheek. Whatever their relationship to him was -colleague, friend, something more- it wasn't her business.
She pressed the protective cloth tighter around the used votive, forcing herself to focus on the task at hand. This was a job. He was a client of the cleaning company. The car ride yesterday, the way he'd waited in the rain to open her door, those gestures belonged to a different context, one that felt impossibly distant in this sparkling space.
She made her way back toward the service area, keeping her head down and her movements purposeful. Just another shadow in Santino's carefully orchestrated evening, invisible by design.
----
He let the conversation wash over him, nodding at the right moments while the three other congressmen at the table picked apart the order of their speeches for the upcoming session.
In Bucky’s opinion, this was the kind of thing that could’ve been handled in an office, during working hours, without the theater of linen tablecloths and waiters. But apparently, these guys needed the excuse to “bond” outside the Capitol, to treat themselves to lobster and Bordeaux, and maybe keep an eye on whether he used the wrong fork for the wrong course.
The original plan had been to meet at someone’s house, but that meant hours trapped in a stranger’s living room, slogging through awkward, socially expected rituals before ever getting to the real reason for the gathering. So, Bucky had steered them toward neutral ground. Let them talk while swallowing overpriced seafood, and in a couple of hours, he’d be home, with his feet up, blissfully alone.
He barely heard the moderator’s voice now, his mind drifting to more pressing matters. Not that he had anything meaningful to add anyway, they’d probably sandwich him in halfway through to mumble something like I agree with my predecessor and that would be it, since being honest, he sucked at talking, and that wasn’t a secret.
His gaze wandered idly across the restaurant, taking in the soft lighting, the careful choreography of servers moving between tables, the low murmur of expensive conversations.
He was starting to think his mind was playing tricks on him until a table nearby emptied, and his line of sight cleared. His eyes snapped to focus on the movement at the far side of the room, watching as a figure stepped forward to swap out a candle arrangement.
The way she moved, the tilt of her head as she worked-
It was her, no doubt now.
Dressed in a spotless uniform, nearly invisible to the other diners, trying -and succeeding- to blend into the restaurant's elegant backdrop as she worked. His heart did something erratic against his chest, a mix of surprise and something else he couldn't quite name.
----
She could feel his eyes on her. Told herself that she won’t stare back, that she’d feign not to notice the handsome man with tired river glass eyes, whose presence dragged her like a magnet. Of course, she'd always been terrible at following her own advice.
Her eyes lifted almost involuntarily, and their gazes met across the dining room. And for a heartbeat that felt like an eternity, the carefully orchestrated world around them seemed to pause. She saw the exact moment recognition flashed across his features, followed immediately by something that looked almost like concern.
What is he thinking? The question bloomed in her mind as heat crept up her neck. Does he think this is strange? Embarrassing?
The rational part of her brain kicked in with a vengeance. You're working. He's not. This is exactly the kind of situation the employee handbook warns about. Professional boundaries weren't just lines on paper, they were lifelines, protecting people like her from exactly this kind of exposure.
She forced herself to look away, pressing the wrapped chandelier against her chest like armor, and turned toward the discreet service door. She could still feel his gaze following her retreat, and it both thrilled and terrified her in equal measure.
----
He watched her disappear through the service door, his attention completely hijacked from the conversation at the table. The way she'd looked at him -the flash of recognition followed by something that looked almost like panic- had him replaying every interaction they'd shared. Was she embarrassed? Uncomfortable? The thought that seeing him here might somehow make her feel exposed or awkward made him uncomfortable.
The voices around him faded to white noise as his mind wandered down familiar paths. What was she doing working a second job? How many hours was she pulling in a day? The questions multiplied, and he found himself scanning the restaurant's periphery, hoping to catch another glimpse of her moving between tables, when a sharp voice cut through his distraction.
"...arnes."
The sound of his name snapped him back to the present, and his eyes went to Congressman McShane, automatically arranging his face into a blank mask. "Sorry, I just-"
“I know you want to be anywhere but here, but since you are, maybe you could pretend to care about what people voted you to do.” The man’s tone was friendly, but his eyes were not.
Bucky forced himself to nod and offer what he hoped passed for an apologetic smile before turning his attention back to the table. The conversation resumed its predictable rhythm: budget allocations, committee assignments, the usual political theater, which felt increasingly hollow to him. He made the appropriate sounds at the right moments, asked a few perfunctory questions, and even managed to contribute a comment or two that seemed to satisfy his dinner companions.
The meal dragged on with excruciating slowness. Appetizers gave way to entrées, wine glasses were refilled, and still the conversation remained in the same tired topics he'd been hearing in various forms for months. By the time dessert menus appeared, Bucky felt like he was crawling out of his skin.
Finally, when he couldn't stand another minute of pretending to care about infrastructure bills, he pushed back from the table. The scrape of his chair against the hardwood drew a pointed look from Congressman McShane.
"Restroom," he said quietly, already half-turned away from the table.
The narrow hallway off the main dining room felt like a reprieve, even if temporary. The sounds of clinking silverware and polite laughter faded to a distant murmur, replaced by the soft hush of expensive carpet beneath his feet. Framed black-and-white photographs lined the walls, chronicling Santino's storied history, but his eyes barely registered them. His pulse had kicked up a notch the moment he'd stood, driven by an impulse he couldn't quite name.
He moved slower than necessary, each step deliberate as he scanned the shadows. The brass restroom sign gleamed ahead, but his attention kept drifting to the side passages—service corridors where staff moved like carefully choreographed ghosts. A door marked "Employees Only" caught his eye, and he found himself slowing to a near-stop, listening for any sound beyond it.
Nothing.
Of course there was nothing. This wasn't some neighborhood diner where kitchen staff took smoke breaks in full view of customers. Santino's employees were trained to be invisible, appearing only when summoned, vanishing the moment their task was complete. If she were anywhere nearby, it would be behind closed doors.
He leaned one shoulder against the wall, letting his arms hang loose at his sides, feeling vaguely ridiculous.
What now? The voice in his head sounded suspiciously like Sam's, dripping with the kind of amusement his friend reserved for Bucky's more spectacular displays of social awkwardness. You're gonna lurk in restaurant hallways like some kind of stalker? That's your move?
If she had been here, what then? Wave? Say hello? Pretend this wasn’t strange? She was working, and he stopping her for small talk could earn her a reprimand from a manager, or worse. In this kind of place, even the hint of a personal exchange between staff and a guest -especially a congressman- would be noticed in the blink of an eye.
This was pathetic.
He pushed off from the wall, jaw clenched with self-deprecation. What was he, fifteen? Chasing after glimpses of a girl like some lovesick boy? He had a dinner to finish, political alliances to maintain, and actual responsibilities that didn't involve lurking in restaurant hallways like a creep.
----
She stood in the service hall, still feeling the aftershock of that moment when their eyes had met across the dining room. The lukewarm coffee in her hands had gone cold during the ten minutes she'd spent lingering near the service door like some kind of fool, hoping for another glimpse of him that never came.
She took a shaky sip of the cold coffee and immediately regretted it. The bitter taste seemed to crystallize everything wrong with this situation—her, hiding in a service corridor, stealing moments to think about a man who existed in a world so far removed from hers that seeing him here felt like spotting a movie star in a grocery store.
Except it wasn't star-struck fascination making her pulse race. It was the memory of his voice saying her name, rough and careful all at once. It was the way he'd looked at her in his apartment—not through her, not past her, but at her, like she was someone worth seeing.
Stop it. She pressed her free hand to her forehead, as if she could physically push the thoughts away. You clean his apartment twice a week, and that's all this is.
But that was a lie, and she knew it. Had known it since the time he'd stayed in the kitchen while she worked, making conversation instead of disappearing. Had felt it in the careful way he never made her feel invisible, never treated her like part of the furniture.
And now he was here, in that separated world, the one where she was nobody special, just another uniformed body moving through expensive spaces she'd never belong in.
Work was work. She didn't hate it, didn't love it, didn't expect much from it beyond the comfort of rent paid on time and groceries in the fridge.
But seeing him here, in a place where her world and his shouldn't have touched, had unsettled her. It wasn't disappointment, exactly, more like a faint sadness, the kind that comes when something familiar feels just out of reach.
Get back to work, she told herself. The used candles and towels weren't going to replace themselves, and she'd already lingered there longer than she could reasonably justify. She exhaled slowly, letting the sound of the restaurant fill the space, and returned to the task at hand.
----
The remaining hours passed in a blur of mechanical routine. Replace chandeliers, check restrooms. And every time she moved through the dining room, her eyes betrayed her, searching for a glimpse of dark hair and broad shoulders.
He was long gone, of course. By the time the last dinner guests filtered out into the night, the dining room took on that peculiar emptiness that follows a busy service, the chairs pushed back at odd angles, lingering scent of expensive perfume and wine hanging in the air like ghosts of conversations she'd never been part of.
The shift was about to end, at last, and she sighed, stretching her arms as she carefully stacked the used chandeliers back in the cabinet, wiping down each crystal until it gleamed. Towels came next: she removed the used ones, leaving the replacement task to the lead cleaner, and checked the bathrooms one last time, ensuring every surface was spotless for tomorrow's service.
The check was handed to her without fuss, the sum enough to make the extra hours feel worthwhile, since the money would cover groceries for the week. At least something good had come from this evening, she thought, tucking the envelope carefully into her purse.
As she stepped toward the exit, a small box was pressed into her hands by one of the waitresses. "Some leftover red velvet. Don't want it going to waste," she said with a grin. The dessert smelled heavenly. She thanked the woman and placed it under her arm.
The back door opened with a heavy click, and she stepped out into the alley, the night air cool and quiet against her face after hours in the restaurant's controlled atmosphere. The city sounds felt muted here, traffic and distant voices creating a gentle backdrop as she took a moment to breathe in the freedom of being off the clock.
She took a few steps down the alley, already mentally calculating cab fare versus the late bus route, when a soft voice reached her from somewhere close, casual yet impossible to ignore.
“Hey.”
Her heart skipped, as did her steps, clutching the little box in her hand, and slowly turning around.
He shifted his weight, heat creeping up his neck as he suddenly became aware of how this must look: him lurking in a shadowed alley like some kind of stalker, long after his dinner companions had gone home. What had seemed reasonable back at the table -concern for her safety, the simple decency of making sure she got home okay- now felt uncomfortably close to obsession. Now, seeing the surprise flicker across her face, all he could think was how this must look from her perspective. Her boss. Waiting in the shadows of a black alley. No amount of good intentions could make that less unsettling.
Her fingers brushed the strap of her bag, breath still warm from the kitchen heat she’d just stepped out of. “Hi…” she managed, the word lifting like a question. What are you doing here?
He didn’t answer right away. Just a slow blink, the smallest tilt of his head, like he was weighing whether to tell her the truth or something easier.
"You just... happened to be in the neighborhood?" she tried, letting a hint of humor soften the question, though her heart was beating too fast for this to feel merely awkward.
"No." The word came out rougher than he intended. He dragged a hand through his hair, looking anywhere but at her face. "I saw you inside and..." He trailed off because how did he explain this without sounding like a complete creep? "I wanted to make sure you got home safe."
The excuse felt shitty even as he said it. True, but not the whole truth, and they both knew it.
She lifted her brows slowly, caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief. "Um- I was going to take a cab." Her weight shifted to one hip, and she had to resist the urge to fidget with her bag strap. "Have you been out here all this time? Since dinner ended?"
She had to force herself not to look away, because seeing him like this -uncertain, almost boyish with his hands shoved deep in his pockets- was wreaking havoc on her composure.
It was all too close to her late-night imagines, the ones where the careful distance between them dissolved into something real and tangible. Standing here now, with the streetlight drawing shadows across his face, it felt surreal.
"Yeah." The admission came with the ghost of a smile, self-deprecating and a little embarrassed. His shoulder lifted in what was meant to be a casual shrug, but she could see the tension beneath it.
A breath escaped her lips, half laugh, half disbelief. She glanced past him at the empty stretch of alley, the restaurant's back door already sealed shut. "That's... a long time to wait."
She shifted restlessly, transferring the dessert box from one hand to the other, her mind spinning through a dozen different responses. Say something. Don't make this weird. But it was already weird, wasn't it?
"James." Her voice was quiet, but steady. "You waited out here for over an hour. In an alley. After a dinner." She shifted the box to one hand, the other coming to rest at her side. "That's not- that's not something you do for your cleaning lady."
He met her eyes, and she could see him searching for the right words, coming up empty. His jaw tensed and released, like he was testing phrases in his mind and discarding each one of them. Finally, he looked down at the wet pavement between them, then back up.
"No," he admitted, the word coming out rough. "It's not."
Something in his tone made her take a small step closer, close enough to catch the faint scent of his cologne and the tired lines in his eyes. "So what is it?"
Everything they'd been pretending not to notice crystallized in that question. All those moments that had felt like more than they should.
Bucky dragged a hand through his hair, betraying his frustration with himself. "I don't know." The words came out barely above a whisper. "I don't know what the hell I'm doing. I just-" When he met her eyes, his composure finally fractured. "I couldn't make myself leave."
Something fluttered in her chest at the admission. There it was. Not a declaration, not a grand gesture, but something real. Something that acknowledged the pull she'd been feeling, the way the air changed when they were in the same room.
"Why?" she asked softly.
The silence stretched long enough that she wondered if he'd changed his mind about honesty. When he finally spoke, his voice was stripped of all pretense.
"Because when you're there, the apartment feels like..." He stopped, shook his head as if arguing with the words themselves. "Like home. Not just a place where I sleep, but somewhere I actually want to be." His eyes found hers again, vulnerable and uncertain. "And when you're not there, I spend too much time thinking about when you'll be back."
The confession landed between them like something fragile and precious. She felt the tight knot in her chest finally loosen, releasing a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
"James-"
"I know this breaks every rule in the book," he rushed on, as if afraid silence might make him lose his courage. "Professional boundaries, workplace ethics, I'm probably violating all of them. But I can't keep pretending this is just..." He gestured helplessly at the space between them. "That you're just someone who cleans my apartment."
She watched him struggle with his own honesty, seeing what it cost him to express all of this. Everything she'd been hoping for and terrified of hearing, all at once.
"It hasn't felt like just business for a while now," she admitted quietly. "Not for me."
Something changed in his expression. Relief, maybe, or surprise that she wasn't backing away. "So where does that leave us?"
She looked down at the box in her hands, such an ordinary thing to be holding during such an extraordinary moment. "I don't know. I've never- this isn't exactly covered in the employee handbook."
That earned her the faintest, warm smile tugging at his lips. "Can't say they covered this in political science class."
The alley felt smaller suddenly, the space between them charged with everything they'd finally said aloud. This was uncharted territory, dangerous and thrilling. An admission that whatever was happening between them was real and mutual.
"The cab..." she said after a moment, though the word felt hollow now to both of them.
"Right." He cleared his throat but didn't move toward the street. "Or I could drive you home. If you want."
She studied his face, seeing not her employer now, but the man who'd trusted her with his pain, the one who had waited for her, and laid his heart bare in an alley.
"Yes," she said quietly. "I'd like that."
----
He fell into step beside her as they headed toward the street, then smoothly moved to her outside, positioning himself between her and the traffic without making a show of it. She noticed -of course she noticed- the way he adjusted his stride to match hers, the careful distance he maintained while still staying close enough.
"Old-fashioned habit," he said when he caught her looking at him
"Good habit," she replied.
The night air carried a bite that hadn't been there when she'd first stepped outside, and he noticed the way she tucked her free hand deeper into her jacket pocket.
"Cold?" he asked, slowing his pace slightly.
"A little." She shifted the dessert box to her other arm. "I didn't think to bring anything heavier."
Without hesitation, he began shrugging out of his suit jacket. "Here."
"No, you don't have to-"
But he was already holding it out to her, his expression leaving no room for argument. "Take it. Please."
There was something achingly familiar about the gesture. Protective, instinctive, like it were the most natural thing in the world for him to ensure her comfort.
"Thank you," she said quietly, letting him help her slip it over her shoulders. The jacket was warm from his body heat and smelled like him, that mixture of spice and leather and something indefinably masculine that made her want to pull it closer.
Two blocks later, they reached his car parked under a streetlamp that cast everything in amber light. He moved to the passenger side without hesitation, key already in hand, and opened the door for her with the same courtesy he'd shown almost all the time.
She paused for just a moment before getting in. "Thank you."
He gave a short nod and closed the door gently behind her, then walked around to the driver's side. He settled into the driver's seat but made no move to start the engine. His hands rested on the steering wheel, fingers drumming once against the leather before going still. The interior felt smaller than it had that rainy afternoon, more intimate somehow.
She found herself looking everywhere except at him, the dashboard, the streetlight filtering through the windshield, her own hands folded in her lap around the small dessert box. The silence stretched, not uncomfortable exactly, but charged with everything that had changed between them in twenty minutes.
He could feel it too, that shift in the air. Every instinct from another lifetime was telling him this was the moment, the natural progression after everything they'd just confessed. But those same instincts came with a rulebook from the 40s, when a man waited, when respect meant restraint, when crossing certain lines required permission that was rarely spoken aloud.
He cleared his throat quietly. "So, uh..." He glanced at her profile, illuminated by the soft glow from outside. "This is new territory for me."
She turned to look at him then, something in his tone making her forget her nervousness. "What do you mean?"
He dragged a hand through his hair, a gesture she was beginning to recognize as his tell when he was wrestling with something. "I mean, the last time I- the last time things were normal for me, it was different. The whole..." He gestured vaguely between them. "Dating. Relationships. Whatever this is."
There was something endearingly vulnerable about seeing this man -this congressman, ex-fist of Hydra- stumbling over relationship dynamics like a teenager.
"Different how?" she asked softly.
"Well, for starters, I would've already kissed you by now," he said, then immediately looked like he wanted to take the words back. "Not that I'm assuming- I don't want you to think that I expect- Fuck." He rubbed his face with his free hand. "I'm making this worse, aren't I?"
She felt heat bloom in her cheeks at his admission. "You're not making it worse."
He looked at her then, and she could see something else playing out behind his eyes.
"It's just-" He stared down at his hands, metal fingers flexing against the leather steering wheel. "Is not only about being a relic. I spent decades as someone else's puppet. Then I've spent the last years trying to figure out who I'm supposed to be now. And some days I still wake up thinking I don't deserve-" He trailed off, jaw working silently.
"Don't deserve what?"
"This." The word came out rough, barely audible. "Normal things. Good things." His eyes flicked up to meet hers, vulnerable in a way that made her chest ache. "You."
The confession hung between them, honest and heartbreaking. She wanted to tell him he was wrong, that he deserved everything good the world had to offer, but she could see in his expression that he wouldn't believe her. Not yet.
"James." Her voice was soft, careful. "What happened to you -what they made you do- that wasn't you."
"I know that. Up here, I know that." He tapped his temple with his right hand. "But knowing it and feeling it are two different things. And sitting here with you, wanting..." He exhaled shakily. "Maybe this is just another thing I'm going to ruin."
She shifted in her seat to face him more fully, the dessert box sliding to rest against the door. "You're not going to ruin anything."
"How can you be sure of that?"
The question was barely a whisper, and it broke her heart a little. Here was this man who'd fought aliens and saved the world, now trying to keep helping people but without the violence, reduced to wondering if he was worthy of something as simple as affection.
"Because," she said, reaching out to touch his hand where it rested on the wheel. He went very still under her touch, staring down at their joined hands like he couldn't quite believe it was real. "The man I know -the one who waited in an alley to make sure I got home safe, who gave me that pretty flower with the pendant, who trusts me enough to let me help when you're in pain- that man deserves to be happy."
His thumb moved over her knuckles, the gesture so gentle it was almost reverent. "I don't know how to do this," he admitted quietly. "The... courtship thing. Dating. Fuck, I don't even know what to call what this is." He looked up at her with something that might have been panic. "In my day, there were rules. Steps-" He stopped, color creeping up his neck. "Now I don't know if I'm supposed to ask you out properly, or if we've already skipped past that, or if there's some middle ground I'm completely missing."
A smile tugged at her lips despite the seriousness of the moment. "There's no manual for this, James. Not for anyone. Modern dating is basically people making it up as they go along."
"That's terrifying," he said, but there was the ghost of a smile in his voice.
"Tell me about it." She gently squeezed his hand. "But maybe... we don't have to figure out all the rules tonight. Maybe we can just-" She hesitated, heat rising in her cheeks as she tried to find the words. "Maybe you could kiss me. If you want to."
His gaze dropped to her lips for just a heartbeat before finding her eyes again. The uncertainty that had been clouding his expression cleared, replaced by something warmer, more sure. He wanted to say Of course I want to, that he'd been thinking about it for longer than he cared to admit, but the words seemed unnecessary now.
Instead, he reached up slowly, giving her every chance to change her mind, and cupped her face with his right hand. His thumb brushed across her cheekbone as he leaned closer, and she felt her breath catch as the space between them disappeared to nothing.
The kiss was gentle at first, almost tentative, a question rather than a statement. His lips were warm and soft against hers, and for a moment that felt suspended in time, it was just that: sweet, careful, respectful.
He started to pull back, perhaps thinking that was enough, that he shouldn't push for more. But as he began to retreat, her arms came up to circle his neck, her fingers threading into the hair at his nape. The gesture was clear. An invitation, permission to continue.
He needed no other encouragement. His other hand found her waist as he deepened the kiss, and she could taste the faint remnants of wine on his lips, could feel the slight tremor in his touch that betrayed how much this moment meant to him. All the careful distance they'd maintained, all the professional boundaries, dissolved in the space between one breath and the next.
Pairing: Congressman! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Warnings: 18+ just in case. Fluff. Slight Angst. Eventual Smut.
Summary: Bucky agrees to a discreet cleaning service to tend to his apartment while he’s away. He never expected the care of someone he’d never met to become the gentlest part of his daily life.
Word Count: 8.1k
Previous Chapter
They didn’t see each other again. Not right away. Which was fine. As it should be.
So she nearly dropped the bag of lentils when she walked into the kitchen one Thursday and found him there. Leaning against the counter, glass of water in hand, a folder tucked under his arm. Suit pants, no jacket. Just a white undershirt that fit like it was stitched with malicious intent.
She froze. When did he enter?
“Good afternoon, sir,” she said finally, hoping her voice didn’t betray anything. Hoping her eyes hadn’t lingered on his chest more than intended.
He looked up. Blinked, like he wasn’t expecting to be greeted.
“Hey- um,” he shifted slightly, the folder under his arm creasing as he moved. “Don’t mind me. Things ended earlier today.”
“Oh.” She opened a cabinet and made a show of putting in the lentils, as if it required serious attention.
“I, uh-” He hesitated, cleared his throat. “I’ll go work on this and let you be. If you need anything, let me know.”
Then he gave her a nod. Casual, like they hadn’t stood frozen in the kitchen weeks ago while Maroon 5 declared things that were very much not workplace appropriate.
She smiled politely and nodded back. “Of course, sir.”
He walked down the hallway to the closed room at the back. The one she never touched, never even dusted the doorknob. The sound of it clicking shut broke the tension like a match snapping between fingers. She finally exhaled.
The next week, it happened again. Tuesday this time. He was already home when she arrived, lounging at the kitchen island, flipping through a file and halfway through a cup of coffee.
Then Thursday again.
Then Tuesday, two weeks later.
He never asked her to change anything. Never gave directions or tried to chat. He just… stayed there, while she worked in the kitchen. Then retired to the closed room.
She tried not to notice how often his eyes followed her movements when he thought she wouldn’t catch him. Tried not to notice how she started tidying slower when he was near.
He found himself adjusting his schedule. A suddenly rescheduled meeting, a constituent call that could be taken from home, or a bill review that started conveniently early. He’d arrive, shed his jacket, and gravitate towards the kitchen, a glass of water, a cup of coffee or a sandwich, his silent excuse. He’d sit on a stool at the island, ostensibly engrossed in his work, but his peripheral vision was constantly on her.
He didn't replay her dance in the kitchen more than he should. Of course he didn't. But the memory would sometimes surface, and then a quick and private smile would set at the corner of his lips before he consciously smoothed it away. He’d catch himself with a sharp, internal reprimand. Don’t be an idiot. She’s working. But her presence, the scent of jasmine and something else, something warm and alive, was a something he hadn't known he desperately needed in there. It was the antithesis of the sterile, silent apartment he usually returned to.
He’d watch her hands. The way they moved, efficient yet surprisingly gentle. How she wiped down the counters, not with a harsh scrub, but a soft, circular motion. How she folded the dish towels with almost meditative care. Sometimes, she’d hum a low tune, barely audible, and he’d find himself unconsciously slowing his breathing, matching her rhythm.
She, in turn, became accustomed to his presence. The initial jolt of surprise changed into a low awareness. She’d still offer a polite, “Good afternoon, sir,” but her voice held less tension, her shoulders a fraction less stiff. She learned the cadence of his movements: the soft thud of his briefcase, the quiet scrape of the stool as he sat, the rustle of papers. She found herself instinctively leaving him space, not just physically, but in the flow of her work. She’d clean around him, her movements fluid and unobtrusive, a silent dance of shared space.
One Tuesday, she was wiping down the stovetop, her back to him, when she heard the soft click of his pen. “Poppy seeds,” he murmured, so low she almost missed it.
She paused, her hand still on the rag. “Sir?”
He cleared his throat, not looking up from his file. “The cake. You said they were poppy seeds.”
A warmth spread through her chest. “Yes,” she said, turning slightly, a small, unbidden smile touching her lips. “That’s right.”
He nodded, a barely perceptible dip of his head. He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.
She opened the spice cabinet and paused. There, between the usual jars of cinnamon and sugar, was a new addition.
Not a crinkled bag, not a sample-sized pouch, but a full glass jar, filled to the brim with tiny dark poppy seeds.
He’d meant it.
He really liked the cake.
She smiled a little, almost despite herself, and started gathering the rest of the ingredients: flour, sugar, lemons. She laid everything out on the counter, fully aware of him sitting somewhere behind her. His attention wasn’t loud, but she felt it, like warmth against the back of her neck.
She tied on her apron, tugged the knot tightly at her waist, and moved on autopilot: dry ingredients into a bowl, whisk in hand, eyes fixed on the ingredients, she didn’t need the recipe. The plan was to get the cake in the oven so she could clean the rest of the apartment while it baked.
She was just reaching for the oil bottle when a voice spoke up behind her, low and closer than she expected.
“Oil instead of butter?”
She startled. A soft gasp escaped her lips, her free hand flying to her chest as she spun around.
The bowl nearly slipped from her other hand.
He stood just behind her, a little too close.
His eyes were wide with immediate regret, his posture pulled slightly inward.
“Shit, sorry,” he said, holding up his hands slightly, like he hadn’t meant to corner her. “Didn’t mean to sneak up.”
His voice had softened a little. He looked… apologetic. Maybe a little sheepish. She nodded, still trying to calm her breathing.
“I just-” He rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze flicking toward the counter, “Noticed the oil,” he said, gesturing toward the bottle. “My ma used to bake like that. Butter was expensive to waste in baking, so she stuck with oil. Especially during the lean years.”
He nodded slightly toward the jar of poppy seeds, a faint smile on his lips, soft with something older. “No fancy stuff like that, though.”
That surprised her, hearing him say it so casually. She wouldn’t have expected him to talk about his mother.
She watched him for a second, her heartbeat starting to level out.
“The oil keeps it soft for longer,” she offered, “Even when it’s cold.”
He nodded. “Makes sense.”
Then he stepped back, like he realized how close he’d gotten, and she turned back to her work, still feeling the heat of the moment under her skin.
----
Days turned into weeks. He started asking for small variations, what if, instead of lemon, she made the cake with tangerine, for example? So she reworked a tangerine recipe she liked, adjusted it to include the seeds, and experimented with a glaze.
He’d try it quietly, give a thoughtful nod, and sometimes leave the empty plate drying in the sink with a neatly folded napkin beside it. The “sir” began to feel weird each time she said it. One Thursday, she was at the sink, washing dishes, the sound of running water filling the space between them.
Then he spoke from the kitchen island. “You know,” he said, “you don’t have to call me ‘sir’.” Her hands paused in the water. She turned her head, half-expecting him to be flipping through papers again, but he wasn’t. He was watching her. Calm. Open. With something gentle behind his eyes. “It’s… James,” he added, with a small, almost hesitant smile. “Or- uh- Bucky. Whatever you prefer.”
She blinked. Water dripped from her fingertips. That line between them, the formality she’d never dared step over, cracked with a couple of words. A slow smile spread across her face. Real and warm. “Okay,” she said quietly. “James.”
He nodded, like that settled something. Then, without fanfare, he returned to his file.
It felt easier. Lighter. Like a window had just been opened, and neither of them needed to hold their breath anymore.
----
That ease, however, was short-lived. One afternoon, the doorbell rang, a sharp, insistent noise that cut through the quiet of the apartment. Bucky’s head snapped up from his file, with annoyance painted across his face. He wasn’t expecting anyone.
He pushed off the stool and headed for the door, shifting his posture subtly. He tensed before opening. Who let him get inside the building?
“Barnes! You old hermit, finally caught you at home!”
The voice was loud, theatrical. Congressman Thorne stepped inside before he was invited, already mid-monologue. His smile never quite reached his eyes.
He scanned the apartment. Then his gaze landed on her, just coming out of the bathroom, cleaning caddy in hand. The look he gave her was brief but assessing before he turned to Bucky again.
Bucky forced a tight chuckle. “Congressman Thorne. To what do I owe the… unexpected pleasure?”
As he saw the man keeping his gaze on her, he gestured vaguely in her direction, with a dismissive flick of the wrist. “Don’t mind her. Just the cleaning service.” He didn’t meet her eyes.
Thorne gave her a cursory nod, then clapped Bucky’s shoulder like they were old friends. “Pleasure? Barnes, I’m counting votes. That infrastructure bill I’m pushing? It’s tight. I figured a face-to-face, off-the-record chat might sway the scales better than a dozen ignored emails.”
He made himself at home on the couch, pulling out a tablet without waiting for permission.
She retreated to the kitchen, quiet and professional. But even behind the wall, Thorne’s booming voice can be heard easily, a grating contrast to Bucky’s low, measured responses. She unpacked the caddy, mentally sorting the next steps, laundry, folding, and prep for ironing next visit. Her hands kept moving. Her ears kept straining.
Ten minutes in, Thorne’s voice rose again. “Honestly, Barnes, you’re a terrible host. You’ve got me working hard here and haven’t even offered a man a damn coffee. What kind of hospitality is this?”
Bucky’s jaw tensed. He cursed himself silently. Right. Coffee. Basic manners. He started toward the kitchen, unsure. “Right, uh, coffee. I can-”
“Nonsense,” Thorne cut in, laughing like he found Bucky’s domestic instinct adorable. “That’s what the service is for.”
Bucky tried, “Technically, she just cleans, does laundry-”
“She’s paid. If you’re home, she serves the household. That’s how this works.” Then, louder: “Dear, you in the kitchen, I know you can hear me. Be a gem and make a decent cup of coffee, would you?”
Bucky stilled.
The audacity hit him like a slap. The way Thorne spoke to her, as if she were some kind of lowly servant. This was his home. But politics had taught him what was worth a confrontation… and what wasn’t. Not here. Not with this man.
She appeared at the doorway, her face blank, her apron off, and in a composed posture. Professional to the letter. Her gaze flicked to Bucky -just a second- but he saw the hint of something swirling beneath her surface.
“Would you also like a coffee, sir?” she asked, her voice perfectly smooth. No cracks. No tells.
Bucky hesitated.
He wanted to say, Don’t. He wanted to look Thorne in the eye and tell him to get his own damn drink. But Thorne was already smirking, relaxed, as if this were the natural order of things.
“Just for the congressman, thank you,” Bucky said at last.
His voice was clipped. Cold. He didn’t look at her again, not because he didn’t want to, but because looking would give too much away.
And for now, appearances were everything.
----
She turned, her back to them, and walked into the kitchen. The dismissive tone from Thorne stung with a sharp, unexpected prick. It wasn’t just the words, but the casual way he’d said them, as if she were indeed furniture, or a particularly well-trained dog. Just the cleaning service. Bucky’s voice echoed in her head, cold and precise.
It stung, perhaps, because the company’s policy of no-interaction had always acted as a shield, protecting her from these kinds of situations. It gave her anonymity, distance, some kind of armor. It had allowed her to move through expensive spaces like a ghost, unnoticed and untouched by the power dynamics, the inherent imbalance. But now that thin veil was gone.
She reached for the coffee maker with steady hands that didn’t feel steady. Let’s be real, she told herself. She was the service. No matter that he’d told her to drop the “sir.” No matter that he’d sat at the kitchen island, talking about recipes, this and that, or told her about his ma like it was something personal.
They weren’t friends. They never were.
She got paid to scrub his bathroom and make some meals. And she’d do well to remember that.
Whatever idea she’d gotten in her head, whatever hopeful daydreams had before sleep, counting the days until she could go back to the apartment, wondering if he would be there, clearly, it was just that. A daydream. A foolish, unprofessional fantasy that didn’t belong in the real world.
Her fingers pressed the coffee grounds down harder than needed. The machine hissed to life.
She would make the coffee.
She would serve it.
And she’d remember her place.
----
She finished in silence. No more humming, no soft steps between rooms, no pause by the spice rack where she sometimes lingered. Just movement, efficient and mechanical. She served the coffee without a word, with her eyes fixed on the mug, never meeting either man’s gaze. Then she disappeared down the hall to finish folding the last of the laundry.
When she returned, her coat was already draped over one arm, her bag on her shoulder. There was no service exit, no discreet hallway to slip through unseen. If she wanted to leave, she had to pass through the living room. She walked toward the door, deliberately trying to pass unnoticed.
Bucky looked up just before she reached it. His gaze met hers, uncertain, flickering with something he didn’t have the freedom to say, not in front of Thorne, who followed the moment with curiosity behind his smirk.
She paused by the door and bowed her head slightly. “I’m retiring for the afternoon, sir.” Her voice was polite. Professional. Not cold, but distant.
Bucky managed a stiff nod, caught between the heat crawling up his neck and the weight of Thorne’s eyes, amused and appraising. “Of course,” he said quietly.
She nodded once and stepped out, the door clicking closed behind her.
Thorne, either as a joke or out of malice, leaned back with a casual smirk on his face. “Careful, Barnes,” he said, voice light but laced with something sour. “Give them too much leeway and next thing you know, the press runs a juicy Congressman & the Maid piece. Happens all the time, salacious headlines. Real messy.”
He chuckled at his own comment, a low, unpleasant sound.
Bucky’s jaw clenched, the muscle in his cheek twitching once, hard. He wanted to lash out, to wipe that smug smirk off Thorne’s face. But his short time in this new world had taught him a brutal kind of self-control.
He took a slow breath, forcing the anger down, replacing it with a cool, almost icy politeness.
“Thorne,” he said, his voice low, devoid of any warmth, “I assure you, my staff is entirely professional.” He leaned forward slightly, eyes locked on the other man. “Perhaps we should focus on the bill, unless you’ve exhausted your arguments for it?” He didn't raise his voice, but the steel in his tone was unmistakable. His eyes held a warning that went beyond mere political decorum.
Thorne’s grin faltered. Not entirely, men like him didn’t shed arrogance that easily, but enough. He cleared his throat and looked down at his tablet.
“Right. Infrastructure,” he muttered. “Where were we…”
----
The next week, when he got home, he noticed she hadn’t been in the apartment. He found himself pacing, wondering if the company had reassigned her. The jasmine scent was gone, replaced by a generic, sterile cleaner. The food in the fridge was bland, pre-packaged. He hated it.
On Tuesday, he made sure he was home. He waited, restless, until he heard the familiar click of the door. When she walked into the living room, she was already wearing her apron, tied tight, and her hair pulled back so severely it looked painful. Her movements were clipped and precise, almost robotic. Her voice, when she offered a stiff, "Good afternoon, sir," was devoid of any warmth. Back to square one. Or worse.
She avoided the kitchen, gravitating towards the living room and the bedroom, cleaning surfaces meticulously even though they were already gleaming, like she was hoping he’d vanish.
He made noise. Poured himself water. Flipped a page too loudly. Nothing.
So he waited. She'd have to clean the kitchen eventually. Cook. Without other chores to do, she had no other option but to go there.
Finally, she moved towards the kitchen. She started with the sink, exaggeratedly slowly, as if trying to prolong the task, to avoid facing him. Then she worked around him like he was part of the furniture, not worth even a glance.
He couldn't take it anymore. He pushed off the stool, and the scrape of the wood against the tile was loud in the sudden silence. She flinched, tensing her shoulders. He approached her slowly, not close enough to crowd her, but close enough that she couldn’t pretend anymore. His hands hung loosely at his sides.
"Is something wrong?" he asked, his voice soft and gentle, a stark contrast to the rigid professionalism she exuded.
She kept her back to him, shrugging her shoulders tightly. "Nothing, sir," she said in almost a whisper. "Just trying to keep things professional."
He didn't like it. Not one bit.
The warmth they'd cultivated, the smiles, all had been shattered, replaced by this cold, distant politeness. This version of her felt like losing something he hadn’t realized he’d started to hope for. He wanted to reach out, to tell her it was okay, that Thorne was an ass, that she didn't have to put up this wall. But he didn't know how to do it. Technically, she wasn't doing anything wrong.
"Is this about the visit?" he asked, unable to stop himself. "Did I offend you?"
She finally turned around, her face carefully blank, but her eyes had something he couldn't quite decipher. "Oh no, you didn't offend me, sir," she said, her voice still clipped, formal. "But I was reminded of my place, so I think it's better-"
"You are not a thing," he cut her off, his voice sharper than he intended, a sudden surge of frustration breaking through his carefully constructed composure. He took a step closer, his hands clenching at his sides. "I- I like to talk to you when we have the opportunity. It's a fucking household, not a museum. And you are part of it. I'm not well-versed in acting in front of politicians yet, but something like that won't happen again."
Her eyes widened slightly. She wasn’t expecting that.
She looked down, voice barely above a whisper. “It was just coffee. And he was right. I’m supposed to attend to you if you’re present.”
His jaw worked. He stepped in closer, voice lower now. “But things can be asked politely. You know that.”
She didn’t reply right away. Just nodded once, tight and hesitantly.
----
He didn’t press. Not right away.
He gave her space, but his presence on the days he was there was more watchful.
The next Tuesday, when she arrived, he was already in the kitchen. A mug of steaming coffee in his hand.
He lifted it slightly in her direction, a silent offer.
She hesitated. Her eyes flicked from the mug to his face, then back. It was such a simple gesture, but it felt heavier than it looked. She shook her head, barely a movement.
He nodded once, said nothing, and set the second mug down on the counter near her, just within reach. Then he turned back to his file.
Later that day, she was bracing her shoulder against the heavy living room couch, trying to move it aside to vacuum underneath. It was always the worst part, the awkward angle, the stubborn weight. She grunted under her breath.
Then a shadow passed over her. She looked up to find him standing beside her, vibranium arm catching the afternoon light.
He didn’t say a word, just bent down, gripping the base of the couch effortlessly with his metal fingers. With a single, fluid motion, he lifted it, balancing the three-seater as if it were made of cardboard, and gave her an expectant look.
Her lips parted, just slightly. The effortless power of that action was… impressive.
She felt heat rise up her neck. A flutter in her chest that hadn’t happened in years.
Pinning like a teenager, she thought, horrified.
But she nodded, accepting his help, and ducked her head to guide the vacuum beneath. Her hands felt clumsy. Her movements suddenly became self-conscious under his gaze.
He held the couch until she finished, then set it down with the same unbothered precision.
After that, it became a routine.
He didn’t hover, but when something needed lifting, a box of files, a window stuck in its frame, the dining table for a deep clean, he was there. No offer. No announcement. Just a silent, strong presence, anticipating her needs.
And she… stopped resisting.
Stopped pretending she didn’t notice the way the air shifted when he was near. How the apartment, so sterile at first, now felt like it pulsed with something warm. Something shared.
Her voice softened. Her posture relaxed.
The “sir” grew rarer, falling away altogether on the quieter days.
Once, while drying a plate, she’d murmured, “Thanks, James,” without even thinking.
He hadn’t said anything. Just gave a small nod, but he didn’t stop smiling for the rest of the afternoon.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, they found their way back to the warmth that had been cracked by that visit.
Not quite the same as before.
But almost.
----
The storm started mid-afternoon. The rain tapped against the windows in a relentless assault. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed, then faded into nothing.
Bucky was in the backroom, had been all day. The phantom pain in his arm became a bitch. The humidity always did it, a dull ache that burned at the nerves, a ghost limb screaming for attention, leaving him short-tempered and sweating. He’d removed his arm hours ago, tired of the involuntary twitching, the useless reflex of a limb that wasn't there. The scar tissue pulled against the metal, irritated and angry.
So he sat in silence, in the quiet of the closed room, with the prosthesis resting on the desk.
When she arrived, he didn’t call out.
Didn’t greet her, didn’t make the usual noise so she’d know he was around.
She, meanwhile, started her routine oblivious of his ordeal. She moved through the apartment humming a low tune as she dusted the living room shelves. Then, a faint sound from the back of the apartment, a muffled sneeze. Her hand paused mid-air.
Oh.
So he was there after all. Her brow furrowed.
He hadn’t said anything. Not even a “hey.” Not a sound all the time she was there. Maybe he was on a call. Maybe he was resting. Or maybe -her stomach twisted a little- she’d done something wrong. Said something too familiar. Took too long to clean under the couch. Looked at him too long when he moved past her last Thursday, with that black henley she had never seen before. Oh god, was she that obvious and made him uncomfortable?
She slapped herself mentally for spiraling and pretending things that really weren't granted. He was her fucking boss, and he didn’t even have to be there to begin with. Less had the obligation to greet her. So, a little dejected, she sighed and continued with her work, more carefully after that. Didn’t hum again. Moved quietly.
On the other side of the closed door, Bucky sat in his chair, rubbing at the edge of the scar near his collarbone, eyes closed, jaw clenched. He could hear her. He could picture exactly where she was standing. The sound of her footsteps was familiar now, and he liked to hear them.
He tried to suppress the impulse to open the door. He felt like shit, surely looked like it, and, even if he showed his vibranium arm in the open now, he still was a little unsure about showing himself without it. Showing himself to her without it. It felt too vulnerable.
He pressed his forehead against the wooden rim of the desk, waiting for her to pass, waiting for the familiar sounds to move further away, leaving him in his solitary, aching silence.
----
The storm had deepened within the afternoon, and the rain came in sheets now, harder and meaner, wind shoving against the windows like fists. The power hadn’t been cut completely, but the lights flickered once, twice, then held. The apartment, already shadowed by the heavy clouds, plunged into a deeper, oppressive gloom.
From inside the back room, Bucky sat hunched in his chair, arm still off, trying not to grind his teeth against the phantom stabs twisting through his shoulder. He hated how much space the pain took in his mind. He hated more that she was out there, somewhere in the apartment, and he was hiding.
He heard the vacuum running faintly from the hallway, then the soft scrape as she unplugged it and dragged it toward the living room.
A moment later, the power went off.
Then, came a loud clatter.
A dull, painful thunk, then a sharp gasp, bitten off.
Bucky’s eyes snapped open. The pain in his arm, for a split second, was forgotten. He felt like an idiot, being enclosed in here, hiding from her, while she was out there, alone in the dark. He pushed himself out of the chair, ignoring the protest from his aching shoulder.
The second yelp was softer, a low, frustrated sound, like someone cursing through clenched teeth.
He fumbled for the doorknob and pulled the door open.
The hallway was cast in soft gray light. She was on her knees, not far from the vacuum, cradling her left arm tightly to her chest. A spray bottle rolled lazily in a circle beside her. One of the TV rack doors had been flung open, she must’ve hit it.
“Are you okay?” he asked, concerned.
She froze, then looked up, surprised. He was next to her in a blink, in a plain black T-shirt and one arm. Her eyes didn’t linger on the missing limb. She didn’t gawk. She didn’t show a flicker of surprise, only distress in her wide eyes.
“I didn’t think -sorry- I didn’t mean to make a fuss,” she said quickly.
“You didn’t,” he cut in. “Did you fall?”
She shifted slightly, clearly wincing. “Tripped on the damn cord. Tried to catch myself on the doorframe. Didn’t see the rack edge until it was in my elbow.”
He was already kneeling in front of her, balancing easily despite the lack of his prosthesis. The closeness startled her. It felt treacherously good, the kind of proximity she shouldn’t want. His cologne floated faintly between them, clean and warm, a scent she’d noticed before but never this close. The worry in his face didn’t help either.
Her voice was quieter now. “You weren’t out all day. I thought- never mind.”
His eyes dropped to her arm. Red was blooming through the sleeve, not pouring, but enough to make his stomach clench. A dark, angry stain spreading against the pale fabric.
“You’re bleeding,” he muttered, more to himself. “Shit.”
“Just a scrape.” She tried to sound dismissive, but her voice trembled.
“I’ve had scrapes. That’s not a scrape.” His voice was firm with resolve, leaving no room for argument. “Come on. Sit.” He gestured toward the couch, then rose and offered her his hand.
She hesitated. “You sure you’re okay to-”
“I’m not the one who fell.”
She took it. Her fingers were cool against his palm, a feather-light touch. He gently led her toward the couch and helped her sit. The room smelled faintly of the lemon polish.
“I’ll get the kit,” he muttered, already turning around.
She nodded, not looking at him.
When he returned, seeing her sitting there, quiet, holding herself like she didn’t want to be a burden, and again, it affected him more than he expected.
He knelt, setting the kit beside him, and met her eyes.
“Let me?” he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper, his gaze looking for permission.
She nodded, and he reached for her arm, careful, cautious.
“Roll up your sleeve?” he asked, his thumb gently nudging the fabric.
She tried, but winced. He took over, gently tugging the fabric back, revealing the bright scrape blooming just above the elbow. Angry, some broken skin. Already starting to swell.
He hissed softly through his teeth. His brow furrowed in concentration as he picked up a small bottle of antiseptic from the kit. He tried to twist the cap, but his fingers fumbled weirdly with the smooth plastic. He rotated it, pressed down, twisted again, a low grunt of frustration escaping him. The cap refused to budge.
Clearly, it was a more challenging task with one hand.
He leaned into it, tensing his shoulders, a faint sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead despite the cool air. The fucking pain was killing him.
She watched him, feeling ridiculous and useless, sitting there, holding her arm. It was just a scrape. And the poor man was trying his best without a limb.
“Here, let me,” she said softly, reaching out her uninjured hand towards the bottle.
He shook his head, a quick, jerky motion. “Don’t move the arm.” His gaze was still fixed on the stubborn cap, his jaw clenched.
“You’re not considering the safety cap,” she explained gently, a small, almost imperceptible smile touching her lips. “It’s not about force, you have to push down the cap, then swirl it. They’re for little children, not to open them easily.”
He paused, with his hand still on the bottle, tilting his head slightly as he considered her words. Then he looked up at her, with a flicker of something -perhaps mild embarrassment- in his eyes. He seemed to think for a beat, then a faint, almost shy smile touched his lips.
“Alright, let’s do teamwork, then,” he said, meeting her gaze. “You hold it, I uncap. Then I grab the cotton, you pour some of this thing on it, and I apply it.” He held the bottle out to her, his hand steady despite the tremors of pain.
She took the bottle, brushing his fingers in the process. Then she pressed down on the cap, twisted, and with a soft pop, it opened. She handed it back to him.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice quiet, a little breathless. “It’s… a little too much fuss for a scratch.” She gestured vaguely at her elbow, then at the first aid kit.
He shook his head, already reaching for a sterile cotton pad. “Call me old-fashioned, but I can’t let you do this alone.” His gaze, when it met hers, was firm. “In fact, why don’t you go home early? Don’t cook. I’ll order something.” His brow furrowed with concern. “It’s going to swell more if you’re moving around.”
She felt a warmth spread through her chest, a surprising wave of gratitude. “That’s very sweet of you, James,” she said, using his name softly, almost instinctively. “But I still have to do one more house before going home. And it’d be easier to take the bus from here instead of from the one near my place.”
He frowned, a deep line appearing between his brows. Somehow… he hadn’t thought about the other homes. Not once. Not really.
“But the rain-” he started, gesturing vaguely towards the drumming against the windows.
“The company doesn’t care about the rain or a scratch on my elbow,” she pointed out, a faint, wry smile touching her lips. “Neither does the client, who expects his home to be clean when he gets there.”
It was unreasonable, he knew, to fuss like that, to even be that naive as to suggest she skip work because she’d tripped or the weather was bad. But still, something inside him bristled at the idea of her going house to house in wet clothes, hurt and tired. He remembered her ma going to work sick after his father died. The world just kept spinning. He didn’t like it. He wanted her at home, resting and comfortable.
“You’re right,” he said finally, dragging a hand through his hair with a sigh. “I’m sorry. Wasn’t my place to say that.”
Still, he added -softer this time, more stubborn than apologetic- “But I don’t want you cooking today.”
“I promise I’m more than capable of cooking with a scraped elbow-” she began, trying to sound reassuring.
At that moment, the stabbing pain in his shoulder peaked, a sharp, white-hot agony that made him wince before he could mask it. His jaw clenched, his eyes squeezed shut for a fleeting second, a low, guttural sound escaping his lips.
Then he looked down and away, like it embarrassed him to have shown that to her.
She stilled.
“…Are you okay?” she asked quietly.
Bucky’s jaw clenched. “I’m fine.”
It was immediate, practiced, too quick to be convincing. He didn’t meet her eyes as he started to close the first aid kit, fumbling a little with the flap.
“You were fussing over a scrape and a bruise,” she said, voice gentle but pointed. “So I can fuss too about you.”
That made him pause.
He stilled, the flap of the kit half-fastened in his hand. His eyes lifted slowly and met hers. For a moment, he just looked at her, as if weighing something, measuring the weight of truth in his mouth. Finally, he exhaled through his nose, low and tired.
“It’s the arm,” he muttered. “Or more precisely, the absence of it.”
She didn’t speak, just gave a single slow nod, like she understood.
He glanced down at his shoulder, where the shirt hung awkwardly loose. “Phantom pain,” he added. “It’s- bad when it’s humid. The nerves light up like they’re still alive. Like the arm is still there, burning.”
Her voice stayed quiet, even. “Do you have medication for that? Nerve blocks or something?”
He huffed a humorless sound. “My metabolism burns most of it off before it can even do anything. Painkillers don’t stick. Tried a few things. Never lasted.”
She seemed to absorb that, dropping her gaze briefly to his arm, not the absence of it, but the place where it used to be. Then she looked up again.
“…Have you tried acupuncture?”
He blinked, caught off-guard. “Needles?”
She gave a tiny shrug. “Sometimes it works for nerve pain.”
“I figured they’d snap before they broke the skin,” he muttered, almost to himself.
A beat passed. Then he tilted his head slightly, studying her. “You seem to know a little about this.”
Her fingers twitched at her apron, and she flicked her eyes away. “My, uh… my ex had a leg prosthesis. Below the knee.”
Soft. Not embarrassed, just cautious. Like she wasn’t sure if that was something she should say aloud.
Bucky’s gaze didn’t move from her. “Did he have it- the phantom pain, too?”
She nodded. “Mostly at night. Or when it was cold. He used to get this-” she gestured vaguely toward her own leg, “burning feeling. Said it was like the limb still wanted to move.”
“Yeah,” Bucky murmured. “Sounds about right.”
They stood there in silence for a long moment. The thunder outside cracked again, distant but deep. The apartment dimmed slightly with the passing of a cloud, and the overhead light flickered once.
Neither of them moved.
"Um- I don’t want to overstep,” she said, brushing her fingers nervously in her apron. Would he take it the wrong way? Was it too personal, too close to something she had no right to offer? She took a slow breath anyway. “But… have you ever tried guided meditation?”
He blinked at her. His shoulders sagged a little as he exhaled, dropping his gaze. “No,” he said after a pause. Just that.
Her pulse spiked. This was past her job, and maybe he’d hear more in it than she meant to admit. “Want to give it a try?” she asked gently. “I used to… you know. When it got really bad, I’d sit with him and do it.” She swallowed. “It helped. Sometimes.”
His eyes lifted at that. There was something unreadable in them. Surprise, maybe. Doubt. A little curiosity.
The idea sounded like bullshit. Bucky had been poked, prodded, sedated, reprogrammed, hypnotized, and rewired. He didn’t trust anything that had to do with closing his eyes and letting go. But she was here, just offering to sit with him and try something that could help. And maybe, with her voice... it would be different.
He let out a small breath, almost a laugh. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
She smiled softly. “Exactly.”
He rubbed his scarred shoulder with the heel of his palm. “So, how does it work?”
“Well,” she said, smoothing the front of her apron again, “you sit somewhere comfortable. Or lie down. And I just… talk you through breathing. Where to put your thoughts. How to let go of the ones that hurt.”
Bucky tilted his head, uncertain. “Sounds like a sham.”
“Most good things do,” she murmured.
That earned her a quiet huff from him, but it wasn’t annoyed, it was closer to amused. “Alright,” he said gruffly. “Let’s try it.”
“You’ll want a pillow,” she added.
----
Bucky lay down on the couch, slowly, and the leather creaked beneath him, stretching with his weight. He exhaled through his nose, trying not to wince as he shifted his body to a position that wouldn’t tug at the scarred edge of his shoulder. She sat on the floor beside him, but a little behind, with her legs folded under her, just out of his line of sight. It was intentional, she knew some people felt self-conscious if they were being watched during moments like this.
“Close your eyes,” she said softly, voice low and even.
He didn’t move.
“I can tell you’re not doing it,” she added, just as gently, with the faintest thread of a smile under the words.
He sighed, long and slow, and let a reluctant, muttered, “Fine,” slip past his lips.
She let the quiet stretch for a second before her voice came again, firmer now. “It won’t work if you don’t cooperate. Are you sure you want to try this?”
“Yeah,” he said, and it was a little hoarse. “I just- sorry. Please. Continue.”
Another pause.
“Alright,” she said, her voice a soft murmur, “Just breathe with me. Deep breath in.”
Bucky did a shallow, tight intake of air that rattled slightly in his chest.
“No,” she said gently, “deeper than that. Like you’re breathing in clean air for the first time. Fill your stomach first, then your chest. All the way up.”
He tried again, and this time the breath was full, slow, and even. A long, shuddering exhale followed it.
“That’s it. Now, start by noticing the places where your body touches the couch. Your shoulders, your back, your heels. Feel your weight sinking into it… like gravity’s pulling just a little stronger today.”
She waited.
“Now breathe in again through your nose, slow and deep. Hold it for three counts. One… two… three… and let it go, nice and slow, like you’re letting air out of a balloon. Try again.”
She listened as he did, matching her pace. His breathing slowed almost despite himself. The air around them felt stiller. A faint twitch ran through the corner of his mouth, not quite a frown, not quite a release.
“Let your jaw unclench. Relax your forehead. Let your arms go heavy. Even the phantom one, try to let it feel heavy, too. Let it drift.”
His throat bobbed once, the faintest shiver running through his body as the muscles along his back loosened. He exhaled again, deeper this time.
“Imagine the pain as static. White noise. Just a sound your mind’s gotten used to tuning into. Now, picture turning the volume down. Little by little.”
He did.
“Now, focus on your breathing again. Let it be the only thing. In through the nose… hold… and out. That’s it.”
Outside, the rain still tapped against the windows, but he didn’t notice it anymore. Somewhere between her voice and the imagined weightlessness, the pain dulled. Not gone, not erased, but quieted. Something to acknowledge and release, not to fight. His jaw, which had been clenched tight since he couldn’t remember, loosened.. His hand stopped twitching. For a few minutes, there was just her voice.
Nothing else.
He didn't realize how tired he was until her voice seemed to wrap around him. His thoughts, usually a relentless, paranoid carousel, began to slow. The faces, the missions, the memories, they were still there, but they were no longer screaming for his attention. They were just… thoughts. Something he could observe and let go.
After what felt like a long time, the words slowed, then stopped.
He lay there for another minute. He felt… spent. Drained. But the pain, for the first time in what felt like forever, was no longer in the driver’s seat. It was a passenger, silent and dormant, and for the first time since that day, he felt like he could breathe without being controlled by it.
----
She understood. Maybe not the exact feel of his pain, but its depth. She'd seen it before, in Lance. Some days it was so bad he couldn’t speak, didn’t want to eat, couldn’t be touched. And Bucky… well, what he'd endured went beyond a battlefield. Sometimes, pain came with shame. And shame came with silence. Especially for men like him. Soldiers. Survivors. Men are taught to never flinch, never fall. That was why he was locked in that room.
She let the silence stretch for a moment longer. Then her voice came back, soft but purposeful.
“Alright. I want you to picture something now. A forest path. You're alone. No pressure, no eyes on you. Just your steps, and the sound of leaves underfoot. Everything smells like damp moss, like pine. Sunlight filters through the branches.”
Her words rolled slowly, like a gentle current, wrapping around his consciousness.
“The further you walk, the quieter everything gets. No traffic. No voices. Just birds, wind, and your breath.”
She shifted slightly, the fabric of her pants rustling faintly as she adjusted her seat behind him.
“You find a stream. Clear, slow water. You follow it, and it leads you to a lake, hidden between trees. The kind no one’s mapped. Like it’s been waiting just for you.”
Bucky’s chest rose, held, and exhaled.
“No one’s there. You’re not in a rush. The sun's warm. The water, even warmer.”
A pause.
“You undress. Not because you’re supposed to, but because you want to. The air is soft. The breeze is kind. You step into the lake, slowly. It welcomes you.”
She smiled faintly, voice lowering into a kind of hush.
“Float. Let the water hold you up. You don’t have to carry anything. Not your weight. Not your name. Not the pain.”
Her voice hitched barely, but kept going.
“The surface cradles you. The sun kisses your face, your chest. Even the places that ache. It sees everything, and still... it’s gentle with you.”
She heard his breath deepen. Knew he was still there, still listening. Still floating. So she said no more. Let the quiet swell again, only leaving the sound of her breathing near his shoulder.
Let the water do the rest.
----
After another long moment of silence, her voice returned, a little more solid now. “Alright, James. When you’re ready, you can come back now. The path is always there.”
He blinked, a slow, deliberate motion. Then pushed himself upright, the leather couch groaning beneath him. He ran a hand over his face, clumsy with the weight of whatever he’d just emerged from. He felt disoriented, like he’d just woken from a long, deep sleep he hadn’t known he needed. He looked at her, his expression was a mix of awe and bewilderment.
“Well,” he said, his voice a low, raspy whisper. “I’ll be damned.”
She rose, unfolding her legs and brushing her palms on her apron. She didn’t quite meet his eyes. “It can be… surprising, the first time.”
He shook his head, a faint, almost amused smile on his lips. “Surprising? That’s… that’s not the word I’d use. I haven’t felt that quiet in my head in a long, long time.” The honesty in his voice was a little unsettling, even to him. It felt like a confession.
She busied herself with the scattered items on the floor, picking up the spray bottle she had dropped. “It’s just about retraining the brain,” she said, a little too quickly. “Giving it a new focus. Giving those nerve signals something else to respond to.”
But he didn’t believe that. Not really.
It wasn’t just “science,” he thought, watching her. It was you. Her voice in the dark. He hadn’t simply followed a path, he had followed her, trusted her to walk through the minefield of his mind without triggering anything fatal. And she had. She had been gentle. She had been kind. She gave him a place to rest. He realized, with a jolt, that he trusted her. The kind of trust he had only felt toward very few people after he became the Soldat.
He watched her, a knot of feelings threading in his chest. “Thank you,” he said, the words feeling too small, too inadequate for what she had just given him. “For… this.”
She felt the heat of his gaze, the weight of his sincerity. The answer rose to her lips -anytime- but the voice in her head, the one built of rent bills and ruined dreams and every reality check she’d ever swallowed, cut in. He's your boss. Don't be a fool.
Still, the wall didn’t go up all the way.
She turned around, meeting his tired gaze. A small, genuine smile graced her lips. “You’re welcome,” she said softly, the words filled with a warmth that had nothing to do with her job. “It’s- I’m glad it helped.”
She held his gaze for a moment longer than she should have before she took a step back, brushing the frame of the doorway with her fingers. “I’ll let you rest,” she added, not quite breaking the spell, but weakening it enough for both to breathe.
“Thanks for the elbow,” she added, “Guess we’re even.” She then tugged the vacuum behind her, retreating toward the laundry room. Fast, like she knew if she remained a second longer, she might say something she couldn’t take back.
Bucky sat there, still half-slouched on the couch, feeling his body heavy. He leaned forward, draping his right arm loosely across his knee.
He’d closed his eyes. Let her inside his head.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that without force, without drugs, without protocol.
And she hadn't asked for anything in return.
No agenda.
She had just… helped.
He leaned back into the couch, exhaling slowly, his eyes drawn toward the hallway she’d gone down. He wasn’t used to kindness. Not the real kind. Not the kind that asked for nothing.
If he was honest with himself, something had changed. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t want to run from it.
He let his head tip back against the cushion and stared at the ceiling for a long time.
Summary: You finally go back to Serenno. You prove to Hunter that you're only around to help.
Pairing: Echo x Former Sith F!Reader
Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI; Angst, droid slicing, blaster fire, emotional baggage, flashbacks, Count Dooku lmao
WC: 2.6k
A/N: It only took two years but here's the final part of Loverboy. (Maybe a future epilogue series could be in the works but definitely not planned yet) Sorry it took so long. Idek if people would still be interested in this story or even remember it lmao. BUT I still love these two. Echo deserves a happy ending. And so does she. God, I love the found family trope.
Series Masterlist
Omega calls your name with a wave and you smile at her with a nod, then accidentally make eye contact with Dark And Broody. He’s still suspicious of you, which you can understand, dragging him back to a place where they almost didn’t make it out of last time. You’re not really eager to be back, yourself.
“Lead the way.” Hunter pulls his blaster out and motions for you to go first.
You know he probably means if something pops out, you’ll be the first one to go. Honestly, you’d probably do the same to him if the rolls were reversed.
“At least we got to land closer to the castle this time.” Omega nudges Hunter, teasingly.
He rolls his eyes at her remark with a slight smile. “I suppose that’s one good thing.”
“One good thing… so far.” Omega grins and then catches up with you, walking beside you in comfortable silence.
It’s sweet how she keeps such a positive outlook at all times. You wish you had that ability. She clearly brings out the best in her little family.
As you walk up to the castle, you hold your hand out, willing the Force to help you open the door. The doors slide open with a rusty thud and Omega and Wrecker’s mouths both drop as they say “Woah!” in unison.
The cool stale air of the gloomy halls hits you in the face full force and you pause for a moment, making everyone else pause. Closing your eyes and reaching out into the force, you try to feel if anyone else could be here. You don’t think the Empire would be back, but that doesn’t mean the occasional pirate or creature hasn't made their way into the palace.
“What is it?” Hunter whispers, harshly.
You put up a finger, letting him know to be quiet for a minute.
“I’m trying to sense if anyone else is here.” You murmur.
You can sense Omega closing her eyes too and you can’t help but wonder if she can sense things the same as you.
When you look down at her, she opens her eyes at the same time and looks up at you.
“Anything?” She asks, unsure.
“We’re clear.” You nod.
“Tech, check to make sure there are no active security droids.” Hunter tells the goggled clone.
Tech nods and attaches his data pad to a keypad in the wall, clicking and tapping away until he pulls the cord out and joins the group again.
“We are clear.” Tech repeats you.
It’s true, one bad thing about droid armies is that Force users couldn’t sense them coming. It had made even Dooku a little uneasy, though he never said as much.
You lead the group through the dark halls, with Echo’s brothers using flashlights while having their blasters at the ready anyway. Must be an occupational thing.
You pause at the grandeur doorway of the dining room and walk inside, remembering all the times you’d sit at the long dark granite table by yourself and how it was an incredibly lonely time. Perhaps that’s why you find yourself so uncomfortable around Echo’s brothers. You’re just used to being alone.
But now… thinking back on it… you don’t think you truly enjoyed your solitude all that much.
“What is it?” Echo asks, resting a hand on your lower back.
You shrug, swallowing. “I just… hated being here more than I realized.”
“Well, we’ll get the info and we’ll go.” He kisses you on the head.
You walk over to the floor-to-ceiling windows and look out on the city. As you look out, expecting to see the city you once fell immediately in love with, your eyes are instead met with ash and ruin. Tears instantly fill the brim of your eyes and a lump forms in your throat as you cover your mouth with one hand, an instant ache in your chest.
“The… Empire did this?” You whisper.
“Yes.” Echo’s soft murmur fills the space next to you.
You’re quiet for a long moment, unsure of how to process what’s below you. You remember the children playing in the market, the vendor who sold you food, all the people who lived here…
You can feel the start of fire and ice beginning to fill your veins. The urge to somehow go after the Empire is strong as you think of how many countless people they wiped out just in this city alone… As if that’s even possible… going after an entire Empire…
It could be, couldn’t it? They took out an entire Republic no problem… It wouldn’t be difficult to try to infiltrate a rank-
Echo’s warm gloved hand brings you back to reality… to peace… You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding in.
“There were some survivors. We met one and he told us of more just like him.” Echo tells you as if he could read your mind. “They live in the safety of the woods and the mountains now.”
Relief slowly replaces the ice and fire in your veins and you allow yourself to calm down for now. You need your emotions in line for what information you’ll hopefully be able to find out soon about your family.
Can you even call them that if you didn’t know they existed?
You look at your partner, giving him a grateful smile. “That’s good to hear. Thank you.”
As you turn around to go find Dooku’s old command center, Wrecker strolls in, looking around nervously.
“What’s with you?” Echo asks him with a raised brow.
“This place still gives me the creeps.” Wrecker replies. “How did you live here?”
You shrug with a smirk. “Quietly, so I didn’t disturb the ghosts.”
“Ghosts?” Wrecker gasps.
“There are no such things as ghosts, Wrecker.” Tech assures him from the doorway with his finger up, matter-of-factly.
“Are you sure about that, Goggles?” You tease as you walk past him out into the hallway, making Echo chuckle.
“Quite certain.” Tech grumbles, fixing his goggles.
All of you make your way down the hall toward Dooku’s command center, the place he spent a lot of time at when he was on Serenno. The air is as cold and unwelcoming as Dooku himself was. Maybe he haunts these halls… It wouldn’t surprise you.
“Are you alright?” Echo murmurs.
You nod, unable to stop thinking of the past.
“Good. Again.” Dooku stares down at you with a bokken in your face. Again.
You’ve fallen on your ass at least fifteen times in the last two hours. You’re getting sick of it. And Dooku, honestly.
“No.”
“No?”
“I’m done.” For today at least.
He shakes his head, clearly disappointed in you. You don’t care though. You’ve been at this for a few months. Exhausted, day after day.
“Get up. You’ll do it again.” He insists in that monotone voice that you’ve gotten used to hearing.
He means it.
You smack the floor, angrily.
“Use that anger. Like I’ve been telling you day after day.” He pulls the bokken up again, ready to go.
Glaring at him, you reach your hand out and your bokken snaps into your hand from across the room. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the Nightsister smirking at you. Which just makes you angrier.
“You need to reach into the dark side and feel it. It’s what gives you power.” He circles you. “If you can tap into that power, you can bend things to your will like that.” He snaps.
With flared nostrils and anger flowing through your veins, you leap at the old man in front of you.
“I can see you disappearing into your memories.” Echo’s hand tightens around yours and you look from the long hall to him. “Stay with me…”
He really is the light in all of this, keeping you grounded. Keeping you in touch with your humanity. You have to remember that.
You squeeze his hand and cup his cheek with your other hand. He gives you a reassuring smile and suddenly, everything feels hopeful again.
“Thank you.” You murmur.
He nods and you make your way to the command center. When you reach it, Tech wastes no time going and trying to get into Dooku’s systems. Hunter and Wrecker stand watch by the door as you watch Omega look at the dusty art that still hangs on the walls. She stills when she sees the artwork of Dooku himself and she tilts her head.
“He looked like a vampire.” She whispers to you, making you chuckle.
“He did, didn’t he?” You can’t help but smile down at her, amused.
All of a sudden, the door across the room opens up and an old battle starts blasting toward you and Omega. Before any of the guys can react, you force pull the droid toward you, bringing one end of your saber to life and jamming it through its central systems and then slice its head off for extra measure. It goes slump and the guys all look at you, their faces bewildered as you drop it.
“You alright?” You ask Omega, softly.
She nods. “I’m fine.”
“Tech, how did you miss that droid?” Hunter stares over at the goggled clone.
“When I got into the system, it must have been activated through some sort of emergency protocol.” Tech explains, going back to what he was doing.
Hunter nods for Wrecker and Echo to go check out the room that the droid came out of as he walks over to you and Omega, checking on her like you just did. He looks up at you and you share a look of understanding. He sees now that all you want is for Omega to be safe.
“Thank you.” He nods.
You nod back.
“Uh, Hunter, you may wanna come check this out.” Echo’s voice rings out from the room.
Hunter pats Omega on the shoulder and walks into the room that the others are in as you walk over to Tech to check on things.
“How’s it coming along over here?” You ask him, keeping an eye on Omega as she looks up at the wall full of art.
“It’s downloading onto my datapad now.” He explains. “As soon as it’s done, you’ll have all the answers you want and more. The Empire did not do a very good job completely wiping the systems so it was not hard to get into.”
“I appreciate you doing this.” You tell him, sincerely.
“I am only doing what is required of me.” He tells you barely even glancing your way. “I was wary of you… But the way you stopped that droid from hitting Omega was commendable.”
You shrug. “I know I’ve not known her very long… but there’s probably nothing I wouldn’t do for that kid.”
Tech nods once as he looks down at his datapad, like he gets it. You don’t know much about him, but it’s apparent he’d do anything for his family. Just like you.
You hear Echo call your name from the room that the battle droid had come out of so you make your way that way, until you nearly fall into the hole in the floor where they’ve raised up a trap door.
You glance down, confused. “What in the Maker?”
You climb down into the hole and your jaw drops immediately.
Echo looks around before settling his eyes back on you, noticing how surprised you are. “You didn’t know about this?”
You shake your head, looking around at the room full of treasure that was secretly hidden from not just the empire, but also you. You knew about the other treasure. But not this.
You walk over to a chest full of credits and jewels and pick them up, then drop them. You turn to look at the three men staring at you.
“You’re technically Dooku’s heir. Which means all of this sorta belongs to you.” Echo murmurs. “Including the palace.”
You look around at the treasure around you again and shake your head. “We should give it back to the remaining Serennians. The palace too.”
Echo smiles proudly at you while Hunter just stares at you curiously. Like he’s still trying to figure you out.
“Would that be okay?” You ask Hunter since he’s technically in charge.
He looks taken aback for a moment that you even asked him. He looks over at Echo and then back at you.
“Yeah.” He nods to you. “Yeah, I think that would be good.”
You give him a small smile and nod before giving Echo an even bigger smile. Omega’s gasp of wonder makes you all look up at the opening of the hatch.
“More treasure?” She climbs down, standing next to you as she glances around the hidden treasure room.
“We’re giving it back to the Serennians.” You tell her.
She grins up at you and nods. “That’s a good idea.”
You give her a soft smile and nod back at her. It’s incredibly clear to you that however these guys are raising this kid, they’re doing something right. You’ve never met a child with such a good head on their shoulders.
It makes you wonder if Echo ever wanted children. Not that you’re in a position to give him children right now. But maybe in the future. If it’s something the two of you wanted.
Is it something you want?
A few hours later, the guys have got the treasure packed up on their ship to take over to the group of Serennians that are hidden away in the forests.
“You sure you don’t want to meet them?” Hunter asks you as you both watch Omega climb up the hatch of the Marauder.
You shake your head. “The Dooku’s have done enough here…”
Hunter sighs, crossing his arms. “People are more than a last name. You can be whoever you want.”
You give him a grateful smile. “I appreciate that. And for what you’ve done for me today.”
“Yeah well…” Hunter looks at you with a slight shrug. “You’re one of us now.”
You let out a huff of a laugh. “I hope you know I’d do anything for her.”
“I do.” He nods. “And I appreciate it.”
“Do you know…” You start to ask him about her force sensitivity.
He nods again. “Yeah, we do. We want to give her as normal of a life as possible though. It’s too dangerous to be what she could be in these times.”
You understand more than anyone so you nod in agreement.
“I was wrong about you. And… I’m sorry.” Hunter offers his hand.
You smile softly. “Seems I was wrong about you as well.”
The two of you shake hands and then you watch as Echo walks off the Marauder over to you, wrapping an arm around your waist as you say your goodbyes to the batch.
“You ready?” He murmurs against your hair, kissing you sweetly on the head.
“Yeah.” You grin up at him. “I think I am.”
The two of you walk back to your ship together, preparing to go back to Ord Mantell. Perhaps its time that you look into a new place. Somewhere where the entire batch can live and you can help raise Omega. Maybe you can give her a niece or nephew one day. If Echo wants that, of course.
Suddenly, the information on Tech’s datastick that he gave you feels so insignificant compared to the family that you think you’ve found. Or perhaps found you.
All you know right now at this moment is that you’ve never been so glad to not be alone. For once, you truly cannot wait to see what the future brings.
Summary: You start to get used to your new life. The 501st celebrate by taking you to 79s.
Pairing: Captain Rex x F!Reader
Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI; Suggestive, slight angst? Alternate Reality Reader
WC: 3.7K
A/N: Oh my god it's been so long since I've updated this fic. I still have a vision and a dream for this fic, don't worry.
Series Masterlist │Playlist
The gunship ride back to Coruscant is something entirely out of the world. You’re slightly squished between Kix and Fives and holding onto the bar for dear life as the ship jerks a little more than you were expecting. Obviously these men are completely used to this. You, however, are not.
You barely tolerate flying. So this is almost a new type of hell.
“You act like you’ve never been on a gunship before.” Tup teases, obviously noticing that you’re a little off balance trying to hang onto the leather wrap.
“I was just in the medbay out cold for three days, was I not?” You defend yourself.
“Oh, that’s true. Leave her alone, Tup’ika.” Hardcase chuckles, coming to your defense.
You smile at the goofy 501st boys, unable to help yourself. Then, when you sneak a glance at the captain who has your heart, you find his eyes already on you, a smile on his lips. Fire licks through your veins all the way down just at his gaze.
Makes you wonder what else he can do to you.
“Here. Sit.” Kix drags a crate to the wall and guides you over to it.
You’ve lost your nice view of Rex, but you’ve gained some balance so you accept it for now, sitting there.
Once you touch down twenty minutes later, the gunship doors slide open and you get out with Kix, looking around at the base. You can see the temple in the near distance and your jaw drops. The city covered planet is something you’ve always wanted desperately to see.
And now here you are, able to truly take it all in.
The sky is pinkening since it’s about to be sunset and with all the lights coming to life and the cars in the skylanes, you just can’t bring yourself to look away.
“Still refreshing to watch you take everything in.” Rex’s smooth voice teases you from behind.
“You watch me?” You tear your eyes and look up into your favorite pair of brown eyes.
“Guilty.” He grins, making you laugh.
“You want me to show you to your quarters?” He asks, nodding back toward the base.
“Oh come on, you don’t think I can find my own way around this massive base?” You tease back.
“Do you really want to try?” Rex starts leading you toward the bay doors of the hangar.
“Not really, no.” You shake your head with a chuckle, falling into step with him.
“You wanna go with us to 79s, right?”
You nod. “More than anything.”
“Good.” He turns the two of you down the corridor and his hand finds your lower back with ease.
It takes everything in you to not melt into his side since you have to remember that the clones probably aren’t allowed to have partners. Luckily, the corridor is mostly empty aside from a few stray clones that you don’t recognize from the show.
When you reach a door, he stops and gestures to it. “Your quarters.”
You punch in the code that Kix had put into your data pad and the door slides open, revealing a private room with a slightly bigger than twin size bed pushed up against the wall. You step into it, looking around as Rex lingers in the doorway.
“I don’t have to share with others?” You ask, slightly confused.
“There aren’t many women who work around here. But the ones that do, have their own private quarters.” He nods.
“Oh. Convenient.” You murmur to yourself, looking down at the made bed. There’s a pink quilt folded up at the end.
You wonder where you got that from or if someone here made it for you. There’s still so many questions you have about your life here, so you’ll probably need to look into the datapad that Kix gave you at some point.
“Are you okay?” Rex asks softly and you turn to look.
“Mmhm.” You nod. “Do… Do you want to come in?”
He gives you a soft smile. “I’ve got a few things to do before I’m done for the day, unfortunately. If you need me, just shoot me a message on your datapad that Kix gave you. It’s protected, so no one can see our messages. Just you and I.”
Of course he’s got things to do. He’s a Captain of the 501st. Duh.
“Right, of course.” You nod, smiling softly.
“If I’m not done by the time it’s time to leave, Kix will come get you and then I’ll meet up with the rest of you later.” He looks down at the bed, and then lets out a soft sigh, before glancing down the hallway and then back at you. “But when we’re at 79s, and after… I’m yours.”
Heat courses throughout your entire body at his last sentence and your lips part, automatically. He knows the effect he has on you, clearly with the smirk on his lips.
“I’ll see you soon.” He promises you and then leaves the doorway, allowing for the door to slide shut.
You stand there staring at the door for a moment, thinking about Rex and his promise of being yours. You always thought that there was something wrong with you for being more attracted to fictional men but even after all the men you dated in your real life, none of them could compare to Rex. It’s just the truth.
But now… your “delusions” are finally some sort of reality, even if you don’t know the extent yet.
You turn and notice two doors in the wall and then approach one. It slides open automatically, clearly a little more futuristic than the sliding doors at the supermarket back in your reality. It’s strange.
When the door slides open, you see that there’s a bathroom. A fresher. It’s got a standing shower and a toilet and a sink. Basic.
You step away from the doorway and the door slides shut again. You step in front of the other door and a closet reveals itself. You have clothes here. Like actual clothes. Military garments and regular clothes. You remember Kix referred to them as civies. You look down at the floor and find shoes that are very obviously your size.
For some reason it still slightly shocks you. How is this your life now?
You look down and notice a pair of strappy black heels on the floor. It makes you wonder if there’s a- Yep.
A dress to match.
You pick it up and hold it up to look at.
A form fitting one at that.
The black dress is a sultry black halter neck mini dress with a high neckline and an open back that is clearly meant for going out.
Holy shit.
Whoever you were before you got here clearly had confidence and taste. Should you wear this? Is it too much?
Would Rex like it on you?
As if that’s the deciding factor, you decide that’s what you’re going to wear tonight to 79s so you sit it on the bed.
You finally decide that a shower would do you some good and go look in your bag for toiletries, finding them in a small bag. Luckily, toiletries in Star Wars aren’t that different from where you’re from. And that makes you laugh.
The shower though is a different story. It takes you approximately four minutes to figure out that the shower just turns on by stepping under it. Your muscles relax instantly, even if the water isn’t as hot as you’re used to.
You try to be quick about it, washing your hair and body and then step away from the shower, watching as it automatically turns off as you wrap a towel around yourself.
After drying off, you put the dress on. Almost instantly, you feel exposed. You’re used to pencil skirts and work blazers. This is way outside of your comfort zone.
But this is a second chance at a new life. So maybe you should just go with the flow.
When you hear a knock on the door, you push the button on the panel on the wall to open it like Kix showed you earlier. It’s still going to take some getting used to.
Kix is waiting on the other side of the door, smiling as you open the door for him.
“Oh hi.” You smile.
“Hey.” He takes in your outfit and smirks.
“What?” You look down at your outfit and go warm in the face. “Too much?”
“No, not at all.” He shakes his head and you let him into your room, or quarters. “It’s nice to see you in that dress again is all.”
“Do I wear it a lot?” You ask, smoothing your hands down it.
“No, I’ve seen you wear it once and then never again. That was probably about six months ago, I think.” He sits on your bed as you turn to go to the fresher to fix your hair.
“So… Are you and I like… best friends?” You ask, smiling over at him before returning to look at yourself in the mirror.
He chuckles. “Yeah, I’d say so.”
“And I’m close with the 501st guys?”
“Very. They’ve literally been in bar fights to defend your honor.”
“Seriously?” Your jaw drops with amusement.
He nods with an amused smile. “A few times.”
“Do I have any other friends here? A family?” You ask, looking back over at him as you finish your hair.
“Did you not look at the datapad?” He grins.
“I skimmed some of it. The Academy stuff. I just haven’t had a minute.” You shrug. “Plus… I think I’m afraid to look at it in case I get… overwhelmed?”
He nods, understanding, and then stands up. “I’m here for you. Whatever you need. If you’d rather me tell you the contents of the datapad… I can do that.”
“Thank you, Kix.” You nod, throwing your arms around him, appreciatively.
He chuckles softly and hugs you back. “Of course.”
When you let go, he takes you in and makes you do a spin.
“You’re gonna have Rex Ol’ Boy on his knees.” Kix tells you as he opens the door and you laugh.
“I don’t know about that.” You go warm in the face.
“Trust me. I do.” He pats you on the back.
“Oh god…” You whine as the speeder cab lifts up into the air, making you grip Kix’s arm nervously, closing your eyes as your stomach lurches up into your chest.
It’s like being on a theme park ride but somehow worse.
Kix lets out a laugh, murmuring your name sweetly. “Open your eyes. Look out the window. Only way you’ll get used to it.”
You know he has a point. How are you expected to get used to this new life if you approach everything with fear?
“You know… where I come from… we have cars… and we have planes… but nothing like this…” You try to bring yourself to peek, definitely not letting go of your new best friend.
“What’s a plane?” Kix asks, clearly trying to distract you.
“Um… it flies. Carries people from place to place to be quicker than driving.” You try to explain.
“We call those shuttles.” He grins.
You smile back at him. “Right.”
You let out a nervous breath and then look out the window of the cab, noticing all the other flying cars. The lights of Coruscant seem to make everything just as bright in the nighttime as they do in the daytime.
“Wow.” You breathe, remembering how Rex was amused by how amazed you are with everything.
You really can’t wait to see him again. Will he like the dress? Does Rex dance? Or drink? There are so many things you want to find out about him. Things they never even thought of for the show. Like does he have a favorite color? Normally, that would be such a dull thing to ask on a first date… but with Rex, you truly want to know. You want to know everything about him. .
And you think he feels the same way about you.
When the speeder finally lands, you get out on slightly wobbly legs with Kix right behind you steadying you. The moment you look up, you see the humongous 79s screen and instantly grip onto Kix’s arm, grinning from ear to ear.
“Maker, you’d think you’d never been to a bar before.” Kix teases. “Wait, do they have bars where you’re from?”
You roll your eyes, amused. “Yes, Kix. We have bars where I’m from. But this… this place is somewhere I’ve always wanted to see more of.”
“So it’s in this… “television show”?” He asks, curiously.
You nod. “The first time we see it is when Fives is on the r-” You immediately stop yourself, not wanting to give away too much, too quickly. “You know what, it’s not important right now. We can talk about it later. Let’s go.”
Before he can ask more questions, you practically drag him inside. But also, you want to get away from the platform that just drops off. Now you think you know how Marlin felt in Finding Nemo. Honestly, so far, Coruscant just kinda seems like a death trap. You know the people from your country probably could not handle skylanes.
The moment you get into 79s, the music is almost like a strange mix between Pop and EDM. It’s not bad, just definitely not what you’re used to.
“What do you think?” Kix leans in toward your ear and asks.
“Wow.” Is all you can think to say.
You look around at all the people dancing and drinking with each other, noticing how nice it is to see the clones letting loose after seeing the absolute horrors of war.
“THERE SHE IS!” You look in time to see Fives notice you and Kix walking in and is already absolutely hammered apparently.
You grin widely at the 501st boys all crammed into the large round booth in the corner of the bar. There’s a large litter of empty glasses amongst them. Shots and beer glasses.
You scoot in between Tup and Kix as Fives slides you a shot.
“This is called a Canto Bite.” He grins as you look down at the shimmery pink drink that practically shines in the pink neon lighting of the bar.
“Pretty.” You start to pick it up but a pair of brown eyes across the bar stops you.
Rex walks in, dressed in black slacks and a long sleeve black shirt that’s different from the normal black bodysuit the clones usually wear under their armor.
He looks so good, dear god.
The moment his eyes lock with yours, you’re a puddle and your heart is racing. How can one man have such an effect on you?
Because he’s not just any man.
Rex makes his way over to the table, standing at the end and you look up at him, lips parted.
“Dance with me?” He offers his hand and Kix wordlessly gets up and moves out of your way so you can get up.
You nod and take Rex’s hand, letting him guide you out to the dance floor full of people not paying any sort of mind.
“Rex is dancing? Oh he’s got it bad.” Fives teases loudly making you smile up at the captain.
“Not much of a dancer?” You ask as he pulls you to himself.
His warm strong hand finds your lower back and your arms trail up around his neck, allowing for you to press yourself against his front.
The bass is loud, the lights are bright, and Rex is just perfect.
“No, I’m not.” He admits, leaning in close to your ear.
The bass of his voice is having more of an effect on you than the bass of the music.
“For you, though,” He pulls away slightly so he can grin down at you. “I can be.”
Fuck…
Rex pulls away further and before you can even question it, he spins you so your back is up against his front. His hand trails down your side until it’s splayed across your lower abdomen so that he can keep you against him while he helps you move to the music.
You’ve never grinded against a man in a nightclub in your life, but there’s always firsts for everything.
“You look incredible.” His voice is low in your ear and you find yourself clenching around nothing.
“Thank you.” You lean your head back against his shoulder to murmur into his ear.
“I swear sometimes… it feels like you were sent here to torture me.” He teases.
“Sounds like a you problem.” You smirk.
He chuckles in your ear, his nose brushing just under your ear and your hand runs up behind you to feel his smooth buzzed blond hair. Your nails rake slightly in a teasing manner, causing his free hand to grip your hip.
“It’s taking everything in me to remain a gentleman right now.” He breathes.
“Who said I wanted you to be?” You ask.
His lips find your bare shoulder and a chill runs down your spine.
“You should be very careful what you ask for, cyar’ika.” His lips press against your neck directly under your ear.
You don’t exactly know what that last word he says means but it sounds nice. The way his lips feel against your neck are somehow even more nice.
When you glance across the bar, over at the 501st boys, they’re all grinning like fools. Except Kix. Kix’s face is curiously solemn. Before your mind can even question it, he glances away, taking a drink. You turn your attention back to the captain who has you in his arms.
“You ready to go?” He asks, softly in your ear.
You nod, looking up at him with a smile. He takes your hand again, kissing it once as he looks into your eyes.
“Gotta let the lads know that we’re leaving.” Rex leads you back over to the 501st’s table as they’re mostly all smirking up at you and their captain. “Boys, we’re heading out. Kix, you’re in charge.”
Kix glances at you and then nods at Rex, his face serious. “Got it.”
Rex starts to lead you out of the bar, the 501st boys hooting and hollering in a teasing manner. You go warm all over at the thought of them possibly knowing what you and Rex might get up to tonight.
“That doesn’t bother you?” You ask, leaning into him, enjoying the way his hand feels in yours.
“You get used to the teasing from so many brothers.” He shrugs with an amused smile.
“That makes sense.” You laugh.
“Do you have any siblings?” He asks as the doors open, letting the welcoming cool Coruscanti air hit you in the face.
“In my other life or this one?” You ask with a smile even though you don’t know the answer to the latter.
“Your other life.” His thumb traces lazily along your hand, guiding you toward the platform edge where a cab is waiting.
“Mm. No. I’m an only child.” You shake your head.
“That sounds lonely.” He says, letting you into the cab first.
You shrug once you sit down. “Honestly, I kept to myself a lot growing up so I don’t think I even realized if I was missing out.”
You think back to your childhood. Sitting away from your classmates, reading under a tree at recess, eating lunch alone. It was rather lonely, you suppose.
You shrug when the door closes behind Rex. “It’s not a big deal anymore but, I think I’ve made more friends in the few days I’ve been here, than in my entire life.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, you’re one of us.” He leans in close and tells you.
The cabbie starts to pull away from the curb and you grip Rex’s arm tightly just like you did with Kix on the way to 79s. He chuckles just like Kix did.
“Not a fan of flying?”
“Oh no, I can do flying. This is… a hovering death trap.” You bury your face in Rex’s neck and he nudges his nose against your hair.
“Cyar’ika…” He murmurs, his voice low.
“What does that word mean?” You peek up at him, his brown eyes nearly black.
You don’t think you’ve ever seen lustblown eyes up close. This is… intoxicating.
“It means ‘sweetheart’ in Mando’a.” He tells you softly, his eyes falling to your lips.
You grin, glancing at his lips as well. “I like the way you say it. Say it again.”
“Cyar’ika.” He murmurs.
The fact that this man hasn’t kissed you yet feels absolutely criminal.
“Say some other things in Mando’a?” You politely ask.
“Hm…” He thinks for a minute. “Well… If I were to think you’re beautiful, which I very much do…” He slides his hand down to your thigh with a soft thoughtful smile. “I’d call you mesh’la.”
“Fives called me that when I first woke up here…” You tell him, amused.
“Of course he did.” He chuckles. “You make me briikase. Happy.”
“I do?”
“Very much. If someone were to ask me to describe you,” He murmurs, his hand sliding up your thigh. “I’d say you were dral and mirdala. Bright and Clever.”
Unable to hold back any longer, you crush your lips to his. He lets out a breathless groan against you and his entire hand grips your thigh with absolute need. He kisses you back with the same need that matches the way he’s holding you and you know you’re never going to get enough of this.
The cabbie mutters something at the two of you with an attitude. You’re not sure what he’s saying but Rex rolls his eyes as he pulls away from you only slightly, clearly understanding the man.
“What did he say?” You go warm in the face.
“He says no sex in the cab.” Rex smiles sheepishly.
“Oh.” You go even warmer in the face.
Rex smirks at you and then brushes his lips against yours as if he’s unable to help himself.
“Don’t worry. I’m a patient man.” He playfully squeezes your thigh.
Speak for yourself, you think to yourself, excited to see what the rest of the night brings.
Congratulations yari bb!! I love all your work! You're so so soooo talented and you deserve all of the praise and love this site could offer!! Anywayyy, could I have a little drabble with this quote prompt please?
17) “swallow your pride.” “i’d rather swallow concrete.”
bucky barnes x reader
a/n: EEEEE thank you so much my love <3 this was def more than a lil drabble whoops and uhhh ?? angst idk sorry
warnings: 18+, mdni, established relationship, language, argument, angst
word count: 1.1k
yari's 1k celebration: requests are open!
Fabric clung to your bones, soaking through your skin, and freezing every single cell in your body as your shaking fingers attempted to shove the key through the hole. All you wanted to do was get inside your apartment, jump into the shower, and sleep.
Well– sleep wouldn’t come easy. You hadn’t been able to sleep in over three and a half weeks since your “loving” boyfriend had disappeared on you without a single word. No call, no text, no fucking sticky note on the fridge for you to see when you woke up after he fucked you into the mattress the night before.
After the anger had dissipated, all that was left was worry. Fear. Sorrow.
You had been beside yourself with grief and panic, even though you knew that you really didn’t have to be. Despite it all– this was the longest that he had gone without contacting you. You’d thrown up several times out of pure stress just thinking about what could go wrong. Your head felt as though it had been split into two, and you moved as if you were dragging yourself through the mud. You were emotional, lethargic, and overall just a fucking mess.
The sound of the rain beating against your building masked the creaking noise of your door opening as you pushed it open. You immediately toed off your shoes, ready to kick them off to the side somewhere–
Your eyes fell on black combat boots, neatly lined up against the wall.
“You got caught up in that storm?”
Your head snapped upwards, finding the man responsible for all your grief suddenly standing before you. You couldn’t breathe. He was fine– just as the rational part of your brain had told you. But were you?
Bucky approached you, hands already grabbing the plastic bag that you had in your hand– it had some ibuprofen and melatonin along with a microwave dinner that you knew you weren’t going to eat.
“Doll, you should take a shower. You might get sick if you stay in those wet clo–”
“When did you get back?” you cut him off, your voice soft.
He paused for a second. Didn’t answer you. You let out a slow breath, one that shook from both the chill that ran through your body and from trying to keep your temper. You looked up at him, meeting his eyes.
“Answer me.”
“Two days ago.”
Your eyes shut, and you nodded slowly. “And you just… didn’t think to call me? Text me?”
“I’m here right now, aren’t I?” he muttered.
When you looked at him again, there was a crease between his eyebrows as he stared down at you. He looked… confused.
“You really don’t get it, do you?” you asked, a breathy laugh escaping your lips.
“Get what?”
“You’re not even going to apologize to me– you left me!”
Bucky blinked rapidly, eyebrows shooting up towards his hairline in shock at the sudden raise of your voice. His lips parted as his nostrils flared. In a quick moment, everything about him closed off. He stood taller, shoulders squared off and strong. There was a tick in his jaw, and a vein down the side of his neck.
This was not the man that you had first met.
“You knew what you signed up for when we got together,” he said. His voice was thick and heavy– not something that you were too familiar with, but you’d heard before in passing when he was in the other room, on the phone barking out orders.
Bucky was talking to you like he was talking to one of his teammates.
“Sure,” you scoffed. “But does that mean that I am not entitled to some form of communication? You’re going to leave me here twiddling my fucking thumbs while I wait for you to come home from a war that I don’t know about?”
“You know I can’t tell you about the missions–”
“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it!”
The rain outside did little to muffle the sound of your voice bouncing off of the walls. Your chest rose and fell in an unnatural rhythm as you stared at him, your heart threatening to crawl up your throat and bare itself to Bucky.
“I don’t know what you want me to do,” he muttered.
“Apologize for leaving for nearly a month– that would be a great start.”
Bucky’s eyes shut as he released a breath, trying to contain his own anger, but it was building within him. “Again– you knew what you signed up for when we got together.”
“I signed up for a boyfriend that loved me enough to tell me that he was alive! You did it before, why couldn’t you do it this time?”
“I can’t tell you the specifications of why I was gone– I’m not fucking apologizing for that shit!” he argued with you.
“Oh, swallow your pride,” you spat at him. “This was fucked up and you know it– you don’t get just to leave and come back whenever like I’m fucking convenient!”
“You’re not– I never said that!” he stammered out, shaking his head.
“Then apologize,” you pleaded with him, voice cracking with your words. “You were home for two days and you never… you didn’t even think to let me know? Can you just tell me you’re sorry for making me worry?”
“You know that I have to be away for long periods of time. I’m not apologizing,” he grunted, shaking his head as he looked at you. “I would rather swallow concrete.”
You could feel your heart shriveling up in your chest as you stared at him. Those blue eyes that you adored that once were full of warmth felt colder than the clothes that melted into your skin. Despite the chill, you were no longer shaking. A different kind of calm settled over your body.
“I can’t do this anymore,” you whispered.
You pushed past him, feeling Bucky’s body tense up at your words. Even so, he didn’t chase you as you disappeared further down the hall into your bedroom. You could hear him collect his things, lace up his shoes, then shut the front door behind him.
There was no fight.
No last words.
Only silence dancing to the sound of the retreating storm.
You barely made it to the toilet to expel the half eaten sandwich you had at lunch as the tears finally spilled over your eyes. You hardly had the strength to push yourself to your feet, intent on rinsing out your mouth at the sink. You stared at yourself in the mirror, dread filling your stomach as you reflected on the past twenty minutes.
Bile rose from the back of your throat again– and another feeling settled in your gut as you lifted your head from the toilet rim. This was another, unsettling emotion– one that made you start trembling altogether again as you clutched your stomach.
The weight of the emptiness in the apartment had never been heavier.
Pairing: Congressman! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Warnings: 18+ just in case. Fluff. Slight Angst. Eventual Smut.
Summary: Bucky agrees to a discreet cleaning service to tend to his apartment while he’s away. He never expected the care of someone he’d never met to become the gentlest part of his daily life.
Word Count: About 5.3k.
He didn't want the cleaning service at first.
Too invasive, too fussy. Too awkward to let strangers enter a place that he was still learning to feel like a home. But his staff had insisted, gently but firmly. He was a public figure now. The service company came highly recommended as discreet and secure. No need for small talk or eye contact. Just clean surfaces and food that didn’t come in plastic bags.
The company had a key. They came while he was out. Twice a week, no more, no less. Floors scrubbed, bed made, fridge stocked with two fresh meals, laundry done and folded. Neutral. Efficient. He hadn’t asked for more.
Didn’t think he needed it.
And for almost two months, it stayed that way. Predictable and impersonal.
Then something changed.
It wasn’t obvious at first. Just a faint jasmine scent on the floorboards when he came in one Thursday. A softness in the towels that hadn't been there before. He didn't know what laundry soap she used now, but it remained faintly on his undershirts and stayed there, even under the starch and suits.
And the food. He didn’t remember requesting a change to "homestyle", but something about the new meals felt different. Simpler. Hearty. Less... curated. There were potatoes done the way his ma used to make them, string beans cooked soft and salted instead of bright and snappy. Meatloaf. Stew. Biscuits wrapped in a cloth napkin, like someone didn’t want them to go cold too fast.
He didn’t mind the change. In fact, he found himself looking forward to Tuesdays and Thursdays now. Found himself standing in the doorway just a little longer when he got home.
Found himself breathing deeper.
And he hadn't realized how much that mattered until the jasmine scent was gone, for two visits. A week without it. Like someone else had stepped in for the shifts and didn’t use her supplies. Whoever she was.
He didn’t ask the company about it. That would make it a thing. It wasn’t a thing.
But when it came back, subtle and soft under his front door, he realized he’d missed it.
----
It wasn’t supposed to be a long-term thing.
Just a stopgap. Something stable while she figured things out, something to get the rent paid, to keep food on the table, to keep her hands busy so her head wouldn’t spiral.
That was four years ago.
The flower shop had gone up with the smoke one winter night, an electrical fault, they said. Faulty fuse box. Nothing she could’ve done. And still, the insurance company found a way to wriggle free of every promise. Negligence was the word they leaned on. Cold. Precise. Final. She still dreamed of that smell sometimes, wet ash, scorched petals, the soil turning to a black sludge.
So she cleaned.
Her friend knew someone at the company and vouched for her. It was a clean-cut operation, specializing in silence, efficiency, and making life easier for the rich and important people without ever getting too close. Names weren’t shared. No questions asked. The job was: arrive, clean, cook if requested, and leave before the client came home.
Most were just properties, not homes. Untouched bookshelves, empty fridges, decor chosen by someone with a spreadsheet. She never lingered too much.
When Carla from the Thursday-Tuesday rotation quit -something about her kid and the commute- her boss messaged her directly.
“Solid client. Single guy. High profile. Interested?”
She said yes without thinking before asking for the address.
It wasn’t far. A decent building in a quiet street. She filled the product request form immediately, asking for the brands she liked, floor soap with jasmine, the laundry liquid that didn’t smell like hotel sheets, and the dried lavender flask. Her own little signatures. It wasn’t for them, it was for her. To stick with comfortable scents.
The first time she stepped inside the place, she noticed the simplicity. No clutter. No pictures. No smell of cigarettes. No designer furniture. Just white walls and clean counters and a coffee mug still wet in the sink.
A little lonely if you ask her, but simpler to maintain. She liked it.
Two hours later, the place gleamed, the fridge held two containers of stew, and the air smelled faintly of jasmine and lemon balm. She clicked the door behind her with satisfaction.
It wasn’t a dream job.
But it was good enough.
And after what she’d been through, good enough meant everything.
----
She hadn’t meant to snoop.
It was just a quick wipe-down of the table near the entryway, as always, a change tray, a small pile of unopened mail. Standard. Most of the time, she didn’t even glance at the envelopes, just moved them aside with the back of her hand.
But that day, one slipped, and she caught it without thinking.
Her eyes hit the name before she could look away.
Barnes, James B.
Blocky letters. Government seal in the corner.
Her stomach gave a weird little flip.
She held the envelope longer than she should’ve, her fingers still pressed against the smooth paper. Her eyes narrowed slightly.
James Barnes.
It couldn’t be-
But it was.
She’d watched the hearings on the news like everyone else back then, back when Zemo’s little show had dragged old ghosts into the daylight. A face all over every channel. “The Winter Soldier.” The monster in grainy Hydra footage, all blood, violence, and blank stares. She remembered digging deeper online, reading words she didn’t even want to say aloud, conditioning, assassination programs, cryogenic freezing, psychological mutilation.
And now here she was. Wiping his countertops.
And then the pardon came. The press cycle burned out. People moved on.
Now, he was in a suit, making speeches with his jaw clenched too tightly, his voice low and unslick. Every opponent had tried to gut him with his past, throwing his record into the dirt, dragging out death counts like headlines. But he’d held. Barely. Visibly. A man trying not to bolt every time a flash went off.
A sharp breath escaped her lips. She looked around like the walls might suddenly see her differently.
So he was her boss.
It made sense now, the spartan apartment, despite the nice neighborhood. No trace of friends or family. The closed door at the end of the hall that was always locked, marked clearly on the service sheet as "no access."
She’d joked once, silently, looking at that door, that the guy had spy gear in there. Or was a serial killer, and the day she finds it casually opened and dares to enter… that is how scary movies started.
She placed the envelope back where it had been and straightened it.
He was just a man.
A man who’d been through hell, and wanted clean floors and warm food waiting when he got home. She stood there a second longer, her hand resting on the top of the table. Then moved on. Quietly, like always.
----
She didn’t tell anyone she’d figured it out. The company wouldn’t have liked it, and it didn’t matter anyway, her job hadn’t changed. Wipe. Sweep. Wash. Cook. Lock up. The routine stayed the same. But she didn’t.
Now that she knew who he was, really was, it changed how she moved through the apartment.
She caught herself slowing down near the closed door at the end of the hall, imagining what was behind it. She didn’t pry. Never would. But she started noticing the little things he did leave visible.
A stack of books on the coffee table. Nonfiction, history, psychology, one with bent pages about PTSD. The way he always left the light on in the kitchen window, like he hated coming home to a dark place. A blue coffee mug with a tiny chip on the handle that he still used every day.
And the food.
She started tweaking the meals. Small things at first. Mashed potatoes with extra butter. Slowly roasted chicken instead of grilled. Stew with more salt, more depth.
No complaints.
So she kept going.
On Thursdays, after she cleaned and cooked and made sure everything was just so, she started leaving something extra on the counter.
A small cake.
A batch of oatmeal cookies.
A little apple pie tucked into a glass container, still warm.
Never something fancy. Never store-bought. Comfort things. Something sweet to come home to.
----
It started with the pie.
He came home late that Thursday, later than usual, the suit jacket slung over his shoulder, tie half-pulled, his eyes prickling. He was tired. Not physically, he didn’t get tired, but mentally exhausted.
The apartment smelled like something sweet.
Not the jasmine, that was there too, soft as always. No, this was heavier. Baked. Warm.
He set his keys down and found it on the counter.
Pie. Still holding the faintest trace of oven heat. No label. Just there. Waiting. Like someone knew the kind of day he’d had. Like someone thought maybe a man like him deserved something that tasted like comfort.
He stared at it too long before putting it in the fridge. He didn’t eat it that night. Didn’t want to ruin it with his exhaustion.
But the next day, after a cold shower and half a night’s sleep, he sat at the kitchen island, bare feet on cool tile, fork in hand.
And it was good.
He didn’t tell the service anything. Didn’t leave feedback. Didn't know how. What was he supposed to say? Thanks for the pie?
But the next Thursday, there were cookies. Chewy centers, crispy edges, cinnamon that remained on his tongue longer than it should’ve. He ate them standing up, staring out the window.
By the third week -banana bread, nutty and dense- he started leaving that part of the counter a little clearer. No old mugs, no bowl with fruits. Just space, just in case something else showed up.
And it did.
Always something different. Never too much. Never presumptuous. Just… a simple gift. From someone he’d never seen, whose name he didn’t know, who folded his laundry and cooked his food and smelled like jasmine and something warmer he couldn’t describe.
He found himself trying to imagine her.
Not in a crude way. Not like that. Just- what kind of person did this? Left sweetness behind without asking for thanks? What kind of person looked at a stranger’s life, his particular, lonely life, and thought: he could use something soft?
He started looking forward to Thursdays.
Started coming home earlier, if he could.
And sometimes, on Wednesday nights, he caught himself wondering what she’d leave next.
----
He nearly stepped on it.
The soft clink under his heel made him freeze mid-step, one foot on the air, the other rooted to the floor. He looked down, expecting a dropped spoon maybe, or one of those damn loose buttons that always slipped free from his cuffs.
But it was a chain.
Delicate. Faintly tarnished. A single flower pendant in the center. Tiny petals worked in silver, something between a daisy and a wild rose. He crouched down slowly, brushing it carefully from the floor.
He held it up by the chain and watched it spin gently in the kitchen light.
Definitely not his. No one else had been here.
His mouth tugged into the barest line of surprise.
She must’ve dropped it. This invisible woman who moved through his home when he was gone, who left behind jasmine-scented floors and meals that tasted like someone gave a damn.
The pendant was feminine. A little worn at the edges. Something someone had owned for a while. Not a girl’s thing, not trendy. Something with history.
He found himself thinking: She must be older.
The food made sense now. So did the conditioner, the kind his ma used when he was young, not the chemical-heavy invasive crap most places sold now. And the way things were placed in soft order, not a strict pattern. Not hotel-precise, but thoughtful. Folded throw blanket on the couch. A corner of the towel lifted just so on the rack. She moved like someone used to making spaces feel lived-in. Comfortable.
He imagined her with silver hair twisted up loosely. Glasses maybe. Someone in her sixties. Maybe a widow.
He ran his thumb over the edge of the flower.
He’d return it, of course. Leave it on the kitchen island next visit, maybe tucked into a small dish so she’d see it. But for now… he pocketed it gently. Just for the night.
And for reasons he didn’t examine too closely, he kept it by his bed.
Just until Thursday.
----
She didn’t notice it was gone until she got home.
Her fingers went instinctively to her collarbone while she peeled off her sweater, reaching for the familiar curve of the chain, and touched skin instead. She froze. Then checked the hem, the collar, the folds of the fabric, like maybe it got caught somehow. But it wasn’t there.
She checked the pockets of her coat. Her bag. Nothing.
Her throat closed.
The pendant.
A silver flower, soft-edged with age. It had been her grandmother’s. A gift the day she opened the flower shop, “something to bloom beside you,” she’d said, pressing it into her palm with the fierce kind of pride old women had.
The shop was gone now. Ashes and soot. And now this, too.
She didn’t want to cry, but the grief crept up anyway, quiet and unwelcome. She sat on the edge of her bed and stared at her open hands like they might explain where she’d lost it.
It had to be today. It was clasped this morning. She was sure of it.
She hadn’t wanted to say anything. It was unprofessional, and the company discouraged personal contact. But after half an hour of chewing her lip and pacing the kitchen, she gave in and sent a message.
Hi, I think I may have left something at the Tuesday/Thursday apartment. A small silver pendant on a chain. Could you possibly reach out to the client to check if it turned up?
The reply came later. Too short. Too cold.
We’ll pass the message along, but please be more careful in the future. We cannot guarantee a response from the client.
That was it.
She didn’t know if they’d actually tell him. Probably not. He was important. A man like him had more to worry about than a necklace dropped by a service worker.
She sighed, rubbing the spot at her collarbone like she could will its shape back.
It felt stupid to mourn something so small. But it wasn’t about the chain.
It was about her grandmother’s hand on hers. The smell of peonies in the air. That little key they used to hang from the wall behind the register. The shop that had been her heart for six full years before it burned out.
Now that pendant would be somewhere in a trash bin, swept up with crumbs, or stuck to the back of a counter.
Almost poetic, really.
The flower shop was gone. Now the pendant was too.
----
He looked a it longer than he meant to.
He just… liked having it there. On his nightstand. In the quiet. It didn’t do anything, just caught the light in the mornings. But it felt like a presence. A reminder that someone moved through his life with gentleness.
When Thursday came, he gently polished the chain with a cloth, then neatly put it inside the dish where she usually left him the things she found on the floor, like buttons, coins, or a solitary cufflink. But it looked too bare like that. Too transactional.
He hesitated. Then grabbed his coat and headed down the street.
The corner market had a little stand, mostly overpriced bouquets, but he wasn’t after those. He scanned the selection until he found it, behind the roses and lilies. A single stem of fresia. Pale, almost white. Clean.
It reminded him of his ma’s apron pockets.
He took it home, trimmed the end with his pocketknife, and laid it next to the dish.
The necklace, and beside it, the flower.
No note. He wouldn’t know what to write. And she didn’t leave him notes either. He stepped back from the counter.
For a long moment, he just looked at it, this odd little shrine of softness in his too-empty kitchen.
For the woman who folded his shirts like with care.
For the food that tasted like memory.
For the silence that didn’t feel hollow anymore.
----
She wasn’t expecting anything.
By now, she’d accepted the pendant was gone. No one from the company had followed up. If they’d reached out to the client, she hadn’t heard about it.
Maybe she’d dropped it outside. Or it got tangled in the laundry and swept up by accident. Maybe it was meant to be. It was just another echo of the life she used to have. Another piece of the shop, of her grandmother, gone.
That Thursday, she came in like always. Hung up her coat. Tied her apron. She was about to drop to her knees in front of the cabinet under the sink to grab the spray and rag, but as she walked toward it, something caught her eye.
Not clutter -he never left clutter-. But something light. Pale. She stepped closer, curious.
It was a flower. It sat on the kitchen island like it had been placed with care. A single fresia stem. A little old-fashioned, but beautiful and with a wonderful scent. Her breath caught, but not because of what it was, but because of why it was there. Her pendant.
She reached out slowly, and her fingers remained at a brief distance just over the curve of the chain, like it might vanish if she touched it too quickly.
There it was. Pooled neatly inside the “found things” dish.
He’d found it.
She stood there longer than she meant to, with her hand still resting beside the little flower. It wasn’t just the gesture of returning it. It was the wayhe did it. With something lovely and thoughtful.
She decided to bake that lemon cake she loved for that day. The one with poppy seeds in the batter and the glaze. She had bought them to make it for herself, but she wanted to say thank you. So she reached for her purse and put the little bag with the seeds on the counter for later.
----
The apartment smelled faintly of lemon.
It swirled in the air differently than the usual jasmine. As he walked inside, he picked up the sugar, the warm scent of golden batch.
Not store-bought. Tangy-sweet and soft.
He moved toward the kitchen.
And there, right beside the dish, right where he’d left her fresia, A lemon cake, cooling on a small wooden board he didn’t even remember owning, golden, the white glaze still not dried.
He didn’t move for a second. Just stood there, looking at it.
He reached out and ran his index finger lightly over the glaze. It was tacky with citrus and sugar. Fresh.
He cut a slice in silence and sat at the kitchen island to eat it, the plate barely making a sound on the counter. He chewed slowly, letting the flavor unfurl, bright lemon, the crunch of seeds, the softness of something made from scratch.
It was the best thing he’d tasted in weeks.
And somehow, that mattered more than he wanted to admit.
The pendant had meant something to her. He knew that now. The flower had been his way of saying he saw it. And this cake, it felt like her way of saying thank you.
They still hadn’t met. Still hadn’t spoken, probably never will. But something was happening here, two people sharing a quiet room in mismatched moments of the day, still passing warmth between them.
He reached for a second slice.
And for the first time in days, he really smiled.
----
He should’ve checked the schedule.
The Capitol steps shone under his shoes as he stood there, blinking at the empty air where the aides and staffers should’ve been.
No session.
A recess day for constituent travel, or maybe one of those informal pro forma sessions that didn’t need his presence. Whatever it was, no one told him. Or maybe they had, and he hadn’t listened. Either way, he was there, alone, overdressed, and already caught by the click of a single paparazzi camera from across the street.
James Buchanan Barnes, rookie congressman, looking confused as hell.
He bit down a curse and didn’t give the lens anything else to work with, just turned on his heel and headed for the car, schooling his face into neutrality.
Halfway through the drive home, it hit him.
She’s there today.
He gripped the wheel tightly. He could turn around, kill time somewhere, a coffee shop, a walk in the park, or hit the gym even though he wasn’t in the mood. He could also disappear into the back room of his apartment without being noticed and pretend no one was in there.
But who was he kidding? He wanted to know her. The motherly voice behind the lemon cake. The gentle scent of dried lavender on the satchels she left inside his pillowcases, soothing, helping him rest. The woman who turned his empty apartment into something he trusted to come home to.
The elevator ride felt slower than usual. His pulse didn’t match the rhythm of the floor numbers ticking upward.
He reached the hallway.
He stepped in front of his door and heard it, the faint sound of music. Seemed like some kind of pop-rock thing.
Not what he had expected.
As he slowly walked in, he noticed that the music came from the kitchen, so he stealthily moved toward it. He didn’t want to stalk her, just… watch her a little without being noticed.
Baby, I'm preying on you tonight
Hunt you down eat you alive
Just like animals
Animals
Like animals
Ok. He didn’t expect that type of lyrics and the kind lady cleaning his house put together either. Curious, he reached the open door and-
Maybe you think that you can hide
I can smell your scent for miles
Just like animals
Animals
Like animals-mals
It wasn’t an old lady, that was for sure. No ache on her hips, since she seemed to undulate them following the rhythm, tantalizingly fine. Also, she seemed to know the song, since she sang it pretty well as she danced while wiping the counter.
A very suggestive prose, by the way.
He stared at her, and his brain tripped over the disconnection between the image he’d built in his head and the woman in front of him, completely unaware that she was being watched.
But I get so high when I’m inside you-
She turned.
Her yelp was half-squeal, half-breathless gasp. One hand flew to her chest. The other snatched her phone off the counter and slammed the music off with a panicked swipe.
Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, but a few strands had fallen loose as she danced, brushing her cheek. She looked flustered, very much not the prim apron-and-hairnet matron he’d imagined all these months.
They stared at each other.
Heat gathered at the tips of her ears and along her cheeks. Not embarrassment, no, something different. Like her brain was already halfway through cataloging every second of what he’d just witnessed.
Then her expression changed, as if she had snapped out of the initial surprise. She straightened her posture, pulling professionalism over herself like a second skin.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” she said quickly, looking at the floor. “I- I was supposed to be alone. If I’d known, I would never-”
“No, no,” he interrupted her, stepping forward instinctively. “It’s alright. I- uh. I wasn’t supposed to be here.”
It felt absurd, saying that in his own kitchen.
He cleared his throat. “Something came up, and I forgot today was your shift.”
The lie passed his lips smoothly.
She stood still, with her phone in her hand, every part of her body visibly tense, like one wrong move might get her fired. The cozy warmth from a few minutes ago was locked out behind a door of fear.
He didn’t want that.
He didn’t want her to feel that way at all.
She turned around, reaching for the dish towel she’d set aside, her fingers trembling visibly even as she tried to mask it. “I’ll be done in a few minutes, sir. Or if you prefer, I can return another day to finish-”
“No,” he said again, softer this time. “You don’t have to go.”
She glanced at him, faintly furrowing her brows.
He looked away.
The kitchen smelled like citrus cleaner and something hearty cooking in the oven. The kind of warmth he was craving to find in his nameplate apartment. And here they were, strangers, but he already felt her more familiar than she should be.
“I’ll stay out of your way,” he added, half-mumbling, and stepped back toward the hallway.
----
She didn’t move until she heard his retreating footsteps, and the door shut. The one she was told never to enter, the one locked every time she came.
Her heartbeat hadn't calmed down.
Not even close.
In four years with the company, she had never -never- crossed paths with a client. The contracts were built around that. No contact. No overlap. No room for awkwardness.
And now… this.
Congressman Barnes had just walked into his own home and caught her shaking her ass in his kitchen to a song about animalistic sex.
She exhaled hard through her nose and pressed the heels of her hands into the counter, trying to calm herself.
He didn’t seem mad. That was something.
Not a single sign of disgust or irritation. No barking orders. No tight-lipped reprimand about inappropriate conduct.
But that didn’t mean anything.
People in power didn’t have to scold you to ruin your job. They could just make a call. Ask for a switch. Flag you quietly. Label you unprofessional in one neat sentence.
Fuck.
She bit her lip and forced herself to move, grabbed the rag, and started wiping the faucet.
The pendant. The flower.
Those things had meant something. Or at least, she thought they had. A man who did that kind of gesture wasn’t cold. He wasn’t cruel.
But that was before this shitshow.
Before he saw her dancing around his countertops like a teenager with a hairbrush mic.
What if she got fired?
What the hell was she going to do?
The rent was due next week. Groceries were already thin. She didn’t even want to think about the dentist’s appointment she’d been rescheduling.
She wiped harder, moving her arms faster than they needed to, because if she didn’t keep moving, her hands would start shaking again.
And the thing that made it worse?
She hadn’t felt so seen in a long, long time.
And now all she wanted to do was vanish.
----
He tried to read the bill.
The same goddamn bill he’d opened five times this week and dropped five times more.
Something about infrastructure grants and zoning development for public parks in outlying districts. Important, supposedly. But it droned in his brain like static, paragraphs bloated with legal phrasing, clauses stacked like bricks in a wall he couldn’t make himself scale.
His eyes scanned the same sentence again.
Still nothing stuck.
Because underneath the words, under the dead weight of legislative jargon, he could hear her.
The subtle movements. Efficient. The soft drag of a towel over tile. The squeak of a cupboard hinge. Running water. Her steps.
She hadn’t fled.
But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t.
He rubbed his jaw with the back of his knuckles and leaned back in the chair, briefly closing his eyes, trying to block out the memory of her startled face, of how she froze, how quickly she apologized, how she’d looked at him like he was someone who could undo her whole life with a phone call.
He hadn’t meant to scare her.
He hadn’t meant to catch her, either. The music, the sway of her body. That bright little pocket of joy had been private. Intimate in a way he wasn’t supposed to see.
What if she requested a transfer?
What if she told the company he was intrusive or uncomfortable to work around? What if she disappeared, and the next time he walked through his door, the air smelled like ammonia and pine, the food tasted sterile, and there were no more dried lavender satchels tucked into his pillowcase?
He wouldn't complain.
He’d never say a word.
But it’d affect him more than he liked to admit.
He looked at the time and did some quick math.
She usually left at a quarter past four. Sometimes earlier if she finished ahead of schedule.
If he went out there at just the right moment, said something -anything- it might make a difference.
He didn’t want to corner her. Didn’t want to put her on edge. But he also didn’t want his apartment to go back to what it was before she came.
So he waited.
Just long enough.
Let the minutes tick by.
And when he heard the final rattle of a spray bottle being returned to its caddy, he stood up, cracked the door, and stepped out.
----
She rubbed a bit of cream into her hands, working it into the skin between each knuckle, then reached for her coat and bag by the door. Almost done. One more minute and she’d be out.
She heard the footsteps before she saw him.
She turned her head, and her heart lunched all over again.
He was in different clothes now. Every day stuff, a dark pair of jeans and a worn blue henley that pulled a little across his shoulders. If she’d passed him on the street, she’d think he was a normal guy. Quiet guy. Maybe one of those who always held the door open without making eye contact.
But she knew better.
She straightened her back and made herself speak.
“Is there anything you need, sir?” she asked, almost a murmur.
He stopped a few feet from her and looked up. Sir. He didn’t like how it sounded, it felt awkward. But he understood the boundaries.
He scratched the side of his neck. “I just wanted to say I, uh…” His gaze dropped briefly, then returned to her. “I liked the lemon cake. A lot.”
A beat.
“And I was wondering if… maybe you’d make it again sometime?”
He shifted his weight, slightly uncomfortable. “I’ll get the seeds. The ones you used, if you tell me what they are, and leave them in the cabinet with the spices and the other stuff.”
There it was. A quiet request.
Not only a I liked it, but also a I want you to come back.
The weight in her chest lifted enough to let her smile without thinking.
“Poppy,” she said. “They’re poppy seeds.”
He found himself smiling too. A mirror of hers.
“And sure, sir. I’ll do it again if you want me to.”
There was a pause.
His fingers grazed the back of his neck, like the words he was about to say needed to be coaxed out of him.
“I know about the politics,” he said quietly. “The rules. But… we already broke one.”
His voice was rougher now, gentler.
“Would you mind if we introduced ourselves?” A beat. “Since I don’t know. I feel it’s the proper thing to do.”
She blinked just once, surprised. Not by his tone, but maybe by the fact that he’d asked. Then the surprise changed to a soft smile again, and she gave him her name.
He nodded. “James Barnes,” he said, almost sheepishly. His hands stayed loose at his sides, like he didn’t want to risk making her uncomfortable again. “It was nice to meet you.”
I would like a request which is heavy. I checked your do and don’t list and didn’t see this here so I thought I’d request. Please ignore if you don’t want to do this at all.
I was wondering if you could do something with tech and a female reader where reader gets attacked and experiences attempted SA (it does not have to be detailed) and he finds her after. I do not want it romanticised in any way, I’m just curious how he would react. It’s important topic for me and many and I feel like you of all people will do it justice. Thank you if you consider to do this. I’m also going to PM you about it ❤️
Heavy Rain
Pairings: Tech X FemaleReader
word count:
Sensitive content -please read with caution.
Plot: When Tech receives a transmission for him to help you alone, he did not expect what he would stumble upon.
Warnings: Trigger content ahead. This is your warning. ⚠️ Heavily implied attempts of sexual assault, descriptions of blood, scratching and bruising. Platonic relationship. Care and comfort. There is no romanticism in this fic.
The rain was falling harder now. A steady, unrelenting downpour against the durasteel walls of Ord Mantell’s alleyways and freight zones.
Tech didn’t notice it at first, his time taken up by being wedged beneath a control panel, coaxing frayed wiring back into order with practiced focus.
Then came the comm ping. At first he didn’t think much of it but then noticed that it was private and from you. Usually, you would access the shared comm channel and he was not typically your first point of call.
You had recently just gone out, maybe thirty minutes or so to ‘stretch your legs’ as you recalled to Echo. And despite your better judgement after Echo told you it was to rain soon, you still went out.
“This is Tech,” he answered automatically, pressing the switch at the side of his helmet.
There was static. Then a voice. Small and what sounds like shaking. “…Tech… I need… assistance.”
He didn’t look away from the panel. “I am a little preoccupied at this moment. May I pass this on to someone else—”
“No!”
Your voice cracked, the panic bleeding through even with poor signal. The single word halted him mid-sentence.
“J-just… follow my coordinates. Come alone. Please.”
That made him pause.
He pulled himself out from his task and sat up fully, eyes narrowing at the screen as your location pinged across his datapad. The map showed you just outside the freight district, not far from where the Marauder was docked.
“Do you require medical assistance?” he asked.
There was nothing but then , barely audible:
“…Yeah. D-don’t tell the others.”
Tech exhaled slowly through his nose. He didn’t like keeping things from the squad — especially not things that clearly involved distress, injury, or anything that altered plans. But something in your voice was off. He couldn’t parse it logically, but it felt wrong.
“Very well,” he said at last, grabbing his datapad. He stops by the gangplank, seeing the heavy rain and acknowledges that might need something warm and so grabbed a cloak that belonged to wrecker. “I am on my way.”
The walk turned into a jog the moment he stepped out into the rain.
It was heavier than expected, water soaking into his boots and gloves as he followed the tracker. The city around him was unusually quiet, the usual hustle muted by weather and late hour.
Tech’s eyes stayed glued to the scanner. The ping grew stronger.
He turned a corner, slowing to a halt as the signal chimed its proximity. The scanner indicated you were directly in front of him… but he didn’t see you.
Nothing but crates, a flickering streetlamp, and rain.
Then—
“Tech,” your voice croaked.
He turned sharply. You were behind a crate. Tucked away between two stacked shipping containers, your legs drawn to your chest, soaked through. Your body shrouded in the shadows.
He moved instantly, closing the distance in three long strides before crouching down to your level.
“Your nose is bleeding,” he observed, scanning your face, his tone neither panicked nor passive. Just focused. “And your lip appears swollen. Have you fallen over?”
You didn’t answer. Just closed your eyes as the rain poured down around both of you.
He leaned in, angling your shoulder forward to check for a head injury. No visible signs of concussion, though you were trembling. Your fingers dug into your sleeves. He didn’t miss the way your breathing skipped unevenly in your chest.
“Have you sustained a head wound?” he asked again, a little more gently now.
You shook your head.
Tech hesitated.
“Then I require clarification,” he said carefully. “You called for assistance. You are injured, visibly distressed. I need you to explain to me what has happened.”
Your breath hitched.
Then came the sob — sudden, strangled — as your hand flew to your mouth, like you could shove it back inside. Tech blinked, startled. It was a sound very rarely heard from anyone in the squad. He watched as you collapsed further into yourself, shaking from more than just the cold.
He reached for his comm, thumb brushing the toggle to alert Hunter.
Your eyes widened and then your hand shot out, grabbing his wrist with frantic force.
“No! Don’t!” you gasped. “Don’t call them, don’t call anyone!”
Tech froze in confusion. The strength of your reaction jolted him.
“I don’t want them to see me like this,” you stammered. Your words were broken, breathless, collapsing over one another.
“Omega, Omega can’t—I can’t and Echo will ask questions and Crosshair will know, and I just—”
You were hyperventilating now, voice tangled and messy, and Tech’s hand remained frozen where you held him.
“Okay,” he said at last, quietly. “I will not contact them. Not unless you ask me to.”
Your grip loosened slightly, and your eyes dropped to the soaked ground.
“Tell me,” Tech continued. His voice was low, unwavering, his expression unreadable. “Please tell me exactly what has happened. Have you been attacked?”
You bit back a whimper, your breath faltering again. Then almost mechanically you began to shift.
Your legs parted slowly, and Tech instinctively leaned back to give you space. His eyes stayed on your face at first, respectful and careful — until they dropped.
His breath caught in his chest.
The inner seams of your pants were torn jagged, uneven rips that didn’t look accidental. Bruising already darkened your upper thighs. Scratches crisscrossed your skin, raw and red. The rain couldn’t wash those marks away.
Your body was trembling violently now, arms tight around your middle. You couldn’t even look at him.
“I see,” Tech whispered, eyes scanning the injuries, brain parsing faster than his heart could follow. The moment held in silence; save for the rain.
His voice dropped further. “You need to answer me… have you been raped?”
You shook your head. “H-he tried…” Your voice cracked with the admission. “I fought… he heard people coming and ran.”
Tech didn’t blink. “And which direction did he go?”
There was a shift in his tone. Still steady, but something simmered beneath it. A sharpness. You barely managed a shrug, shoulders curling in.
“I don’t know,” you whispered. “I didn’t see.“
“I just wanted to go for a walk.” The last sentence broke apart as the tears came again, full and raw, spilling hot over your cheeks even as the rain streamed down your face. You hid behind your hands like it might stop the memory from clawing forward. Your voice had gone, and so had your breath, caught and broken in your chest.
Tech didn’t move for a moment. His mind raced, measuring the options, assessing your condition, calculating the risk of calling the others versus giving you time to stabilise. You were conscious, responsive, but clearly in shock. Medical protocol urged him to alert Hunter. His emotional instinct which was less familiar and less logical told him not to.
He made his decision.
Without a word, Tech shifted from his crouch and moved closer. His knees sank into the puddles, he sat down beside you, just close enough for his shoulder to brush yours. He silently grabbed the cloak he brought and pulled it over your body, shielding you from the rain and the horrors you found yourself in.
And he stayed there. No more questions. No more requests. No orders. Just silence.
The rain fell hard around you both. Fat, cold drops hammered the ground, pooling in shallow gutters and bouncing off crates. A flash of distant lightning briefly lit the edges of the alleyway.
Eventually, the sobs slowed. Your breathing didn’t settle, but it staggered into a softer rhythm. Your hands dropped from your face, fingers shaking as you tried to wipe the mess of tears from your cheeks. You glanced toward Tech.
He was speaking. His mouth moved but you couldn’t hear him over the echo of your own thoughts. Everything else was drowned by the sound of your innocence cracking like glass. The memory still clung to your skin, as real as the bruises. Shame curled in your stomach. You wanted to crawl out of your body and vanish.
Without thinking, your frame folded toward him.
You didn’t ask. You didn’t think.
You just collapsed into him.
Tech stilled in surprise — his back stiffening as your arms clutched his sides and your face pressed to his chest. He hesitated, his own arms suspended in the air for a beat too long, unsure.
Then, slowly — one hand touched your back. The other settled across your shoulders. Not gripping, not pulling, just holding.
You clung tighter.
“It’s alright,” he said softly, barely above a whisper. “You’re safe now. No one will harm you again.”
He wasn’t sure if it was true.
He wasn’t sure of anything except the sound of your breathing against him, the weight of your trembling, and the bitter taste rising in his mouth — rage, cold and clinical. It filtered through the cracks in his logical mind and settled in his chest like ice.
He didn’t raise the comm.
He didn’t activate his visor scanner.
But he was already mapping the area, cross-referencing your coordinates, timestamps, route logs. Estimating who might’ve been in the sector. Measuring likelihoods. Piecing together a profile.
Someone had tried to hurt you.
And Tech — who never believed in vengeance — was already calculating how to find him.
Above you both, the sky cracked open again. A new surge of rain poured down, heavy and relentless. But neither of you moved.
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Crisis Text Line
you're not a victim for sharing your story. you are a survivor setting the world on fire with your truth. and you never know who needs your light, your warmth, and raging courage. -Alex Elle
summary: grief, trauma, and a broken heart is an unstable platform for a relationship to thrive on, and neither you nor bucky ever made it clear what your relationship actually was.
warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, rough/angry sex, angst, hurt, panic attacks, anxiety, misunderstandings, yearning, comfort, shame rooms, depictions of violence and death, thunderbolts semi movie spoilers, timeline is set from end of civil war to thunderbolts, happy ending
word count: 11.5k
a/n: good luck to everyone who reads this!!!
masterlist
・・・・・ Queens, New York; 2023
“This is what you fucking wanted from me, right?” Bucky grunted from behind you, but you can’t speak.
You have a million things you want to say to him, but none of them are right. Bucky wouldn’t listen to you even if you tried to explain.
You’re shoved into the pillow beneath you, only moans ripping from your throat— the only sound that you can produce in response to his question.
The only other noise between the two of you is the sound of skin slapping against skin as he pounds you from behind. The grip he has on your hips is bruising, and not in the way you usually enjoy it.
He’s mad, and it’s your fault.
“I asked you a question. Answer.”
His hand comes down on your ass, smacking it so hard you can’t help but moan, knowing that he left a mark on your body that will last. Your body will always react to him, even when you know you’re in the wrong— when you know you should be apologizing. When you know the last thing the two of you should be doing right now is fucking.
You can’t help it. Your body will always call for him, always yearn for him, sing when his fingers touch you.
“No— No,” you finally managed to choke out, tears brimming in your eyes.
You’re not crying because you don’t want him. Not because he’s hurting you. Not because it’s too rough. You’re crying at the realization.
You know this is the last time.
This will be the last time you’ll feel his cock so deep inside you— the delicious angle of it dragging up and down that sweet spot inside you that he always hits so perfectly. You know you won’t be able to feel his hands all over your body again. He won’t give you a second chance, not after this. Not after the conversation you just had.
Despite it all, you can’t find it in you to tell him to stop. The pace he has on you is punishing, and you feel guilty for even finding some sort of pleasure in how he’s taking you.
This will be the last time that you'll have him near you. This is the last time that he will stand your presence, to even look at you with the last remaining patience left in his body. This is the final time that you will be able to have him, in any sort of way. He'll walk away from you. You'll be alone after this, after he's done.
You know deep down he would stop if you told him to. He would never disrespect you like that. No matter how angry or hurt he is, he would never do anything to hurt you. You saw it in his eyes before he took your clothes off— the chance to back out. You were the one to remove the first article of fabric, to give him the outlet that he was craving for.
“No?” he echoed, sarcasm dripping in his voice. “You’re a fucking liar.”
Your fingers curl around the pillow and sheets beneath you for purchase— something to hold onto. He’s fucking into you so deep, barely leaving the tip of his cock in before sinking all the way back in without any hesitation. There’s no break.
Bucky rarely had you on your stomach. It’s his least favorite position, he said. He despised the fact he couldn’t see your face. He wanted to see every single emotion of pleasure he brought to you. Bucky hated that you were easily able to hide every single moan and whimper when he took you from behind.
There’s no connection, he told you one night as you laid in his arms. He whispered it to you like it was a secret as he ran his hands through your hair. He liked holding you against him, enjoyed the fact he could have easy access to your lips, and lock eyes with you.
Yet, he put you like this from the beginning.
Bucky was radiating an intense amount of heat, but you had never felt so cold. You were freezing in this room, even though you were both panting and sweating against each other.
Your heart was shattering with each thrust of his hips. You’re craving him. Some sort of intimacy. You want him to hold you, even though you know you messed up. Just something for you to hold onto for the night before he disappears forever.
You know he’s close to the edge. You know his tells like the back of your hand. His thrusts are getting messier. Less rhythmic. His breathing is growing shallower, moans are becoming lower. There’s a slight tremble in his body against yours every time he connects with you, and his fingers are digging into your flesh to keep you in place right where he wants you.
You weakly try pushing yourself on your elbows, tears finally slipping down your face. Tears that you weren’t brave enough to let fall during your conversation earlier. Tears that you knew would take forever to dry up when he finally left you.
“Bucky,” you whimpered, your voice coming out broken and raw, “Bucky— Kiss, please—“
A vibranium hand is roughly tangled in your short hair, shoving your head back into the pillows underneath you.
“Shut the fuck up,” he moaned, hips stuttering.
You feel the familiar warmth of his release coat your walls in thick spurts. Bucky’s body shudders behind you, but he doesn’t blanket you like he usually does after he cums. No— he forces himself to pull out of you, leaving you cold, empty, used.
Your heart is still racing as you slowly push yourself up. You can feel the remnants of him leaking out of you as you listen to the rustling sound of Bucky beginning to dress himself.
“You don’t get to cry now,” Bucky muttered.
You pull your bottom lip in between your teeth to stop yourself from making any noise. You turn your head to look at him, watching him pull his pants over his hips. His back is turned to you. You can see his face through the vanity.
“Bucky,” you whispered, a breath escaping your lips. “Please. I’m sorry—“
“You’re sorry because you were caught,” he cut you off, looking at you through the mirror. “Not because you actually regret anything.”
“Buck, please. Just hear me out,” you pleaded.
“You don’t get to call me that,” he hissed at you, roughly grabbing his jacket from where it was discarded on the edge of the bed. “I don’t ever want to see your fucking face again, do you hear me? You disgust me.”
Your lips parted, silent tears dripping down and staining the bed sheets beneath you. You can’t breathe. You can only watch him as he moves towards the door to your bedroom.
“Do you mean that?” you manage to force out as his hand touches the door knob. Your voice cracked, thick with emotion.
Bucky hesitates, for just a moment. He still hadn’t turned to face you. You watched as his shoulders square off, his body becoming guarded against you. .
“I meant what I said earlier. You’re no better than H.Y.D.R.A..”
You’re left on your bed, naked, alone, with silent tears streaming down your face. Your body is cold, even though he was just here with you moments ago. Your ears are still ringing with the echoing sound of the front door of the apartment slamming shut with his final exit.
・・・・・ Wakanda; 2016–2018
The room is below freezing. As a breath escapes your lips, you can see a cloud form before your face. You shook your head in disapproval, rubbing your arms as you went to turn up the thermostat.
“Bucky?” you called out, watching the numbers hit a comfortable 73 degrees in the room. “Did you eat all your food? Was it enough? Do you want more?”
As per usual, the soldier doesn’t answer you. You always try anyway– you hope that the day will come that he’ll talk to you. You let out a sigh as you move throughout the room. He’s not at the table, but neither is his plate. Your eyebrows furrowed.
Usually, you have to go towards him and badger him to try to eat a little bit more. You have to tell him that it’s okay to eat. He barely eats as it is, and you’re not sure if it’s because he doesn’t think it’s okay to eat or if he’s trying to hoard the food for another day.
Your eyes fall on him in the corner of the room. He’s purposely making himself look smaller as he picks at pieces of the food in front of him. Yet, you see he’s not even touching the walls with his body. Like he’s almost afraid to take space.
You take a few steps, experimental. His eyes flicker to you, and you stop in your place.
“You know you can eat at the table, right?” you asked, voice soft.
He gives you one single nod.
“You don’t want to?” you guessed.
There’s no gesture of a response this time, but you can assume his answer from his silence. You sighed once more, and moved again. You tried to ignore the way his body stiffened as you came closer to him– a stranger– and took a seat beside him, back pressed against the wall, but there was enough space between the two of you so he could still breathe.
You picked up the least appetizing food on the plate, the small loaf of bread, and broke it in half.
“By the time I finish eating my half, you better be finished eating your food otherwise I’m telling Steve and Sam to come back early from their mission in Osaka to yell at you,” you warned him, putting the other portion of the bread down on the plate.
You keep your eyes off of him, giving him the privacy he may or may not need to eat his lunch. You take small nibbles on your bread, eating slowly on purpose.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see him finally move. He takes bigger bites than you.
“Why aren’t you in Osaka?” he spoke.
You’re shocked, but you try not to let it show. You give Bucky a smile, then gesture towards your body.
“I’m still injured from Berlin. King T'Challa did a big number on me when I tried to stop him from getting to the Quinjet, remember? Stevie won’t let me be deployed right now. Besides, I don't think our gracious King would let me leave Wakanda until I was fully healed anyways.”
“You’ve worked with Steve for a while?” Bucky asked. He sounded hesitant. Almost afraid of you. It made sense. You were a stranger to him, yet Steve dropped you off to take care of him without any explanation.
"I rehabbed Steve," you shrugged. "When he came out of the ice, I brought him up to speed with the new world around him. I was a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, not an Avenger, but S.H.I.E.L.D. went to shit so I just... did some odd jobs for a bit. Steve asked me for help when the Avengers went to shit… and since I’m on the run for helping him, and have nothing better to do, I figured I might as well rehab you, too."
“Why?”
You turned your head to look at him, finding that he’s already looking at you. You give him a smile, leaning your head back against the wall.
“I was given a second chance in life,” you tell him. “You deserve one, too. And a third. And a fourth. I’ll give you as many chances as you need, so don’t stress out too much, Buck. Life is good. When you’re well, I’ll take you to my favorite bakery in New York.”
Bucky’s looking at you with confusion in his eyes. There’s a mixture of disbelief and distrust as well, but you don’t blame him. Steve gave you the full rundown on Bucky’s entire past. There’s nothing that you don’t know about the man.
You know every detail. The nitty, gritty, gory details that you know Bucky wouldn't tell you himself. You read the files yourself. Steve gave you the option to back out, and he said there would be no judgement if you thought you wouldn't be able to handle the amount of trauma that Bucky had.
You gave Steve a smile, and said that Bucky would be in good hands, and Steve could do what he needed out in the world.
You stay by Bucky's side the entire time, giving him the space that he silently requests for. You don't push when he pulls away from you. You don't question where he stops answering. You simply give him the options that he never had before.
And it seems to confuse him all the more.
“Why do you try so hard for me?” Bucky asked again. A longer, fuller sentence this time, but he was still asking the same thing he did before.
You were sitting in his room. It wasn’t a mealtime. You were here of your own volition, with your computer in your lap. You were doing some background work for Steve and Sam, feeding them information while they were on the field.
Bucky was watching you from his place on the ground. He still wasn’t comfortable enough to use his bed— so you made him a cot on the floor. Just a simple spread of two blankets, and one pillow. He started using it after two weeks.
You lowered your laptop screen, looking at him.
“Is there a reason I shouldn’t?” you asked, flipping the script on him.
You watched as his face contorted with surprise. Bucky’s lips parted, eyebrows furrowing. His mouth closed as he took in a deep breath, and swallowed thickly.
“I’m not a good person,” he said, his voice thick.
“Neither am I,” you replied, smiling at him. “I think the only good person amongst us is Steve. Sam, too. But that’s a bit of a debatable fact.”
Bucky’s lip twitched slightly in what almost became a smile, and you mentally celebrated the improvement. The flicker of new emotion, even if it was subtle and brief.
“I’m sure I’ve done worse than you,” he said after a few moments, looking down at his hand. He clenched his fist opened and closed, and you were sure he was reliving some sort of memory or nightmare in the few seconds that passed between you two.
You shrugged. “It’s all relative. I’ve committed horrors that some people will never be able to forgive. That I won’t be able to forgive myself for. But that doesn’t mean others can’t forgive you.”
Bucky stayed silent for the rest of the day, and you’re sure he’s thinking about your words until late in the night.
The next morning, you exit your room to find him standing in your hall. He doesn’t say a word, but he follows you as you go on your early morning walk.
From there, the two of you spend more time together. Bucky started to seek you out on his own, looking for you when you don’t come to him first.
In the beginning, your time together is spent in silence.
Your walks turn into full on hikes with the healing soldier. The only noise between you two is the nature of the native animals of Wakanda. You two sat together on cliffs, looking over the city as you would eat breakfast that you had stolen from the kitchen before you left on your walk. You both keep walking through the plains without any sort of plan or route— and you often get lost.
When it’s time to head back to the palace, it’s Bucky that takes you by the hand and leads you towards the right path.
Bucky started to eat meals with you at the table. Not just snacking, but full meals. The first time he asked you if there was more food in the kitchens, you jumped to your feet, and ran down the hall with tears in your eyes.
You ate seconds with him, silent tears streaming down your face. Bucky let out the first laugh you’d ever heard from him during that meal.
“Why are you crying?” he asked.
“Shut the fuck up and eat!” you sniffled, wiping away your tears quickly.
Bucky would watch you train with the Dora Milaje once Shuri cleared you of your injury. He watched you get your ass handed to you multiple times over as you tried to get your footing against these warriors, raising an eyebrow at you when you returned to him with bruises and scrapes.
“Don’t laugh,” you muttered as he handed you an ice pack.
“Well, they’re not holding back on you, and the worst you’re getting is a bruise,” he said.
“Why do you sound impressed? Are you messing with me right now?” you accused, digging your fingers into a developing knot in your shoulder.
“I am impressed,” he told you, making you stop and look at him with suspicion. “I didn’t really see you fight in Berlin. I understand why Steve asked you for help.”
Bucky would give you pointers with just the two of you alone. Even with just one arm, Bucky was a force to be reckoned with. He was itching to move, and he was more than happy to help you out.
There weren't many places where you needed help, he said. You were simply out of practice from the injuries you sustained. You also had small tells that he noticed— things that you were shocked he caught onto. Bucky taught you how to fix those tells so no one would be able to use them against you again. Your sparring matches with the Dora Milaje got longer, harder— and you gained their respect almost overnight thanks to Bucky.
You still couldn’t believe Bucky’s sharp eyes when it came to your movements. The last person who noticed your weaknesses was your sister, who studied your moves like her life depended on it.
Because it did. For her, at least.
The first time you left on a mission, you didn’t tell Bucky. It slipped your mind. Steve came into your room in the middle of the night, waking you up. You didn’t even know he returned, but he and Sam needed you. You barely had a chance to brush your teeth before you were shoving your body into your gear, meeting them at the launchpads to leave.
You received a high pitched static through your earpiece barely an hour on the field. You almost thought the mission was compromised, and all three of you were royally fucked. Well, you were compromised. You were just lucky it wasn’t anyone that wanted to harm you.
“You didn’t tell me you were leaving,” he said, voice distorted slightly from wherever he had hijacked the frequency from.
“Bucky?! What the hell—“
“Why didn’t you say you were leaving?” he cut you off.
“Why are you on my channel right now?” you hissed, trying to keep your voice low and avoid raising attention to yourselves.
“When will you be back?”
You paused. Even through the distortion, you could hear it. The vulnerability thick in his voice.
“Four days,” you answered.
“I’ll wait three.”
The static finally cleared the comms, and Steve and Sam raised an eyebrow at you. They all heard it. You were in as much disbelief as they were.
When you returned in two and a half days, you brought a digital calendar for his room. You started marking down your mission dates the second you heard you would be out, and would update it remotely if something ever changed. You didn’t want Bucky to panic on you again.
You watched as Wakanda healed Bucky in a way that you didn’t know was possible. Two years in this place brought peace to a man who knew seventy years of war.
You were able to see as a smile would slowly grow on his face, as he began to talk more on his own. As the title of White Wolf was bestowed upon him by the Wakandans.
You enjoyed festivals with Bucky many times over. You dragged him down the streets of Wakanda, the two of you wide eyed and completely innocent to the culture around you. Both of you would dress in cultural garb, gifted to you by Shuri and T'Challa so you would blend in with the crowds around you. You would stay out late into the night, sometimes until the sun rose into the next day.
You would share different foods together. By this point, the locals all knew the two of you. They would give you discounts upon discounts for foods and different items of wares, or forego charging you all together. They would joke for you to tell the King about their shops in exchange for their services.
Bucky would watch as you would get your hair braided by the local girls in the village during these festivals, sitting beside you as flowers were woven into your hair.
“It’s a shame,” he murmured, touching your hair as you walked away from the girls.
“What is?” you asked, hands clasped behind your back.
“Your hair would be prettier like this if it was longer,” he told you, his hand dropping to his side.
You paused, trying to push away the pounding feeling in your chest. You looked away from him— ignoring the look of contentment and peace on his features. He looked so happy at that moment.
“I cut it for missions,” you murmured.
“That’s why it’s a shame,” he said, nodding. “You’d look nice with longer hair.”
From that point, Bucky started picking flowers during your morning walks together. He would present them to you, and you would carry them with you.
You don't remember when it happened, but Bucky stopped handing you flowers. He began to put them directly into your hair with a small smile on his face. If there was another flower that caught his eye during your hike, he would add it to your hair. If any of the flowers began to slip, he would stop you and adjust them before you both continued onwards.
You had an entire drawer of dried flowers saved from your walks together. Preserved in time, each one carrying more emotion than the other. Each flower contained a different memory of him.
A memory of not just someone you were helping out because Steve asked you to, but someone you considered as your friend. Someone that relied on you for guidance and support. Someone that you turned to for assistance when you couldn’t ask Ayo for help. Someone that you went to because you simply felt like it. Someone you wanted to spend time with because you enjoyed his presence.
Someone that you felt guilty for falling in love with.
Bucky was a man that was healing.
Falling in love with him now— taking advantage of him at his most vulnerable would be fucking shameful of you. You wouldn’t let your emotions show, you wouldn’t let him know. You didn’t want to cloud his judgement as he was finally getting a grasp on who he was as a person, as he was finally gaining autonomy over himself.
You hid your heart under your sleeve, continuing to spend your days with him with chains and locks tightly guarding the feelings that you desperately wanted to let free. You wouldn’t allow them to come out.
Not when Bucky finally knew peace, not when he finally felt okay with himself. You wouldn’t throw a curveball in his direction, and betray him. You wanted him to view you as someone safe, someone he could trust. You didn’t want him to think you expected anything from him.
If the timing was right, if he had ever expressed interest on his own— maybe. Just maybe, you would allow yourself to melt into his embrace. Only if he made the move first, if he decided that he wanted it. Wanted you.
You never got the chance to find out.
The Outrider soldier you were fighting with had just vanished into nothing before you. Dread filled your stomach, and you turned to sprint across the battlefield. You needed to be sure. Terror was clawing at your every sense.
You ignored the deep gash in your torso, white, hot pain burning through your body. It didn’t matter right now. Bucky met your gaze.
Bucky, who was disintegrating before your eyes. Bucky, who was staring at you with wide eyes. You could feel everything. You saw the panic on his face, the fear.
Then, he was gone.
Steve wrapped his arms around you before you could fall to your knees at Bucky’s ashes, his body shaking as if he was afraid that you would disappear next.
You both sat there, trembling. Hearts racing, the two of you watched as dust began to float around you in the wind.
・・・・・ Present, 2027
“Wake up!” Yelena hissed at you, hitting your leg with her foot.
Your eyebrows furrowed as your face twisted with discomfort. Your head was pounding. Not just from the explosion, but from everything that came before that. The guards that filtered through the vault. Having to climb up an elevator shaft with strangers that you had attempted to kill moments prior. The sonic cannon that assaulted your ears. The impending doom of almost being incinerated. The strange battle between assassins and soldiers that had varying targets.
You forced your eyes open, momentarily discombobulated as you took in the scene around you. Your hands shoved into the cement beneath you before you took a sitting position. Your vision steadied after a few moments, and you froze.
You looked down at yourself, then at the others. The rope that had been used to ‘tie’ you up was so loose that you could just slip out of it. The others were tied together tightly, wrists bound. Alexei was even secured with a metal pipe.
“Bucky, do you really think putting a piece of string around her body was really enough?” John sarcastically asked.
Suddenly, you remembered what even put you in this position in the first place.
He blew up your fucking get away car.
You don’t look at him, keeping your head down. You can feel his eyes on the side of your face, watching you. Waiting to see what you’ll do or say. You won’t do a single thing– not to him, at least. You owe him that much.
“They are both Avengers, that is why! He gives her the respect she is due!” Alexei boomed.
Your eyes snap at the super soldier, and you give him a single warning look. You shake your head once. He doesn’t seem to understand.
“You fought together during what seemed to be the end of the world, yes? You, especially! With my little Natasha! I saw you on the news a few times.”
“I wasn’t– I’m not an Avenger. Never was,” you grunted.
“Can we talk about something else?” Yelena cut him off. “Like the fact that we need to find Bob?”
You let the others do the speaking, trying to calm down your thundering heart. You couldn’t hear their words. It was being filtered out, muffled by the sound of erratic beating between your ears as you kept your eyes trained on your feet. Even staring at the ground was difficult. Your vision was getting shaky.
When was the last time you were in the same room as Bucky? When was the last time he was this close to you? It had been almost five years at this point, you think. Four years and ten months if you were to be precise.
Bucky warned you– told you to stay out of his line of sight. Is that why he blew up the fucking limo with the people that you just gained a kinship with?
It was the only reason why you ended up working for Fontaine as one of her fucking agents, doing her dirty work– doing what you did best and getting paid for it. You were a machine for these past handful of years. The perfect soldier, just as you were raised to be. You were certain your parents were singing your praises from the seventh circle in hell.
Best of all, you could stay out of the light. Just as Bucky told you to do. Out of the light, where he was. Where he was meant to be— just like you always told him he should be.
This was supposed to be your last mission. You found some cabin in the woods in Oregon that you were going to move to. Remote, out of the way. Something that reminded you of Wakanda without the people and the culture. You had saved enough money, lived frugally enough to be able to live comfortably for the rest of your days. You worked out a plan with Val that if she needed you, you could be pulled back onto the field every once in a while for more expensive hit missions again.
You can only follow everyone else numbly when they start shifting towards the jet that Bucky had brought, and you distinctly hear that you’re heading back to New York.
In the jet, everyone’s flittering about.
Alexei’s messing with tech that he’s in awe about seeing, Yelena is whacking his hands away and telling him not to focus before going back to Bucky to help him navigate.
Walker is going through the rations, muttering about being starving while Ava looks at him with disgust when he offers her some food. She settles for a med kit, deciding to take care of her scrapes and cuts instead.
You weren’t even tied up, but the walls were closing in on you. Your skin didn’t feel like your own, and your gear was beginning to melt into your body in a way that you couldn’t claw off fast enough. Your heart was outside of your body, and your lungs were in a different continent.
You clenched your fists, trying to ground yourself as your fingernails dug crescent shaped indents into your palm, but it was to no avail. Your hands weren’t your own. You weren’t seeing through your own eyes. Your body wasn’t yours, and you couldn’t stop the encroaching feeling of helplessness that you desperately tried to pretend wasn’t there.
“Hey.”
Your head snapped up, seeing Ava in front you.
“Are you coming or what?” she asked, eyebrows furrowed at you.
Vaguely, you noticed everyone was already moving outside– and you forced yourself to suck in a breath of air. You could only give her a small nod before moving your weight onto your feet, following her out the jet and towards the tarmac. You didn’t even realize the jet had touched the ground.
You’re moving to board the back with Ava when Alexei rounds the corner, grinning at you.
“Avengers should catch up!” he said, a hand coming down to your shoulder, pushing you to the carriage. “It is nice to talk with an old buddy!”
“What?” you breathed. “No, Alexei, it’s fine. You’ll be more comfortable sitting up there–”
“Go, sit with your friend!” he exclaimed happily, shoving you to the front. “I will sit back here with my daughter and her friends!”
You barely had any time to protest before Ava closed the doors to the back of the truck, locked it, and phased into the back. You stood out there, the vehicle’s engine coming to life.
You have no choice. There’s a mission that needs to be done, and one hour of discomfort isn’t a reasonable explanation to put lives in danger.
You pull open the door, sliding into the seat beside him. Once you’re situated, Bucky finally takes off down the road towards New York.
You keep your gaze trained out your window, elbow against the door as you cover your mouth and nose with your hand. You’re trying not to breathe so loud, in fear that he’ll hear you. Hell, you’re not trying to breathe at all. There’s a high chance that he’ll throw you out of a moving vehicle. Blow this truck up, too, if you’re really unlucky.
You force your body to sit still, even though all you want to do is bounce your leg up and down anxiously. Under your gear, your skin is prickled with goosebumps. You’re still trying to get your body back. It still doesn’t feel like yours. It’s probably left in the vault, incinerated with the rest of Val’s shit.
Bucky smelled exactly the same as you remembered. Even with you trying not to breathe, even with your palm covering your nose, you can smell him.
In this enclosed carriage, with the AC running, you were surrounded by the scent of Bucky. The familiar smell of cedarwood mixed with honeyed soap and a hint of coffee. There’s the extra layer of leather and metal that he always carries around with him that you adore, and the underlying nostalgic scent of his natural skin– the heady scent of musk and salty sweat after the theatrics he had pulled on the road hours ago.
Gunpowder clings onto him faintly, and you can feel heat softly radiating from his body– the vibranium arm attached to his left side is still cooling down. It takes longer on hotter days like this. You wonder when the last time he calibrated it, or if he even remembered to get that done. He would always forget. You used to do it for him.
There’s one smell that’s missing.
The scent of you on his skin.
You closed your eyes, pushing the revelation far away from your mind. Your eyes are beginning to sting with unshed tears that you thought had long been cried away. You didn’t think being close to him like this would have this kind of effect on you again.
“Your hair is longer.”
Your breath gets caught in your throat, your eyebrows furrowing. You slowly turn your head to look at him. To really look at him.
You’ve seen him on the news. On your phone, in articles. You would smile to yourself before moving on with your day, happy that he seemed to find his place in the world. But right now— he looked miserable.
The years had seemed to take a toll on him. There were lines on his face that weren’t there before. Slight bags under his eyes that indicated he hadn’t slept well in a while. His skin was duller, less life to them.
You wonder briefly if it’s because of dealing with the government in the way he is. Politics aren’t an easy feat, but he’s Bucky. You don’t doubt that he’s doing well, that he can manage somehow. He was always the better one between the two of you.
Bucky’s hair was a bit messy, but you would give him the benefit of the doubt, and say it was from the fact he just rode in on a motorcycle and took down several military vehicles by himself. The dark brown locks are longer, too. Not short, like the way you had cut them in your bathroom in Brooklyn after Steve left.
How he trusted you with scissors close to his face and neck, and closed his eyes while you carefully took care of him. You even shaved down his beard, and he had stubble for a while. It had all grown out now.
Yet, Bucky was more handsome than you could recall.
The years of absence had only made your heart grow fonder for him. You wanted nothing more than to smooth the line between his eyebrows. You wanted to slap a face mask on his face, dose him with melatonin, and ask him why the hell he hadn’t been sleeping. You want to wrap him up with blankets and play with his hair, run your fingers against his scalp, and cradle his face in your hands as you hold him close.
You don’t tell him that. You don’t have any right to.
“That’s what happens when you don’t cut it,” is what you said instead.
A smile cracked onto his lips, and a small chuckle rumbled through his body. “You don’t say?”
You take in a breath so slow it doesn’t shake, and return your eyes back to your window. You don’t trust yourself to keep looking at him. Your tears might fall if you do. You swallowed the lump in your throat, and cleared your throat softly.
“You look good,” Bucky said after a few more moments, breaking the silence once again.
“I was just in a car that got blown up, so I don’t really believe that,” you muttered, fighting the smile that threatened to creep up on your face.
“I didn’t know you were in there,” he said, almost sounding defensive.
“If you did, would you have used that disc grenade?” you murmured.
“Of course not,” he replied immediately.
You paused, confusion settling deep into your bones. Why not? This man was supposed to hate you. He made that clear when he walked away from you. The words were caught on your throat, a million scenarios racing through your mind as you tried to pick apart your last conversation. You couldn’t make sense of him.
“I didn’t know you worked for Val,” he said, changing the topic. Then, a deep sigh escaped from his lips. “Well, I didn’t know where you went at all. No one did.”
“You told me to get lost,” you reminded him, your voice so soft you were certain a normal person wouldn’t have been able to hear you. But he wasn’t normal. He was your Bucky, and he was always able to pick up every single shift in your mood.
“I didn’t—“ he cut himself off, swallowing thickly. “I was mad. I didn’t mean it.”
You’re numb. Your chest hurt. Your sternum was caving in on itself, you think. It had to be. Or your head was finally experiencing some sort of tumor pressing on your brain, and this was your last hallucination before you died.
Bucky wouldn’t say these words to you. There was no reality that you would exist in where he would even tolerate speaking to you again, let alone admit that he took back the words he spat in your face with pure malice.
“That’s not what you said when you walked away,” you managed to force out.
“I know what I said.” The grip Bucky had on the steering wheel tightened at the same time his jaw clenched.
Heavy silence sits like a wall between the two of you. You don’t respond. You don’t know what to say. He continues to drive, not another word leaving his lips. The two of you listen to the muffle conversation from the group in the back, listening to them bond over the weapons they carry on their persons.
You lean your head against the headrest, closing your eyes tight. You forced air to enter and exit your lungs.
One more mission. Just one more, and you can leave. Maybe Oregon would be too local— Bucky’s reach would be able to grab you from there. You’ll leave the country as a whole.
Bucky’s eyes fell on everyone in the attic, heart erratic in his chest. His eyebrows furrowed, taking a quick headcount. He barely whispered out your name, a bit breathless from having to fight his way out to even get to Bob’s room.
“Where is she?” he asked, everyone turning to him. They’re all still trying to process their own horrors.
“I— I haven’t seen her yet,” Walker stuttered, still disoriented.
“She’s here?” Bob asked, surprise all over his features.
“Fuck,” Bucky cursed, turning back towards the mirror that he came from, ignoring the shouts from the group he left behind. “Just wait there!”
Bucky raced back through his rooms, trying to find an entrance towards yours. He ignored his horrors— he’d already made his peace and settled with himself. He knew you still struggled.
Back in Wakanda, when he finally managed to find his voice, he’d asked you why you spent so much time helping him. You told him that there was no one there to help you. Over time, he learned.
You opened up to him about your militaristic freak of a family back in Wakanda. You told him about how you were raised in a camp, not a home.
You grew up with drills that your parents put you through from the second you could walk. You had a gun in your hand the moment your hands were strong enough to grip the metal.
You were the middle child of three, and the three of you were raised to see each other as competition. You fought each other daily. You were tested and tortured. Whoever was deemed the winner of the day was spared the punishment of your parents. The two losers would be subjected to horrors that you couldn’t even repeat to Bucky. He never asked you to elaborate.
One day, without warning, your parents dropped you all in the middle of the forest. Another training exercise, you all thought. You were wrong.
Only one would survive this test— this sick and twisted game. You never told Bucky the details of how you came out the winner, of how everything went down. He knew the aftermath.
How you killed your own parents out of revenge, grief, anger— and how they both praised you for it. They told you you were perfect. You were the best soldier they raised— that this was the outcome they wanted. That their death was exactly what they planned for. You fell right into their trap without knowing it.
Bucky finally reached the first room, eyes focused on the woods. He would get the backstory today, it seemed. His eyes fell on you.
You were younger. Your hair was longer than it was right now, braided back into two and reaching down to your hips. You were dressed in camo, face painted to blend in with the woods. You had a sniper rifle strapped to your shoulder, and a pistol in your hand. Your jaw was clenched tight, your breaths slow and even.
Another dead body lay right beside you— your older brother’s body. He just tried killing your little sister by stabbing her to death with his brute strength. You shot him clean in the head. His eyes were still wide open, his blood soaking into the dirt of the forest beneath him.
You saved your little sister from him, but for what? You two were in a standoff. Both of you, guns drawn, pointed at each other. All for a fucking game. A hunt. All because your parents pit you together because you had the misfortune of being born into this kind of family.
Your little sister was the spitting image of you. Her cheeks were slightly fuller, eyes a bit rounder. She looked a little bit more innocent.
Her hand was shaking. Her breaths were a bit more shallow than yours. There was a hesitant look in her eyes, and you saw it. You saw the way your sister lowered her gun, just slightly.
“I can’t do it,” you whispered, a tear sliding down your face and ruining the camouflage paint. Quickly, you shifted your gun to point at your own temple.
Bucky watched as your sister’s eye’s filled with pure panic, fear— and her hand shifted slightly. She raised her gun once more. Her trajectory changed, and two gunshots filled the forest.
One, to shoot your gun out of your hand. The second, to shoot herself.
Grief immediately filled your features as a scream ripped through your throat. Birds were disrupted from their hiding places in the trees, rustling out of the leaves and taking to the sky.
Her body dropped to the forest floor as you rushed to grab her, pressing your hand to her wound as you cried. You were trying to stop the bleeding, even though you knew nothing you did would work. You knew she was dying in your arms.
“No, no, no, no!” you kept repeating, taking the pack off your back to try and find something to help her.
Your sister grabbed your hands with the last of her strength, stopping you. You both knew your attempts were useless. You both studied the anatomy of the body— she knew exactly where she shot was fatal.
“It’s okay,” she forced out, meeting your eyes.
“I’m sorry,” you babbled to her, cradling her face. “I’m so sorry— I’m sorry—“
“I love you,” she croaked, giving you a smile.
You only sobbed louder, watching the light die out of her eyes. You collapsed over her body, trembling, and holding her tight against you until her blood stained your bones and mixed into your own.
And the scene replayed.
Bucky moved into the next room. He paused— he recognized this room. This was Steve’s apartment. He went through Steve’s things after the last battle, after Steve made his choice.
The sound of the door opening caught his attention, and he turned.
“I’m just saying, doll,” Steve said, letting you in first before he followed in behind you, “the movie was good. You’re just not a hopeless romantic.”
“I am a hopeless romantic,” you fired back, taking your shoes off and putting them on the rack. “It just wasn’t realistic. She chose a broke man for what, Steve? Made no sense.”
“She chose the one she loved, baby,” Steve corrected.
“And he’s broke,” you replied.
Steve sighed, shaking his head. Still, he had a smile on his face as he watched you. There was pure love in his eyes for you.
You had a bouquet of flowers in your hand that Steve took from you as you shrugged your jacket off. You smiled at him, grateful. When you took the flowers back, you stepped up on your toes to press a kiss onto his lips.
Steve’s hand came around the small of your back, holding you tight against him. Your free hand came around to hold the side of his neck, stabilizing yourself against him. There were smiles on both of your faces. When you parted, he pressed a kiss to your forehead, and you hummed in happiness.
Bucky tried to ignore the way his chest tightened at the sight.
You moved towards the kitchen, looking for a vase as Steve turned on the lights of your shared apartment. A normal night for the two of you. You arranged the flowers beautifully, looking happy with yourself as you placed them at the center of the dining table.
Bucky was momentarily confused. It looked normal enough. What was so shameful about this night? The two of you looked happy. You both got ready for the night, changed into pajamas, and met back onto the couch.
You were cuddled up against his side as he watched TV, scrolling through your phone. His arm was around you, rubbing circles into your hip.
“You really think you’re a hopeless romantic?” Steve suddenly asked you.
“Why are you bringing this up again?” you asked, a teasing lilt to your voice. You shifted your head to look up at him.
“I mean… I just don’t see it,” he said softly. “I’m not saying you’re not romantic. I know you love me, but… I can’t help but feel—“
“Steve,” you cut him off, sitting up. His arm slid off of you and he turned to look you in the eyes. “Are we talking about this again? Seriously?”
“We never even really talked about it,” he argued, his voice a bit weak. He knew you were getting upset. “You always dodge the topic. You don’t want to talk about it.”
“Because there’s nothing to talk about!” you exclaimed, putting your phone down to give him your full attention. “I don’t want to argue about what if’s with my boyfriend on our third year anniversary!”
“You don’t even cut your hair anymore,” he said. “Natasha told me that you drunkenly confessed to her one time that you don’t want to cut your hair because he once told you he wanted to see your hair long—“
“Steve, didn’t you hear what I just said to you? I don’t want to argue with you on our anniversary!” you stressed, almost begging him. “Can you please drop it? On any other night, I will talk about this with you. Literally any other night. Just not tonight, please.”
“Tell me the truth,” he said, his voice hard as he ignored your pleas. “If Bucky were still here, would you still be with me? Or would you have chosen him instead?”
“Would you choose me or Peggy if you had the option?” you immediately demanded from him.
Steve’s eyes widened. Your apartment was silent for a few moments, save for the background noise of the television that was forgotten by the two of you. You both stared at each other. Steve in disbelief, you with stubbornness in your eyes.
“That’s— that’s not fair,” he whispered, swallowing thickly.
Your exterior cracked instantly. Stubbornness vanished, and your shoulders slumped. You let out a sigh, burying your face in your hands for a moment as you tried to calm yourself down. You were about to cry.
“You’re right. It’s not,” you admitted, your voice cracking. You lowered your hands, looking him in the eyes once again. “Why don’t you understand me, Steve? I love you so much. I wouldn’t be with you if I didn’t love you. I do. I really do. And— and I know you love her. I have accepted that you will always love her the same way that I will always love him. I loved him in utter silence. From afar. I watched him heal and get better. I loved a broken man that never looked my way and I was okay with that. I made my peace with it. And he’s not coming back. He never fucking will, Steve. I’m trying to move on with my life. Can you stop rubbing it in my face?”
Steve’s staring at you, the weight of your words sinking into his soul. He looks horrible, regret all over his face for even opening up this conversation.
You let out a shaking breath, your chest rising and falling erratically as tears fall from your eyes. You angrily wipe them away, getting up from the couch.
Steve whispers your name, reaching to grab your wrist, to stop you— to try to comfort you. It comes out pained, but you can’t even look at him. You snatch your hand back from him, making your way to the bedroom you share with Steve, to just get away from him for a moment as more tears continue to fall.
Bucky observes Steve for just a moment, watching his friend bury his face in his hands and let out slow, deep breaths. Then, Bucky moves to follow you.
You’re sitting in front of your vanity, rifling through your drawer. A pair of scissors are in your hands after a moment of searching. You hesitate, for just a moment. Then, you grab a piece of hair, chopping it off above your shoulders as your tears stain your cheeks.
Bucky forces his feet to walk on, mind racing as he breaks a window into the next room. He knows this place. He instantly recognizes the faint smell of vanilla and flowers.
His eyes fall onto the glass case of pressed Wakandan flowers that are on the wall, proudly on display. There’s mementos of the Avengers somewhere in your apartment. You have Steve’s art book on the coffee table. Natasha’s widow bites are on the mantle. One of Tony’s first Iron Man helmets are on the shelf.
Your friends, people that you have loved and lost, all here with you, in your little apartment in Queens.
And you’re there. Not just the remnants of the past. You.
You’re sitting on the couch of your old Queens apartment in your gear. Your lip is busted from the Sentry throwing you around in the Watchtower not too long ago. There’s a cut above your eyebrow from colliding with John too hard and hitting his gear the wrong way, and maybe a thousand other injuries that he can’t see under the thick material of your tactical gear.
Your knees are pulled to your chest, arms wrapped around your legs. You look small right now, eyes trained on the movement before you. Unable to tear your gaze away, stuck in the shame and regret of your past.
And he knows exactly what this night is.
Bucky doesn’t make a sound as he goes to your side. The couch dips as he takes a seat beside you, eyes on the side of your face. You don’t acknowledge him, don’t even give him the time of day. His chest hurts, but he can’t blame you.
The stage resets.
Bucky’s opening your door with a key to your apartment that he’s had for a while now— you have one to his, too. It was for safety at first. Over time, it had turned into easy access to each other for your nightly escapades with each other.
You jolted at the sudden appearance. You were at the dining table, watching videos on your phone as you ate takeout by yourself. A simple dinner for a quiet night alone.
Bucky didn’t text you. He didn’t tell you that he was coming over. Normally, he would let you know that he was on his way. Even if the two of you didn’t end up doing anything, he would at least give you a heads up.
“Hey,” you said with a smile, turning to face him. “I thought you were hanging out with Sam tonight—“
“So you fuck me to get over my best friend? Is that it? Is that all I’m good for?” he demanded, and your smile fell. “Answer me!”
“What?” you whispered, taken aback. “Buck, slow down—“
“You couldn’t even have the decency to tell me that you two were together?” he asked, running a hand through his hair. “I had to find out from fucking Sam?”
“How the hell did Sam know?” you asked, shocked. “Everyone who knew is—“
“Dead? Gone? Off the grid?” he cut you off, a hollow laugh escaping his lips. “Yeah. So you thought you could hide it.”
“Hang on. I wasn’t hiding anything,” you said, standing to face him fully.
“Do you think you can just use me?” Bucky demanded, shocking you.
Your eyes widened at the raw emotion. Your lips parted, and you reached a hand out to him. To touch his hand. To try to comfort him, to do something— anything. He smacked it away instantly, shocking you.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” he growled at you, and you recoiled instantly, taking a step back.
“Bucky,” you muttered, your voice shaking. “Let’s talk. Please. There’s a misunderstanding here. I wasn’t hiding— There’s nothing to hide.”
“I was at my fucking lowest when Steve left. I thought— I thought it was the same for you. That your friend left you, too. That you were also trying to cope with the grief of losing everyone— everything.” Bucky was shaking, anger coursing through his veins. “That you got no fucking answers— but no. You were fucking me because you were mad that your boyfriend chose a woman he kissed once in the forties over you. And you know what? I don’t blame him.”
You stared at him, mouth agape. Hurt and pain were all over your features. You were trembling, too. But not from anger. You were in shock.
“Am I disposable to you?” he whispered, your eyes widening.
“No! Of course not—“
“Worthless, then?” he cut you off, voice rising.
“Bucky, never—“
“Because I feel pretty fucking worthless right now,” he told you, meeting your eyes. His voice was trembling, eyes glistening with unshed tears.
You can’t speak a single word to him. Your eyes are searching all over his face, and you’re silently pleading with him to try to understand you. To remind him that he knows you. That he knows who you are and that you would never—
“You used me,” he said, swallowing thickly.
“No,” you denied, your voice small.
“You’re no fucking better than H.Y.D.R.A.. Using my body for what you want, just to throw me away later.”
“No,” you said again, begging. “Bucky, no—“
“I’ll show you what it’s like to be used.”
Bucky grabbed you by the arm, dragging you into your bedroom. The door slammed shut a moment later, and it started all over again.
On the couch, Bucky takes a moment to look at you. You have your chin on your knees. You’re exhausted.
“How many times have you watched this?” Bucky finally asked you, leaning back against the couch cushions.
“I don’t know,” you whispered, and Bucky feels his heart shattering in his chest.
He drags a hand down his face, taking a deep breath before he forces himself to his feet. He stepped in front of you, blocking your view from himself as the memory of a younger, stupider him started to blame you for shit that he couldn’t work out on his own.
Bucky kneels down, going eye level with you. You still were looking past him, watching the last fight between the two of you.
“Let’s go,” he said, his voice soft.
“Where?”
“To save the world. Where else?” he tried joking with you.
“I’m not interested in saving the world, Bucky,” you whispered back, shaking your head. “I’m so tired.”
Bucky let out a sigh, closing his eyes for just a moment. He looks down at the floor, racking his brain for something. Anything.
“How about the bakery we used to go to every Sunday morning?” he offered, then saw your eyes flicker towards his direction. “They have a new mocha cake flavor. I haven’t tried it yet. Have you?”
“I haven’t been there in years,” you revealed. Your fingers absentmindedly picked at your thigh holsters, just to busy yourself a little bit. One of your anxious habits.
Bucky moved to rest his hand over yours, forcing your eyes to meet his once more. Forcing you to look at him again.
“Really? I go there all the time,” he told you. “I sit there and drink an iced coffee and order that loaded croissant you first got me when we went together. You know— the one with the jalapeños and bacon bits.”
“… Why?” you asked, eyebrows furrowing.
“Because I miss you,” he answered, the confession leaving his lips without any hesitation. “You… You left so fast. I came back here two days later. Your apartment was already up for lease. Your number was disconnected. Your cards were turned off. It’s like you never existed.”
“I don’t get why you would care so much,” you muttered, looking away from him as you pulled your hand away.
Bucky caught it once again, intertwining his fingers with yours. Your name fell from his lips, your eyes meeting his in surprise. He said it so tenderly. So gently. With affection that he had kept guarded in a box locked up and tucked away.
“Can I get another chance, please?” he whispered, and your eyes widened slightly. Bucky wet his lips, letting out a shaking breath. “You told me that you would give me as many chances as I needed. And I fucked up badly on this night.”
“It was my fault for not telling you,” you whispered back. “You felt betrayed. I— I didn’t tell you.”
“I didn’t hear you out,” he said, shaking his head. “I should’ve.”
You stared at him. Bucky watched as you searched his face for answers that you needed years ago, answers that he should have provided you with when he had the chance, when he had you in his arms but was too afraid to tell you how he felt.
“I will repent for the rest of my life for what I said and did to you,” he promised, squeezing your hand. “This will be the last battle, I swear. If you want me to leave you alone after this, I will. But we have to go. I can’t leave you in here to watch this shit show over and over again.”
Relief surged through his body as you shifted, your feet moving to touch the ground. You stood, and Bucky led you out of your last shame room, and back towards everyone else.
“Let me do it,” Bucky sighed, taking the antiseptic from your shaking hands. “Sit down on the bench.”
You didn’t fight him. You had no more fight left in your body. From pulling Bob out of the void, to the press monstrosity outside— you were completely spent.
The Watchtower was a mess. Glass was everywhere, furniture was broken, but at least there was a well functioning medical bay. The entire group of you were in here, all of you licking your wounds as you all tried to make sense of the last twenty-four hours of your life.
The stinging pain of alcohol pulled you out of your thoughts as Bucky pressed the cleaning agent into your wounds, and your eyebrow furrowed in pain.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“It’s fine. Are… are you okay?” you asked, mustering the courage to look up at his face.
Truth be told, his injuries had mostly cleared up by now. Just as they always had. But you’re not asking about that, and he knows you’re not.
“I’ll probably enroll into therapy again, if you want me to set you up with someone, too,” he joked.
“I didn't even tell you everything,” you said, frowning at him. “What makes you think I’ll tell a stranger?”
“Well, I didn’t even tell my therapist everything. I was thinking of dumping everything on Sam, actually. Make it his problem,” Bucky shrugged.
You paused, thinking it over. “Sounds like a good idea, actually. I haven’t talked to him in a while… Might be good for me to reach out.”
“You should. He asks about you, every once in a while. Asked if I’ve heard from you— even if it’s a whisper or a rumor,” Bucky said, his voice soft. “He misses you, too.”
“I didn’t exactly trust Sam to keep my location a secret after he blurted out to you that I was in a relationship with Steve,” you muttered, a scoff escaping your lips. “He knew that we were sleeping together, too. He knew that you and I were doing it because we needed an outlet after everything we lost.”
Bucky’s hands stopped, and he pulled back to look you in the eyes. Shock is all over his face.
“He knew?” he asked, in disbelief.
“Bucky— I knew Sam longer than I’ve known you. Of course I told him,” you frowned at him. “And then the asshole went around telling shit that wasn’t his to tell. I still don't know how he knew me and Steve were together, if I'm being honest."
“Would you have told me?” Bucky asked you, and it’s your turn to pause.
You weigh his words carefully, taking in the look on his face. He’s not mad. Not upset with you. He’s not looking at you the same way Steve did on your anniversary. It’s not accusatory. Bucky’s curious.
“I would’ve,” you whispered honestly, nodding. “But I didn’t think we would ever progress past just the… sleeping together. So I didn’t think it was worth mentioning. I didn’t want to ruin the little of you that I managed to have. I didn’t realize that I would lose all of you in the process.”
Bucky let out a breath, dragging a hand down his face. Momentarily, you believe you’ve pissed him off with your response. That you’ll get a repeat of that night in your apartment.
You watched him carefully, your lungs stopping in your chest as you waited for his response. You wait for the explosion, for the yelling, the accusations— then, he looked at you. His eyes meet yours.
Bucky’s still not upset with you. In fact, there’s affection in his eyes that you can’t believe you’re seeing again. He looks the same way he always did when he hovered above you, murmuring praises about how good you were to him. It was the same way he looked when he held you afterwards, making sure that he didn’t hurt you during the time you spent together.
This was the same way his eyes would light up when you came over to his apartment with food from his favorite restaurant after a particularly bad therapy session. How he sighed in delight and told you that you were the best, and how you always read his mind.
And, without you knowing, the same way he looked at you in Wakanda as you walked ahead of him with your hair full of flowers that he picked. Flowers that he deemed were good enough to decorate your head, but still not more beautiful than you.
“Can we start over?” Bucky whispered to you, hands moving to cover yours.
“Start over and do what?” you whispered back, trying to will your voice to stay even.
“I think that we have a good chance to do this right. You and me,” he said, releasing a breath. “Without grief or trauma defining… us. Defining our relationship— what we are to each other.”
“If there’s no trauma or grief, then what is there?”
“Love, sweetheart. You don’t believe in love? You were pretty adamant when you told Steve you were a hopeless romantic, you know,” he said, a soft teasing tone in his voice as he squeezed your hands.
You could only let out a laugh in response, shaking your head. You cringed, unable to stop your body from the visceral reaction. You hated that memory- hated that night. You and Steve didn't talk for two days after that fight.
“You saw that? Did you— You saw the whole thing?”
“I saw the entire thing,” he confirmed, nodding. “And I’m sorry. I… I told you that you were using me, and I didn’t even know that you loved me from the start.”
“I hid it from you,” you murmured. “That isn’t your fault.”
“Then let’s call it an oversight on both our ends,” he said, giving you a small smile.
“Do you really think this could work?” you asked, sighing deeply. “Us?”
“Hypothetically speaking, yes. Realistically speaking? A thousand percent. But only if you want it. Only if you want me. Only if you’ll allow me to love you in the way that I definitely do not deserve to have you.”
Just like that.
Bucky isn’t pleading with you. There is no pressure. He had simply opened the door to his heart, and he’s standing on the other side for you to join him.
The answer is on the tip of your tongue as you feel your eyes sting with emotion. You’ve cried so much in the past day, you’re surprised you haven’t passed out from dehydration.
Your vision is beginning to blur from your tears as you look at him— look at his face.
He’s patient. Watching your every move with bated breath. His gaze is gentle, as if he is anticipating and ready to forgive you for rejecting him.
Your throat is locked up as a tear finally slips down your cheek. Bucky’s eyes never leave yours, but his hand moves to cradle your face. His thumb brushes away the wetness, clearing your face.
And you nod. Small, subtle, but you know he sees it. He always sees it. He always sees your every move.
Bucky’s shoulders drop, relaxed as he reaches for you, arms wrapping around you. He’s holding you to his chest, and you can hear it— the inconsistent sound of his heart beating in his chest. You can feel the anxiety in his bones as he keeps you firm in his grasp, head tucked under his chin.
A moment later, you bring your own arms around his torso, fingers clutching onto his shirt tight. Bucky shifts, pressing a series of kisses to the top of your head.
You close your eyes, allowing yourself to finally melt into his arms. Years of yearning and silent love has brought you here, with him. The pain is still present, but is beginning to chip away with each of his words as you listen to him whisper to you—
Just thinking about how manchild!bucky is a sap . And how he just can’t stop touching you . Tender and sweet or more possessive . But he’s always gotta touch you . A hand in the back of your neck in public or his hand on your thigh in one of Sam’s barbecues . I’m so obsessed with them it’s unhealthy
Oh, Manchild!Bucky is the sap.
While other people's DNA is made up of sugar molecules, phosphate groups, and nitrogen bases, Bucky's DNA is made of all the devotion, neediness, and adoration he has for you. Taking care of you is more than just a biological need, it's hardwired into his very soul.
Despite the journey he's taken to healing and undoing certain aspects of his past, Bucky struggles with words — the majority of his memory is a kaleidoscope of years in which his voice was stolen from him. He's quick with his wit, and he's more than capable of running his mouth while he's watching you come undone because of him. But it's the quiet moments, the careful moments, that he struggles with. The paragraphs he builds upon in his head ramble out as nothing more than two words that leave him red in the face with embarrassment. So, he learns to use touch as an emotional crutch.
As time goes on, the bond between you grows, and you feel yourself become fluent in the silent language threaded into Bucky's touch.
When you're walking along the city streets and the warmth of his palm greets your lower back, you know he's beckoning you to walk in front of him — to avoid the oncoming traffic of someone glued to their phone, or to block any view of your skirt blowing up with the wind, or because sometimes he simply needs the comfort of being able to literally watch over you in crowded spaces.
Despite the fact it takes him a while to be fully comfortable with 'flaunting' your relationship in front of Sam — for no reason other than the impending teasing that's bound to plague him throughout all their future missions together — his instinct is still to seek out some form of touch. Playing footsies under the clothed table, or resting his hand on the back of your chair, or finding any excuse to squeeze past you so, for a second, he can brush his hand along your waist. It doesn't matter how or where, all that matters is the wave of reassurance that washes over his anxious mind when he feels you. And, when he's comfortable enough? He's a madman. Dragging your chair until it's pressed right against his, pressing a kiss atop your head anytime he passes the table where you're laser focused on a very serious game of cards against Sam's nephews, insisting you save space for others to sit while pulling you onto his lap and basically locking his arms around you. He's such a touch-starved maniac, Sam starts what he dubs the 'Clingy Jar' and makes poor Bucky pay each time he touches you — at the rate the jar's going, there will be enough money to put both Sam's nephews through college.
At home, however, is where his obsession truly thrives. If you ever dare sit on the opposite end of the couch, he's grabbing your ankle and hauling you down the length of it until either one of you is laying with your head in the other's lap. Enter the kitchen? Prepare to wear a six foot wall of muscle as a backpack, arms looped around you from behind and his head resting on your shoulder. And if you ever complain — because really, why would you? — it's only because his need to touch you is interfering with your desire for him to hurry up and finish baking whatever sweet treat he was in the middle of mixing when you made the mistake of grabbing a drink. Showering becomes a joint affair — he insists it saves water and you don't have the heart to tell him the truth. While it's not rare for it to lead to something sexual, that's not even the reason he joins you in the cubicle. It's the intimacy of becoming clean together, washing away any of the bad from the day and just being left with your bare, soaked, smiling faces, gazing at each other whilst covered in soapsuds and just thinking, 'yeah, it's good to be home'. The bed, lets be honest, is the most obvious and straight forward thing: come rain or shine, summer or winter, that man expects you to be resting atop his chest and beneath the weight of his right arm. The only exception? Spooning, when he's the little spoon and he gets to revel in feeling your entire frame pressed up against him.
God forbid you ever fight — because you will, it's only natural. That man will impose his own punishment, even when he's in the one in the right, and will quit touching you. Cold turkey, no warning. Complete and utter avoidance of touch. In his skewed logic, he has no right to the comfort touching you provides when you're at odds with each other, and the last thing he ever wants to do is to have you relate having his hands on you to anything negative — even if it is just a silly argument over who ate the last cheese stick. Poor boy lasts about twenty minutes trying to sleep on the couch before he's sliding into bed and pulling you against him, a million apologies upon his lips as he peppers them all over your skin.
Yeah, uh, so basically, please don't reject Manchild!Bucky's clingy affection. Because, while he's a gentleman who will accept your rejection with complete understanding, he'll probably cry himself to sleep or write really crappy poetry about it. Oh my god, someone teach me to stfu!
Summary: Steve Rogers once claimed July 4th was his birthday in a moment of patriotic panic and now, decades later, he's trapped in an annual circus of fireworks and singing cakes while Bucky Barnes, who knows his real birthday, watches it all unfold alongside you with ruthless amusement. (Bucky Barnes x reader)
Word Count: 1.1k+
A/N: Happy 4th of July, everyone! This was inspired by this post from @couldnt-think-of-a-funny-name. I saw it a while back and thought it’d be perfect for a short themed fic today! Happy reading!!!
Main Masterlist
The Fourth of July at the Avengers Tower was somehow more over-the-top than you ever imagined, and you’d imagined a lot when you first joined the team.
There were drones in the shape of bald eagles circling the upper levels, tables decked out in red, white, and blue confetti, and a life-sized cake replica of Captain America’s shield slowly rotating on a platform like it was on some sort of sugary patriotic pedestal. Fireworks hadn’t even started yet, and you were already overwhelmed.
And that didn’t even touch the twenty-foot holographic banner flashing:
“Happy Birthday, Captain America!”
“Wait… Steve’s birthday is today?” You asked, frowning as you tried to keep up. You looked over at Bucky, who stood beside you with a drink in hand and an expression that was somewhere between entertained and exasperated.
He didn’t answer at first. Just sipped slowly, like he was letting something delicious settle on his tongue.
“Supposedly,” He said at last, eyes twinkling.
You raised a brow. “Supposedly?”
He turned to look at you, lips quirking. “Let’s just say the truth’s a little snowier than the fireworks would suggest.”
Before you could push further and ask what that even means, Tony Stark’s voice blared from the stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen, heroes and freeloaders, give it up for the man, the myth, the living legend; our one and only, star-spangled Steve Rogers!”
The crowd erupted into cheers. Steve, dressed in a casual button-down and looking very much like he wanted the earth to open up and swallow him whole, offered a stiff smile and a half-hearted wave from the side of the crowd.
You leaned toward Bucky again. “Okay, what is going on?”
Bucky chuckled, clearly enjoying your confusion. “He wasn’t actually born on the Fourth. That was just a panic response back during one of his tour interviews. Wanted to sound more patriotic, I guess and said July 4th like a reflex, and now he’s been trapped in that lie for about a hundred years.”
You blinked. “Wait, you’re serious?”
“As a heart attack,” Bucky said, grinning. “His actual birthday’s in December. Always was. I used to sneak him cake when we were kids. But now? Now he’s got mugs, documentaries, and a Hallmark holiday outfits.”
You glanced at Steve, who was now cornered by Sam, Bruce, and a S.H.I.E.L.D. rep holding an enormous red-white-and-blue party hat. His jaw was tight. His eyes flicked toward Bucky like a silent plea.
Bucky just sipped again. “He lives in constant fear someone’s gonna dig up his birth certificate.”
You looked back at Steve, then at the holographic display of his “birthday,” and then back to Bucky. “And you just… let him suffer?”
“Every year,” Bucky said, grinning. “It’s my favorite holiday.”
You couldn’t help it. You burst out laughing, and Bucky’s smirk deepened as he watched Steve try to gently wrestle a sparkler out of Tony’s hand before someone lost an eyebrow.
You nudged Bucky lightly with your elbow. “You’re a menace.”
“Don’t act like you’re not gonna enjoy watching this unfold.” He leaned in, dropping his voice low just for you. “Wait ‘til the cake comes out. It sings.”
You glanced over at the monstrosity of frosting and fondant slowly rotating under a spotlight. And suddenly, you understood why Steve looked like he might bolt.
Oh, you were definitely staying for the cake.
When it was time to cut the cake, you realized it did, in fact, sing.
It started as a low hum of patriotic instrumentals swelling from hidden speakers as the lights dimmed in dramatic anticipation. Guests crowded around the massive dessert like it was about to perform an opera, and honestly, it might as well have. A minute later, the cake’s top layer mechanically opened like the roof of a convertible, revealing a tiny animatronic Steve Rogers figurine that popped up to salute.
Then it began singing “Born in the U.S.A.” Off-key. Loudly.
Steve flinched.
You were openly laughing now, wheezing into your drink as Bucky casually leaned on the back of a couch like a man watching karma do his work for him.
“I told Tony this was too much,” Steve muttered through clenched teeth to Sam, who was doubled over laughing beside him.
“Oh, come on, Cap,” Sam said between gasps, “You’re telling me this isn’t the birthday party of your dreams?”
Steve glanced over at Bucky again. You swore the temperature dropped five degrees from how hard Steve was glaring, but Bucky only raised his glass in a slow, infuriating toast.
“Does no one else find this weird?” You whispered to Bucky, grinning. “That literally everyone believes he was born on Independence Day and no one’s ever questioned it?”
“Oh, people have questioned it,” Bucky said. “But by the time someone pulls out a dusty archive or some old hospital record, they’re shut down by a wave of patriotism and Steve’s guilty little puppy face.”
You blinked. “So this is just… the life he chose?”
“He didn’t choose it,” Bucky said, feigning innocence. “He lied once, and now he’s stuck pretending his birthday smells like hot dogs and gunpowder.”
You raised a brow. “And you never let him forget it?”
“Would you?” Bucky asked.
Fair point.
Across the room, Steve was trying and failing to defuse Tony, who had just unveiled the night’s next surprise: a series of drones that would skywrite “BORN ON THE FOURTH TO FIGHT FOR THE FREE” in glittering red sparks across the skyline.
You watched Steve visibly flinch with each passing word in the sky, jaw locked so tight you could see the muscle twitching from across the room.
“I think he’s going to pop a blood vessel,” You whispered.
Bucky smirked, completely unbothered. “Every year he asks Tony to tone it down. And every year Tony says he will. He never does.”
“Is this why you like the Fourth of July so much?” You teased, nudging him.
He shrugged like a man with no shame. “It used to be the worst day of the year for me. Now it’s one of my favorites.”
You gave him a sideways glance. “Because you get to watch your best friend be tormented by the consequences of a hundred-year-old lie?”
“Exactly,” Bucky said brightly.
And you couldn’t help it, you laughed again. But then Bucky leaned closer, his tone dropping low, soft just for you.
“I think next year, I’ll slip a December birthday card into his locker,” He murmured. “Maybe make it snow in the common room. Just to keep him on his toes.”
You tilted your head, amused. “And you say you’re not the dramatic one.”
Bucky looked over at Steve again, who was now trying to pry the animatronic figurine off the cake as it attempted to salute and tap dance.
With all the chaos swirling around him, Steve caught Bucky’s eye one more time, half rage, half helplessness.
Bucky just winked.
And you knew then, with full certainty: This would be your new favorite holiday too.
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