captaingrnde @captaingrnde - Tumblr Blog

Apr 20

ꜱᴛɪᴄᴋʏ ᴄᴏɴꜰᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴꜱ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ › bucky moves into your spare room expecting nothing more than four walls and a place to sleep. instead, he finds floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, sticky note conversations, late-night takeout, and a girl who always puts herself last.

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ › roommate!bucky x female reader ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ › roommates trope, post tfatws, sticky note communication, friends to lovers, roommates to lovers, slow burn, domestic fluff, many many hot dog mentions, anxiety, work stress/burnout, author has mini geek speak moments, anthropology reader, emotional intimacy, quiet romance, self-doubt, mild emotional hurt/comfort, sticky note love language, reader insecurity, loneliness, not beta read we die like men. ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ › 11.3k

ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ › and they were roommates.... oh my god they were roommates

The number sits in his phone for three days before he uses it.

Three days of bad apartments and worse brokers. Places with paper-thin walls and windows that looked directly into brick. Places that smelled like mildew and old cigarettes. Places so expensive they made his jaw lock before the realtor even finished speaking.

He tells himself he's only looking because he has to. Not because he misses hearing another person in the next room. Not because going back to the apartment in Brooklyn every night feels too much like walking into a museum exhibit dedicated to a man he doesn't know how to be anymore.

Louisiana had almost made sense for a second.

He can still picture the dock at sunset, the water catching orange light, the sound of Sam's nephews shouting somewhere down the road. He can still hear Sam leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, pretending not to look too concerned.

“You could stay here for a while,” Sam had said.

“No.”

“You don't even gotta stay with me. The VA's offering assistance out here now. They can help you get your own place.”

“No.”

Sam had looked at him for a long second then, the kind of look people get right before they decide whether or not to push.

“You know, accepting help doesn't mean you're weak.”

Bucky had laughed once under his breath, sharp and humorless. “Not taking charity.”

“It ain't charity.”

“Feels like it.”

Sam had sighed through his nose, digging through a kitchen drawer before pulling out a scrap of paper with a number scribbled across it.

“I know somebody in New York. Friend of mine has a spare room.”

Bucky remembers immediately opening his mouth to refuse, Sam had beaten him to it.

“You won't be coddled or given the sugar treatment,” he said. “You'll pay rent, keep your mess clean, same as anywhere else. I bet you'll like it too.”

That had been the only reason Bucky took the number at all.

Now, three days later, he stares at it again from the edge of a too-small hotel bed in Queens. The room hums around him. Old air conditioner rattling in the window. Pipes knocking somewhere in the walls. The smell of industrial detergent trapped in the sheets.

He types the message before he can talk himself out of it.

Sam Wilson gave me your number. He said you had a room for rent.

The response comes less than ten minutes later, not much text, no small talk. Just a picture. The room is simple. Bigger than he expected. A bed frame without a mattress, a dresser by the wall, a window overlooking the street below. Hardwood floors. Clean lines. Nothing flashy.

Underneath the picture is the address and rent amount. Reasonable, more than reasonable, honestly.

Then another message.

He told me you'd message. If you're interested, you can come look at it tomorrow. I work late tonight.

What would probably seem forward to others Bucky sees as efficient, Sam's recommendation is starting to make sense now. The building is in Brooklyn, far enough from the center of everything to be quiet but not isolated. The brick outside is old, the kind that has survived decades without anybody bothering to make it prettier.

There is a sticky note taped to the front door when he gets there.

Spare key is under the plant. Let yourself in.

He stares at the note for a second longer than he needs to. Something about it feels strangely normal. The kind of thing people do when they trust that the world isn't always waiting to hurt them.

The apartment is quiet when he steps inside, his shoes echoing off the walls. It's not empty per say, just still.

There are a pair of sneakers and loafers by the door lined up neatly on a tray. A light jacket tossed over the back of the couch, s mug sitting in the sink, a blanket folded over the armrest like somebody had smoothed it down before rushing out the door.

The place is nice. Not too fancy, not overly cluttered. There are soft colors everywhere. Cream walls. Warm wood floors. A kitchen with magnets on the fridge and a bowl of fruit on the counter. It feels lived in in small ways, like somebody exists here just hardly.

The bedroom at the end of the hall is bigger than he expected. Master bedroom with a bathroom attached, an amenity he hadn't lived with in too many years to count. Enough room for his duffel bags and the few boxes he still carries from place to place without unpacking.

But it isn't the room that makes him stop.

It's the hallway.

Bookshelves run from floor to ceiling along both sides of it, turning the narrow stretch between the living room and bedrooms into something else entirely. There are hundreds of books. Maybe more. Old hardcovers with cracked spines. Paperbacks with folded corners. New glossy editions wedged beside books that look older than he is.

His eyes catch on familiar titles. The Great Gatsby, A Farewell to Arms, The Hobbit. A worn copy of The Catcher in the Rye sits crooked on a shelf near the middle. Some of the older books have faded cloth covers, titles nearly rubbed away with time. He reaches out before he can stop himself, fingertips brushing the spine of one that looks like it has been opened a hundred times.

It reassures him in a way he can't explain. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, he can picture himself somewhere without immediately wanting to leave.

He pulls his phone out.

Nice place. I'll take it if it's still up for offer.

The reply comes before he even reaches the kitchen.

It's all yours. Lease is on the kitchen counter. Bring your stuff in whenever. I won't be back until late again.

He looks over at the stack of papers sitting beside the fruit bowl. A little strange and fast, maybe. But he isn't complaining. The lease is simple. Month to month, rent due on the first. No smoking inside, clean up after yourself. No coffee grounds down the drain.

That last one almost makes him smile.

He signs his name at the bottom then he goes back downstairs to start bringing his things in. Which, after a century of life, turns out to be less than he thought it'd be. It only takes him three days to move in.

Three days of hauling boxes up narrow stairs and carrying duffel bags that feel heavier than they should. Three days of unpacking only half of his things because there isn't much point in settling too deeply into anywhere anymore.

He never sees you once.

The first night, he hears the front door unlock sometime after midnight, quiet footsteps, the soft rustle of a jacket being hung up. Cabinet doors opening and closing in the kitchen. He stands frozen in the doorway of his room for a second, listening.

Then he hears the bathroom door shut down the hall and waits for some awkward introduction that never comes. By the time he wakes up the next morning, you're gone again.

There is a sticky note on the fridge.

Working late all week. Feel free to use anything in the kitchen except the leftover Chinese food. Learned that lesson already.

He pulls the note off the fridge after reading it, folding it once before sticking it in the pocket of his sweatshirt without really knowing why.

The second note comes two days later, left beside the coffee maker.

Heading upstate for work tomorrow. Back Friday night.

Then another on the kitchen counter.

If the sink in the kitchen makes that awful screeching noise again, jiggle the cold water handle.

It's strange, living with someone he has never met.

You exist in pieces to him. A mug left drying by the sink, a pair of shoes by the door one night and gone again by morning, a blanket folded on the couch in a different way than he remembers leaving it.

The faint smell of shampoo lingering in the hallway bathroom after he knows you've been home.

Sometimes he catches the sound of you moving around at night. The creak of floorboards in the hall. The soft thud of something being set on the kitchen counter. Once, half asleep, he hears quiet music drifting from somewhere in the apartment before it disappears again.

You are becoming something blurry around the edges, more presence than person, a ghost.

Not that he's one to complain. The arrangement works and for the first few weeks, he mostly keeps to his room anyway. He gets used to the attached bathroom. The way the pipes knock whenever somebody runs hot water. The patch of afternoon sun that lands across the floor by the window around three o'clock every day.

He unpacks slowly. One shirt at a time, one book at a time. He leaves most of his things in boxes because it feels safer that way. Temporary. Like if he has to leave suddenly, he can.

He still goes out most nights, he doesn't cook much.

The kitchen feels too personal somehow, like crossing into territory that belongs more to you than him. So he eats at diners, cheap takeout places, little delis with too-bright lights and menus that haven't changed in twenty years.

Eventually he starts stopping at the same hot dog stand three blocks from the apartment. The guy who runs it is older. Loud, talks too much, calls everyone sweetheart regardless of age or gender. The first time Bucky goes there, the guy takes one look at him and says, “You look like you need two hot dogs and a nap.”

By the third visit, he doesn't even have to order.

“Mustard, onions, no kraut,” the guy says, already reaching for the buns. “And a Coke.”

“You're getting too comfortable,” Bucky tells him.

“You keep showing up, that's on you.”

He reminds Bucky of Sam if Sam were louder and somehow even more annoying.

The guy asks questions constantly.

You got a girl? No. Job? Sort of. Why do you always look like somebody just kicked your dog?

Bucky never answers half of them, still, he keeps coming back. Mostly because the hot dogs are decent. Partly because it is nice, sometimes, to have somebody expect you to show up somewhere.

Back at the apartment, another sticky note waits for him on the kitchen counter.

Sorry for basically haunting the place. Work has been insane lately.

He stares at it for a second, then longer than that. A ghost with good handwriting, at least now he knows you know it too.

The first time he sees you, it feels a little like walking into the wrong apartment.

He comes back later than usual, the city already washed in blue evening light, a paper tray from the hot dog stand balanced in one hand and a soda in the other. The apartment door sticks a little when he pushes it open.

He hears your voice before he sees you. It's soft, firm yet an edge of exhaustion to it.

“You can tell them whatever you want, but I'm not driving six hours for a meeting that could've been an email.”

He stops just inside the doorway.

You're standing by the living room windows with your back to him, one arm folded across your middle, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder.

For a second, he just stares. Because he had almost forgotten, not completely, but enough. Enough that your existence had turned into sticky notes and moving shadows in the hallway. Coffee mugs in the sink. A coat that appeared on the hook by the door and disappeared again before morning.

He had built you into something abstract in his head.

Not a real person.

Certainly not a woman.

Not because Sam had said otherwise. Sam hadn't said much at all.

Just because there had been nothing obvious about you in the apartment. No perfume bottles cluttering the bathroom counter. No makeup bags. No floral blankets or pastel throw pillows or whatever other lazy stereotypes his brain had apparently reached for without him realizing it.

The place is sparse, practical. Books and soft lighting and a single plant by the window that looks one missed watering away from death. He mentally scolds himself for the assumptions.

You don't turn around right away, you're still talking and Bucky begins to wonder if he should walk out. Keep to the ghostly sticky notes and mugs in the sink.

“Yeah, well, that's not my problem,” you say into the phone, quieter now. “I sent everything over already.”

Then your eyes flick toward the entryway. Toward him.

You freeze.

It happens so quickly he almost misses it. The slight widening of your eyes. The way your mouth parts for a second before you catch yourself. It's clear you hadn't expected to see him either.

“Hold on,” you murmur into the phone.

For a second, neither of you says anything.

You are not what he expected either. You're standing barefoot on the hardwood floor with your heels kicked off next to you, hair a little messy like you've been running your hands through it all day and a suitskirt that's been smoothed down one too many times.

There are tired shadows under your eyes that make you look… real. Not like the blurry version of you he'd made up from scraps. He realizes, distantly, that this is probably the first time you've really seen him too. Not just the sound of boots in the hallway or the evidence of him in the sink.

The metal arm. The size of him. The way he takes up space without meaning to.

You recover first.

“Sorry,” you say, pulling the phone away from your mouth. “I didn't know you were coming home.”

“Yeah.”Brilliant move.

You blink at him once, then glance down at the hot dog tray in his hand. “Hope that's not dinner.”

He looks down too. “It was the plan.”

You huff a laugh through your nose, small and tired. “You eat like a divorced dad.”

He doesn't know why that almost makes him smile. Into the phone, you say, “I have to call you back,” before hanging up without waiting for an answer.

The apartment goes quiet, not awkward exactly. Well it's a little awkward but it's more unfamiliar than anything. Up close, he notices things he couldn't piece together from the notes. You look younger than he expected. Softer too, somehow. Not fragile, just... warm around the edges, like somebody people trust without thinking about it.

“Sorry about that,” you say, gesturing vaguely with your phone. “Work call, you know. I, uh... didn't expect it to go like this.”

There's something awkward in the air still, that strange lingering feeling of two people trying to fit reality over the outline they'd already made of each other.

“Don't worry about it.”

You shift your phone into one hand and hold the other out toward him.

“I don't think we've actually been properly introduced.” You say, offering your name. He looks down at your hand for a second before taking it carefully.

“No. I don't think we have.” His hand slips from yours after only a moment. “I'm Bucky.”

“I know. I suppose that's mainly my fault.” You give him a small apologetic smile. “I'm sorry. My job is very… time demanding and that won't really be changing anytime soon. But I'm glad to meet you, Bucky.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Good to meet you too.”

Silence settles between you again, not uncomfortable, just unsure. Then both of you speak at once.

“So what do you do?”

“How are you liking the place?”

You stop. He stops.

“Sorry,” he says, motioning for you to go first.

“I was just asking how you're liking the place.” Your arms fold loosely over yourself again. “Have you settled in well?”

“Oh, yeah.” He nods once. “Place is great. Thank you.”

And it is.

He likes the quiet. The neighborhood. The bookshelves. The fact that the apartment feels like somewhere a person could stay for a while without being swallowed by it.

You smile a little at his answer. “Good.”

More silence, then you clear your throat slightly.

“And you? Were gonna say...?”

“Oh.” He glances down for a second like he'd forgotten his own question. “I was just wondering what you do... that's so...” He makes a vague motion with one hand. “Time demanding.”

“Oh. Right.” You shift your weight against the windowsill. “I work in the anthropology division at the American Museum of Natural History.”

He blinks once. “Wow.”

You laugh softly at the look on his face.

“That sounds awesome.”

“It used to be,” you say with a wry little smile. “Now it's mostly a thousand phone calls and endless trips upstate to deal with the collections.”

He leans back slightly against the doorframe.

“If you work down there, why live in Brooklyn?” he asks. “Nasty commute.”

You glance around the apartment like you haven't looked at it properly in a while.

“I got this place before I got that job,” you say. “And I liked it.” Then, quieter, “Still like it.”

Your eyes move briefly toward the hallway. Toward the bookshelves, the kitchen, the little corners of the apartment that feel soft even when no one's in them.

“That's actually why I wanted a roommate,” you admit. “I love this place, and I want it to be loved, but...” You shrug one shoulder. “I just don't have the time to do that.”

Something in his chest shifts a little at that, because he understands. More than he wants to. What it feels like to care about something and still not know how to be present for it.

“Well,” he says, voice quieter now, “I'll... I'll do my best.”

You smile then, not the tired, polite kind you've been giving him all evening. Something warmer. Something that catches him off guard a little, like maybe you believe him.

“I'm sorry I've basically been living here like some weird cryptid,” you say. “Work's been insane.”

“You leave good notes.”

The second the words leave his mouth, he wants them back.

Your eyebrows lift. “That's maybe the weirdest compliment I've ever gotten.”

You open your mouth, like you're about to say something else, then your phone rings. The sound cuts through the room sharply. You look down at the screen and make a face.

“Sorry,” you say, already answering it. “I have to take this.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

You offer him one last apologetic smile before turning and disappearing down the hallway toward your bedroom.

A second later he hears your door close softly, then your voice again through the wall. Professional, calm and little tired. He stands in the entryway for another minute after that, hot dog gone cold in his hand. The apartment feels different now, smaller somehow. Not because there is less space. Just because now, finally, you are real.

The apartment feels different after he meets you.

Not immediately and nothing dramatic.

You still leave before sunrise some mornings, slipping out with your bag over your shoulder and your hair still damp from the shower. You still come home long after dark, moving quietly through the apartment like you're trying not to wake someone even when he isn't asleep.

But now there is shape to your absence. Before, the apartment had just been quiet, now it feels empty. Bucky notices things he shouldn't. Whether your shoes are by the door, whether the light under your bedroom door is on.

The difference between the sound of the upstairs neighbors moving furniture and the sound of you dropping your keys onto the kitchen counter.

He lingers in the kitchen longer now too. Sometimes with coffee growing cold in his hands while he leans against the counter pretending not to listen for the front door. Sometimes he catches himself glancing toward the hallway whenever the building creaks.

You still leave notes. One waits for him on the fridge Tuesday morning, tucked beneath a magnet shaped like a pear.

Upstate again. Back Thursday night. There's soup in the fridge if it hasn't gone bad.

He stares at it for a second, then longer than that. Before he can overthink it, he grabs a pen from the junk drawer and flips the note over.

Soup is still alive. I think.

He leaves it on the counter and immediately regrets it. Wondering if it's too weird, or too familiar. But when he gets back from a walk later that night, the note is gone.

Thursday comes, then Thursday night. He is standing in the kitchen making coffee he doesn't need when he hears the front door unlock. You walk in looking exhausted. Hair messy, tote bag slipping off your shoulder, coat half falling down your arms.

You stop when you see him.

“Hey.”

Your eyes land on the counter and you laugh. It's quiet, tired around the edges, but real.

“Soup still alive?” you ask.

“Barely.”

You drop your bag onto a chair.

“Well.” You glance toward the fridge. “Soup can't technically expire if you're brave enough.”

Bucky blinks, you smile a little wider and something warm settles low in his chest.

After that, the notes become something else. Not just reminders but conversations. You leave one on the coffee maker.

Radiator makes weird banging noises around midnight. Ignore it unless it sounds haunted.

He leaves one by the fruit bowl the next morning.

Upstairs neighbors were fighting at 2 a.m. Pretty sure someone threw a lamp.

Another day:

Please water the plant by the window before it starts holding a grudge.

He forgets. Two days later, there is another note waiting beside the drooping leaves.

You had one job.

Bucky snorts to himself, then digs out a pen.

Sorry. It does kinda look like one bad day away from death.

You leave back:

So do I.

He folds that note into the pocket of his jacket and carries it around for three days. Slowly, without either of you meaning for it to happen, the notes stop being practical.

One afternoon he comes home to find one waiting by the sink.

New coffee filters are under the sink. Also, if you ate my leftover pad thai I forgive you because it was probably bad anyway.

He smiles before he can stop himself, then writes back underneath it.

Didn't eat it. Thought about it though.

The next morning there is another note sitting beside the coffee pot.

I appreciate your honesty in this difficult time.

And just like that, the apartment doesn't feel quite so empty anymore.

As great as everything else is, Bucky gets tired of hot dogs eventually.

Not completely. He still goes to the stand a few times a week, still listens to the guy behind the cart talk too loud and ask too many questions, but after a while the thought of another hot dog starts to make him feel vaguely ill.

So one night he cooks, nothing complicated. Just pasta.

Too much of it, because he has never quite figured out how to cook for one person and because some part of him has started thinking in twos without permission.

The apartment smells different afterward, warmer. Like garlic and tomato sauce and something softer underneath it.

He leaves you a bowl in the fridge with a note stuck to the top.

Made too much. There's pasta in the fridge if you want it.

You don't come home until after midnight. He's already in bed when he hears the faint sounds of you moving around in the kitchen.

The fridge opening, a plate clinking against the counter. Silence. Then the microwave.

The next morning, he wakes up to a note sitting beside the coffee maker.

This is the first non-takeout meal I've had in two weeks. Marry me?

He stares at it for an embarrassing amount of time. Long enough that his coffee goes cold. Long enough that he folds the note once, then again, before sliding it into the drawer beside his bed with the others.

After that, you start seeing each other more. Not on purpose exactly. Just in the little spaces between everything else. Six in the morning in the kitchen while the city outside is still gray and quiet.

You standing in one of his sweatshirts that got mixed up in the laundry over leggings, blinking sleepily into your coffee cup while he leans against the counter waiting for toast to pop up.

Passing each other in the hallway at night. Your shoulder brushing his as you move around each other in the narrow space between the dining room and kitchen.

Once, on a rainy Thursday, you both end up home at the same time. You sit on opposite ends of the couch, you with your laptop balanced on your knees, him with a book open in his lap.

The television hums quietly in the background, something neither of you is actually watching. At some point, without looking up from your screen, you stretch your legs out until your socked feet bump lightly against his thigh.

You don't move them away. Neither does he and slowly, you become easier around each other. You stop apologizing every time you leave dishes in the sink. He stops retreating to his room the second he hears you come home.

One night he brings back burgers and fries from a diner down the street.

You appear in the kitchen halfway through, hair damp from the shower, looking at his takeout bag like it personally offended you that he didn't ask if you wanted anything.

“Rude,” you say.

“You weren't home yet.”

“You could've texted.”

He tears the bag open and slides the fries toward you. You grin immediately and steal three before he even sits down.

“You're lucky you're cute,” he mutters.

You freeze for half a second, then keep eating like you didn't hear him. He fixes the sink handle one weekend after it starts making that awful screeching noise every time you turn it.

You come home to find him under the sink with a wrench in one hand and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

“What are you doing?”

“Fixing it.”

You lean in the doorway watching him for a second. “You know, normal people usually just call maintenance.”

“Normal people don't have metal arms.”

That makes you laugh. “Fair point.”

Then one evening he comes home and finds you asleep on the couch. The apartment is dark except for the lamp in the corner, there are papers everywhere. Open folders spread across the coffee table. A legal pad on the floor. Your laptop still glowing beside you, your glasses sit crooked on your face, one hand is still wrapped loosely around a pen.

You look exhausted. Like you've simply run out of steam halfway through existing. He stands there for a second longer than he means to, then quietly sets his keys down.

He grabs the blanket folded over the arm of the couch and drapes it carefully over you.

You stir a little, brows furrowing, but you don't wake up. His hand lingers for half a second near your shoulder before he pulls it back. Then he turns off the kitchen light and disappears down the hallway.

The next morning, the blanket is folded neatly over the back of the couch again. And beside the coffee maker, there is a note.

Thanks for the blanket.

Below it, in smaller handwriting:

That was very disgustingly nice of you.

A few nights later, Bucky wakes up thirsty. The apartment is dark except for the light over the stove.

He can hear pages turning before he even reaches the kitchen.

You're sitting at the table in one of your giant sweatshirts, laptop open, papers spread out around you in messy little stacks. There are sticky notes stuck to the edge of your screen, a half-drunk cup of coffee by your elbow, and your glasses are slipping down your nose again.

You don't notice him at first. Your mouth is moving slightly while you read through something under your breath.

He leans against the doorway. “Do you ever sleep?”

You jump a little in your seat, then you look up at him and huff out a tired laugh.

“Sometimes.”

“You sure?”

“Not particularly.”

He moves farther into the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cabinet. “You know it's two in the morning, right?”

You glance down at your laptop clock. “Oh.”

“You didn't know?”

“I thought it was maybe midnight.”

He shakes his head a little as he fills his glass. “What are you even doing?”

You look down at the folders spread around you and for a second, you seem like you're deciding whether or not to tell him. Then you let out a breath.

“I'm… up for a promotion.”

Bucky looks over at you. “What kind?”

“A curator position.”

He leans back against the counter. “At the museum?”

You nod.

“In the anthropology division.” Your fingers start absently straightening the edge of one of your papers. “If I got it, I'd oversee acquisitions, exhibits, research trips. Most of the collections work too.”

As you talk, something about you changes, your shoulders loosen and your face softens. There is something brighter in your voice than he's heard before. You look almost younger like this, less tired, more like the version of you that exists underneath all the stress and late nights and rushed mornings.

“That sounds...” He shakes his head once. “That sounds awesome.”

“It would be.” You smile a little, staring down at your notes. “I mean, it would be everything.”

You glance around at the papers spread across the table. “I've wanted it for years.”

Then, just as quickly, you pull back from it. You shrug one shoulder like it doesn't matter as much as it clearly does.

“But it's probably unrealistic anyway.”

Bucky frowns. “Why?”

You laugh softly to yourself.

“Because you don't just get the job to be a curator at the American Museum of Natural History,” you say. “It's something holy that gets bestowed upon you with the anointed oil they gave Queen Elizabeth II.”

That gets a surprised laugh out of him. You smile faintly, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes.

“It's just wishful thinking,” you say quietly. “Then you die trying.”

He hates how fast you do that. How quickly you take something you want and turn it into something impossible before anyone else can.

He sets his glass down on the counter. “That sounds like exactly the kind of job you'd be good at.”

You look up at him, really look at him. Like you're waiting for the joke, but there isn't one.

“You know that, right?” he says. “The way you talk about it.”

Your expression shifts a little, because most people do not usually say things to you that plainly. You look down at your hands.

“I don't know,” you say after a second.

“Yeah, you do.”

The kitchen goes quiet, the radiator knocks somewhere in the wall. You sit there with your hands wrapped around your coffee cup, staring at him like he has said something far more important than he meant to.

Then you smile. “Thanks, Buck.”

And for some reason, it feels like being handed something fragile.

A few days later, Bucky finds himself standing in the hallway again.

It happens more often now. He'll be on his way to the kitchen or coming back from the shower and suddenly stop in front of the bookshelves like he forgot where he was going.

The shelves are uneven in places.

Some rows are organized by author, others by size or color or absolutely no logic at all. There are books stacked sideways on top of other books, faded bookmarks sticking out between pages, cracked spines and bent corners and little slips of paper tucked into random places.

It feels lived in, it feels like you.

He stands there for a minute, eyes tracing over the titles. Then he grabs a sticky note from the kitchen and presses it onto the edge of one of the shelves.

You actually read all of these?

He forgets about it after that. Until later that night when he gets home and notices something tucked into the spine of a book halfway down the shelf.

He pulls it free.

Used to. A lot. Some are mine, some were my dad's, some I found secondhand. I used to collect old editions too before work swallowed my entire personality.

He reads it twice. Then, without really meaning to, he starts paying closer attention. Not just to the titles, to the books themselves.

There are old clothbound covers with gold lettering worn thin at the edges. Tiny notes scribbled in pencil in the margins. Bookstore stamps from places all over the city. One copy of a novel has a dried flower pressed between the pages.

Some of them are old enough that even he remembers when they were new. One night he pauses in front of a shelf near the living room and pulls out a familiar green book.

The cover is faded, the spine is worn soft from use. He turns it over in his hands, then glances down at the copyright page. 1942. He stares for a second, then reaches for another sticky note.

You have a 1942 copy of The Hobbit.

The response is waiting for him when he wakes up the next morning, tucked beneath his coffee mug.

I know. Found it in a shop upstate for twenty dollars because the owner didn't know what he had. Second greatest moment of my life.

He smiles despite himself, and there is another note beneath it.

You can read whatever you want, by the way. And if there are books you like, you can add them.

He stands there in the kitchen holding that note a little longer than he should. Because nobody has said something like that to him in a very long time. To make yourself at home, that there's room for you here. It's such a small thing, just books, just shelves.

But it feels like more than that. That night he pulls one of the older novels from the shelf and reads half of it sitting on the couch while rain taps softly against the windows.

A few days later, when he finishes it, he leaves it on the coffee table. When he comes back from a walk the next morning, there is a sticky note tucked inside the front cover.

Well?

He snorts quietly to himself and grabs a pen.

Liked it. Ending was more depressing than I remember.

The next day:

That's because you have bad taste and no appreciation for tragedy.

He leaves another book out after that, then another. And you start leaving notes inside all of them. Little questions in the margins. Favorite character? Did you cry? Be honest, did you skip the boring parts? And without really realizing it, the shelves stop feeling like just yours.

They start feeling like something the two of you are building together.

One evening Bucky comes back from a walk and stops in the hallway without meaning to. Something looks different. It takes him a second to realize what it is. Wedged between two thick hardcovers near the end of the second shelf is one of his books, old and worn.

A history book about the forties that he'd unpacked weeks ago and left sitting on the edge of the end table next to the couch because he never knew where to put it. Now it's there between the others like it has always belonged.

Like you made room for it without asking. He reaches out and pulls it from the shelf. Inside the front cover, there's a sticky note with your handwriting:

Thought this looked lonely.

Something in his chest aches a little. Because it's such a small thing, nobody has made space for him somewhere in a very long time, but it shifts something inside of him. Something warm and soft blooming beneath his ribs as he slides the book back onto the shelf.

After that, you start spending more actual time together. Not just in passing, not just in notes and hallway conversations. Real time. He brings home takeout and the two of you end up sitting cross-legged on the living room floor because neither of you feels like cleaning off the coffee table.

You steal pieces of chicken off his plate. He lets you. You start walking to get coffee together on mornings you're both free, slow and sleepy and still half wrapped in hoodies.

Sometimes you don't talk much, sometimes you talk about everything. The museum. His nightmares. Books. Childhoods. Things that happened too long ago and things that happened yesterday.

One afternoon he comes back from the hot dog stand carrying two paper trays instead of one. You're in the kitchen when he gets home.

“You got me one?”

“You looked tired.”

You smile at him in a way that feels dangerous.

The hot dog guy notices eventually.

“Where's the pretty museum girl?” he asks one day while handing Bucky his usual order.

Bucky frowns. “Who?”

“The roommate you said you have.” The guy grins. “I wanna meet her.”

“No. Not happening.”

The guy laughs. “Oh, so that's what we're doing now.”

Bucky grabs the food and leaves before he can say anything else. You notice his mood immediately when he gets back.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Mm.”

You take the hot dog from his hand. “You have a very specific face when you're annoyed, you know.”

He mutters something under his breath that makes you smile. That night the two of you are sitting on the floor in front of the couch, books spread around you, some old movie playing in the background.

Bucky glances over at the shelf. “You said finding that copy of The Hobbit was the second greatest moment of your life.”

You look up from your book. “Yeah.”

“So what was the first?”

You smile immediately.

“There was this used bookstore in Queens,” you say. “I was seventeen. They had this old locked case near the register and inside was the first book from a vintage set of The Canterbury Tales.”

He watches your face change as you talk.

“The cover was all cracked leather and gold leaf and completely falling apart. It was beautiful.”

You tuck your legs up closer to yourself.

“I used all the money I had to buy it.”

“And then?”

“And then I spent the next ten years trying to find the rest.” You laugh softly. “That was kind of it. That was the start of the whole problem.”

“You found all of them?”

“Almost.” You shake your head. “Never found the last one.”

There's something quietly sad in the way you say it. Like it's less about the book and more about what it meant to give up looking. Bucky watches the way your face slowly changes, something in the edge of your eyes shifting until you're looking at the floor. It hurts, and it makes him think that he would do anything to see you smile.

In a weak attempt he pushes the last of his fries to you, claiming they're too salty for him. You both know they're not but the small quirk of the corner of your mouth makes it worth it. The rest of the night passes in between condiements and bubbled laughter at the QVC channel, listening in to the televised conversations like they're the next hit reality show.

After a few days Bucky notices the calendar in the kitchen. Not because he is looking for anything in particular. Just because he is waiting for the coffee to finish brewing and his eyes drift to the wall.

The square for next Thursday is crowded with your handwriting.

Dad's birthday. Dentist appointment. Collections meeting. Mine.

Your own birthday is written last. Small enough that it almost disappears between everything else. Something about that sits badly in his chest. Because of course it does. Because even on your birthday, you have managed to make yourself the least important thing on the list.

He knows immediately you're going to forget it.

And you do. The morning of, you're rushing around the apartment before sunrise with one shoe on and your phone wedged between your ear and shoulder.

“I already sent the file,” you say into the phone, trying to shove your arm through the sleeve of your coat. “No, I know, but if they wanted changes they should've said that yesterday—”

Your bag slips off your shoulder and your keys hit the floor making you curse under your breath. Bucky is standing in the kitchen holding a mug of coffee when he says it.

“Happy birthday.”

You stop and blink at him.

“Oh,” you say after a second. “Right.”

You laugh softly, but it sounds tired. “I completely forgot.”

Then the person on the phone says your name and you hurry out the door with a quick apology before he can say anything else. It bothers him more than it should because birthdays are supposed to mean something. Yours especially.

So after you leave, he decides to do something about it. He remembers the bakery on the corner had a strawberry shortcake in the display case. Just something small, nothing flashy, whipped cream and strawberries layered across the top.

It reminds him of you somehow. Soft-looking and sweet to the core. He buys candles too. Then he spends the rest of the afternoon searching for the perfect gift. It takes him a few blocks of wandering around to think of what to get, but when it hits him he knew he found his mission.

He spends hours going from used bookstore to used bookstore. By the sixth one, he's almost ready to give up. Then, in a dusty little shop that smells like old paper and mildew, he finds it. Old leather cover, gold embossing faded at the edges a slight water stain on the back. Perfect.

That night, the apartment is dark except for the kitchen light. Bucky stands awkwardly by the counter with the cake in front of him, candles lit, the wrapped gift sitting beside it.

He has no idea what he's doing. But there's no going back now.

The front door opens a little after ten. You walk in looking exhausted, shoulders slumped, shoes dragging. Your hair falling out of whatever messy attempt you made to keep it back this morning. You stop dead when you see him. Then the cake lit with candles, the small box beside it.

Bucky shrugs one shoulder like he suddenly regrets all of it.

“You forgot your birthday,” he says.

You stare at him for a second too long. Nobody has done something like this for you in a very long time. Maybe ever. You don't look like you know what to do with being cared for.

“Bucky...” is all you manage.

He gets flustered immediately.

“It's not a big deal,” he says quickly, motioning vaguely toward the cake. “I just...” He looks down for a second. “Figured somebody should celebrate you.”

The look on your face almost undoes him. You set your bag down slowly and walk over.

“You got me a cake?”

“Yeah.”

“With candles?”

He glances at the little crooked row of them.

“That's usually how birthdays work.”

You laugh then. A little watery around the edges. You walk farther into the kitchen like you're afraid if you move too quickly the whole thing will disappear.

The candles flicker softly between you.

“You didn't have to do this,” you say quietly.

“I know.”

“But you did anyway. Why?”

He doesn't know what to say to that. So he just shrugs again.

You look down at the cake then back up at him.

“Okay,” you say softly. “Then I guess I should make a wish.”

You lean down and hover there for just a moment, the golden glow of the flames casting a light across your face that highlights features he doesn't think he's ever seen. A small beauty mark tucked under your eyebrow, a slight jagged silver scar down the bridge of your nose. He'll never not see them now, a gift of his own he thinks. You close your eyes and hum quietly to yourself before letting out a short breath to blow out the candles.

The apartment goes dark for a second after the smoke curls up into the air. He flicks the stove light on, then Bucky reaches for the wrapped book beside him and holds it out awkwardly.

“And this is... also a thing.”

You blink. “You got me a present?”

“You don't have to sound so surprised.”

You take it from him carefully, with a growing smirk on your face. The paper crinkles softly beneath your fingers as you unwrap it. Then you go still. Completely still. He watches your eyes move over the cover. The old leather, the faded gold lettering.

Your fingers hover over it like you're afraid touching it too hard will make it disappear.

“The last one,” you whisper. Your voice sounds a little broken around the edges. “The last volume of The Canterbury Tales.”

Bucky shifts awkwardly on his feet as you look up at him. Your face is fallen with a joy he's never seen, as if he just hung the moon and painted the stars.

You shake your head in disbelief. “Where did you even—”

“Just found it.” He shrugs.

“Bucky.”

“Took a couple bookstores. Made a deal with the owner once I found it, he was an old history buff on WW2 so…” he admits.

You look up at him then. And there is something in your face he has never seen directed at him before. Something soft, something overwhelming as a clear line starts to well at your eyes. You clutch the book to your chest like you don't know what else to do with it.

"Thank you, Bucky," you whisper, shaky lip tucked betwen your teeth.

A warm silence blooms between you two and Bucky is stuck under your stare, watching the soft dialtion of your pupils. Entranced by them he didn't even notice you had gotten so close, not until he felt the gentle brush of your lips against his cheek.

Words have never failed him like now, stuck and jumbled in the back of his throat only to come out like a garbled hum.

“What'd you wish for?” Bucky asks abrutly as he starts pulling the candles out one by one.

You smile a little, wiping quickly beneath one eye.

“Can't tell you,” you say. “State secrets now.”

He snorts quietly and grabs two spoons from the drawer. You end up on the couch sharing the cake straight from the container, knees brushing every so often in the small space between you. The television is on, though neither of you is paying attention to it. You eat strawberries off the top first and work your way down and Bucky follows suit.

You stay on the couch long after the cake is gone.

The empty container sits forgotten on the coffee table, two spoons abandoned beside it. The book never leaves your lap. At some point, you curl your legs up beneath you and start telling him about the first time you found one of the volumes. How you were seventeen and awkward and had spent an hour pretending to browse because you were too nervous to ask the owner to unlock the glass case.

Bucky laughs.

“So you've always been weird about books.”

“That's rich coming from a hundred-year-old man who still reads history books for fun.”

“Those are different.”

“They're really not.”

You grin when you say it. That soft, sleepy grin he thinks he could spend years chasing. Eventually the conversation drifts. To old bookstores, to the hot dog guy, to Sam, then to terrible movies. You insist he has never properly experienced bad cinema until he has seen Attack of the 50 Foot Woman.

He insists there is no way it can be as ridiculous as you are making it sound. Twenty minutes in, he realizes you were underselling it. By the middle of the movie, you're both laughing. Not polite little laughs either, real ones. The kind that make your stomach hurt and your eyes water and force you to pause because neither of you can hear the dialogue over the sound of the other person losing it.

He can't remember the last time he laughed like this.

By the time the movie is ending, your head is tipped against the back of the couch and your eyes are half closed.

He notices you fighting sleep before you do.

“You're falling asleep.”

“No, I'm not.” You yawn immediately after saying it.

He smiles. “You absolutely are.”

You make a soft noise of protest, but it doesn't have much conviction behind it.And a few minutes later, when he glances over again, you're out completely. Your head has tipped against his shoulder at some point, one hand still loosely wrapped around the book in your lap.

For a second, he just sits there. Listening to the sound of your breathing, the soft hum of the television, the city outside the windows. Then he carefully takes the book from your hands and sets it on the coffee table. He slips one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back.

You stir a little when he lifts you, brows furrowing for a second before you settle again against him.

“Buck?” you mumble sleepily.

“I got you.”

You make another quiet sound and let your head fall against his chest as he carries you down the hallway and into your room. The bedside lamp is still on, there are clothes draped over the chair in the corner and papers stacked haphazardly on your desk, everything is so utterly you.

He sets you down carefully on the bed and pulls the blankets up around you. You don't wake up, not really, you just shift a little beneath the covers and settle. He brushes a piece of hair back from your face and his hand lingers there for a second longer than it should.

Something overcomes him and he leans down, and presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Happy birthday,” he whispers.

As he walked out of you room he saw the book on the table, with a gentle hand he picked it up, brushing a thumb over the pages as he walks down the hall. The rest of the set is on the second highest shelf, lined up together. He slides in the last edition, eyeing the aligned spines with a ghost of a smile before walking off to his room.

The call comes on a Tuesday.

Bucky knows because you walk into the apartment looking vaguely shell-shocked, still clutching your phone in one hand.

You don't even make it all the way into the kitchen before blurting it out. “I got an interview.”

He looks up from where he's sitting at the table. “What?”

“For the curator position.” You blink at him like you still don't believe it yourself. “Next week.”

For a second, all he sees is the excitement on your face. Bright and hopeful, then it disappears almost as quickly as it came.

“Oh,” you say quietly. “Oh no.”

The spiral starts immediately after that. By the end of the week, the apartment is covered in notes. Practice questions taped to the bathroom mirror, flashcards on the kitchen counter, museum reports spread across the couch cushions.

You pace while talking to yourself, you stop sleeping, you definitely stop eating properly. The night before the interview, Bucky finds you sitting cross-legged on the living room floor in sweatpants and one of his old shirts, papers spread around you in uneven piles.

Your glasses are slipping down your nose and your hair is a mess. You look like you're about ten minutes away from a complete breakdown.

“You okay?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

“No,” you say immediately.

He sits down across from you. “What's wrong?”

You stare down at the papers in your lap. “What if I embarrass myself?”

“You won't.”

“What if they ask me something I don't know?”

“You'll know it.”

“What if I freeze?”

“You won't.”

You glare at him a little. “You don't know that.”

He leans back against the couch.

“I know you.”

That quiets you for a second.

Only for a second. Then you start rambling after that. About the anthropology wing. About acquisitions. About field research and exhibit planning and the exact kind of curator you would want to be if anyone ever actually gave you the chance. You talk about preserving history, about wanting people to care. About how every object in the museum used to belong to someone. How every piece of history was once just somebody's normal day.

Bucky listens every time. He listens while you talk yourself into circles. Listens while you explain all the reasons you think you aren't good enough for this.

“I didn't go to the right schools,” you say finally. “I don't know the right people. Everyone else interviewing for this is probably smarter than me and more qualified and—”

“They're gonna be lucky if they get you.”

You stop and the apartment goes quiet around you, scattered notes and pages from your journal fluttering in the air current. Bucky looks at you from across the floor, expression calm like he hasn't just said something that cracked you open right down the middle.

“You mean that?” you ask softly.

“Yeah.” He doesn't even hesitate. “I do.”

You stare at him for a second. Then you move before you can think too hard about it. You lean across the space between you and kiss him. It's quick and impulsive, your hand catches against his shoulder and your mouth brushes his once, soft and startled.

Then you freeze.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, pulling back immediately. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—”

Bucky cuts you off by kissing you again, this time slower. Deliberate. His hand comes up to cup your face and suddenly the whole world narrows down to the warmth of his mouth and the way he is holding you like you're something precious.

You melt into it, your hand tangles in the front of his shirt and a soft hum slipping past your lips against his as his thumb brushes softly along your cheek.

When you finally pull apart, both of you look a little stunned. Like neither of you knows what to do with the fact that this has been here all along.

“Okay,” you say softly.

“Okay,” he echoes.

After that, the air between you changes, not in some huge dramatic way. Just softer. He starts brushing his hand against your back when he passes you in the kitchen. You lean against his shoulder on the couch without thinking about it. He kisses your forehead when you leave for work. You steal his hoodies and stop pretending they're yours.

Sometimes you fall asleep together on the couch with the television still on and your legs tangled beneath the blanket. Somewhere in the middle of all of it, Bucky realizes he's stopped thinking of the apartment as somewhere he lives.

Now it just feels like home.

Bucky tries to wake up before you the morning of the interview.

He fails.

By the time he walks into the kitchen, you're already there in nice clothes, standing in front of the coffee maker with your arms crossed and that thousand-yard stare people get right before something important. You look beautiful, terrified and a little bit sick. Your hair is done. Your makeup is subtle. There is a necklace at your throat he thinks he's seen maybe twice before.

You don't notice him at first. You're staring at the coffee pot like if you look away it'll stop working.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You blink. “No.”

He smiles a little. “You're gonna do great.”

You snort quietly and reach for your mug. “You legally have to say that because you live with me.”

“No,” he says. “I have to say it because it's true.”

That makes you look down for a second as you take a sip of coffee.

“Still feels like I'm gonna throw up.”

“You'll throw up after,” he says. “Like a professional.”

That earns him a small laugh. By the time you're ready to leave, you're standing by the front door shoving things into your bag with shaky hands.

“Keys,” you mutter to yourself. “Wallet. Phone. Museum badge—”

“Hey.”

You look up. Bucky steps closer and reaches for the necklace at your throat.

“It's crooked.”

“Oh.”

His fingers brush softly against your skin as he straightens it and your breath catches a little. So does his. For a second, neither of you says anything. Then he leans down and kisses you. It's quick and soft but it leaves your cheeks warm when he pulls away.

“You got this,” he says.

You nod once then you're gone.

The whole day, Bucky is restless. He tells himself he isn't waiting for you but he definitely is. He tries reading, and ends up readin gthe same page three times. He almost goes to the hot dog stand twice. He paces around the apartment, reorganizes the fridge for no reason, checks the clock so many times it starts to feel personal.

By the time the front door finally opens that night, he looks up so fast it nearly gives him away. You walk in looking different immediately. Not upset exactly, just strange and quiet. Very quiet. Like your thoughts are somewhere else entirely.

He assumes that means you got it. That you're in shock, that you're already halfway out the door toward whatever comes next.

“Hey,” he says carefully from the couch. “How'd it go?”

You stop in the doorway. You still have your bag over your shoulder, coat still on. You look at him for a second before letting out a slow breath.

“I didn't get it.”

The words land strangely between you, it makes Bucky sits up a little straighter.

“Oh.”

You laugh softly, but there isn't much humor in it. “Yeah. They said they wanted to move in a different direction.”

He doesn't know what to say to that. Because he knows how badly you wanted it, knows how much time and sleep and pieces of yourself you've poured into this thing.

But then you shrug one shoulder.

“But...” You look down for a second. “They gave me a raise.”

He blinks, surpised. “Okay.”

“And they're opening a new assistant position to ‘lessen my workload.’”

That takes him a second to process.

“So...” He leans forward a little. “You still got something?”

“I guess.” You look exhausted more than anything. “I don't know if I'm supposed to be happy or devastated.”

Bucky nods slowly.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I get that.”

Because he does. Because sometimes life gives you something almost-good and you don't know what to do with that. He watches you for another second, then he stands.

“Come on.”

You look up. “What?”

“Let's go get hot dogs.”

You stare at him for a second. Then, finally, you smile.

“Okay.”

The hot dog guy takes one look at the two of you and immediately points his tongs in your direction.

“Uh oh,” he says. “This feels emotional.”

You laugh for the first time all day. Real laughter. Bucky feels something unclench in his chest at the sound of it.

“Don't encourage him,” he mutters.

“Too late,” the guy says. “I like her.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and you smile into your sleeve. He pays before you can argue about it, and when you open your mouth to protest, he just gives you a look.

“You had a bad day.”

“So?”

“So let me buy you a hot dog.”

You don't fight him after that.

On the walk back, you stop for ice cream too. Now you're both carrying melting cones down the sidewalk, the city quieter around you than usual. Streetlights glow gold against the pavement. Somewhere in the distance, somebody is playing music with their windows open.

It feels a little like being kids. Or maybe just people who don't know exactly where their lives are going yet. It warms your chest either way. You walk beside him in comfortable silence for a while.

“Hey, Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“You ever hear that whole ‘rejection is just redirection' thing?”

He glances over at you. “...No?”

You laugh softly under your breath. “It's just this thing people say.”

“Okay.” He nods once.

“But that's not what I was getting at.”

He waits as you look down at your ice cream for a second before looking back up at him.

“You know on my birthday you told me to make a wish?”

“Yeah?”

Your smile is smaller now.

"I think it just came true.”

He frowns a little. “You… wished to get passed up on the promotion?”

“No,” you say with a breath of laughter. “No.”

You look at him then, really look at him.

“I wished...” Your voice goes quiet. “That I could spend more time with you.”

Everything in him goes still.

The city. The sidewalk, the half-melted ice cream in his hand. All of it. For a second, neither of you moves. Then Bucky smiles, small at first then bigger.

He ducks his head, shaking it a little.

“State secrets, huh?” he teases softly.

You blush immediately. “Shut up.”

But you're smiling too. You slip your arm through his as you keep walking and Bucky thinks maybe this is what happiness feels like. Small and warm and a little sticky from melted ice cream.

A week later, you come home before sunset.

Bucky is in the kitchen making coffee when he hears the front door open.

“You're home early,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. You lean against the doorway with your bag still hanging off one shoulder.

“I know. Weird, right?”

He smiles a little. “You get fired?”

“Not yet.” You step farther into the kitchen. “I actually have tomorrow afternoon off.”

“Wow.”

“I know,” you say again. “I'm trying not to be overwhelmed by all the free time.”

He laughs quietly and you watch him for a second, seemingly contemplating.

“Do you wanna come by the museum?”

He looks up. “The museum?”

“Yeah.” You shrug one shoulder, suddenly looking a little shy about it. “I could show you around. My favorite exhibits and stuff.”

He tries to act casual. “Sure.”

But secretly, he's thrilled. Because this is your world. He's seen pieces of it before in papers spread across the table and half-finished stories told at two in the morning, but this is different. This is you handing him something important.

The next afternoon, he meets you outside the American Museum of Natural History.

You're waiting near the steps in your work clothes with your ID badge around your neck. You look different now, more awake than he has seen you in weeks, more comfortable.

Like this place fits around you in a way most things don't.

You smile the second you spot him.

“Hey.”

You take him inside to see the old fossils first. You tell him which dinosaur skeletons kids always lose their minds over and which exhibits people walk right past even though they're some of the coolest things in the building.

You talk with your hands when you're excited.

You move quickly from one thing to the next, almost tripping over your own thoughts because there is so much you want to show him.

“And this one,” you say, pointing toward an old display case, “people never pay attention to, but it's one of my favorites.”

Inside are old tools and worn pieces of pottery. Tiny, simple things. You tell him where they came from, who used them, how old they are. Every exhibit comes with a story.

Bucky spends half the time looking at the displays and the other half looking at you. Because you light up here. Your voice gets faster, your smile gets bigger, you stop apologizing for caring too much. It's the happiest he has ever seen you.

At one point, you take him into the giant blue whale room. The enormous whale hangs suspended overhead, casting soft shadows across the floor below. You tilt your head back to look up at it.

“Every museum employee has a designated crying-under-the-whale moment at least once,” you say.

Bucky looks over at you. “Yours probably happened after a meeting.”

You scoff. “No. Mine happened because somebody mislabeled a Bronze Age artifact.”

He laughs harder than he should an you grin.

“I'm serious. It was humiliating.”

“You cried over a label?”

“I care deeply about accuracy.”

“You're insane.”

“Maybe,” you say, smiling up at the whale. “But I'm right.”

He shakes his head, still laughing quietly, standing there beneath the whale with you smiling beside him, he thinks he has never seen anything more beautiful. Eventually, you take him into the Milky Way exhibit.

The room is dark and cool, lit only by thousands of projected stars stretching across the ceiling and walls. Soft bands of white and blue curve overhead, and everything echoes slightly. Your footsteps, his breathing, the sound of the door shutting quietly behind you.

You lead him to one of the benches in the center of the room and sit together. For a while, neither of you says anything. The quiet feels different here. Not empty but peaceful. Bucky leans back and looks up at the stars overhead.

They're beautiful.

But not as beautiful as the look on your face when you stare up at them.

“I used to come here when I first got the job,” you say softly.

He looks over at you, your eyes stay fixed on the ceiling.

“I'd get so stressed and overwhelmed and convinced I wasn't cut out for it.” You smile faintly to yourself. “So I'd come sit in here.”

You lean back a little farther against the bench.

“It helped me remember how small I am.” A pause. “How insignificant everything is.”

Bucky frowns slightly. “I don't think you're insignificant.”

You glance over at him. He looks down at his hands for a second before looking back up.

“You're probably the most important thing...” He swallows a little. “To me.”

The room goes quiet again. You blush immediately and turn your face back toward the stars and Bucky does too. For a second. Then he looks back at you, the way the light from the projections catches in your eyes and across your face. It softens every edge of you.

You turn toward him slightly, feeling the gaze from him.

“It's pretty, huh?”

He smiles.

“Yeah...”

But he isn't looking at the stars, you realize after a second, and the mood shifts. Like all the air between you changes. He leans in first this time, a soft breath fans across your face before you meet him halfway. The kiss is slow and gentle, the kind that feels like something settling into place. Your hand finds his without thinking about it, his thumb brushes softly across your knuckles.

When he pulls back, you're both smiling a little and he looks up at the stars again, then back at you.

“What are you gonna do now?”

You blink. “With what?”

“No promotion on the horizon. New assistant to keep you free. What's the future have in hold now?”

You let out a quiet breath, thinking.

“You know,” you say, “I have no idea.”

You lean your head against his shoulder. “For as long as I've been doing this, all I've ever wanted was that job.”

He tilts his head lightly against yours. “What do you want now?”

You look up at him and smile softly.

“You.” Then, after a second, "and a hot dog.”

He laughs and the sound echoes quietly through the stars, you both lean into each other, and suddenly the future doesn't feel so frightening. Because whatever it looks like now, you'll be in it together.

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