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Not That I Miss You

➴ PAIRING: Brother's Best Friend!Bucky x Reader ➴ WC: 7.8k ➴ WARNINGS: college drinking, IT'S HALLOWEEN!, mentions of friends getting high, being at a bar, drunk kissing, drunk!reader (she is not too drunk to not consent — tipsy is the word), SMUT (cowgirl, missionary, couch sex, p in v, pull out method, oral (m receiving)), Bucky actually trying to be good, Dot being a bad friend. ➴ SUMMARY: Your brain is too reliant on technology, so when your phone dies mid-halloween bar crawl, there's only one number you know by heart. Bucky's. +fran: time to get these two idiots through some more. thank you for all the love on their prom night <3, I meant for this to be like 5k, how did it almost get to 8k? idk special thanks to aluri for being the producer to my director/screenwriter @chateaubarnes ⤷ songs for this: snap out of it - arctic monkeys, twilight zone - ariana grande, lying is the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off - panic at the disco

CAN BE READ AS A STANDALONE!

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Manhattan had always been where your heart settled.

There was just something about stepping off the train at Penn Station or Grand Central that made your lungs seem to work a little easier, like your body had finally realized it could unclench. It was the only place you'd ever been where your mind quieted instead of sped up.

It made your heartbeat slow down, your blood pressure decrease, it triggered your parasympathetic nervous system into calming you down. You felt free.

You'd spent years making your parents stop in the city whenever family trips brought you anywhere remotely close. While Steve wanted Yankees games and Bucky wanted to wander into every record store he could find, you wanted to walk.

The day you got the acceptance letter for Columbia, you squealed, screamed, threw your arms around your brother's neck and then ran down the stairs to jump on the couch and tell your parents.

You pointed dramatically at the acceptance letter. "I am moving to Manhattan!"

Bucky snorted beside Steve on the couch. "I think even the current Space Mission knows that." He motion to his ear like it hurt from your shriek.

"No, you don't understand." You were already talking too fast. "I get to live there." You looked around the room like someone might still tell you it wasn't real. "I get to wake up there." Another laugh bubbled out of you. "I get to buy groceries there."

Steve chuckled. "Very exciting."

"It is exciting!" You looked back at Bucky. "I get to be one of those people that complains about the subway."

He grinned. "I've never seen anyone so excited about public transportation." He looked at you for a long second. "But I'm happy you are."

Move-in day came faster than anyone was prepared for.

Your entire life somehow fit into cardboard boxes, plastic storage bins, and two very overstuffed suitcases.

When they helped move you into your freshman dorm, Bucky and Steve were there in tow to carry the heavy things, pick on you, and flirt with girls on your floor. Well, Bucky did. Steve politely talked himself out of having to fake an alibi for Natasha if she ever sniffed out freshmen trying to get at him.

The first year had consisted mostly of Steve reading assembly instructions upside down while Bucky silently took the Allen wrench out of his hands and built the entire bookshelf in twenty minutes.

And then they were there at the end of the year to help you unpack. And back at the beginning of the year, at a different dorm building to help move— you get the picture.

Three years later, Manhattan had become home in the way only a city that exhausts you every day somehow can.

The city moved so quickly that no one noticed if you were having a bad day.

There was something comforting about being able to disappear into eight million people and somehow feel less alone than you ever had anywhere else.

It was loud, and messy, and busy, but it was home.

Sirens at two in the morning. The rumble of the subway beneath your lecture hall. Street vendors shouting over one another. The smell of roasted nuts mixing with rain-soaked concrete and coffee that somehow tasted better when it cost six dollars.

Steve and Bucky shared a two-bedroom apartment down in the Financial District. It was exactly what anyone would expect from two men in their twenties.

Reasonably clean, lived in, backbacks slung over a chair, smelling of sandalwood and saffron and a Bath and Body Works candle you gifted them, pretty neat. Except for the coffee mugs. There were always coffee mugs.

Everywhere.

You and Bucky never really talked about what happened prom night. It never… came up, per se.

Neither of you wanted to touch on the subject that could end up ruining a good thing, so you both just moved on with your lives.

Birthdays.

Christmases.

Sunday breakfasts.

Study sessions.

Phone calls that started with, "Are you busy?" and ended three hours later.

You stayed exactly what you'd always been.

Best friends. Forever.

23 blocks apart.

Halloween in Manhattan wasn't a holiday.

It was a competitive sport.

By seven-thirty that evening, the sidewalks of the Lower East Side were overflowing with pirates ordering espresso martinis, sexy astronauts trying not to break ankles on uneven pavement, and at least four different Spider-Men arguing over whose suit was comic accurate.

Your group squeezed out of the subway station laughing, immediately getting swept into the current of people flowing down St. Marks Place.

It felt like the entire city had decided to meet in one neighborhood.

Music poured out of every open doorway, bass vibrating through the pavement beneath your boots. Someone dressed as Frankenstein was arguing with a traffic cop. Two girls dressed as matching angels were taking photos in the middle of the crosswalk while yellow cabs laid on their horns. Somewhere farther down the street, a saxophone player was somehow making Thriller sound like smooth jazz.

You took a deep breath and the air smelled like cigarettes, perfume, street tacos, pumpkin beer, and roasted peanuts.

"I love this city," you sighed happily.

Kate snorted beside you, eyeing you up and down before chuckling. "You've literally said that every five minutes since we got off the subway."

"Because every five minutes I find another reason."

Yelena, dressed in what she'd proudly called "the least historically accurate vampire ever conceived," adjusted the fake cape hanging off one shoulder. "Personally," she announced, "I think New York should make Halloween a federal holiday."

"It isn't already?" Dot asked.

Ah, sweet Dot.

She was in your Intro to Statistics class and definitely pursuing an M.R.S. degree with the first Finance guy she could find. Beautiful head of hair, pretty lips that looked sinful in red lipstick, but not a light inside that house.

If there was ever an award for selling your friend out to get a man, she'd get it.

Somewhere behind you, a group dressed as the entire cast of Scooby-Doo broke into a drunken rendition of "Mr. Brightside."

The first bar was already packed wall to wall, there had to be two hundred people squeezed inside, every inch of brick wall covered in fake cobwebs and orange lights, the bartender was dressed as Beetlejuice, and someone in a Ghostface costume was singing karaoke with alarming confidence.

You squeezed your way to the bar shoulder-first, turning around ready to ask for Kate's order, only to realize she has pulled a Houdini on your Cowgirl Barbie, and disappeared almost immediately.

"Where'd she go?"

Yelena pointed toward the dance floor. "Found a cowboy."

You watched as Kate somehow convinced the poor man to spin her around, huffing. "It's been thirty seconds."

"Devil works fast, but Kate Bishop is faster." She asked the bartender for two Green Tea Shots, and once the glasses were in front of you, they were instantly downed and substituted, your eyes rolling back in grimace as you hissed at the burn of the alcohol in your throat. "Where's your boytoy?"

"His name is Joaquin, Lena." You corrected, lovingly, a chuckle escaping you as you took a sip of your pina colada that you had ordered with the shots. You pointed at the group playing darts, just in time to see Joaquin turn around, find you, and happily make his way over.

Joaquin and you met during one of the track events, he ran with Pietro, your friend Wanda's brother. Wanda, who you sat next to in Psych 102 and also shared a dorm room with for two years.

He was cute, nice, polite, smart, and kind of a charmer…

Even with his dumb joke and wanting to be dressed as… slutty Big Bird. Obnoxious, chest-painted-yellow, borrowed your feather boa, easygoing Joaquin.

Easy to talk to, easy to laugh with, easy to spend an afternoon wandering through Riverside Park with. The kind of guy who remembered to walk on the outside of the sidewalk and always sent a text making sure you got home safely.

"There she is." He smiled, leaning down to kiss your cheek before wrapping an arm loosely around your waist. "Six blocks and you already found rum."

"It found me," you corrected.

"That's what they all say." He reached over and stole your drink without asking, taking a sip through your straw.

You gasped dramatically. "My piña colada!"

"Our piña colada."

"You've known me for four months."

"I feel like that's long enough to establish communal property."

You scoffed. "You sound like a communist."

"I sound thirsty." He grinned before handing the drink back.

Joaquin slipped his hand into yours absentmindedly, thumb brushing across your knuckles as he listened to Kate and Yelena bicker.

It was sweet, throughtful. The kind of unconscious affection that should've made yout stomach flutter.

Instead your gaze drifted to the Islanders playing on the TV, and without thinking, you wondered if Bucky was watching. He'd probably have his feet kicked up on the coffee table, laptop balanced on one knee, muttering at the television whenever the ref made a bad call.

The thought came so naturally that you almost missed the next thing Dot said.

"Speaking of men," Dot chimed in, sipping the neon-blue cocktail she'd ordered solely because it came with dry ice. "Are Steve and Bucky coming out tonight?"

You looked over, your heart skipping a beat. "No." You sipped your drink. "Steve's out of town with Nat in Budapest with her grandparents. Buck's been working on a contract or something…" You realized you probably knew a little too much about the latter. "Merger something, something…" You shrugged it off.

Dot pouted dramatically. "That's a shame."

You smiled into your piña colada. "Why?"

She shrugged one shoulder, swirling the straw around her drink. "I think Bucky's cute." Kate's eyes immediately found yours, quick, almost not there at all, then sliding away again.

"Is he seeing anyone?" The question landed with surprising weight.

You busied yourself adjusting the brim of your pink cowboy hat. "No."

"No girlfriend?"

"Nope."

"No situationship?"

You laughed. "He's not… A situationship kind of guy."

"I might ask him to coffee."

Kate choked on her vodka soda and Yelena very carefully looked anywhere except your face, trying to change the subject and make conversation with Joaquin.

You took another sip of your drink before anyone could notice the strange ache settling beneath your ribs.

Beside you, Kate was already looking at Yelena over the rim of her glass. Yelena gave the tiniest shake of her head.

"...I mean, if he's single, I don't really see the harm in asking."

Your attention snapped back. "Hm?"

"Bucky." Dot shrugged. "I think I'm gonna text him. Can I have his number?"

Joaquin looked between all of you. "Who's Bucky?"

At the same time, you answered Dot with something like "Let me talk to him first before giving his number out, okay?"

Kate answered before anyone else could. "Her brother's best friend." She pointed at you.

Joaquin nodded. "Oh."

"He practically grew up with us," you added, perhaps a little too quickly. "He's basically family."

The words left your mouth with practiced ease. You'd been saying some version of them for years.

Dot smiled. "Even better."

"Better?"

"That means he's probably already been vetted." Kate's lips pressed into a thin line and Yelena suddenly became intensely interested in the fake cobweb hanging from the ceiling.

Joaquin, blissfully oblivious, laughed. "Honestly, that's a solid endorsement."

You forced a smile. "Yeah."

It was true. Bucky was kind. Patient. Reliable. Funny in that dry, under-his-breath way that snuck up on people.

He remembered birthdays without Facebook reminders. He carried heavy boxes before anyone asked. He made coffee exactly the way everyone liked it. He was, objectively, the sort of man any woman would be more than lucky to date.

You'd always known that.

You just hadn't realized how much it would sting hearing someone else say it out loud.

Kate bumped your shoulder gently.

"So," she announced, loud enough to redirect everyone's attention, "whose terrible idea was it to do a seven-bar crawl?"

One drink became two.

Two became dancing.

Dancing became laughing so hard your stomach hurt because Kate somehow won fifty dollars in a costume contest she hadn't even entered by convincing the DJ she was Barbie and everyone else was simply underdressed.

Joaquin found you every few songs, wrapping an arm around your waist to spin you beneath strings of orange lights before disappearing back toward the dart boards or the beer pong table with Pietro and a growing collection of men dressed as things that had absolutely no business standing next to each other.

At one point he was taking shots with Obi-Wan Kenobi, a banana, and someone whose entire costume was simply a cardboard cutout of the Empire State Building.

You kissed him somewhere between the second and third bar.

Quick.

Easy.

He smiled into it, squeezed your hand, and promised he'd find you after he beat Pietro at pool.

"You won't," Pietro called from behind him.

"I absolutely will."

"You absolutely won't."

Joaquin looked back over his shoulder.

"If I lose, tell my mother I died handsome."

"You'll die dressed like slutty Big Bird."

"A hero's death."

By the fourth bar, your groups had slowly begun to separate without anyone really noticing.

Pietro had made friends with a bachelor party from Boston.

Joaquin disappeared with them after someone challenged him to karaoke.

Kate adopted three girls dressed as the Powerpuff Girls because apparently they all went to Bishop Academy together ten years ago.

Dot vanished every fifteen minutes only to reappear with another free drink she'd sweet-talked out of some finance bro dressed as Patrick Bateman.

You weren't entirely convinced she'd paid for a single cocktail all evening.

Only Yelena remained your constant.

Mostly because she'd decided your level of intoxication required supervision.

"You are doing that thing."

You frowned over the rim of your drink. "What thing?"

She rolled her eyes. "The blink."

"...The blink?"

"You blink slower when you are drunk."

You faked offense. "I do not."

She pointed her hands towards you, case in point. "You just did it."

"I am blinking at a medically appropriate speed."

She hummed. "Mm."

"I am." You shook your head side to side. "Things aren't even slower when I do this like they are when I'm dru-uu-okay, yeah, yeah, I'm drunk."

You braced yourself on the wall, resting yuor back on the cool tile and sliding all the way down until you sat down on the floor, Yelena crouched in front of you. "Okay, drunkie, time to call your knight in shining armor."

You hiccuped. "He's not dressed as a knight, he's a bird." You pouted, fishing your phone out of your pocket, pressing the button, tapping the screen, and seeing nothing but a black screen staring back at you.

Dead.

The pout on your lips deepend, the furrow in between your brows showing. "Here, take my phone." Yelena talked over the music, unlocking her phone and putting it in your hand. "I'll go get you some water."

She got up from her place on the floor with you and braved the bar crowd as you dialed the all too familiar phone number.

Bucky's Halloween had been considerably less exciting.

And that was exactly how he'd wanted it.

He'd gotten enough texts throughout the week asking if he was going out that he'd eventually stopped answering them altogether.

There had been an invitation from a few guys from work to some rooftop party in Midtown. Another from a college friend involving a warehouse in Brooklyn that, judging from the address, Bucky wasn't entirely convinced was legally allowed to have people inside of it. Steve had called him from the airport to remind him that he was twenty-three and therefore morally obligated to "do something stupid while dressed like something stupid."

Bucky had reminded Steve that he was currently flying across the Atlantic Ocean to spend Halloween with his girlfriend's grandparents.

So, for the first time in what felt like weeks, the apartment was completely his.

And Bucky was having a fucking fantastic night.

He'd changed into sweatpants approximately four minutes after getting home, ordered enough Chinese food for two people with absolutely no intention of sharing it with anyone, cracked open a beer, and claimed the entire couch for himself.

The Islanders were putting up a good fight on TV, his laptop sat open on the coffee table in front of him, illuminating the spreadsheets and financial projections he'd been staring at for the better part of an hour.

SHIELD.

The internship had started that summer, and somewhere along the way, Bucky had gone from fetching coffee and sitting silently in the back of meetings to actually being trusted with things.

Small things, but real things. "Things with numbers attached to them." as you would say.

"They're important numbers!" He'd whine, nudging your foot off the back of his couch.

Tonight's particular headache was a contract his team had been going over for the past week.

Merger, acquisition, something involving projected earnings and a frankly offensive number of Excel tabs. He'd explained it to you over coffee two days ago.

You'd listened for approximately thirty seconds before your eyes glazed over. "So, merger something, something?"

Bucky had stared at you. "You didn't understand a single word I just said."

"Not a thing."

That memory made him smile now as he stared at the spreadsheet. A sharp crack from the television pulled his attention away from the smaller screen, his feet, up on the coffee table until this moment, touching the ground so he could sit forward in anticipation.

"Go, go, go—" The puck was getting closer and closer to the opposing team's goal. "Come on, come on."

And in true hockey fashion, two guys tackled his player and the puck flew away. "Oh, fuck off." He dropped back against the couch with a groan. "Are you kidding me?" The announcers continued talking like they hadn't personally betrayed him.

Bucky reached for his beer. "Terrible." He took a swing, putting it back on the coffee table and resuming his position with his back on the couch and his feet up, laptop propped on his lap. "Absolutely fucking terrible."

His phone buzzed beside him with pointless notifications from ESPN, a text from Steve with pictures, one of him and Nat ready to deboard the plane, another one of a dish Natasha's grandma made.

you look like shit 💩

Was Bucky's reply.

Steve just hearted it, and sent another picture of Nat flipping him off. He scrolled through his texts, finding ones from you earlier that night.

You standing in front of a mirror somewhere, dressed head to toe in pink and glitter, one hand on your hip and the other tipping the brim of your cowboy hat.

howdy partner 🤠

Bucky had stared at it for considerably longer than necessary.

nice hat. walker texas ranger called he wants his dignity back ;)

The response from you came with a chuckle.

you're such a hater

He was about to text Sam, and see what he was up to in D.C. at his law firm internship, when his phone buzzed in his hand.

Unknown Caller ID

He quirked a brow, almost not picking up, and then the call was missed. Just as fast, it rang again.

Unknown Caller ID

This time he picked up.

"Hello?" His voice was suspicious, until he heard a soft, muffled sound from the other end of the line.

"Buck?"

He recognized your voice immediately, even though the bass of the music made it so hard to distinguish your words. He said your name, also confused as to why you didn't call him from your phone.

Knowing you, you didn't let it charge fully before leaving the house. "What's going on?"

"I don't know." Hiccup. "Everyone's busy. Whatcha doin'?"

He chuckled. You were in the middle of a bar and asking him what he was doing? "I'm watching the game. Home. Where are you?"

"On the floor." You shrugged.

Bucky sighed in response, so lightly you didn't even notice. "What floor, sweetheart?"

You blew a raspberry to the phone. "A tile one. I don't know. It's the bar with that gigantic golden weiner on the wall—"

"You're at the Brass Rod?" Bucky got up immediately, searching his countertop for his keys, "Why the fuck would people abandon you there?!" He tried his best to keep his voice from raising.

The Brass Rod was a bar most frat boys loved, mostly because they could pay off the bouncers and get away with shit they shouldn't be able to. Which was a problem all in itself.

"Well, Kate found a cowboy, Dot is—" Hiccup. "With Christian Bale," hiccup. "And Yelena perished in the masses trying to get me the magic cure for these tequila sodas."

"So she got lost in a sea of tall people trying to get you water?" You heard the jingle of his keychain and the sound of a door closing.

"Precisely." You nodded enthusiastically, even though he couldn't see you, which made you groan at the sudden movement, your stomach complaining. "I don't feel so party rockin', Bucky."

His steps took him to the stairwell, and you heard his voice get echo-y. "I'm coming to get you, Barbie. Think you had enough for one night."

He walked out of the main lobby of his building, soft drops of rain falling onto him as it has just started to sprinkle, waving down a cab almost immediately, getting in after someone in a Batman costume stumbled past him with only one shoe.

"So," he said, keeping his voice light, "tell me what's happening around you."

You looked around, everyone was definitely taller when you're sitting on the floor in the corner. "People are drunk drunk. Someone's riding the mechanical bull." Hiccup.

"Is anyone there with you?" He asked, pulling the phone away from his face slightly to tell the cab driver where to go.

"A fairy is crying." You scanned the room more. "And someone dressed like a nun just threw up."

He snorted. "...Great."

"It was not holy."

Bucky laughed under his breath. "Stay near the wall."

"I am the wall." For some reason, just hearing his voice made the room stop spinning quite so violently.

"No, sweetheart. Stay beside the wall."

"Oh." You shifted slightly, crossing your legs so no one would step on your pants either. "There."

Bucky nodded. "Good girl." And looked at his watch, then up to the street. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

When he got to the Brass Rod, whose front entrance looked like every bad decision a twenty-one-year-old man had ever made had been condensed into one sticky doorway, Bucky immediately got annoyed at how many preppy douchebags were waiting to go in.

So he cut the line. The bouncer immediately looked him up and down, hand on his chest.

"No cutting."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "I'm not here to drink." And stepped forward again.

"Everybody says that." The bouncer was still not having it.

"I'm here to pick someone up." He put his hand up to signify your height. "Yea tall, cowgirl Barbie, probably sitting in a corner trying not to puke on your—" He looked inside the bar. "Prestigious floor."

The bouncer looked behind him to the bar, then back at Bucky. "You the boyfriend?"

Bucky huffed, getting more and more impatient by the second. "I'm—"

And was delightfully interrupted by your voice. "Buckyyyyyy!"

You moved past "not so party rockin'" to your very lovey dovey drunk self, lacing your arms around his neck and letting your weight hang onto him.

His hands went instinctively to your waist to steady you.

The bouncer looked at both of you, and then proceeded to move a couple people inside the bar as you nuzzled your face into Bucky's neck. "You smell good."

Yelena met you both outside, out of breath from apparetnly running after you. "Oh good you're—" and she realized Bucky was there and not Joaquin. "What are you doing here?"

At the same time you said "I called." Bucky responded. "She called me."

"Oh." Yelena's eyes could've bugged out of her head. "Oh."

You pulled back just enough to look at him. Your cowboy hat gone, your hair had started the night styled perfectly and was now somewhere between tousled and actively rebelling pink glitter shimmered across your collarbones.

Your lipstick had mostly survived, and for that he was grateful.

"Oh, you're hammered." Bucky snorted and looked over your head at her. "How much did she drink?"

Yelena began counting on her fingers. "I do not know."

"Helpful."

"She was drinking piña coladas, and then someone bought shots, and then Dot found finance men—"

Bucky groaned internally. "Finance men?"

You lifted your head from his chest. "I had water."

"You had three sips," Yelena corrected.

You pointed at her. "Three more than zero."

Bucky looked down at you while you smiled proudly. "Okay, Barbie." His hand moved from your waist to your back, rubbing once between your shoulder blades. "Think we're done for the night."

Bucky can fix it.

Bucky will know.

Bucky always answers.

And now, watching you cling to him outside the worst bar in Manhattan while your perfectly nice boyfriend was somewhere across the city dressed as a slutty children's television character, Yelena finally understood.

The problem wasn't that you were in love with Bucky Barnes. The issue wasn't even that he very obviously returned those feelings.

The problem was that neither of you could see it.

It took Dot approximately forty-five minutes to realize you were gone.

Which, considering she'd spent most of the evening disappearing herself, wasn't exactly surprising.

She resurfaced sometime after one in the morning, pushing her way through the crowd with her hair slightly less perfect than it had been when the night started and another drink in her hand that Yelena was almost certain she hadn't paid for. By then, whatever organization your bar crawl had begun with was completely gone. Pietro had been absorbed into a bachelor party, Joaquin had disappeared somewhere in the general direction of karaoke, and Kate's last known whereabouts involved a cowboy and a group of girls she apparently hadn't seen since middle school.

Yelena had given up.

She was standing near the bar, scrolling through her phone and seriously contemplating whether she was morally obligated to locate all of you before going home, when Dot appeared beside her.

"Where is everyone?"

Yelena glanced up. "Excellent question."

Dot laughed, looking around as if any of you might magically materialize from the crowd. "And where's Barbie?"

Yelena looked back down at her phone. "Bucky came to get her."

That caught Dot's attention. "Bucky?"

Yelena glanced at her again. "Yes."

"Like... Bucky Bucky?"

"How many Buckys do you know?"

Dot ignored that, her brows pulling together slightly as she processed the information. "I thought she'd leave with Joaquin."

"Her phone died, she could only remember Bucky's number, so we— well, she called him." Yelena chuckled, flagging the bartender down for another green tea shot.

Yelena had been unofficially appointed photographer for most of the night, mostly because she was the only person capable of holding her phone straight after the third bar.

"Can I borrow your phone? Need tonight's pics for my Stories."

There were dozens of pictures scattered throughout her camera roll—group photos outside bars, blurry bathroom selfies, Kate dancing with her cowboy, you proudly posing in your Cowgirl Barbie costume, and at least six photos Yelena wanted permanently erased from existence.

"You have thirty seconds."

Dot grinned. "You're an angel."

"I know." Yelena turned back toward the bar, trying to get the bartender's attention while Dot opened the call log, and sent herself Bucky's number, promptly deleting the message from Yelena's phone before opening another chat and sending herself the pictures.

"All done." Dot gave the phone back with a smile, ordering another drink herself.

He peeled the Rangers jersey over his head and tossed it toward the laundry basket before disappearing into his bedroom to change.

The game was back on.

Bucky had managed to avoid the score on his phone, which meant he could pick up more or less where he'd left off, the television illuminating the living room with flashes of white and blue.

The volume was turned down, just low enough that the announcers wouldn't make your undoubtedly developing headache any worse.

He'd changed into gray sweatpants and an old black T-shirt, his damp hair pushed back from his forehead after he'd run a towel through it.

The smell of Chinese food graced your nostrils as soon as you got out of the bathroom, padding into the living room to see Bucky sitting on the couch with a beer and reheated lo mein.

And on the coffee table, a plate of it for you, along with some much needed water.

His white T-shirt practically swallowed you whole, the collar hanging loosely around your neck. The basketball shorts were tied as tightly as they could possibly go and still sat dangerously low on your hips, the fabric reaching nearly to your knees.

You felt more sober now that time passed and you scrubbed your face clean.

You dropped down onto the couch beside him, close enough that your thigh pressed against his, Bucky handing you an egg roll without taking his eyes off of the TV.

You smiled. "You know me so well."

"Unfortunately." He grumbled, with no real bite behind it. You bit into it happily and Bucky's eyes drifted toward you again.

Just briefly, long enough to watch the way your eyes closed when you took the first bite, but not too long that you caught him in the act.

You settled deeper into the couch, folding one leg beneath yourself while the other pressed comfortably against his. Bucky handed you one of the bottles of water, and you obediently took a sip before reaching immediately for his container of sesame chicken.

You'd look over when his attention was fixed on the television, watching the concentration settle across his features whenever the puck moved down the ice.

He'd glance at you whenever you were distracted by the food, his eyes lingering on the way his T-shirt slipped slightly off one shoulder before immediately forcing his attention elsewhere.

The game filled the silence for you, commentators speaking low through the television while rain continued to patter against the windows, and you couldn't bring yourself to pay much attention to the puck.

Your eyes kept drifting to Bucky; tracing his side profile, the furrow in his brow, the slope of his nose, the way he gritted his teeth and hissed when the players missed a goal. "What?" Bucky caught you this time.

Your eyes immediately returned to the television, "Nothing." Faint blush spreading across your cheeks.

He waited and you could feel him looking at you. "You keep staring at me."

You rolled your eyes, trying to play it off. "I do not."

"You do." He pressed.

"I'm watching the game." You gestured vaguely towards the TV.

Bucky pointed. "The TV's over there."

"I'm using my peripheral vision." You motioned beside your eyes, turning your gaze back to him with an endeared smile.

"You're staring directly at my face."

"Maybe you have a big head." Bucky's mouth dropped open. You immediately started laughing.

He mocked offense, "Wow."

"I'm kidding." You angled your body to fully face him.

"No, no." He took the container of sesame chicken from your lap. "You insulted me in my own home."

"Give me my chicken."

"My chicken." You reached for it and Bucky lifted it away. "Buck."

"Apologize."

"Never." You reached farther. "You got a big ass head."

He moved it again.

You practically climbed over him trying to get it, one hand braced against his shoulder while the other reached uselessly toward the container he'd extended as far away from you as possible.

Somehow, you ended up straddling him as he held the container away from you. One second your laughs meshed together in the atmosphere, and in the next the room got smaller and smaller, until it narrowed down to just your gaze on his.

Your index and pointer finger timidly touched the plush skin of his lips, tugging the lower lip down and releasing it, and Bucky felt his throat run dry, too mesmerized by you to do anything but watch you do it. Like if he moved too quickly, whatever spell had settled over the two of you might break.

It felt like light years, the amount of time you spent staring into his eyes, then to his lips, then to his eyes again.

You bit your lip, contemplating what you were gonna do next. If that was the thing that would ruin your friendship forever.

You could always blame it on the tequila.

Your hands were on his shoulders, and one of his on your waist while the other still held the food away from you, just out of reach. Your palms cradled his face, and just like that, you were eighteen and making out in his car.

Bucky made a quiet sound of surprise against your mouth before kissing you back, his hand instinctively settling more securely at your waist after he let the container rest at the side table.

Your fingers curled on the back of his neck as you let your lips roll against his softly, Bucky broke the kiss after a few seconds, delicately catching your wrist. "You're drunk."

You shook your head. "No, I'm not." Your stomach felt funny for reasons other than alcohol now.

He looked at you almost pleading.

Please, don't do this to me again.

"You have a boyfriend." He reminded you weakily.

Your breath caught in your throat before the words spilled out of your mouth. "I know."

The second kiss was deeper, his hands coming to rest on either side of your jaw as he pulled you closer to him, your hips quickly settling into a rhytm all too familiar and at the same time much too foreign on top of him.

The thin fabric of the shorts you wore did nothing to dampen the friction between your bodies, his bulge growing harder inside of the grey sweats that hung low on his hips.

His tongue explored your mouth like it missed it, like he missed you.

Your nails scraped gently at the nape of his neck before moving down his shoulders, and his arms; your right hand squeezing his bicep while your left rested on his chest.

Bucky's dropped to your waist and your thigh, squeezing the supple flesh under the pads of his fingers. Your fingers traced lower, until you found the skin of his abs under his cotton shirt, scratching lightly making his muscles tense under you.

You pushed the fabric up and up, and up some more, until Bucky's hands left you momentarily to pull it over his head, exposing the plane of his chest to you fully, shifting his hair into messy strands.

His hands returned to you almost immediately, just as your lips did his. You breathed into his mouth like oxygen from him was the only type you'd ever need to keep on living.

As Bucky's hands trailed up your back dragging heat up your spine along the way, you pulled his shirt over your head with shaky hands. The cool air hit your skin, making your nipples harden, and Bucky's previously ceil blue eyes were now dilated with lust.

The stare made you self conscious for a split second, arms crossing over your chest in an attempt to hide.

"Don't." Was softly spoken from Bucky's mouth as his hands pulled your arms down, and he leaned forward to nuzzle your pulse point with his nose.

He kissed your neck where it met your chest, down your collarbone, the swell of your breast, until he tugged one nipple with his teeth, making you hiss lightly.

"Bucky…"

Your voice was sweet and syrupy in a way that intoxicated him more than any tequila shot ever could. He groaned against you as his hand pushed past the waistband of his shorts you wore, keening at the feel of your slick onto his fingers.

You murmured something under your breath at the feel, like his touch was a balm to long suffering.

Your hips stuttered into his hand, finding clumsy rhythm that had you grinding your clit over the pads of his fingers, blush creeping up your cheeks along with desire as he kept up his actions onto your chest.

When he took his hand away you pouted, grinding down on him for more friction and feeling the length of him through your clothes. Your manicured fingers found the waistband of his sweats and pushed them down along with his boxers, freeing his leaking bulge from the men confines of fabric.

Your hand wrapped around the shaft and Bucky stammered out a breath, hands gripping the couch cushins until his knuckles lost color as your found a slow lazy rhythm that had him grinding his teeth.

Lips found his neck as you stroked him, sucking and biting at the skin light enough to not leave a mark but hard enough to have shivers run down his spine, goosebumps blooming all over his arms.

It took him an embarrasingly long time to realize your were making your way down his neck and sliding off his lap, aiming for the floor, between his legs.

He stopped you with a hand on your arm and the other on your jaw, "Y-you don't have to—"

You shook your head, letting your eyes flutter closed as you kissed his palm, still continuing your path, "Want to." You voice was meek, barely above a whisper. "Can I?"

Bucky groaned, letting go of you and allowing you to pull his pants the rest of the way down, licking a thick stripe up his length before fully engulfing it in your mouth.

His right hand found your hair, pushing it out of your face as you found a rhythm that felt comfortable.

The issue was, you always felt comfortable with Bucky.

Not a single second in your entire sentient life of knowing him had his presence made you feel anything but calm. Serene. Safe and confident in your own way that everything would be okay because he was there, no matter what.

And in Bucky, you caused the same thing. Except his hands got clammy, his suave lines bled into teasing and playing off the fact that he would do anything for you.

The wet sucking noise pulled him from his trance, making his eyes relax and really look at you.

Bad idea, since he felt the knot in his stomach tightening by the second, growing closer and closer to the edge.

His hips moved back and away from you, warm hands pulling you up once he pulled you off of him with a soft "pop", helping you back on top of him.

Your hair fell around both your faces like a curtain, and Bucky brushed a strand behind your ear. "Wasn't done." You murmured, breath fanning across his lips.

He huffed out a laugh. "Yeah, well," he shifted his hips, pulling you to kneel above his lap so he could pull your shorts down. "I was about to be."

You giggled softly and Bucky could've sworn his heart would've burst right there. Your mouth hovered over his as he lined himself up with your entrance, the weeping head of his cock making contact with the hot slick between your legs.

"You're dripping." He shot you a side smile, dimple showing up briefly on the side of his mouth.

You blushed, "Don't— fuck— don't tease."

"'M not…" As he pushed in, inch by inch, a mixture of moans and choked out breaths left both of you, until he was buried in you to the hilt, looking into your eyes, glazed over in pleasure, trying his hardest not to embarrass himself by coming too fast. "… so good, so good."

You gave tentative rolls of your hips above him, suddenly so aware of his presence everywhere, in and around you, that your skin felt too hot to be lived in any longer.

He kissed you again, afraid of saying something that might make you change your mind, a whimper leaving your lips every time his tip pushed on your cervix, rubbing again and again against the spongy spot inside of you that made you feel fireworks going off in your lungs.

You switched from moving your hips up and down to a more grinding pace, rolling your eyes when your clit rubbed onto his pelvis.

Bucky felt you flutter around him, and laced his left arm around your waist, pushing you to lay against the couch cushions without pulling out, your hair fanning out behind you.

"Bucky— Jesus!" You yelped in surprise, his hips snapping up to yours at newfound depth. "Oh, my God!"

Bucky groaned in satisfaction, squeezing your right thigh higher and tighter around his waist. "Fuck, that's it."

Your eyes rolled back with new waves of pleasure hitting you, feeling Bucky impossibly deep in you, little shocks up your nerves every time he ground his hips into yours. He moaned your name, face buried into your neck, "Need— need you to come, sweetheart."

“Bucky, please, please, ah!”

His voice was strained, like it took everything inhim to not come inside of you right then and there. "Need you t'come, can't come in you, don't have a— fuck, fuck—"

"Feel so good, Buck, please—" You didn't even know what you were pleading. Pleading for him to make you come? For him to forget he's fucking you raw and just paint your insides white?

Bucky had that effect on you, to make you feel like you oculd fly if you so wished.

His hips stuttered against yours, bringing your closer and closer to your climax, walls squeezing around him like you never wanted to let him go.

And you didn't.

His mouth found yours again in a sloppy encounter one would barely classify as a kiss, neither of you in the right mind to do anything but moan into each other. His hand pushed your leg furhter up and his other thumb found your clit, rubbing fast circles on it.

Your moans got increasingly higher pitched as you tried to muffle them with a whimper, biting your own lip.

Bucky kissed the corner of your mouth and tugged the skin with his teeth.

“Good girl.” You came around him with a whine, and he gritted his teeth together to starve off his own release until he fucked you through yours.

When he felt you stopped shaking in his arms and squeezing around him, he pulled out quickly, sitting up on his knees, hand wrapping around his slick shaft.

He gave himself fast strokes until his eyes fluttered closed, coming with a groan of cuss words, spilling hot ropes of his release over your navel, catching the light from the TV faintly.

Both of you stayed in silence, catching your breaths, Bucky's vision finally coming back to normal from the tunnel vision a few minutes prior.

He muttered something under his breath, grabbing his shirt from the floor and using it to clean you up.

Morning arrived quietly.

Dark blue that faded into gray light filtered through the gap in Bucky's curtains, turning the bedroom that muted blue-gray color Manhattan seemed to specialize in after a rainy night.

For a few seconds, Bucky didn't move, he wasn't entirely sure what had woken him.

The distant sound of traffic several floors below, the radiator clicking, the faint headache beginning behind his eyes despite the fact that he'd barely had anything to drink.

Then you shifted beside him.

Your back was partially turned toward him, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, the sheets pulled up around you. You looked peaceful.

Bucky felt anything but. He turned his head slightly, looked at you, then immediately looked back at the ceiling.

Fuck.

Before he could spin too much into his own spiral, his phone buzzed against the nightstand.

+1 (843) 737-5388: hey!! it's Dot :) hope this isn't weird lol

His brows pulled together.

Dot?

He knew that name, it was one of your friends, the blonde one from South Carolina, he thought. He'd met her once, briefly, when you'd brought a few people over before going out.

+1 (843) 737-5388: i got your number and thought i should just text you 🙈

You gave her his number?

Before he could think of waking you up and asking, another message came through.

+1 (843) 737-5388: I was gonna ask you for it myself but figured this was easier lol

Bucky's jaw tightened and suddenly the night before rearranged itself in his head. Something bitter settled in his chest.

He should've known better.

God, he should've known better.

You were drunk, emotional. Nostalgic. You weren't thinking straight and he felt like a fucking creep for taking advantage of you. Being exactly the type of guy he was trying to protect you from.

It didn't mean what he'd wanted it to mean.

His phone buzzed again.

+1 (843) 737-5388: anyway i think you're really cute and if you're free sometime maybe we could grab coffee?

And in the kitchen, Bucky moved around wondering why you kept pushing him toward other people when, for one night, he'd thought maybe you'd finally chosen him.

You woke up feeling like the God of Thunder himself was banging a lightning bold against your head. Someone could've told you you were inside a church bell during mass and you'd believe them.

However, the first thing you noticed is that you were alone.

Alone, and very naked in Bucky Barnes' bed.

Guilt twisted sharply in your stomach, like you swallowed a twelve-pack of razor blades.

Absolutely nothing to do with your tequila intake.

You sat up and called his name a couple of times with no answer, looking beside you at his alarm clock that marked 10:13am.

You reached for your phone in the nightstand, seeing he had put it on the charger, and found a glass of water and two Ibuprofen.

When you touched the screen, there was a text from him.

Had to go into work. Your clothes are in the dryer. Coffee and breakfast in the kitchen. :)

No "we should talk", no "about last night", just that.

You stared at the text as though you could will another sentence to appear. What were you expecting? For him to wake you up with breakfast? For him to confess some decade-long secret? For one drunken night to suddenly change everything between you?

You were being ridiculous.

This was Bucky.

Your Bucky.

As you scrolled down you texts, you opened the groupchat to Dot sending a screenshot of your very Bucky, agreeing to grab coffee. With her. And you wondered why it suddenly made you feel like you'd made the worst mistake of your life.

a little bit of fran in your life: hey y'all.... how are we feeling.... I know, I know, don't quarter me on the town square over this please... my eye was twitching the entire time I had to write Dot. I promise I'll make them even dumber before they actually realize what's right in front of them......

[i reserve all the rights to this fic EXCEPT THE CHARACTERS bc this fic is my baby do nawt make it into a movie without asking me to direct it]

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