i have no idea who needs to hear this but if you're following someone who you think is cool and shares your interests, yet are too intimidated to reach out, take this post as a sign to try face your fear and say hi!!! i have befriended (sometimes by accident, sometimes because i reached out) pretty much everyone whose content inspired me over the course of these years and been tight with some of them for over half a decade now!
summary: a mission had gone to hell, wounded and cornered, you and bucky hide in a shaft barely wide enough for one. it starts with a touch, and it ends with you coming undone in his hands.
word count: 4.6k
author's note: hi my loves! this is an idea i had in my mind lately, and i am so excited to finally have it posted up! love you guys, please stay safe! 💓
The concrete floor was soaked in blood and coolant.
Thick rivulets ran beneath your boots, mingling into a sickly smear that clung to every step. The air was chokingly damp, metallic with rust and something sharper—ozone, maybe, or the aftermath of plasma fire.
The walls groaned around you, steel skeletons straining under stress fractures. Overhead, emergency strobes flickered with epileptic urgency, casting red and white pulses that danced like ghosts across scorched tile and broken rebar.
Somewhere behind you, a pipe burst with a metallic scream, jetting steam into the air so violently it echoed like a detonation. The shockwave reverberated through the corridor, rattling the bones of the facility.
The lights overhead guttered, struggling to stay alive in the chaos. They buzzed and flickered, bathing everything in a staccato strobe that blurred movement into nightmare. Friend and enemy were just silhouettes now. Just shadows.
Every breath tasted like smoke and copper and panic.
You sprinted.
Boots hammered against the ground, splashing through slick pools of coolant and something darker. Your lungs burned, your throat scraped raw from the air that was quickly turning to poison.
Each step jarred your body, jostling the fresh wound at your side—a sharp, searing burn that you were trying very hard to ignore. But when your hand shot down to apply pressure, your glove came away red and sticky.
Shit.
Bucky was just ahead of you—a dark silhouette moving like a phantom, purposeful and controlled even in the carnage. He turned sharply at the junction, glock raised, muscles coiled tight.
He didn’t glance back, but you didn’t need him to. You could feel his awareness of you like a wire stretched taut between your bodies—a constant pull.
He moved with you in mind.
Always.
The sirens overhead howled, their keening pitch loud enough to blur thought. Somewhere in the distance, distorted voices barked over intercoms in a language you didn’t recognise. The earpiece at your neck spat static, crackled once, then died.
"Comm’s dead," you rasped, ducking low as gunfire split the corner behind you, rounds ricocheting off the far wall with sparks.
"No shit," Bucky muttered, already moving, already firing. Three controlled bursts—center mass. The figure ahead dropped before it could scream. “You’re bleeding.”
“I noticed,” you bit out, stumbling slightly as you followed him through the next turn. The corner of the wall caught your shoulder—pain flared.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
Quick in. Quick out. Sweep the lower levels, confirm the cache, plant charges. Black market tech from some HYDRA splinter.
Old ghosts.
Easy target.
But somewhere between the briefing room and ground level, everything had gone to hell.
The resistance was heavier than expected. The layout had changed and there were reinforcements waiting—armed. Whoever was here had been tipped off, and now the entire facility was shaking apart around you.
Another shadow lunged from the smoke—Bucky didn’t hesitate. The glock cracked once, and the man fell like a puppet with its strings cut.
“We need cover. Now.”
“I’m open to suggestions,” you muttered, teeth clenched. Your boot skidded across the slick ground—a slurry of melted tile, blood, and some kind of chemical discharge. You nearly went down.
Bucky grabbed your vest with one quick, powerful jerk, yanking you back upright. His vibranium fingers curled around your gear like steel cables, the motion precise but rough. “You with me?”
You nodded, panting. “Still standing.”
He glanced down, eyes darkening as they took in the spreading stain at your ribs. There was a moment, just a flicker, where something colder passed over his face. Not panic.
Not exactly. Something sharper. Something older. Not at you. At whoever had fired that round. At the idea of losing you.
The ground rumbled again beneath your boots. Another explosion, deeper this time. Structural, maybe. Something was definitely collapsing.
“They’re trying to bury this place,” you breathed.
“No—” he said, grim. “They’re trying to bury us.”
His gaze darted around the corridor, calculating in that quick, precise way he did, always seeing angles, routes, exits. A soldier’s mind. A killer’s instinct.
Then it landed—sharp, immediate.
“There.”
To your left, a collapsed portion of wall, partially obscured by a mound of broken paneling and twisted rebar. Barely noticeable unless you were looking. Bucky was already on it, shoving debris aside like it weighed nothing.
Behind the rubble, a maintenance shaft. Narrow. Deep. Black.
Just wide enough for two bodies, that’s if they didn’t mind pressing close.
Too close.
“In.” His voice cracked like a whip, sharp and absolute.
You stared at it. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding.”
“I’m not.”
The shaft looked like a coffin. The jagged metal edges were wet with condensation, the air inside swirling with oil and smoke. “There’s no way we both fit in there.”
“Then I’ll go first,” he snapped, already tearing down more of the frame to make room. “But you’re coming with me.”
He turned to you, face shadowed, voice lowering. “We don’t have time for a debate. Reinforcements are inbound. We’re outgunned. Comms are dead. And you’re fucking hit.” His tone dropped lower. Rougher. “Get the fuck in.”
It wasn’t the words that made you move. It was the voice.
Commanding, steady and final.
You ducked into the shaft, your shoulders scraping the sides, the ceiling just inches above your head. The air inside was suffocating, thick and chemical, humming with static energy. You pressed back against the wall, one foot braced awkwardly as you twisted your body to fit.
Then he came in after you.
His bulk filled the space in a rush, the scrape of his tactical gear, the rough press of his thigh slotting between yours, the weight of his body shifting against your own as he maneuvered inside. His rifle braced beside your ear, muzzle angled down.
You could feel every inch of him.
His chest, firm and heaving, pressed to yours. His forearm planted above your head. His other arm curled tight around your waist, steadying you. Holding you. There was no room to move. No room to breathe.
His mouth was at your ear when he spoke, quiet, low.
“Don’t move.”
And just like that, the world narrowed to heat and breath and the impossible thrum of your heartbeat echoing through the dark.
The darkness swallowed you whole.
It wasn’t just the absence of light, it was thick, oppressive, as if the walls themselves inhaled and held their breath the moment you stepped inside.
A tomb disguised as shelter. The kind of dark that clung to skin and filled lungs. That made every shallow breath echo back twice as loud. You could feel it, the narrow, concrete throat of the shaft compressing around you, closing in with every heartbeat.
You weren’t alone in it.
You could feel the narrow walls breathing with the heat of your bodies, every exhale ricocheting off metal and stone until it circled back in whispers, growing louder with every pulse of blood in your ears.
The space wasn’t built for hiding. It wasn’t built for people. It was a maintenance shaft, narrow, ancient. But Bucky had forced his way in after you, muscled past jagged steel and choking heat until his body pressed fully to yours, armour against armour, thigh slotted between your legs.
Now, you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began.
His hand was braced above your head, palm flat against the wall, elbow bent to keep from crushing you. The strain in his shoulder was visible even in the dim glow leaking from a crack in the wall, veins flexed under dirt-slick skin.
His other arm wrapped firmly around your waist, anchoring you there, holding you still, holding you close, like letting go wasn’t an option. Not here. Not now.
You could feel the heat of him in every place he touched you. The flex of his forearm braced against your back. The steady, controlled drag of his breath, each inhale expanding his chest, pushing it flush against your own. You were plastered together.
No space.
No choice.
And his thigh, god, his thigh was wedged between yours, firm and unmoving, supported most of your weight now. It was the only reason you weren’t sagging into him completely.
You didn’t dare move.
Not with the blood roaring in your ears. Not with your wound still hot and throbbing under your tac suit. Not with Bucky fucking Barnes flush against every inch of you.
But still, your body noticed.
It always had.
The heat. The tension. The way his breath ghosted over your temple, short and fast, like he wasn’t as composed as he wanted you to think. You could feel his heartbeat through the chest plate of his suit. Fast. Sharp. Right in sync with yours. The brush of his belt buckle dug into your hip. His shoulder pressed into the curve of yours, hard enough to ache.
Then the tremor in his fingers, subtle, but real, as they flexed slightly around your waist.
“Be quiet,” he whispered, the sound so low and deep it felt like it came from inside your chest rather than outside it. A command dressed like a plea.
“I am quiet,” you hissed back, lips barely moving.
“I can hear your heartbeat, princess.”
The nickname landed like a sin—sharp, searing, and soaked in sarcasm. It was barely more than a breath, but it still cut through the hush like a lit match, curling down your spine, making something inside you clench.
Outside, just beyond the cracked wall, the hall rumbled with the stomp of boots.
The enemy was still close.
You could hear them, the soldiers moving in tight formation. Orders barked in clipped, guttural accents. Gear clanking. Flashlights sweeping methodically through the gloom. One beam licked along the edge of the breach just inches from your foot.
You stopped breathing.
Your muscles went rigid, throat tight, every instinct screaming Don’t move.
And then, Bucky shifted closer. Just slightly. But it felt like the world tilted with him. His chest flattened more fully against yours, his thigh pinning you tighter. Your breast grazed the edge of his vest, your nipple dragging across thick Kevlar.
You inhaled, too sharp. He felt it.
You saw his jaw tighten. Felt his arm tense. Like he felt it, too. Like he noticed everything.
The light passed.
The soldiers didn’t.
But neither of you dared relax.
Because the longer you stayed like that, shoulder to shoulder, mouth to ear, sweat pooling between your skin—the worse it got.
The heat was unbearable now. Trapped. It had nowhere to go but in. Into your pores. Into your bloodstream. Clinging to your skin like a second suit. Your body was trembling, not from exertion, not from blood loss, but from something deeper. Hotter. More dangerous.
Because it wasn’t just adrenaline anymore.
Your body had made a decision without your consent, without consulting the mission clock or the bullet wound still leaking crimson under your gear. It didn’t care that this was a suicide hole in the side of a collapsing facility. That HYDRA's leftovers were closing in with guns and floodlights.
That you hated the man pinning you in place.
Because this tension? It wasn’t new.
It had always been there, since the first moment Val had slammed your names together and ordered you into the field. “Try not to kill each other,” she’d said. Like it was a joke. Like it hadn’t already been written in the way you’d looked at each other.
You sparred like enemies. Like animals. You left bruises. Cracked ribs.
You taunted, you snapped. You called him grumpy old man under your breath. He called you reckless, annoying, a fucking pain in his. You rolled your eyes when he brooded. He glared when you flirted—especially when it wasn’t with him.
And yet, in combat, you were perfect.
Seamless. Lethal.
He always had your six, you always took the perfect shot. He moved, you followed. You moved, he shielded. You never missed each other.
Like muscle memory.
And maybe that was why this—now—felt so inevitable.
But still, nothing had prepared you for the feel of him like this.
The sharp scent of cordite still clinging to his sweat. The way his breath hit your cheek, too warm, too fast. The press of something hard against your hip.
You blinked, heart stuttering. You didn’t dare look down. You didn’t need to.
Bucky didn’t move. But you saw it, that flicker of strain in his eyes. The muscle feathering in his jaw.
Like he was trying not to look at your mouth.
Like he was pretending his cock wasn’t pressed thick and full against the curve of your hip.
Your thighs squeezed around his leg. Reflex. Instinct.
Not fear.
His arm flexed around your waist, vibranium fingers shifted slightly, grazing the hem of your shirt, dragging over sweat-slick fabric like an accident. You knew it wasn’t.
You swallowed hard.
“Still think this was a good idea?” you whispered, sarcasm a lifeline now, the only thing between you and the cliff you were hanging off.
He exhaled a laugh against your neck. Warm. Dangerous. “Would you rather be riddled with bullets right now?”
You didn’t miss a beat. “Would hurt less.”
His lips ghosted close. Close enough to feel but not touch. “Don’t tempt me.”
The silence that followed was electric, sharp enough to cut. You could feel the tension morphing. Twisting into something raw. Something that clawed under your skin and dug in deep.
Your chest dragged across his with every breath, nipples painfully stiff under your bra, and your hips buzzed, caught between the sting of your injury and the dull throb of growing heat. You were sore. Sweating. You ached everywhere.
And you wanted him to move.
His vibranium hand flexed again, pressing into the curve of your spine.
Every nerve in your body lit up like a fuse.
“You need to stop that,” you whispered. Barely audible.
“I’m not doing anything,” he murmured back, and he sounded so calm.
Too calm.
Too close.
You shifted. Just a fraction. Just to prove a point.
He groaned. A quiet, broken thing, deep in his chest.
“You’re not helping,” he gritted out, voice rougher now, voice that frayed at the edges.
“You’re the one pressed against me like some fucking space heater,” you hissed back.
Then—another voice outside. A barked command. Boots pivoting.
You both froze.
The moment stretched. Tightened.
Then, the sounds retreated. One step. Another. Fading.
Silence.
Your eyes found his in the dark.
Neither of you breathed.
Neither of you blinked.
“I hate you,” you whispered, and it wasn’t convincing.
“Sure you do,” he whispered back.
His hand stayed curled tight at your waist.
And he didn’t move away.
It started small.
A shift. A breath. The slow, deliberate drag of his thumb along your waist. Just a brush at first, casual, even, but it lingered. Longer than it should have. Slower than it had any right to be. Not some accidental twitch. Not some nervous fidget. No. He meant it.
And you felt it everywhere.
His vibranium fingers stayed locked at your back, unmoving, anchoring you against the solid wall of his body.
But his other hand, flesh and blood, rough and warm, moved with a calculated kind of boldness. He wasn’t hesitating, he wasn’t testing, he was deciding.
His palm swept with aching slowness along your side, fingers grazing over the damp fabric of your shirt, then lower, sliding just above the waistband of your ruined combat pants, brushing against skin so sensitised it made your whole body jolt.
His fingertips ghosted over the sliver of bare flesh beneath the hem of your shirt, skin long ignored, long untouched and your breath stuttered.
Your body stiffened. Instinct. Reflex. Not out of fear but anticipation. Heat.
“Bucky.” You whispered it like a warning, soft and tight. Barely a sound. Just a name, but spoken like a confession.
But he didn’t stop.
His hand passed over your waist again, this time slower. Lower. He wasn’t pretending. Wasn’t hiding behind pretense or excuse. His touch was firm, measured, dragging like silk over sandpaper. His fingers curled slightly, grazing the edge of your hip, slipping just under the edge of your shirt where sweat beaded at your lower belly.
It should’ve been harmless.
But it felt like your whole body tilted toward him.
Like gravity had shifted.
The air between you felt molten. Thick with breath and silence and something else — something sharp and magnetic and inevitable.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, voice low and frayed. It was torn at the edges — half challenge, half escape hatch. One final out. One he wasn’t sure he wanted you to take.
“Don’t,” you breathed, the word barely holding together under the weight of everything you felt.
Because your heart was pounding so loud you could feel it in your ears, in your fingertips, in the spot between your thighs that throbbed with each desperate beat.
Because your body was already leaning in.
Because your thighs were clenching, your mouth had gone dry, and his cock—hard and hot and undeniable behind the weight of his tac gear was pressed against your hip in a way that made your thoughts splinter.
And because when you looked up at him, when your eyes found his in the low flicker of emergency light bleeding through the shaft wall, you saw it.
Raw, flickering need. Something deeper, something starved. His expression was a storm barely held at bay, hunger licking behind every breath.
It was already too late.
His mouth dipped toward your jaw, not quite a kiss, not quite contact, just breath. His lips hovered, dragging over your skin without touching, a ghosting warmth that raised goosebumps in its wake.
Then his hand moved lower.
Over the waistband.
Past it.
Your breath hitched. A sharp, soundless inhale. Your body shifted involuntarily, and he was already there, his fingers slipping beneath the ragged band of your pants, rough against soft, familiar with desperation.
He didn’t hesitate.
He found your heat instantly.
Skin on skin.
And groaned, low, guttural, like he’d found salvation.
“You’re soaked,” he rasped, voice shaking with the effort it took to stay controlled. “Fuck.”
The sound of it—his voice in that moment made your knees threaten to buckle. His fingers didn’t even move, not yet. They just rested there. Claiming. Possessing. And your whole body trembled under the weight of that touch.
You whimpered. Quiet. Helpless. The kind of sound you didn’t recognise coming from your own throat.
He hadn’t even moved yet.
Just touched.
“You think I haven’t noticed how you look at me?” he breathed, mouth hot against the shell of your ear. His fingers began to move slow circles, featherlight, teasing and your whole spine arched into him.
“You think I haven’t felt it every time we spar? Every time you mouth off just to see how far I’ll let it go?”
You tried to speak. You really did, something snide, something biting, something to maintain the illusion of control.
But then he slid one thick finger inside you, and your brain turned to static.
“Oh, fuck—” The sound ripped from you like a wound, head thudding softly against the wall.
He moved closer, pressing into you fully now. His thigh locked yours in place. His arm around your waist kept you pinned, held, owned. And his finger, slow and deep, fucked into you with a rhythm that made your whole body twitch.
And then he added another.
“Don’t be loud,” he warned, barely more than a breath. Then his hand was over your mouth, wide and firm. “You want them to hear you?”
You shook your head, frantic, flushed.
Another finger joined the first.
The stretch was exquisite. You were so wet he slid in effortlessly, and yet every push made your walls flutter. Your thighs quaked. His palm was tight against your lips now, muffling the noise that clawed up your throat.
It was too much.
Too hot. Too deep.
He was wrecking you with just his hand.
Your cunt clenched around him like it knew him. Welcomed him. Fucked back, desperate and filthy.
His breath caught. His mouth dipped to your throat, lips dragging along the sweaty, sensitive skin just below your jaw. He didn’t kiss.
He breathed.
Like your scent was undoing him from the inside out.
“You gonna come for me while they’re right outside?” he growled, voice velvet-wrapped sin. His fingers pumped faster, firmer now. “Gonna soak my fucking hand while I keep your mouth shut?”
You moaned against his palm, a pathetic, muffled sound. You were trembling now, caught in the rhythm, sweat running down your spine.
He could feel it.
“You gotta be quiet, sweetheart,” he whispered, biting back a groan as your pussy clenched hard around him. “Don’t want them hearing how bad you need it.”
Your eyes fluttered. Your thighs squeezed tight around his wrist. Your body knew what was coming. It was building, sharp and staggering, curling low in your belly, winding like a spring.
The wet, slick sounds of his fingers working your cunt echoed in the shaft, obscene and unstoppable.
You didn’t care.
You were grinding down on his hand now, chasing it, using it.
Shameless. Starved. Your fingers clawed at the wall, nails scraping concrete, sweat dripping from your temple.
He kissed your throat, hard now. Open-mouthed. Possessive. Teeth scraping, almost primal.
You whimpered. He felt you tighten.
“Come for me,” he rasped.
And you did.
The orgasm ripped through you, brutal and sudden, your whole body locking, then shattering. You came on his fingers, walls fluttering, legs shaking, heat blooming behind your ribs.
You cry, or you tried to, but it was swallowed whole by his hand.
You were still trembling when he pulled away, not roughly, but not gently either.
And he wasn’t done.
You barely had time to blink. Your head was spinning. But your hands moved before your brain did, grabbing at his belt, trembling fingers tugging hard at buckles, pulling open his gear like your survival depended on it.
Frantic.
Desperate.
Your hand closed around him—thick, hot, leaking and you gasped.
“Jesus christ,” he hissed, teeth clenched.
Then he moved.
He flipped you, fast, hard, until your front slammed gently against the shaft wall. His body covered yours, heat and strength and desperation wrapped around you like a cage.
One hand braced above your head. The other dragged your pants lower. Then between your thighs again, guiding himself.
You felt the blunt head of his cock nudge your entrance, dragging through your slick, and your breath caught.
“This what you want?” he growled. “Here? Now?”
You nodded—wild, frantic, voiceless.
And then he pushed in.
You gasped, sharp and silent.
The stretch was delicious, thick and deep and slow.
He filled you inch by aching inch until your hips trembled and your forehead hit the wall with a soft thud.
“Fucking hell,” he groaned against your shoulder.
He stayed still. Let you feel all of him.
Then his hand slid over your mouth again. Gentle. Thumb brushing your cheek.
“Breathe, sweetheart.”
And then he moved.
He fucked you.
Hard.
Your shoulder slammed into the wall, his hips smacked into yours, loud and wet and brutal. You couldn’t catch your breath—every thrust punched the air out of you. There was no rhythm anymore. Just need.
His hand stayed firm at your mouth, catching your sounds. His vibranium one gripped your hip like a lifeline, dragging you back onto his cock again and again.
He reached around, found your clit, and rubbed.
“Gonna come for me again,” he growled. “Gonna squeeze me while I fuck you full.”
You were sobbing now, breathless, wordless.
Every nerve ending was lit, raw and overrun. Your body trembled, slick with sweat and slicker between your thighs, his cock dragging across swollen, overstimulated walls. You couldn’t form a sound, not really, just desperate gasps and stifled cries broken against your own hand, against his chest, against the fucking silence that surrounded you both like a net.
And then you broke.
It hit like a wave, violent, sudden, uncontrollable. Your body seized around him, hips jerking, spine bowing as your muscles locked tight and then unraveled all at once. You came again, harder this time, vision flashing white as your cunt clenched around him like a vice.
You damn near collapsed.
Your knees gave out, your breath punched from your lungs. You reached for the wall, for him, for anything to ground you, but it was all too much, the stretch, the sound of him, the way he held you together while you fell apart.
That’s when he came, too.
A sharp curse spilled from his throat as he drove deep, impossibly deep, hips stuttering against yours. He buried himself to the hilt, shaking, jaw clenched, breath choking out in ragged bursts. His whole body shuddered against your back, muscles locking, every inch of him tensed and trembling.
His cock throbbed inside you, thick and pulsing as he came, each hot spurt flooding your core, filling you until it leaked down your thighs, messy and spent.
And for a moment, neither of you moved. You just breathed, uneven and wrecked, locked together in the dark.
You stayed there, pressed against the wall, your chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths, skin tacky with sweat.
His weight still lingered over you, anchoring you with the kind of silence that made your heart pound in your ears. You could feel every inch of him still inside you, every echo of where he’d been.
Your limbs were a mess. His arm still braced above your head, his other hand curled at your waist like he wasn’t ready to let go. Your legs were weak, barely holding you upright, and your fingers had long since slipped from where they gripped the wall. You didn’t move. Neither did he.
The scent of sex clung to both of you, raw and thick in the stale air. His cum leaked down your thighs, hot and wet, mixing with your own slick, with the sweat that slid between your shoulder blades. Your clothes stuck to your skin. Your breath stuck in your throat.
Then slowly, he pulled out.
You whimpered, soft and hoarse, from the loss. From the emptiness that followed. A hollow ache bloomed where he’d just been, and you had to brace yourself against the wall again to stay upright.
He smoothed his hand down your spine, not possessive now.
Just… gentle.
You turned, breathless, chest still heaving as you tried to gather yourself. His hair was a mess, damp and curling slightly at the edges, sweat trailing down from his temple.
His pupils were still blown wide, gaze glassy and dark with something that hadn’t yet settled. You pulled your pants up slowly, wincing as the fabric dragged over tender skin, the ache between your thighs sharp and lingering.
He laughed softly, the sound more exhale than amusement.
“Next time,” you panted, shooting him a look, “maybe don’t pick the smallest shaft on the planet.”
He glanced at you, something like mischief flickering behind his eyes as a crooked smirk pulled at his mouth.
“You complaining?” he asked, voice rough but playful. You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile.
“Define complaining.” His chuckle was low, almost fond, and then he reached for you—his hand warm, steady, curling around yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Come on,” he murmured, tugging gently. “Before the rest start wondering where we went.”
You let him lead you toward the sliver of light ahead, your fingers still linked with his, your legs unsteady with every step still shaking.
a/n: if you enjoyed it, please leave a comment or a reblog, thank you sweethearts 💌
...this user was seriously on a roll this month, with a return to the supernatural in the form of a new werewolf entering the chat, some beachbound second-chance romance, and the finale of her first ever series!
the wolfman of the woods | 23.1k | werewolf!steve, slight angst, grumpy x sunshine, smut
beached! | 18.2k | lifeguard au, exes to lovers, a sprinkle of angst and fluff, loverboy bucky, banter
the devil on your shoulder, final chapter | 10.9k | enemies to lovers, smut, love confessions (finally!)
if you like werewolves, how do you feel about vampires? or maybe you want to go back to the very beginning, to see how the enemies became lovers...? check out my masterlist here to find out more!
warnings: enemies/rivals to lovers, fwb, slowburn(?) smut, dirty talk, pussy pronouns if you squint, more plot than porn, suggestive themes, reader is sort of ambiguous, also SHIELD is still active but they're good again bc i said so??? this is NOT proofread, i did the outline a few days ago and i just sat down and locked in all day today to get this written on time.
author's note: can you believe this…? the final chapter of devil is here. when i posted the first chapter in august, i had no idea if anyone would even read it. i thought i’d maybe get a couple of likes on the post, and that would be it. and here we are, nine months later. thank you to anyone who’s been reading since day one, and anyone who’s picked it up along the way and binge read what’s up so far. thank you for your patience as i’ve gone back and forth editing and posting things in between. i rewrote the last chapter because i wanted it to be a special send off. the original final chapter was about 5k words, and it was so lackluster, it made me sad. it was not the ending i wanted for these two. i would say this is still not very grand, but it’s an ending that feels right. this is undoubtedly the most fun i’ve ever had with a writing project—the way they were always under each other’s skin has always been so delightful to write. please enjoy, and thank you for reading. <3
part eight
With the newfound discovery of those three little words actually meaning something real to Bucky, he began to test the waters. It still felt foreign, alien, like he’d learned a new language, or perhaps found himself remembering one he’d long since thought he’d forgot. Bucky had love in his life, sure. Steve, Sam, this whole network of people he’d fallen in with that consistently stayed in his life, checked in with him, listened to him. It was as close to the past as he could get, in some ways.
But this love, this romantic love, this want to be with you all the time, the satisfaction of making you smile, of seeing your expression change just slightly when you caught sight of him… It was a love altogether more strange. Bucky knew with a certainty that he’d been a lady’s man once upon a time. Dinners, dancing, you name it, he’d done it, apparently. But there was no one woman he could recall—not any women, really—that had made him feel the way you did. It was something he’d asked Steve months ago, when he’d felt more comfortable asking for clues to his makeup as the Bucky Barnes he was today. But even Steve had shrugged and said, “To be honest, Buck, I never really knew what your goal was. If you were looking for a wife, or… just a bit of fun.”
It was something to ponder. Because Bucky didn’t think he knew how to be a boyfriend. The word felt way too juvenile for someone who’d passed the centennial of his birth. In fact, he couldn’t imagine either of you saying it. Felt people would think he was joking if he ever introduced himself that way.
But he was getting ahead of himself anyway. You clearly weren’t ready to say the words. He was surprised that he was at all. But the only way you’d be leaving the team would be through death. There was no danger of abandonment aside from that, and each of you walked along that tightrope every day. And a small part of Bucky really didn’t think that he’d be able yo scare you off too much. Maybe to pull back, maybe to fight with him, maybe to give him the cold shoulder, but something he’d learned over months and months of being around you was that you would always come back eventually.
Bucky tried to be careful and precise when he started to drop the words between you like offerings. He was alarmed with the lack of alarm he felt when he would murmur, “I love you,” into your skin when you were too far gone from an orgasm. He had expected resistance within himself, an abject fear that regardless of his inner reckoning that he did in fact, love you, something in him would want to snatch the words back, to bury them somewhere that no X marks the spot map would be able to find.
But it was scarily easy. When you slept together, you would stay the night, though not every time. And he would always wake up when you’d quietly slide out of bed, thinking him asleep still. On those nights, when you’d been utterly exhausted by pleasure, it was easy to wrangle you into his arms, to smooth your hair back against the pillow, and to whisper it to you as you were falling asleep.
You hadn’t seemed to catch on quite yet. He was unsure if the words were melting into your skin and bones when they left him, diluting into your bloodstream, or if you were deliberately reshaping them in your head. Not ‘I love you’ but ‘I love this’, ‘I love how you look right now, ‘I love the sound you just made’. Either way, Bucky wanted you to get attuned to it, to recognize it as easily as you would the taste of vanilla over chocolate, the smell of citrus over earth.
Selfishly, it was a little bit of a self-test, too. He was testing the waters. He wanted to make sure he meant it. He doubted he would ever be the type of guy to do a sweeping declaration, given the first time had been a complete mistake, like he’d walked into the wrong room. But he believed that he did. That somehow along the way, he’d become capable of it.
As for you? Bucky didn’t want to brag, had no one to brag to, but he was fairly certain that by this point you did like him for more than just sex. But you were just as stubbornly closed off as him, most of the time. He remembered when you’d bottled your emotions up, punching at that bag until he’d told you to stop, until he’d folded you in his arms and you’d cried over the loss of your friend, the other agent. You hadn’t wanted to break then. Hadn’t wanted anyone to see. And he doubted you would now. Matters of the heart, to you, were a territory he and anyone else were banned from. But maybe with time…
And Bucky got it, to an extent. He’d been wiped clean every time he’d shown some sort of emotions, something other than standard compliance that had been drilled into him by HYDRA. He understood that emotion felt dangerous and like it could be used against you at your weakest moments. But still, he felt good about it. It was freeing, actually, to be able to acknowledge what he felt, and not have to face any repercussions about it. It was what made him feel so bold. He was confident that with time, he would get you to the same point. But he would just be the open one for the both of you until then.
The next time he was with you, you were flat on your back on your bed, which had no less than four different throw blankets on it (his had a lonely gray comforter and nothing else). Your legs were wrapped around him like a vice. He kept touching your breasts, licking into your mouth. “Hate you.” you gasped between thrusts.
“I could never hate you.” He said against your neck, right into your skin.
He didn’t know if you heard him. He kept at it, giving in to the rhythmic glide of you. Right before you were about to come, he pulled his head back so he was looking you in the eye. He was about to do something brave. Or stupid. “You know that, right? You could never make me hate you. Ever. Not really. Not in a way that would change things.” He was tender, something he never was in the past, something he felt he always was now, when he tucked your hair back from your face.
You blinked up at him, wide-eyed, caught between pleasure and confusion, your lips parted, breath catching in your throat. For a heartbeat you looked almost uncertain—unguarded, the walls down, the game forgotten. Your fingers flexed against his back, holding him close as your thighs trembled around his hips.
“Barnes—” you whispered, but whatever words you were going to say scattered when he thrust in again, slower this time, rolling his hips, letting you feel every inch. He held your gaze, thumb stroking your cheek, his other hand splayed wide over your ribs.
He kissed you, and the heat of your usual fury was replaced with something aching and raw. “You piss me off every day,” he murmured against your lips, “but I don’t care.” He could feel your pulse jump beneath his palm, see the way your eyes went glossy, your teeth worrying your bottom lip.
You let out a shaky laugh, not mocking, just stunned. “You’re such an idiot,” you said, but your voice broke halfway through, all vulnerability and no bite.
“Yeah, maybe,” he agreed, grinning crookedly, thrusting deeper, holding you tighter, “but I think that I’m your idiot.”
You squeezed your legs around him, arching up to meet him, your head thrown back as a moan tore out of you. He fucked you slow, savouring every sound, every shiver, the way your hands slid up into his hair, holding on like you were afraid he might disappear. You gasped, nails raking down his back, and he could feel you getting close again, your body trembling under his, every muscle straining toward release.
“Say it again,” you whispered, voice barely more than a breath. “Tell me.”
He brushed his mouth over your cheek, your eyelids, the tip of your nose, then hovered just above your lips. “I don’t hate you, angel. I couldn’t. I—” His voice caught, and he hesitated for just a second. Not because he was afraid of the words, but he was afraid of letting you see the truth, naked and ugly and perfect, when you were still so coherent. “I love you.”
You whimpered, body clenching, your orgasm crashing through you, dragging him right over the edge alongside you, a pair of cliff divers seeking the ocean floor. He groaned your name into your mouth and saw sparks behind his eyelids when he closed them, his body locked to yours, every inch of him imprinted on your skin.
For a long time, neither of you moved, tangled together in the mess of your blankets, sweat cooling, breaths slowly syncing. Bucky brushed his knuckles along your jaw, letting himself just look at you—flushed, spent, beautiful and untouchable to anyone else, but his, somehow, for now.
You ran your fingers through his hair, eyes searching, hesitant, but soft. You looked like you wanted to say something, like you were searching through your arsenal for the right weapon, but instead, your tongue darted between your lips to wet them, and you stayed staring at him, mystified.
He smiled, his thumb tracing your lower lip. He settled beside you, pulling out at the same time he pulled you close. You were always softer, much more unguarded, after sex. It just depended on how long it took for you to be firing on all cylinders again. For now, you burrowed into his arms, your own loose on his waist. You could have just this, for a little while. And Bucky would take it all, if it meant you stayed for a little longer.
It was getting harder to fight against the current of ‘casual’. Bucky wanted nothing more than to hold your hand, to kiss you when he walked past you in the hallway, or to put his arm around you when you were with the others in some shared laugh. But he had to refrain from it, for you. He could imagine your hissed, “What are you doing?”, could almost feel the sting of you slapping his hands away, your head darting left and right to check that no one had seen the obvious PDA.
Bucky thought he could handle any of the teasing that would inevitably come from the team, from the prying eyes and the dozens of questions. But he thought you would shrink away, get defensive, when you should be able to puff out your chest proudly, and not take shit from anyone. That was usually your way, at least. But the scrutiny of a choice you might make to let him into your heart wasn’t something that you’d be so quick to face, he believed. If you’d managed to hide even the most basic of details from Wanda and Natasha, there was no way in hell that you’d be willing to offer up any knowledge to the group at large, and certainly not about your deepest feelings.
That was okay. Bucky would wait. He felt like he was playing one of those claw machine games. People were often unlucky, either getting the wrong toy from it, or missing completely, and getting nothing at all. Well, he’d put all of his coins in, and the prize was you, and he would very carefully manoeuver that claw until he was completely sure he could grab you. He wasn’t going to miss.
An area that you were still wildly confident in was work. The only emotional decision you had to make was if you were able to pick your own team, and who was going to be on it. Most of the time, it was assignment, but others, when the choice was in your hands… With vague, faint surprise, you had started to pick Bucky first, and to assemble the rest of the team based on what the two of you would be doing. He remembered a time when he’d see your name on a mission objective list and scowl, bitching to Steve about it to no avail. And he also remembered, with perfect clarity, hearing you do the same. And poor Steve had been stuck in the middle, helpless to appease either one of you.
Sometimes, Bucky still didn’t want to work with you, but not because he didn’t want to be around you, not anymore. It was more out of concern. He knew you could handle yourself. That had never been a question, even if your methods tended to differ from his. But the fear of you being in the line of fire was real all the same. It was something he’d just have to live with, even if he didn’t like it. He tried not to let it get in the way of letting you do real work. He knew how much you hated to be benched.
Your teamwork had begun to become more seamless. He’d still fight you on choices you made, but it was less to provoke and more to make sure that every single avenue had been explored, that there would be no surprises that you had neglected to consider. If you were alone, he’d lean close, speak the words slow, soft, to show you that he wasn’t questioning your idea, but rather to encourage you to be thorough. He didn’t know when it had happened, but somewhere along the way of sneaking into empty rooms to steal time with you, he’d begun to trust you in a way that meant if you told him to walk into fire, he would do it, because you undoubtedly had a good reason for it.
It was unfamiliar. An absence that had formed, no hackles raised, no shouting and pointing of fingers. Well, there was always a little of that from you, along with your nail poking him firmly in the chest, but now he’d just give you a lopsided grin and put his big hand over yours rather than glare icy daggers at you. But the vacuum wasn’t bad. Bucky knew that you’d throw down with him immediately if he provoked you. That, at least, hadn’t changed. But he wanted to see how far he could go without pushing your buttons over semantics. If you could exist together without it, or if it would become boring without the bickering.
The Amazon. More specifically, the smaller bit of it that crossed into Peru. That was where you were on this evening. The safehouse wasn’t really a safehouse. It was a shack. It didn’t even have a bathroom. It was humid, the loud sounds of the rainforest all around. There had been no sight of toucans or macaws, the bright colours of their beaks and feathers, but they certainly made themselves known, calling to each other through the thick foliage. Beetles the size of golf balls had scuttled along as you and Bucky had trudged through the undergrowth. A dragonfly so large it made a loud thud against Bucky’s arm when it made contact was actually not the worst thing he’d seen today. Every vine that he’d stepped over on the poorly maintained path had potential to be a snake instead. The gun he’d held over his torso had been more for apex predators than human enemies. Jaguars were known to roam around here.
The bed, when you’d both fallen into it, exhausted, was little more than a rickety pallet. Your hair had long since begun to frizz with the humidity. Bucky remembered how it had looked 42 hours ago, slicked back and tidy. Your suit was sticking to your skin, and so was Bucky’s. He wished he didn’t have to be so clad in leather. His sweat had been rolling from his skin down his metal arm.
It was a fairly standard item retrieval request, but he couldn’t help wondering if someone else could have done the job this time. They’d only sent in the two of you, but with enough firepower to take down a decent amount of opposition, of which intel had told you there would be plenty. Supposedly, a covert base had been carved into the forest of the Amazon. Bucky couldn’t imagine much more than a series of treehouses strung together by bridges that would coast through the forest, but he wasn’t sure. Any drones that had been sent had been shot down. So you didn’t really have the element of surprise.
Neither of you were all that bothered, though. You were laying together on the pallet. It was night, the rainforest black as pitch, the nocturnal creatures skittering through the underbrush. Bucky could hear every move they made. If this had been a year ago, he would not have been laying beside you. There would have been a fight that probably would have left him bleeding and you fuming, and the pallet blown to smithereens, with the pair of you sullenly sleeping curled against opposite walls. Now, though, you were in a light sleep beside him, and all he had to do was touch his fingers to your hip for you to mumble, “mmm…?” and roll towards him.
The roof had holes in it. If it had been raining, pools of water would have gathered around you. There were no holes directly above him, though, as he stared up at the wooden ceiling. But he could still picture the vast midnight blue of the sky. The perfect, round diamond moon. The smaller, scattered rhinestones of stars. Despite the heat, you tucked yourself against him. Bucky shifted his arm only to drape it around you. He’d take the heat, both of the forest and of you, your hair brushing against his jaw, and what he was sure was a spider the size of a hamster in the corner of the shack. He’d take it all. Despite his exhaustion, he stayed awake, basking in your warmth, listening to your breaths, and marvelling at how easy it had been to get you to curl into him.
The roll of the jeep’s tires on the earth wasn’t exactly silent, but it was fairly well disguised by the other sounds. The rattle of a snake’s tail. The chatter of small, leaping monkeys. The sloth Bucky slowly drove past turned its head with patience and stared. It had a passive, pleasant smile on its face as it hung from a branch. You were hooked over the side of the doorless car, your gun smacking lightly against the roof with every bump Bucky crawled over. He wanted to tug you back into the seat by looping an arm around your knee, but he knew you wouldn’t be balancing so precariously like that for no reason.
It had taken some time, some wrong turns, and a horrifying moment where you’d both encountered a python as thick as Bucky, but he’d been able to ease the jeep down a narrow path eventually. He’d gotten only a little bit of whiplash from some low hanging branches. By all accounts, you should be on the site soon. It was why you were hanging outside the car like you were. Your head was on a swivel. You had no idea how close you were, and neither of you wanted to find out by getting riddled with holes. Just as Bucky thought it, though, there was the telltale ping, ping, ping! of gunshots against the metal of the trunk. Pi—the sound stopped. You’d taken out that shooter.
But then, right as the next chorus of gunfire rang out, the trees seemed to open up, impossibly, and a ramshackle base of operations greeted you both. And so did about a dozen men, rifles of staggering size much more obvious than they needed to be. It seemed that the element of surprise was out.
Bucky jerked the jeep sharply to the side and you both dove from it, using its body as a shield. Bucky was very lucky that you’d given him such a thorough pat down before leaving. It had only been to see what other surprising places you could sneak extra bullets into. Your own suit didn’t have quite so many pockets as his. There was no telling how many men were waiting in the wings after the first wave, but Bucky had always been a perfect shot, and you weren’t so bad yourself.
You were firing with twin pistols. Bucky had his rifle, and then a pistol like yours strapped to his back. He stuck with the rifle. It was grim satisfaction that flooded his veins, coupled with adrenaline, that kept his aim true. It was times like this that he was also somewhat grateful for the metal arm. The men here seemed to only have primitive weaponry at best—no high tech gear that SHIELD and your other compatriots had. No fear of his arm being disabled. It meant that he could have it in the line of fire without worry.
You darted into the trees at some point, leaving him at the car. He didn’t move until you’d both mowed down half of the men, before he stood and started his bold descent. It had been with a bit more luck that you’d both stopped near the top of a slope. The men were like fish in a barrel, some ten feet down. One by one, they went down, with Bucky taking glancing blows. Maybe the leather and additional bulletproof padding wasn’t so bad, despite the fact that he felt like an oiled pig underneath.
By the end of it when you reconvened, you were out of breath, bent at the waist, hands on your thighs. You had smudges of dirt on your chin and cheeks from a barrel roll—that had been your showy exit from the car. Hair was plastered to your temples. A hot, steady drizzle of rain had begun near the end, slicking Bucky’s armour. He felt it dripping down the back of his jacket. If he wasn’t careful on the drive back to the safehouse, and then the subsequent one to the extraction point, you would both be in danger of getting stranded. He could tell already, with the way the ground sucked at his boots with every step, that the paths would become muddy and impossible to navigate without slow consideration.
Bucky checked over you without touching you, scanning only with his eyes. “You okay?”
You were less winded, but no less exhilarated, confirming with a nod of your head. “Are you?”
He twisted his left arm out, and you both looked at the slight dents in the vibranium. It was nothing some careful maintenance couldn’t fix, and really, the bullets had mostly pinged off. It was only when he’d gotten closer than he should have that any surface damage had been taken.
You both split then, intent on your search and recovery. He could hear the occasional shot, which he guessed was you clearing out any surprise henchmen, and he did the same. There were, in fact, some treehouses littering the canopy above. But mostly it was a series of decently crafted bungalows. He had a feeling more had been done underground than he could really see. The rainforest had stayed loud around the clearing. He supposed whatever wildlife lived here had gotten used to the human subjects dwelling in this spot. Your comms stayed mostly quiet, between you. There wasn’t much to report yet. Once you’d cleared your side, you murmured down the line about checking in on the SAT phone.
Bucky’s scan so far had brought up nothing. You regrouped in the middle, guzzling down water and rations, confiscating what had belonged to the men you’d taken out. Eventually, thinking maybe you would have to traverse underground, you came upon a slab of cement. It was out of place in the rainforest. It was also mostly hidden by four of the men you’d taken out. They’d been nestled there behind sandbags, a sort of outlook to try and keep intruders out. It was an interesting place, to say the least, for them to hide a safebox. Bucky pried it from the ground with some effort. You had searched the men and tucked the key you found on one of them under your suit. It might not be the key, but it didn’t hurt to grab it.
You scanned the safebox doubtfully with one of Stark’s fancy devices. It didn’t do much—the box was quite obviously lead-lined. But it was about the right size for what you’d been sent to retrieve. Only time would tell, when you’d brought it back, if it was indeed the right thing. Bucky looked at you then, flushed, sweaty, dirty. You’d been chewing your lip and the useless readout on the device after smacking it a few times against your palm, but you looked at him then, sensing his gaze. “Ready to move out?” He asked.
You nodded. “They’ll have to send us back with another team if this isn’t it. And we don’t have the support to go under… even though I bet they have all sorts of toys down there. Let’s go.”
But before you could turn to the jeep, Bucky placed his hand on your cheek and gave you a soft kiss. It was against protocol to do something so sentimental and stupid, but he’d wanted to in the moment, and so he did, and you’d accepted it without any hesitance.
As you stepped over bodies, he put an arm around your waist, the other holding the safebox, and you headed back to the car together.
After the success found among the lush forests of the Amazon, you were pulled apart again. You were never able to drift in each other’s orbits for too long, but every time you came back together, it felt better to Bucky than the previous one. He couldn’t believe he’d started to become so sentimental. He would see things when he was out and think of you. Down in the thumping heart of New York, passing boutiques and restaurants alike, a loose, flowy skirt on a mannequin, the exact same shade of blue as the dress you’d worn at that restaurant. Anything with angel wings or cherubic faces made him think of you at Halloween. Even scrolling past an. advertisement for the zoo on his phone, the animal in question being a flamingo, had him thinking about the dusty, barren road you’d been driving down in that horrible old car in search of a man you needed to bring back to SHIELD, the trailer park with the faded plastic birds strewn over the grass.
Bucky found that he didn’t mind. Because what was love, if not the memory of all the times you’d been together, times that meant something to him, and the promise of all the future times that would mean just as much, if not more? Bucky supposed he had done all of this backwards with you. He’d experienced a little of the traditional courting atmosphere in the 40s, still lingering around the edges from the turn of the century, but it had been cut short by war and a fate worse than death. He didn’t quite know how well a date would fly, if you’d laugh it off and invite other people to keep it casual, but he let the idea stay in the back of his mind anyway. Maybe one day.
Bucky hadn’t let himself focus completely on the way your eyes and your body seemed to inevitably soften instead of tense up when he was nearby. He tried to only pay attention to it post-sex. And you were still pretty good at locking away your emotions. It was a shame, really, that you still felt like you needed to guard your feelings. Bucky was ready to lay his across a table set for two, each one ready to be devoured under a silver dome. He hoped that you would be able to do the same, at some point.
Usually, Bucky weaseled his way out of charity events when possible. Everyone knew he wasn’t the conversation starter, or holder, for that matter. It was better to let him stay back at the Tower or put him on assignment. In fact, Steve had done so more than once, even under express directions to make sure Bucky was free for appearances.
This was one that neither soldier could keep Bucky out of. So there he was, with his hair slicked back, making him think of a younger, not quite so jaded version of himself. The suit fit but it still felt tight around his shoulders, though he didn’t know if it was more because of his discomfort in general rather than the jacket. And there you were, in a devastating dress. Floor length black silk that flowed like inky water. It hugged your body like a lover might, like Bucky wanted to. The back of it was entirely open, save for the string of pearls that hung down your spine. It was clearly the focal point. But Bucky didn’t care about the pearls.
You’d been wining and dining all the important people while he’d lurked in the corner, as was the usual fashion. You were good at this. You would cut in at just the right time, seamlessly replacing Wanda or Tony with your own presence when they were ready to move on. He could hear your light, tinkling laugh bouncing off the walls. Your eyes were bright, your smile a gleam.
He hadn’t gotten close to you the entire night, but that was by design. He thought that if he did, he’d get one whiff of your perfume and then he’d be resigned to following you around the rest of the night like a puppy on an invisible leash. But eventually, like fate had predicted, you approached his corner of the room. The string quartet on the raised platform had been playing all night, but now people were dancing in pairs. And so to, where you and Bucky, a few minutes later.
It was a rare time where you were both soft around the edges instead of rough. The room was warm, the lights yellow and dim, though not too much. Your lips were painted red, only just barely beginning to feather at the edges. Bucky could have smudged it across your face with a swipe of his thumb. Could imagine how gorgeous you’d look, tantalizing ruination. But he was too transfixed by every word that fell from your silken mouth. You were only talking about each of the figureheads you’d met with, keeping him apprised. You knew he never remembered much about them anyway.
Bucky’s flesh hand was on your bare back, under the line of pearls. They grazed against his knuckles as you swayed. He wondered, if he took his hand away, would he see an imprint of it, seared into your flesh like a brand? Your eyes were scanning the room as you talked, never settling on him for too long. It was a typical move for you, to know the room, to see how it changed, but he got the feeling that it was something else keeping you from making more than flickering eye contact. Your hand was clasped in his metal one like it belonged there, like they were a well-made pair. He moved that hand so that he could kiss your fingertips, quick and succinct, in such a manner that no one would see. Your eyes darted back to his then, framed by your lashes. He wondered if your heart skipped a beat at the action. It was too noisy for him to focus on it.
“Barnes, you’re looking at me like you’re gonna sneak me into one of the balconies and split me open. I know we’ve cut it close with the voyeurism a time or two, but that seems a bit much, don’t you think?” You were teasing, trying to lighten the mood, he thought.
He knew he wasn’t giving you just bedroom eyes. He knew that you knew there was something infinitely more deep in his stare tonight, and you didn’t want to face it. But you needed to get used to it some time. He didn’t see it changing anytime soon.
“No, I wouldn’t take you here. I’d want to take my time. I wouldn’t want to rush. I’d want to enjoy it. Enjoy you.” It was thoughtful. It wasn’t exactly a non-answer.
In reality, he wasn’t thinking about sex at all. He wanted to be alone with you, yes. He always did. But not to just get out any pent-up frustrations. You didn’t have anything to say to that. You just readjusted your hand on his shoulder, like you had no quick rebuttal. Spitfire reduced to quiet, uncertain embers. Bucky pulled you an inch closer, and admired the way the light from the chandelier coated your skin.
You were split up for a few weeks again, separate missions dragging each of you halfway around the world. Bucky held onto what he had as a memory. It was true what they said. Absence made the heart grow fonder.
He got back first, after a nice and easy data extraction a few states away. He’d fallen asleep on the couch in the early evening, and everyone had left him to it. The sun had cast over him in a slow crawl, painting his hair, his face, his shoulders gold, until it had gone to sleep too, sending the moon out as a sentinel. He was only woken up by a soft thud, followed by a harsh whisper that said, “ow, fuck!”
He blinked awake. It was black, the only light coming in slivers from the other skyscrapers outside. It was probably midnight, he’d slept so long. He sat up, looking over the back of the couch. He could just make out your silhouette in the light as you winced, holding your hand to your chest, next to the kitchen island ten feet away. “You’re back?” He said around a yawn, standing with a stretch.
The kitchen’s sensors came on when he moved close enough to the cabinet, the soft glow of the cupboard’s overhead lights illuminating the room just enough that he could see your features. You nodded, cradling your hand. “Yeah. I just hit my fucking hand on the corner of the island. Hurts like a bitch.” You shook your hand out, scrunching your nose up.
He followed the line of your hand to the island, to the box sitting on it. It was a pastry box with a clear plastic top. He frowned at the triangular shape, trying to parse it out. “Are those… scones?” He asked.
Your hesitation was an ocean, and Bucky felt a prickle on the back of his neck, like he was about to be swept into the tide. “...Yeah. Blueberry. They’re your favourite.” You said quietly.
You’d never done anything nice for him before, not like this. The box looked much more familiar, suddenly. The red squiggle outlining the plastic top confirmed that it was from Lazlo’s. That was halfway across the city. It was also Bucky’s favourite bakery. The name and ownership had changed a few times over, but it had been a bakery in the 40s, and it still was now. And the blueberry scones, as boring as they were, were his favourite. It was like you sensed it, the fact that he’d put this line of thinking together. Your voice got a little louder, a little higher, like if you spoke with enough defensiveness, enough determination, it would negate the thoughtful gesture. “It’s not—I didn’t—I didn’t think you’d still be awake. Or in here. I was just gonna… leave ‘em on the counter.”
“I’m so fucking in love with you.” He said simply.
You froze, your hand hovering in midair, the scone box halfway between you. For a second, your eyes went wide in the gentle kitchen light, your mouth parted as if you’d forgotten how to breathe. Then, almost as if you couldn’t help yourself, you laughed—a quick, soft, startled sound, shaky with nerves and relief and something warmer beneath.
You shoved the box toward him, as if it might shield you from the enormity of what he’d just said. “You’re so goddamn weird,” you whispered, but your voice trembled. “They’re just scones. Pepper does this kind of thing all the time.”
He took the box from you, setting it down gently on the island, and closed the distance between you, hands bracketing your hips. He saw the protest brewing—your mouth already opening, probably to scold or argue or deflect—but he cut you off, his voice quiet and certain, thick with sleep and honesty.
“I mean it,” he said, staring you down the way only he could, as if he could will you to believe it. “You don’t have to say it back. Hell, you can punch me for it if you want. But I love you.”
You just shook your head, swallowing, your tough shell slipping for once. “You’re an idiot.”
“I think we’ve established that already. The new information here is that you brought me scones from across town, in the middle of the night. They close at six.”
“I had a standing order. This is not a thing. I’d do it for anyone.”
Yes, maybe you would. But the fact was, you’d done it for him.
“You hate blueberry scones.”
“Whatever,” you said, rolling your eyes, but he saw you bite down on a smile, felt the way your hands hovered between you before settling on his chest, twisting at the fabric of his t-shirt. “Can’t believe you’re such a sap, Barnes,” you muttered. “All I wanted was to drop off some food and go to bed.”
He ducked his head, brushing his lips over your forehead, over your cheek, over the tip of your nose. “Consider the first half of your mission accomplished.”
You huffed, but your arms slid around his waist, anchoring yourself there. You didn’t say the words, but Bucky felt them in your actions. He’d take that as gospel. It was enough. He squeezed you tight, breathing you in, all the tension of weeks apart draining away in the feel of you pressed against him. He pulled back only to grab at one of your hands, the one you’d smashed into the counter’s nefarious corner. He kissed your knuckles, holding your hand to his mouth for longer than he needed to, before murmuring, “Let’s go to bed.”
And to his surprise, you let him lead you to his room, and under the blankets, without so much as a single protest.
Morning following the events of the previous night was a gorgeous, soft thing. Almost as gorgeous and soft as you. Bucky had woken up first, squinting at the sun. Everything looked a little blue, the light cast through his curtains giving everything a vague hue. His blanket was low on his waist. You were half curled over him, your leg hooked over his hips, your head and one of your hands pillowed on his chest, right by his heart. His fingers tangled in your hair.
The shift of him waking up was what brought you to the surface, and you snuggled against him all the more, like his flesh could keep the light from penetrating your vision. Your fingers curled into his shirt. You groaned, the heat of your breath a warm puff. “What time is it?”
Bucky didn’t care to reach for his phone. He considered the light again, the angle it seemed to sweep in from. “You could stand to sleep a little more.”
You nestled again, like you were seeking an entrance to a safe, hidden place. Like you could burrow into his ribs and come out the other side. “You need blackout curtains.” When you said this, you tilted your head, cheek brushing against him, to peer at him. You were frowning.
“I’ll put it on the list.”
“What else is on the list?”
“I don’t know. What else do you think I’m missing?”
You did a slow assessment of his room. “One blanket is not enough.”
His laugh was a steady rumble beneath you. “Okay. I’ll just take one of yours. You only have like, a million.”
“That’s a million and one, thank you very much.” You pressed down on his chest to push yourself up a bit more. Now your face hovered over his, your eyes filling his vision.
He only needed to tilt his head a little to capture your mouth in a slow kiss. “Good morning,” he murmured, though the time for pleasantries had sailed already.
You sank into him, and his arms came up around you. “Good morning,” you muttered back, nipping at his bottom lip.
The minutes melted together, a honey sweet blend, tinged blue. He took his time, and you didn’t seem to mind. It was a natural progression to you being astride him, hands braced against his sternum. You were doing all the work. Bucky was helpless to stop you. All he could do was run his palms up your thighs to your waist and back again. What he wouldn’t give to stay suspended in time with you. Nothing else mattered. Just you, your eyes glazed with pleasure, the warmth of your body, your nails piercing his skin. His shirt had landed on your pillow. Yours… Well, it was halfway across the room somewhere.
His hands travelled up again, trailing your spine. He pulled you flush to him, chest to chest. You weren’t close enough. You’d never be close enough. You could fuse together and still feel too far apart. You met him where he wanted you, the angle changing. It made you shudder. Or maybe it was him. He couldn’t tell. But each time your body moved, he kissed you. He whispered I love yous against your mouth and you sighed like each one was a separate caress. He could see your end coming in the reflection of your eyes, your lips parting on a gasp. “Let go, baby. Let go.”
And you did, with Bucky following suit. Like your allowance was his allowance too. That time, it was both of you shuddering, your mouth falling open, a sound stuck in your throat, Bucky muttering out a string of profanities against the side of your neck, one of his hands cupping the back of your head, pulling you as close as he could.
You drifted in liminal space for a time. Hate fucking had always been great. Of course it had. It was how Bucky had gotten to this place, after all. But this? What he got to experience now, without you flinching from his honesty, with you matching him beat for beat in your own way, with you draped lazily on top of him like a kitten in a sunbeam? This was what he was hoping for. He wished he could bottle the moment up. He wasn’t going to let you go.
Even after, when your eyes had refocused, when the sweat on your body had cooled, when your legs had stopped trembling on either side of his waist, he held on tighter to you each time you tried to slide away. He was keeping hold of whatever he could reach, his fingers on your ribs, your arm, your thigh. He trailed them across your skin lightly, a tickle more than a grasp, once you’d decided to stay put, all to hear your involuntary laugh. Your lips grazed his neck lazily. “Maybe I like you too, Barnes.”
It was perhaps as close to an admission of feelings as he could get from you. He waited until you looked up at him with a teasing smile, before saying with mock surprise, “Hold on. Let me get my phone. Can you say that into the camera?”
You both laughed. He wasn’t serious. He would have given his other arm to hear you say it a thousand times over, but he didn’t expect you to. But to his astonishment, you sat up, sitting on top of him like you had nowhere else to be, and plucked up his shirt before pulling it over your head, letting the hem pool over your thighs, before reaching over him to the nightstand to grab it.
With wild bed head, sleepy eyes, and a seductive smile, you turned the screen to you, and said into the recording, “You’re not the worst person in the world to spend all my time with,” you looked off-camera to him, then back to the phone, “I guess.”
The recording was cut off when he pulled you back down again, your giggles the last thing on tape.
There was a change now. The beginning of one, at least. When you and Bucky were alone together now, without others around, you seemed to more readily accept his affections. You didn’t always say anything—you didn’t even always react—but you accepted, leaning into touches without hesitation. He could touch your face and pull you into a kiss and you would comply. It was thrilling. However, that didn’t mean you’d simply turned into some sugarplum fairy, some sweet, delicate thing overnight.
No, you were still yourself, combative and grumpy at the best of times. Only now, there was no real heat to it. Working with you when you were in that state was never the most fun. Being stuck in a nondescript SUV for six hours on a stakeout with you was even less so.
You were both sitting in the front, obscured from the outside by the tinted windows, staring at a warehouse. You had been mostly silent the entire time, because your nerves were shot. Even when Bucky had tapped his thumb against the steering wheel, bored, you had sighed and asked him to stop.
Bucky was fairly certain he knew the reason for your mood. Despite the newfound affection between you both, something that was more than just taking your frustrations out on each other, you were still separated a lot of the time. The only downside to being in your bubble was now, selfishly, Bucky wanted all your time. He had grown used to it. So being apart was worse than it had once been, and he knew that you were feeling the effects of it, too. Even now, over the last week, when both of you had been grounded. That should have meant plenty of chances for alone time, of the sexual variety or not, but you’d both been go go go anyway. You’d been tied up in meetings, paired with Steve on something or other, and Bucky had been yanked in the other direction by Sam. Every time he thought you had a moment to steal away, somebody, whether it was a real person or FRIDAY, had something pop up that needed your undivided attention immediately. It was beginning to be a real cockblock.
Bucky had been watching you shift restlessly for about half of the stakeout, and he didn’t think it had anything to do with the mind-numbing task. You had been keeping notes on your tablet while you watched, tracking movement, anything suspicious, anything worth noting. When you hit hour seven, you sent off the update, shifting again in your seat. Yeah, sitting still for that long was no fun, either.
Your phone rang a minute later. “Hey. I think you guys are good to clear out for now, come on back. We’re going to analyze this information along with what we already had to form a plan to storm it.” Steve said on the phone.
You sighed heavily, glad to be done with the thankless job. It really could have been handled by rookies instead. “Got it. See you in a bit.”
You hung up then, turning to Bucky. “We’re clear. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
He patted your leg. You slapped his hand away with a glare. He gave you a tired, but amused look. “You’re really grouchy today.”
You crossed your arms. “No I’m not.”
He looked you up and down. “Baby, you just smacked me.”
You shifted again. “Don’t touch me right now unless you’re planning to take me in the backseat.”
Surprise passed his face before it split into a grin. He didn’t think you’d so readily admit to the problem. “Are you telling me you’ve been acting like this all day because you’re horny?”
You stared down at the gear shift. “...No.”
His cock twitched in his jeans. You were unfathomably cute when you got like this. “Get in the backseat.”
Your head snapped up. “I was kidding.”
“I’m not.” He said simply.
Your mouth parted, staring at him for a moment, before you were all but diving over the middle console and into the back.
Bucky didn’t waste a second. He followed you, heart pounding, already half-hard from the days of anticipation and interruption, the endless hours of watching you fidget and squirm in that seat beside him. You were still pretending to pout, arms crossed as you sank into the old, squeaky upholstery, but he saw the flash in your eyes, the tension in your jaw, the way you tracked his every move.
He crowded in close, knees braced on either side of your thighs, the car’s ceiling forcing you both to hunch together in the too-small space. His hands slid up under your jacket, over your ribs, and he pressed his mouth to your ear, voice rough, low. “You could’ve just told me, you know.”
You snorted, biting back a grin, your cheeks flushed with heat. “Yeah, right. Like you’d ever let me live it down.”
He grinned, nosing along your jaw, letting his breath fan over your skin, teasing. “Maybe not. But I’d make it worth your while.”
You shivered, the fight draining from you, hands fisting in the hem of his shirt as you pulled him in for a kiss—hot, hungry, all your frustrations at being apart laid plain. Bucky vaguely wondered if you were the possessive type. He groaned, sliding his hand down to cup your ass, dragging you up against him until you could feel exactly how badly he wanted you.
“You gonna stop being so grumpy after this?” he murmured, lips brushing yours.
You rolled your eyes, but your hips rolled too, searching for friction. “I hate you.”
He grinned, nipping at your bottom lip, already undoing your jeans, his fingers slipping under the waistband with practiced ease. He felt his muscles jolt at how wet you were. You really had been jonesing for it. “You just keep on saying that, baby.”
You arched into his touch, head thumping back against the seat, eyes fluttering closed. “Shut up, Barnes. Just—shut up and do me.”
He did, fast and frantic, clothes tangled around your knees, the old SUV rocking on its wheels. His mouth never left yours, swallowing every moan, every gasp, every curse. Your hands clawed at his back, his hair, anything you could reach, desperate to keep him close. He took great joy in the fact that your eyes seemed to keep rolling back with consistency. He knew he was hitting the spot.
When you came, it was with his name ripped raw from your throat, Bucky, I— flung around the car’s interior like a grenade. It was all you said. But he thought he could imagine the end of the statement. Your nails dug crescents into his back, your whole body clenching tight around him. He followed, biting down on your shoulder, groaning into your skin, spilling inside you as the world narrowed to the heat and pulse of you, the slick, perfect clutch of your body.
Afterward, you just lay there underneath him, not complaining at all about his weight over you. You finally sighed, satisfied. “I’m never waiting that long again.”
He kissed your forehead, laughing, feeling light as air. “I’m right there with you. But angel, next time you feel needy, just tell me. You know I’d be on my knees anytime, anywhere.” He paused then, before grinning down at you wickedly. “I think maybe being in the car just makes you wanna get your rocks off. Remember the first time?”
You punched his arm, but your hand was gentle. It was affection over violence. The windows were fogged up.
The conversation was admittedly a silly, lighthearted one. It was a rare moment of quiet in the kitchen. The subject matter? All the public places you still had yet to defile together. You were talking about where you’d still like to go. Bucky tapped his chin thoughtfully. “We haven’t done it outside yet, have we?”
“No. But we’ve had nice views. Remember Greece?”
“Of course I remember Greece. Remember that bathroom that one time?”
“I remember you feeling me up in the closet beforehand, yeah.”
He snorted. “Yeah, well, you can’t blame me. My balls were so incredibly blue.”
You laughed, before considering him. “What’s your favourite place been?”
There were so many. It should have been hard to pick. Each time you’d collided was memorable. But the answer came to Bucky as clear as day. “Your bed.” Your fingers tangled together. He’d already been holding your hand, but your fingers locked together all the tighter. You were both thinking of Halloween, he thought.
You, on the other hand, didn’t have an answer when he turned the question back to you. You claimed you couldn’t settle on just one. You smiled like you were trying to hold in a laugh as he needled you, poking at your side with his free hand. “Maybe my favourite time has yet to happen. Ever think of that?”
He pretended to be offended for the space of a second, only long enough for you to laugh, but then you sobered up, suddenly honest. “Each time becomes my favourite time. They overwrite each other. I can’t just pick. It’s too hard. You can’t have just one, not with someone you love.”
Bucky straightened, muscles locking, like a dog scenting a rabbit. You didn’t notice, distracted by sounds in the hallway. By the sound of it, it was a spirited argument between Sam and Steve, the topic of which being baseball. You turned back to him. “Anyway, should we go? I really don’t want to get stuck in the conversation of ‘Best Plays of All-Time’ again.”
Bucky agreed, following alone, keeping your admission a secret just for him, for now. But he kept holding your hand.
Just like the earth was destined to continue revolving around the sun, Bucky was destined to part ways with you. He was going. You were staying. He wasn’t supposed to be gone that long. He’d been on much longer, more complicated missions than this one. And so, it stood to reason that the goodbye between you would be short and sweet. He was leaving late at night, so there was no one to see him lingering in the doorway of your room when he came to say goodbye. All through the day, whenever he’d seen you, he’d gotten the distinct feeling that you kept almost reaching for him before thinking the better of it. He’d seen your hands hovering listlessly in front of you before dropping to your sides, or fidgeting with the zip of your sweater, rather than whatever they so clearly wanted to do.
He kissed you on the mouth, then on the forehead, before his departure. It felt good to know that he had something to come back to—someone. Someone who drove him a little crazy sometimes, but someone that dragged him to her room and laid on him for hours on end, nonetheless. Earlier that morning, you had stripped him of his t-shirt and put it on. You were wearing it now, having claimed it as a pajama shirt for the night. He saw you turn your head and breathe into the collar, even though he was still there, still in the flesh right before you. But he had a warm feeling that you were going to sleep with it on every night until he came back. “There’re more shirts, you know.”
You glanced up at him, like you had forgotten he was there during that intake of breath. “Hm?”
“There’re more shirts. You can just go into my room and take one. If you want.”
“But I like this one.”
It was light gray, a little stretched at the collar. It threatened to hang off one of your shoulders. It was just a shirt. He had a dozen more like it. “Why do you like that one?”
You paused. Your fingers toyed with the hem. He saw something in your eyes, like you were debating whether to lie or not. “You um, you were wearing it the time you, uh… The time you threw all my coffee cream out.” Then your mouth closed in a firm line, unwilling to say more.
The time he’d…?
Oh.
When he’d riled you up, then had his way with you. But more importantly, when he’d accidentally spit out those three little words that had since become as normal to him as the change of season or the expectation of sunrise and sunset. It took everything in him not to throw you back onto the bed right now, to mutter the words into your skin, to breathe them into your mouth right now. Instead, he kissed your forehead again, his hand on the back of your neck. “I’ll see you in a few days,” he said, unable to keep the warmth from his voice.
It was routine, or it was supposed to be. He’d been gone for a few days, just like he’d said, but on the tail end of it, he’d accepted another. It was in the same general area, off the coast of France rather than in the city like he had been. He was largely at sea for this one. The ship was disguised as an oil tanker. The team he was with blended in with real workers seamlessly. The base he needed to infiltrate was somewhere well below sea level. Bucky didn’t love the idea of descending my submarine, the idea of the enclosed space with millions of tons of water above his head, but he’d done worse.
Communications were short, but he was grateful to even have them.
As the mission wrapped, he was nursing a headache and a pretty decent slash on his forearm, a crude set of stitches keeping it closed. But the first thing he did, upon being told they were setting course back to land, was call you. You answered despite the time. He knew it was coming on two in the morning for you. “I’ll see you in maybe twelve hours,” he said, after filling you in on the basic details, leaving out the injury. “Did you pick up any assignments?”
“No. Well—yes, but it’s not starting for a few days. Apparently it’s taking awhile for them to build me a decent profile.” He could imagine your shrug. “Undercover, Morocco. I’m looking at a three week operation.”
His lip curled in distaste at the confirmation that you’d be apart, yet again. He didn’t know how Tony and Pepper could stand it. He understood now why Stark always did his best to go behind Pepper’s back and try to get her to come along to things that were supposed to be less dangerous. An agent hovered in his periphery with a tablet, a questioning look on her face. His eyes flicked up, and he gave a small nod, waiting until she was out of earshot to respond to you. “Well I’ll see you soon. I plan to use up all your downtime before then. Consider this your only warning.”
You laughed. He’d missed the sound. “Okay, heard.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
The shock was palpable, like a string connecting you both from worlds away. He was stunned that you’d said it. You were stunned that you’d said it. You abruptly hung up, nothing but dead air left on Bucky’s side of the phone. It wasn’t when he’d expected you to say it, not at all. And judging by your hasty mobile exit, it hadn’t been your expectation, either.
The migraine melted away on the ocean waves, replaced by a buzz of impatience.
The knocking was insistent, loud, and unapologetic. Bucky was exhausted. He knew he probably looked like shit. But he’d crossed all the t’s, dotted all the i’s, and strode down the hall to your room as quickly as he could. He’d dumped his bag in the hallway next to your door, not so much as wanting to pause at his own room. He couldn’t. What a waste of time it would be. He switched to knocking with his metal hand, hearing the plates in his arm flexing. He heard the softness of your footsteps a few seconds before the click of the knob, and then the door was opening, you hesitantly peering at him from the other side.
Before you could even say a word, your mouth half-open to speak, probably to deflect and deny and make another scone-based excuse, Bucky’s arms were around you, his hands flying up and down your ribs like twin hummingbirds in search of nectar. He crushed you in a kiss. “God, I missed you,” he didn’t even know if his words were coherent enough for you to understand, unwilling as he was to stop. “I love you, I love you.” He couldn’t decide if he wanted to say the words to you, to tattoo them into your brain, or to show you with his body more.
Your own hands fluttered at his jaw, a staccato beat of your fingertips against stubble. “I love you, too. I love you, too.”
It made his ears ring. He finally got to hear it, straight from you, in person. There was no worry stitched between the words, only perfect clarity. How did he get here? How did he go from not understanding what everyone else liked about you, from thinking if he only saw the back of you, if he never got stuck in conversation with you again, he could breathe easy, to feeling like he actually couldn’t breathe unless you were right there beside him? It was a complete mystery. But maybe it was one he didn’t need to solve.
He walked you backwards, kicking the door closed behind him. His bag was forgotten outside. “Say it again.”
You reared back then, peering up at him. “Ugh, do I have to? I feel like I just said it so much. You’re gonna think I’m a softie if I keep saying it.”
His laugh was a rich, warm thing. Like a blanket over your shoulders. “Come on. We have a 10 to 1 ratio. I think I should get to hear it at least a few more times, spitfire. It’s only fair.”
“For the record, I wasn’t planning to say it. Before. On the phone. Tech records our calls sometimes, you know.”
“They record them every time.”
You groaned. “Great. Now they know I have stupid feelings for you.”
He pressed his lips to your cheekbone. “Yeah, well, I said it on the phone too. So I guess we’re in the same boat.” Then he poked you in the ribs. “Now say it. Or do I have to resort to more seductive means to hear it again?”
You half shrugged. “I mean… Probably wouldn’t hurt.”
He shook his head, sighing loudly. “The things I do for you…” He hooked his arms under your legs and lifted, until your ankles crossed at his back.
You smiled. “I love when you decide to be all business.”
He leaned you back on the bed, hovering over you. “Me going down on you is considered business?”
“Well, I think so. You certainly work for it like you have to close a deal.”
He pinched your waist and you yelped, before pressing an open mouthed kiss to your neck. “You’re killin’ me, angel. Say it, for the love of God.”
You twisted your fingers through his hair. “Fine, you devil. I love you. I suppose.”
But you couldn’t keep a straight face, beaming at the way he nuzzled against your throat before looking at you again. “I love you, too. You better get real used to saying it. I expect nothing less. I’m a words of affirmation type of guy.”
It was bullshit, and you both knew it, but you pulled him down to you again. “I’ll take it under advisement. But enough talking, I’m tired of waiting. Undress me already. I might have missed you, but she missed you more.” You wriggled beneath him for emphasis.
“‘Course she did. She loves me, too.” He teased, hands coasting down your body.
“Against all odds, yeah.”
Against all odds. That was really what it came down to, between you. Against all odds, you’d wormed your way into each other’s orbits, and now, stubbornly, you were both there to stay. And Bucky wouldn’t have it any other way.
warnings: mdni, forced proximity, exes to lovers, grovelling, minor teasing, vague mentions of sex, kissing, light groping, all plot and feelings my bad, bucky is down astronomically bad, feelings realization, banter carries the first half, player!bucky turned loverboy!bucky, sam and joaquin for comedic relief, fluff, a little bit of angst with a happy ending!
author's note: this is my humble contribution to @artficlly's moodboard event! i ripped my hair out every step of the way!💞this is only about 80% proofread because it's 10pm and i'm tired; i've been working on this for three months. 😩
The air felt sticky. It wasn’t surprising, given the humidity was sky high. But that didn’t make it pleasant. Your thighs stuck together, sunscreen working somewhat like glue from your spot in your chair. The water glistened like a great, vast jewel, the sun overhead making white beams, the foam of the ocean looking like frosting with each crest. Small dots broke up the blue, in various bright colours, beach goers enjoying the gorgeous day. You could just barely make out the floaties of the little kids right on the surf, parents watchful and close by.
A few teenagers were clustered around the rock pool, poking into its depths with a long piece of driftwood. Umbrellas and towels covered the beach like litter. You’d be walking the beach soon, but right now, your post was up here on the chair. You’d only had one encounter so far wherein you’d had to scale the ladder of the chair and sprint through the sand, kicking it up behind you as it scalded your feet, ignoring the shock of cold water as you dove into a forward stroke to get to the little girl who’d gotten a bit too far into the waves. It had been an adrenaline pumping moment, even after you’d brought her back to safety.
You’d been a lifeguard at the local pool in your last year of high school, but this was a step up. Back from college, you’d known immediately how you wanted to pass the time. Though some found the heat stifling, you enjoyed it. You felt like you withered away in the winter, and you’d take all the summer air you could get until you were forced to hide away in the ivy covered buildings on your campus again.
You loved this job, actually. The other lifeguards ranged in age, but the ones you were on shift with the most, Sam and Joaquin, were your favourites. It was never a dull moment with those two, and you’d seen both of them in action. You’d thought you were fast, but you had nothing on either of them. Sam seemed to fly through the sand when he had places to be, Joaquin hot on his heels. It was very clear that they were some of the most perfect people for the job.
It wasn’t like you were always stuck on the chair, up high where only the seagulls could reach. You’d stay on your perch for a couple of hours at the most before coming down, walking a circuit on the beach, and then disappearing into the shack a little ways down. It was a rule, actually, to get into the shade every two hours. What good was a lifeguard with heatstroke? Bruce was normally in there, sitting at the shabby desk with his glasses slipping down his nose. He was always poring over the schedule and checking to see if he needed to order more life jackets, rafts, or anything else that was necessary to function as a busy, popular beach. And you’d sit in one of the rickety chairs, grab one of the paper fans on the side table, and try to remember what ‘room temperature’ felt like.
This job was a dream for you, aside from one glaring issue. It wasn’t something you could easily fix—you couldn’t just ban someone from the beach if they weren’t doing anything wrong except for to get on your last nerve.
Bucky Barnes came to the beach.
Every. Single. Day.
Bucky Barnes, your former high school sweetheart, who broke up with you at your graduation, when the plan had been to stay together. You went to sister schools, after all. It would have actually been quite easy to stay together. But he’d wanted to sow his wild oats, as it were. Starting with head cheerleader Natasha.
It shouldn’t have been a problem. You’d seen him a handful of times—you shared friends, after all—but you hadn’t had to speak to him, or look at him for longer than a minute. You didn’t want to see his stupid perfect face, to remember what it felt like when he kissed you. You would stubbornly say there was no love lost there, only a wound that had been hard to heal. You had cried all night, your first evening in your dorm. The original plan had been for him to help you move in, and for you to help him, and then to tour both of your campuses to see what buildings you would be in, where the best spots to wait for each other would be.
It would have been fine if he was just on the beach because he liked it there. Unfortunately you knew, with a sinking feeling in your gut, that that wasn’t the reason. He was simply there for your attention. The first time you’d been alerted to his presence, you’d been walking the beach, heading to the chair, or Overwatch, as you and the others liked to call it. You’d seen him from the corner of your eye, and started walking more briskly, hoping to get past without him noticing, but he fell into step with you easily.
You’d tried to put all your force into pushing him away from your side, but he just laughed, immovable, keeping your pace. “Will you just talk to me?” he finally said, though he sounded amused at your ire.
“No, fuck you. I’m working.” you said crossly, not bothering to censor your words. You weren’t about to scream and shout at him, but you were very much unimpressed by his lack of contriteness.
“Yeah, I know. I’m here because I know how good you look in a bikini.”
You cut a glare his way, annoyed beyond belief that he was looking you up and down. You were actually wearing a pretty conservative suit, the top a black band around your chest, not unlike a sports bra, the bottoms high waisted and full coverage. You’d worn skimpier for sure.
You ignored his navy blue shorts, his lack of shirt. He was already halfway to a decent tan, sunglasses perched on his head rather than over his eyes. You could see the twinkling, mischievous blue of them even when you weren’t looking directly at him. “What do you want?” you hissed, almost at your destination.
“I think we should talk.” he said simply, reiterating what he’d first claimed. But you knew that it wasn’t as easy a request as he made it sound. Because how could you talk to him while ignoring your shared history?
“I don’t think so.” If he was about to ask you to be friends with him again, something you hadn’t been since you were fifteen years old, when that that word had changed, the prefix of ‘boy’ and ‘girl’ added to the front of it, then he was in for a surprise.
“Come on,” he said, drawing out the words, arms spread wide. “You’re already doing it right now!”
“Fuck off, Bucky, I’m working.” At last, you reached Overwatch. You scaled it with ease, grimacing to yourself all the while, because you just knew he was checking out your ass.
“I’m gonna be here all summer, sweetheart.” he called up to you, cupping his hands around his mouth. You gave him a withering stare. He’d projected his voice loudly enough that a few heads turned in your direction. “Can’t avoid me that easily.”
Then he’d smiled at you, smug, like he thought he’d be able to corner you easily. Well, he was about to find out how wrong he could be.
You hadn’t expected him to actually come to the beach every day. The first two weeks, sure, you guessed. Bucky was one of the most determined people you’d ever met. But you thought that eventually, even someone as tenacious as him would get tired of it.
But no, he rolled up sometime after you, without fail, even going so far as to park in the spot next to yours when it was available.
He’d lay out on a towel, or join whoever was playing a spirited game of volleyball, or try his hand at surfing. You’d begrudgingly watched him, alert as ever, to make sure he didn’t get a lungful of saltwater and drown. You were not looking forward to the prospect of giving him mouth-to-mouth. You thought it would be much more entertaining if one of your male colleagues got that pleasure.
If you weren’t up at Overwatch, he was chasing you down, pestering you to take five minutes to talk, though you still didn’t know what exactly he wanted. You’d already complained to Sam about it at length. Nonplussed, he’d told you, “Just see what he wants, and if he’s being an asshole, I'll throw him in the sea,” to which Bruce had looked up from the desk disapprovingly, and said quietly, “I don’t want to hear about any threats to someone’s life.”
You didn’t want to talk to Bucky, though. You knew that if you did, he could easily swindle you into something in under five minutes. He was very good at that—he’d always excelled at turning your brain into mush with a few carefully persuasive words and a gleaming white smile.
You didn’t think that you had ever affected him nearly so much. If you had, he probably wouldn’t have broken up with you. Regardless, you continued to ignore him to the best of your abilities. Until…
Bruce liked to have meetings every two weeks to make sure everyone was still up to code, and to mention anything important like upcoming events that might make the beach busier, or harsh weather warnings. It was standard procedure, and everyone would trudge into the office, whether they were on shift or not, to listen in.
When you got there, canvas bag hoisted on your shoulder, you stopped short. Joaquin walked into you, not noticing you'd stopped, and let out a soft “oof!” You’d only come to a halt because standing in the middle of the office amidst a handful of the other lifeguards, was Bucky.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” you muttered.
Bucky noticed you right at that time, and his pensive, distant expression melted into a charming grin. “Guess we’re coworkers for the rest of the summer. Isn’t that great?”
“You know that I can’t change the schedule to favour any of you over the other.” Bruce sat at his desk, watching you pace back and forth. There was sand caked into the worn floorboards. “You’ll be on shift with him at one time or another.”
Your hands were fists behind your back, your head down, looking at your flip flops. “But isn’t there some way we can look at it more strategically?”
“Look, I know that you have some kind of history with this guy—”
“Does he even have his certification?” you interrupted, unable to stay neutral any longer.
At this, Bruce frowned. He was very thorough of course, so it had been a silly question to ask. But you were grasping at anything, anything that could bar him from being around you 24/7. “Of course he does. And even if he didn’t, we’re doing the CPR drills on Saturday morning, remember? He would have got it then, if not.”
You stayed silent, trying to refrain from screaming.
Bruce said your name, quiet as always, and you looked over at him. “Did this guy… did he hurt you?”
You could see the concern on his face, and you sighed, defeated. “No, not physically. Just… emotionally.”
You both sat with that for a moment. “I’m sorry about that. But there’s nothing I can do. You know that I don’t tend to double you guys up unless I have to, but I can’t guarantee that you’ll never have to work with him. I know you’re professional, so I’m not worried about you,” he paused, pushing his glasses back up, “but if he goofs around or something, I’ll get rid of him. okay?”
You didn’t allow your shoulders to slump like they so wanted to. “Okay.”
It looked like your nightmare was about to begin.
Something you hadn’t anticipated, something far worse than what you’d imagined, was that Sam and Joaquin got along with Bucky like a house on fire. It had you spitting mad. Those were your friends, your work buddies, not his. At least Joaquin had the sense to look guilty when you caught the three of them laughing it up at the end of a shift.
You stomped to your car, shaking sand from yourself, as you cut past them. You didn’t hear footsteps jogging behind you until you were on the asphalt, just a few feet from the safety you were banking on.
“Hey, wait!” you scrunched your face up at the sound of Bucky’s voice and started to fumble blindly in your bag, looking for your car keys.
He caught up with you right as you fished them out. “Hey, I just wanna talk.”
“Yeah, so I’ve heard.” you said icily.
“Well, can you just hear me out?”
“No.” You unlocked your car, throwing your bag in the backseat. Once you’d slammed the door closed, you turned to face him. He was blocking the driver’s side. “Move.”
“Not until you talk to me.”
You crossed your arms. “Move right now, or I swear, I’ll—”
“I want to get back together.”
“Are you fucking joking?” You were incensed. The fact that he had the balls to say that to you…
His expression was serious, pleading. “Look, I know I made a mistake—”
“A mistake?” you screeched. “You broke up with me right before I took grad photos with my mother!”
You’d made her banish them to a cupboard behind all the other photo albums, unable to bear the sight of your red rimmed eyes and streaky makeup.
He winced. “I know. Shitty timing on my part, I’m sorry. But I regret it. I regret all of it. I miss you. I’ve been missing you.”
“What, Natasha not giving enough in the sack?” you said sarcastically, a vicious bite.
You thought he went a shade paler as you continued on. “Yeah, I know about that. We hadn’t even been broken up 24 hours before you slept with her.” You sounded hysterical, and for good reason. You’d never had the chance to scream and shout at him before. Now seemed to be as good a time as any. You didn’t care if you drew a crowd. Hell, the entire beach should know what a piece of work he was. “I gave you almost three years of my life, Bucky, and you stepped all over it like it was dirt. Why the hell would I take you back?”
“Well, you never dated anyone after me, did you?” he asked, though he knew the answer.
You flushed, your skin hot, and it had nothing to do with the sun beating down on you. “What’s your point? I was pretty busy studying.”
“Now, you and I both know that’s not why.” he said, leaning down and getting close to your face. You could smell his breath, peppermint. You knew he kept Lifesavers in his glove compartment—it seemed that hadn’t changed.
“You haven’t dated anyone because you still love me. And I still love you. And I’m not going to stop fighting for you.”
If he’d said it to you any other time, maybe it would have cracked your exterior, exposed your gooey center. Maybe. But right now, it was only proving to you that he didn’t even get it. That just because he said he still loved you, didn’t mean you’d drop everything. Because if he’d loved you even at all, he never would have broken up with you.
“The only thing you miss is having a girl sneak into your room at night and warm your bed.” you said, disgusted.
At this, he had the audacity to look wounded. “No, I—”
“Move out of my way, or I will scream.”
The wild look in your eyes told him you were serious, and he stepped to the side. You got in the car, shoving your key so hard into the ignition you thought you might have damaged it, and then tugged your seatbelt with enough force that it got stuck. You put the car in reverse and heard tap tap tap against your window. He was still there.
You rolled it down, just a crack. “Back up or I’m gonna run you over, I swear to God, Bucky.”
“I’ll show you how sorry I am. I swear. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll be good to you for the rest of my life.”
“Go fuck yourself, Bucky.” And then you were speeding out of the lot, feeling your eyes burn with unshed tears.
That evening, as you laid in your bed, the window wide open to let in the outside air, you closed your eyes and thought of drowning Bucky in the ocean. You were sure you could lure him out there late at night, with the promise of being understanding. You could play the game, lead him out into the water under the guise of being playful. He was stronger than you, but you thought your rage might be enough to hold him under water for long enough.
You felt a small stab of peace at the idea.
Of course, you couldn’t do it—it would be just your luck that you’d land in jail because of him—but thinking about it was nice.
Instead, you would do the next best thing.
You’d make him regret ever looking in another girl’s direction. If he wanted to play, you could play. He didn’t realize what the game really was. You just had to wait for the right moment.
You had the next day off, and thank God for that. There was no way you could face Bucky so soon after what he’d said to you—you hadn’t calmed down enough yet. But you did spend the day with a couple of girlfriends at the mall. You hoped he was disappointed to pull into the lot and not see your car. After all, he might have gotten the job just to bother you, but it still meant that he had to actually work when he was there, whether or not you were scheduled.
On Saturday morning, you arrived a little after sunrise. You weren’t working that day, either, but the drill was necessary, so there you were in light, loose clothes over your bathing suit, your hair a tousled mess, prepared to spend the next couple of hours in the sand. You weren’t the first one there, but you’d beat Bucky at least, so you had a few minutes of calm before he showed up.
The drills were meant to work as refreshers and to also help team building. After all, in a real crisis, you’d all have to be synchronized with each other well enough to administer help as quickly and efficiently as possible.
As well as standard CPR on the beach, you were being tested on pulling people from the water. It was harder for someone like you, not built like Bucky or Sam, but you still always aced that part of the drill. There were also some drills based on call and response times among yourselves, and when and how a two person job should be administered. It would be a piece of cake, you thought to yourself. You were never worried about tests like these.
Your sunny mood threatened to sour when you saw Bucky, long and lean, loping across the beach to where the rest of you were gathered. Bruce and one of the older lifeguards were off to the side, speaking quietly. The drills would start in the next five minutes, but you wished it would be in the next five seconds.
Taking a deep breath, you willed yourself to be calm when Bucky entered your orbit. You knew that he’d make a beeline for you. He stood by your side, hands on his hips, as he admired the ocean. “Missed you yesterday,” he commented.
“Okay.” You were plain in your response. There was nothing to say, really, and you figured that for now, one word answers were the best you could do.
“I remember you telling me about these types of drills when you still worked at the pool. Is it gonna be similar to that?”
You pursed your lips, eyes to the sea line. You didn’t want to think about last summer, or the one before that. “In the act of saving lives? Yes.” you said drily.
“I got my certification last week,” he admitted.
you bit the inside of your cheek. So he had definitely planned this, not just taken the job up on the fly. It had been his goal all along to force you into his proximity. “Okay.” you repeated, back to the safety of a single worded answer.
“I never told you before, but I think it’s really cool that you care about this sort of stuff.”
If he thought a compliment was going to get him anywhere, he was sorely mistaken. You were saved from saying “okay,” for the third time by Bruce striding forward and clasping his hands in front of him. It had been noiseless, but it may as well have been a clap, because everyone straightened and turned in his direction. “Alright, everyone. We’re going to get started now. You know how to do this, so we’re skipping the demonstration. Just show us that you remember the right protocols, okay?”
And with that, the drills were underway.
It had started out fine. You were quick, and you knew exactly where all the extra equipment was. You knew what you should have on your person, what should be secured at Overwatch, and where any emergency backups were. You knew the best way to get them without leaving your victim. Communication was key in this sort of situation. The walkie-talkies were waterproof, but you tended to know exactly what you were dealing with before you were too far out in the water, able to call and anticipate what you’d need, or if you would require assistance, before reaching your target.
For most drills, you used dummies, though some were with your fellow lifeguards acting as helpless swimmers. So far, you’d been able to keep well away from Bucky.
That was, until it came time for the last one. It was a two person drill, and Sam, despite his newfound friendship with Bucky, was still your number one for group situations when the choice was possible. You high fived each other as you got ready on the presumed start line, right by Overwatch. The idea was that in this particular drill, two people would be needed to bring the person back to land and administer CPR or anything more serious.
The only hitch in this was that you were supposed to be saving Bucky, who had eagerly volunteered to float in the ocean and wait for his rescue. It irked you, but you pushed it to the side, ready to show that you were worth your salt. Bruce stood off to the side with a stopwatch. “Alright, ready…?”
At your determined nod, he clicked the button of the watch. “Go!”
You took off in a dead sprint. You were in only your swimwear by now, your clothes discarded in a pile along with everyone else’s. The water was still cool at this time of morning, though you’d been in and out enough that it didn't slow you down. Sam matched your pace pretty evenly, his legs longer, but you had a killer breaststroke, and got to Bucky first. He grinned at you, flicking water from his eyes. “My hero.”
“Shut up and don’t make things difficult. If you screw this for me, I’ll kill you.”
Sam got to you both right as you finished the threat, and Bucky allowed himself to be pulled to land. Once you got him down on the sand, far enough away from the lapping waves, there was a brief, hesitant pause. You were already on your knees beside him. It had been automatic. The thing was, one of you was supposed to administer CPR while the other went for the first aid kit. You and Sam hadn’t discussed who would be doing what. Inwardly, you cursed. You thought maybe somewhere in your subconscious, you were anticipating mouth-to-mouth. What you wouldn’t have given to let Sam do it instead, to leave Bucky spluttering as you held in a laugh.
But you didn’t have time to switch now, because in a real situation, that wouldn’t be an option. Sam took off towards Overwatch, and Bucky blinked up at you innocently. “Save my life, angel. What are you waiting for?”
“Shut up!” you whispered harshly. “Drowning victims usually don’t talk!” Then you started with chest compressions. You were using a bit more force than you really needed, especially since Bucky could breathe, but you didn’t care if he wheezed a little. He deserved it.
Even still, his eyes seemed to sparkle when you stopped after the count. “Do not enjoy this,” you warned, before pinching his nose and covering his mouth with yours.
You weren’t supposed to actually breathe for him, but mimicking the motions was supposed to do the trick. Why, oh why did you not get to use a dummy for this? It was because all your other compatriots were currently performing the same drill, and there were no more left, but it felt like some cruel twist of fate to you, like the universe was having a laugh at your expense.
To your utter relief, he let you do the first set without issue. Then you went back to the chest compressions, where mercifully, he stayed quiet. It was when you did the second set of mouth-to-mouth that things went south. You felt the barest twitch of his fingers against your knee. Then he was snaking his hand up your thigh and to the dip of your waist. You sucked in a breath, moving to pull away, but not before you felt his tongue breach your lips and touch the inside of your mouth.
You stared at him, stunned by his boldness. How in the world had no one noticed the obvious violation of the drill? Instead, he only smiled at you lazily, head pillowed by sand. “You taste just like I remember.”
“Oh, I’m gonna kill you,” you glowered at him, putting your hands on his chest and pressing down with all your weight. He only looked pleased.
“Hey, don’t break our dummy. He’s not one that we can replace.” Sam’s voice snapped you out of it, the first aid kit dangling from his hand.
You sat back on the sand heavily. “Work away, Wilson. I did my part.”
“And you did it so well,'“ Bucky cooed, ignoring the daggers in your eyes.
You excused yourself as soon as you could, under the plea of a bathroom break. It was a short jog down to the cabanas where the stalls were. The lighting was dingy, the four by four room made up of blue tiles. You stared at yourself in the mirror. The drills were almost done, and it was still early in the day. After this, you could go home and put Bucky out of your head, at least until tomorrow.
You still couldn't believe that he’d kind-of-sort-of kissed you. It shouldn’t have been a shock—he’d made his motivations to win you back somehow very clear—but still, you didn’t think he’d put your job at risk in order to do it. Okay, maybe that was a bit dramatic… the most Bruce would have done would be to give you a deeply disappointed stare. But even still, that wasn’t something you wanted to be on the receiving end of.
When you walked back out, the sky had started to cloud over, just a little. You thought you could smell rain on the horizon. It didn’t matter to you. You’d already been in and out of the water a dozen times. You hoped the sky would open up and pour all over Bucky after you left.
The rest of the drills were a breeze. You stayed far away from him, choosing to stick with Ava instead, though you could feel Bucky’s eyes on you. At the end of the circuit, Bruce, pleased with everyone’s efficiency, began handing out coupons. They were a dollar off for the ice cream stand, redeemable any time during the summer. You usually gave yours to Cassie, the stand owner’s daughter, but you decided to keep it this time. You deserved the treat for dealing with Bucky all morning.
You stuffed it in the pocket of your shorts before throwing your clothes on and stealing away to your car while Bucky was distracted by pats on the back from Sam and Joaquin, glad to be away from him, though you had a feeling the memory of his mouth would plague you for the rest of the day.
You settled, reluctantly, into the routine of seeing Bucky often. If you weren’t filled with bubbling annoyance, you would have felt almost like you had in high school, being in his proximity all the time. From the way he kept finding excuses to be close to you, it really did remind you of high school. Back then, when you’d been surrounded by teachers and other students, he’d had to be subtle with his affections. You remembered your hands being linked together behind your backs, or his shoe touching yours, arm to arm. Him scooting his chair closer, or pulling yours across the tile until your knee knocked into his. Back then, you’d mooned over each other like any other lovesick couple. You’d frequently been told to ‘get a room’ even when all you’d been doing was sitting on the bleachers under his arm, leaned against him, or resting back against his chest under one of the trees outside.
It was different now, of course. He’d get close to you, kicking up sand and disturbing the pecking gulls, and you’d simply move away. You had the excuse of surveying the beach, at least. Being around others didn’t really deter him either—any time you were in the middle of a laugh with Sam and Joaquin, he’d join right in, and you’d abruptly stop your giggling and become stone faced for the remainder of the interaction.
You thought you’d at least get some peace and quiet when you ventured to the ice cream stand on your break. You liked Scott—he and his daughter ran the stand all by themselves, sometimes with a volunteer on really hot, busy days. He was always very silly normally, even more so to the little kids, and there was usually a line about a mile long to get a rocket pop or ice cream sandwich. You were lucky to be the last of a rush of customers, and stuck around as you started in on your vanilla cone. You were half leaned into the window, making conversation with Cassie and enjoying the cold that you could feel blasting from the deep freeze. The stand was really more of a little hut, decorated in a Hawaiian theme. Scott always wore the most goofily patterned shirts he could find.
Your fun was short lived when you felt the heat of a warm body at your side. You felt yourself stiffen, knowing exactly who would be that bold. You barely had to turn your head to see Bucky, looking innocently at Cassie. “Is this where I redeem my coupon?” He held the paper between two fingers, and it waved lazily in the breeze.
She grinned at him and took the coupon, and it was only a matter of seconds before Bucky was mirroring you, ice cream cone in hand. “I should have known this was where you’d be hiding.”
You straightened and pulled away from the stand, offering a half-hearted wave to the Langs. “And now I need to find a new spot.”
As you spoke, you felt the slow drip of vanilla curling over your fingers. It had started an instant melt the second you’d moved away from the window. Without thinking, you licked the offending melt away, grimacing at the stickiness you knew it would leave behind, and glanced back at Bucky.
The look on his face was comical. Eyes wide, mouth slightly open, completely ignoring his own melting ice cream. His eyes had been locked in on your hand, and more specifically the trip your tongue had taken. You snorted. “Oh, grow up.”
He tried and failed to school his expression. “That was hot.”
You wrinkled your nose and resumed eating, trying for bites instead of licks—you were almost down to the cone now, and you didn’t really feel like eating vanilla soup, but his eyes tracked your every move. “You’re so gross.”
“Do you remember that night… at that John kid’s party?” Bucky asked, eyes still on your mouth.
You rolled your eyes. “Seriously—”
“When we stole wine from his dad’s cellar and hid in the pool house, and you started hiccupping so much that you couldn’t breathe, but you kept laughing and laughing and laughing?”
You did remember, though it was fuzzy. You’d drank way too much that night. It had been about two months before graduation, and the nerves had been getting the better of you for weeks. But Bucky had convinced you to go, to try and get your mind off of it. “I remember. But I remember what happened after more than I remember that part,” you admitted.
He gave you a half-smile. “Yeah, me too.” The ‘after’ had been very rushed, very giggly sex, and your ‘B’ necklace had kept smacking you in the chin every time you’d moved. And then Bucky and you had snuck out, slinking behind patio furniture, hands tightly clasped, when another drunk couple had stumbled in there. And he’d taken you to a fast food drive thru, and you’d sat on the hood of his car eating ice cream and looking up at the stars.
You didn’t want to get sentimental. It was a road you’d already travelled far too many times, and you didn’t want to drive the familiar path to your dead relationship again. You didn’t want to eat your ice cream anymore, either. You threw the cone in the trash, felt the stickiness between your fingers, and looked at your hands in distaste. Your break was over soon, anyway. Bucky was still staring at you, with eyes as blue and warm as the Southern sea.
“Well, this was fun and all, but I’m gonna go wash my hands before I get back to Overwatch.” You moved to sidestep around him, but he moved with you, cutting you off.
“I miss hearing you laugh.” His voice was quiet, almost drowned out by the shriek of a gull.
You bit your tongue before saying, “Well, that’s a privilege only my friends get to hear. And you’re not my friend, Bucky.”
You left him there, with ice cream dribbling down his wrist, and a bitter taste in your mouth.
You were subject to moments like this all throughout the week. There were days where you almost reached salvation in the form of not being scheduled with him, but every time you thought you were free from Bucky’s pleading stare, he’d show himself. You really thought he’d have better things to do with his summer, but if you were at the beach, then so was he, without fail.
One of the hottest days of the year had approached. Bruce had scheduled many of your for that weekend, encouraging frequent breaks and eagle eyes on the beach goers to ensure that heatstroke was at a minimum. You’d worked days like this before, the sun no joke. The ocean shimmered like a disco ball. It was almost painful to look at, especially from your vantage point on Overwatch. Your stint up high was almost over, with only a few minutes before someone switched with you. Your little handheld fan was losing the battle with the heat, only serving to blow more hot air your way.
You caught sight of a group of girls around your age, a striped blanket held between them as they squealed at the burn of the sand on their feet. They set up not far from you, before pulling off their beach coverups. Obviously, they were intent on getting their tan on. If that hadn’t been clear already, their bathing suits were little more than floss and scraps of fabric. It left nothing to the imagination, that was for sure. You idly watched them lay out, before scaling Overwatch when one of the other lifeguards came to take over.
You were totally unsurprised to see Joaquin and Sam a little further down the beach, not hiding their ogling in the slightest. Joaquin’s eyes were so huge that they looked like dinner plates. You rolled your eyes. Typical men. You approached and lightly shoved Joaquin’s arm. “How about you look at the rest of the beach too, and not just the hot girls, hmm?”
“But—
“Oh, come on. Lighten up. It’s not every day we get to see girls that hot just laid out like that.” Sam complained, gesturing at them.
You gave him a look. “Actually, it is every day. This is the fucking beach, Sam. Hot girls are kind of a dime a dozen.”
You dragged them both along with you, hands firm on their elbows. “You’re just jealous that no one’s making eyes at you.” Joaquin muttered petulantly.
It wasn’t worth commenting on, so you just sighed and shook your head, but then Sam said, “Well, that’s not true… Bucky’s been checking her out all day.”
Your head whipped to the side to stare at Sam. Today had been a day that you’d mercifully not seen much of your ex. You’d covered up today. The UV was high, and you’d worn your rash guard, not wanting to risk a sunburn. Compared to the group of girls, you might as well have been furniture. Sure, maybe Bucky was doing his standard eye-fucking, but there was no way he’d be checking you out over those girls. You weren’t blind—even you knew they all looked like they belonged on the cover of Sports Illustrated.
You arrived at the cabana and immediately sat down on the floor in front of the dinky little air conditioner, letting it blow in your face. Sam fished in the cooler for some bottles of water and tossed one to you, which you caught with a grateful look before chugging half of it. Joaquin rounded Bruce's desk to look at the schedule, before letting out a whistle. “Well, good luck, because you’re walking the shoreline with Bucky in like, ten minutes.” He said to you.
You grimaced. “I know.”
You’d looked at what the day would bring for you when you’d first arrived. Walking the perimeter wouldn’t be so bad. And if Bucky really got on your nerves, you’d just push him into the surf and keep walking.
“Are you ready to forgive him yet?” Sam asked, slouching in one of the chairs.
You glared at him over your shoulder. “Why on earth would I do that?”
“I don’t know, maybe so we don’t have to hear him pining over you or whatever. Dude’s got a heart boner for you so strong that it makes me nauseous.”
“Shut up, Sam.”
“It’s true,” Joaquin admitted with a shrug of his shoulders. “He won’t shut up about you. I know things that I should never know.”
That gave you pause. “Like what…?” You were afraid of the answer.
“Like for your one month anniversary—lame, by the way—you made him a giant skillet cookie and stuck a sparkler in it. Why do I know that? I didn’t want to know that.”
“Or,” Sam added, “that your yellow sundress with the lemons on it is what shows off your legs the best. Why do I care? It’s gross. You’re like a sister to me. I don’t wanna know that.”
“Oh my God.” You groaned, covering your face with a hand.
“Yeah, think of how we feel.”
“Well maybe you shouldn’t have gotten so buddy-buddy with him, ever think of that?” you snapped, looking between them.
“When he’s not waxing poetic about how your eyes look like the stars, he’s a cool guy. But my God, he’s so down bad for you.” Joaquin laughed at your disgusted stare. “So either forgive him, or put him out of his misery. Seriously.”
But it wasn’t up to your friends to decide whether you should forgive and forget. They weren’t the ones that had had to nurse a broken heart between shifts at your part time job and 8am lectures. You sniffed disdainfully. “Sounds like it’s gonna be a long summer for you two, then.”
You spent the remainder of your inside time sitting back against the wall, finishing your water and reapplying sunscreen to your face and your legs, listening to Sam and Joaquin talk about something or other, before you stood with a sigh. “Off to serve my sentence,” you said, stretching your arms.
“Good luck out there.” Joaquin said with a mock salute.
When you pushed open the cabana’s door, you almost screamed in surprise, your hand flying to your chest to calm your racing heart. Bucky had been standing right outside. “Jesus Christ, Bucky. Were you lurking out here like a feral raccoon the whole time?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “No, only the last two minutes. I saw you guys come inside but I didn’t want to crash the party.” His eyes flicked over your form, before he said, “Are you ready to go?”
“I guess.” You blew hair out of your face, then started walking, not waiting for him to catch up.
You basked in miraculous quiet for all of three minutes, the walk around the shoreline barely started, before you noticed that you were the only one with your head on a swivel, watching the water and the beach. Bucky had been staring at you almost the entire time.
“Ugh, god, Sam was right.”
Bucky met your eyes. “Huh?”
“He said you kept checking me out. How about you check out the beach instead? You know, seeing as it’s your job.”
“I can’t help it,” he held his hands up, giving you puppy eyes. You were pretty sure he was pouting a little, too. “I only have eyes for you.”
You scoffed, turning to look at the sea, the group of kids splashing around nearby. “Yeah, right.”
“It’s true!”
“Pretty sure you’d be singing a different tune if Natasha was here.” You sounded bitter, and you knew it. You hated it. You didn’t want to keep bringing it up, to keep bringing her up, but the whole thing was like a splinter in your palm, one that had gotten so deep under your skin that you couldn’t remove it.
There was a moment of silence between you both. You felt the sand under your feet. You were closer to the water than he was, the waves lapping at your ankles as you walked. Your footprints were washed away after every step.
“What do you want me to do,” Bucky finally said, a heavy breath escaping him, “do you want me to beg?”
And to your embarrassment, he got on his knees right there, stopping you in your tracks in front of a large family, who all turned to stare. You looked left and right, mortified as any other surrounding beach goers started turning your way as well, keen interest in their eyes.
“Oh my God, get up.” You flicked your hands, beckoning him to stand, your voice strangled.
“I’ll beg, I’m not above it. I’ll do whatever it takes. I have no shame. I know how I feel about you.” He said steadily, looking up at you like you were the sun.
Oh, no… you had a terrible feeling that he was about to begin a whole speech. “Bucky—”
“I was a total idiot. I’m gonna be kicking myself for it for the rest of my life. I was stupid and scared and everything was changing, and you were my only constant. And instead of clinging to you like I should have, I did the dumbest thing I could possibly do, and I hurt you. And I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I know forgiveness isn’t easy, but I’m asking you to consider it.”
You weren’t really listening, too focused on the heat under your skin, heat that had nothing to do with the warm weather and everything to do with being in the spotlight of a bunch of strangers.
“If you don’t get up right now, there’s no chance in hell.” You whispered harshly.
To your surprise, he stood immediately, latching on to hope. “So there’s a chance?”
“That’s not what I said.”
Bucky grabbed onto both of your hands, and you fought a shudder. It had been a long time since he’d touched you, and even something as innocent as this sent you into a tailspin. When you looked at his face, your eyes slow to move from where he’d been kneeling, you saw a horrible amount of earnestness there. You pulled your hands away from his, rattled. He didn’t usually let you see his true feelings, not when you were together. It had been pretty rare.
“Can we just… can we just finish the perimeter, please?” you asked. People finally started looking away, disappointed that there hadn’t been more of a spectacle.
“Okay. Whatever you want.” But Bucky stayed standing in front of you for a moment longer, before stepping to the side and falling in line next to you.
The rest of the walk was quiet, but his words kept echoing in your head anyway.
It didn’t take you long to notice, after that, that Bucky had started to switch shifts to see you. Even if he didn’t necessarily get to work with you directly, you had noticed names being scribbled out and switched with his. He was always working when you were, now. He was everywhere. Even for things as unnecessary as helping you down from Overwatch. You’d climbed that chair dozens of times without any need for assistance, but all of a sudden, there he was with an extended hand to help you down. You always ignored it, but he did it anyway.
Frankly, it was unnerving. You had to believe that was it, because if you thought about it further... you were worried a small piece of you would find it sweet.
You could no longer ignore him quite so easily. Not when he was being so nice. You could only be so much of a bitch, and it was getting harder and harder to do when he’d bring you water or a snack, or offer to take over so that you could have a couple of minutes inside. He was certainly doing the most to win you over. And you were just a little bit worried that you’d fold like a house of cards if he pushed some more.
Unfortunately, being around him so constantly also made you aware of things you didn’t really want to be aware of. Like the consistent sunburn between his shoulder blades. Bucky refused to wear a shirt, not on any of the days that he’d worked. He technically wasn’t required to, but you thought it was silly to risk a burn just to show of his Adonis-like figure. It was hard to look at him without remembering what it had been like to trace your fingers over his abs. But eventually, the perpetual red mark between his shoulders and up his neck had you taking pity on him.
The next time you were working together, you saw him wince when Sam clapped him on the back in greeting, before trading off. You’d just arrived yourself, your bag on your shoulder. Suddenly, it felt heavy with the weight of sunscreen. “Bucky, doesn’t that hurt?” You touched your own shoulder for emphasis.
He bit his lip, frowning. “Yeah, but I can’t reach there.”
You hesitated before biting the bullet. “Do you want me to—”
“Yes.” He answered before you could even finish the question, his eyes locked onto you.
You regretted asking. You fumbled with the lid of the sunscreen before squeezing some out onto your hand. Standing behind him like this made you think of all the times he’d given you a piggyback ride, walking you from his car to your house. You’d pepper the side of his face with kisses and he’d dig his fingers more firmly into your thighs, keeping you strapped to him like a backpack. You willed the memories from your head at the first gentle touch of your fingers to his skin. You could feel the heat of the burn and winced, imagining the pain. It only took turning into a lobster one time for you to always slather yourself in sunscreen and light layers of clothes, and you thought he’d do well to remember it too, but you said nothing as you rubbed the lotion in. Bucky let out a soft hiss of discomfort but stayed still otherwise. Even though it was overcast today, it was still worth the protection.
Once you were done, you gingerly patted his shoulder. “Okay, you’re good.”
You went to put the bottle back in your bag when he turned to face you. “Can I… return the favour?”
Your instinct was to say no, absolutely not, he was never getting his hands on you again. But the way he’d asked was so distinctly unlike him, it made you reconsider. There was no bravado, no cockiness. Just that same earnest look from the day he’d gotten on his knees, and a soft undertone of shyness that you’d never heard from him before. Usually, you got one of the other female lifeguards to help you with any spots you missed. But as you observed him now, his lack of flirtatiousness made you believe that he’d be on his best behaviour, for once. No lingering touches of heady stares. “Okay.” The answer left you on an exhale.
You had a racerback one-piece on today, meaning it was really only your shoulders on display. You’d done your arms and legs already. You turned away from him after handing him the bottle.
The first touch of his fingers on your skin had you fighting a shiver. This had been a bad idea. It was impossible for Bucky to touch you without your brain catapulting you to the past. All he was doing was rubbing sunscreen into your skin, and yet it was making you think of when you’d been hunched over textbooks for hours, making flashcards, and he’d sat behind you and massaged your shoulders, pressing kisses between your shoulders and to the side of your neck. You were glad that you weren’t looking at him right now—you were sure that your thoughts would be written all over your face. It was making you feel skittish, too self-aware of where your mind was spiraling. He carefully swept your hair to one side, his hand stroking against the back of your neck. You didn’t like how comfortable you felt, how easy it was to sink into the feeling of his hands on you.
When he was satisfied with his application, he let his hands linger on your shoulders before murmuring, voice close to your ear, “All done.” A flurry of butterflies exploded in your stomach. You didn’t want to turn around. You knew exactly how close he’d be.
“Thanks.”
And you both stood there for a moment longer, him behind you, hands still on your shoulders, and you staring down at your sand-filled sandals, suspended in a single stretch of time where he hadn’t hurt you and you hadn’t refused his apology, before someone called your name in greeting, and then it cracked like glass, and you were hastily shoving the sunscreen in your bag and striding across the beach like you were on fire.
Each time you found yourself alone with Bucky after that, it all felt compromising. He didn’t even have to necessarily be close to you, but you felt some sort of intangible spark between you that kept trying its hardest to flicker to life, despite your attempts to smother it. Keeping your distance wasn’t working, and almost all of Bucky’s earlier bravado seemed to have melted away in favour of more genuine connection. He’d stopped flirting with you like he had at first, stopped trying to take advantage of how he could fluster you. It made it worse when he’d stand right beside you, not touching, but only an inch or so away. The heat on your skin had nothing to do with the weather.
You started to wonder, as you observed him, if your time apart had been… good for him.
Not with the way he’d ended things, no, but he hadn’t had anyone in his corner, you believed, except for his best friend, Steve. You had always been the third person in that friendship, even before you’d started dating. And you had long since known that Steve had been the most studious of the three of you. It made you consider the long nights Bucky would have spent alone, without your company or Steve’s to keep him grounded. Something that Bucky had never done much of was stand alone. And whether you liked it or not, your break up would have forced him to do things by himself.
You found yourself thinking about it every time you saw him when he wasn’t aware of you. When he’d been getting off shift, but he’d stopped to help an elderly couple fold up their beach chairs and take them to the car. When he’d helped a lost kid find their mother, holding their hand and then wiping away their tears when they’d cried, accepting the mother’s profuse thankfulness with nothing more than a smile. The Bucky you’d known before wouldn’t have bothered with going out of his way to help people. He’d been totally absorbed in your bubble, your world with the population of two. Maybe he’d grown up more than you’d originally thought.
It was hard for you to reconcile the fact. The boy you’d loved, who’d been all of your firsts, who’d broken your heart, had changed. You wondered, if you were still together, if he’d have still become who he was now. If you’d love him more than you thought possible. But you’d changed, too. You weren’t so trusting, you weren’t so open to new things, like you’d been with him. When you’d been together, you’d felt utterly fearless. Bucky had always been good at entertaining your every whim. But you’d become a little more guarded in his absence. Your rose-tinted glasses weren’t so pink anymore.
Still, you weren’t quite ready to consider taking any steps towards anything more than a working relationship. You didn’t think you could be friends. It would never be just that, not to you. You’d always be thinking of before, when you’d been more. And he’d already made it clear that he wanted you back. You entertained the idea of telling him you wouldn’t take him back, that you could only be friends in the same capacity that you were friends with Sam or Joaquin. You didn’t know if he’d be able to respect your wishes or not or if he’d cross the line. All you really knew was that it would be too easy for you to fall under his spell if you gave in. That was the real reason for your continued distance. Falling back into Bucky would be as easy as wrapping yourself in an old, well-loved blanket, and snuggling so deeply that you’d fall asleep and never wake up again. And you couldn’t do that to yourself. Not now.
The bonfire happened every year, apparently. It was after hours at the beach, no swimming allowed, just the promise of a fire and food and music. It was always at the beginning of August. Almost everyone from the lifeguard team was going. You felt somewhat nervous at the prospect, like there was some sort of anticipation under your skin, but you couldn’t figure out why. After all, you’d spent most of your summer days with these people. You knew what to expect—Sam had filled you in, having attended these things with a cousin a couple of years in a row—but still, you couldn’t shake the feeling. It was just supposed to be a fun, lighthearted evening.
You’d heard through the grapevine that Bucky wouldn’t be attending. You felt a strange sense of disappointment, though you tried to convince yourself that it was actually relief. But when the night of the bonfire came, and your tires slid smoothly across the sand that had blown over the lot, you noticed that his car wasn’t there. You wiped your palms on your shorts, even though they were dry, a nervous tic that you had, and made eye contact with yourself in the rear view mirror. You were just going to have a nice evening, probably attached to Sam and Joaquin the whole night, indulging on hot dogs and popsicles and drinks, and then you’d go home. It sounded like a perfect summer memory to capture and keep like a firefly in a jar.
When you moseyed on over to the beach, you were greeted warmly by your fellow lifeguards. It was just after eight, the sun low in the sky, setting the entire beach ablaze. The last stragglers that had been out enjoying the day were departing, rolling up towels and gathering toy shovels and buckets into bags. You could just barely make out Bruce standing by Overwatch, having taken over so that the rest of you could start your night. You were handed a lemonade and hustled over to the metal fire pit. Some chairs were scattered about, as well as a wooden bench that had seen better days. One of these years, it would probably serve as kindling. The breeze was subtle, carrying the scent of the burning logs across the open air.
Everything was very relaxed, with no expectations but to have a good time. The stars slowly woke up over the course of the next hour, brightening up the darkening sky in soft blinks. Marshmallows were being roasted over the open flame, but you were content to sit on the bench listening to the idle chatter. The evening carried on lazily, most all of the lifeguards present, each of them weaving between each other. A Bluetooth speaker had been set up on a towel, music pumping steadily, a couple people swaying to the melody. The songs were all popular ones, whatever was trending for the summer. The chorus of one was broken up by the distant slam of a car door. You looked around the beach, but you didn’t think anyone had left yet. It was too soon, you thought.
And then you saw him, on the other side of the flames. First a long shadow, then more concrete, more real. Bucky, in a t-shirt and shorts, swinging the his keychain around his finger as he strolled up to the rest of you. He had a sweatshirt hanging over one arm. He was late, but he was here. You tried to tamp down the feeling spreading through your chest at the sight of him. He didn’t see you right away, sidling over to Sam and accepting a drink. They were hovering around the grill. You saw Bucky laugh, but you were too far away to hear him over the music, the roar of the flames, and the swish of the waves. He clapped Sam on the shoulder before turning to survey the rest of the beach, raising his red solo cup in greeting to whoever waved or shouted in his direction.
Then, predictably, his eyes came to rest on you. He stayed staring at you as he took a sip of his drink, and you broke the contact to stare into the fire. You weren’t surprised when he sat down beside you. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see him resting his cup against his knee. “I thought you weren’t coming,” you said, the words leaving the side of your mouth.
“I was always coming. I just had to drop off Becca at a sleepover first. And you know how long she takes to get ready. She ran back and forth from the car to the house like ten times before she was ready.”
With a pang, you silently agreed that yes, you did know how Becca got. She always forgot something. Dates with bucky had been interrupted dozens of times because she’d called him, begging him to bring her something she’d left behind. And he’d always say yes, and then look at you apologetically, and you’d only smile and kiss the tip of his nose before standing and offering a hand. Becca had sort of been like your little sister, too. You had been the one she’d always come to about boy troubles. You missed her.
“How is she?” you asked. It was easier to talk about someone other than yourselves.
“Oh, you know, same as always. Still taking her dance classes way too seriously.”
You hummed, remembering the recitals you’d attended with Bucky’s family. “She’s got the talent for it. Is she still thinking of going to Julliard?”
“‘Course. It’s on her wall. She made this, uh…” he trailed off, searching for the word, “vision board thing. I don’t know. A bunch of pictures all stuck together?”
You nodded. “Right. It’s supposed to manifest your hopes and dreams, remind you of your goals, that sort of thing.”
He snapped his fingers, pointing at you in confirmation. “Yeah, that. God, can’t believe she’s gonna be applying for universities this year.”
“I remember when she still had frizzy hair and braces,” you said, your voice wistful. If you closed your eyes, you could see her clearly. The summer she’d gotten blonde highlights and cried because she thought they were too chunky, you’d helped her dye her hair back to brown. You used to give her your old clothes, ones you’d outgrown or no longer thought suited you. She would raid your closet and call it thrifting.
“And now she’s got her learner’s permit and a part-time job.” Bucky sounded equally pensive.
It was easy to talk about Becca and the passage of time. Bucky filled you in on what she’d been up to. It was nice to hear. No matter what had happened between you and Nucky, you’d always have a soft spot for his family. “…And then her and my mom called me in tears. I was almost late for my mid-term.” he laughed, looking at you.
You smiled at the tale. It was a classic case of dramatic teenage girl versus worried mother. You tried to ignore the fact that Becca probably would have called you, if you’d been around. Bucky seemed to think of it too. He swallowed, and you watched the line of his throat. “You know, she was uh… she was really mad at me, when we broke up. She didn’t talk to me for two weeks.” You could barely hear him over the crackle of the fire, but the words seeped into your skin, regardless. “She would have picked you over me, if she could have.”
You looked away from him, crossing your arms. You didn’t quite know what to say. “Mom, too, actually.” Bucky added after a moment. “She slapped me upside the head.”
You bit your lip to keep from smiling at the idea. Wilhelmina was one of the gentlest women you knew, who only had to threaten to count to three to get her children to fall in line. The idea of her making Bucky see stars with a smack to the skull was admittedly funny. The words left you before you could consider them. “You know, that was almost the worst part for me. Not only did you break up with me, but I lost my second family because of it.”
He said your name then, and you heard the remorse laced in it, but you cut him off before he could say another word. “I wasn’t gonna be the ex-girlfriend that kept making your life hell by keeping up with your family. You might have deserved it, but any future girlfriends didn’t. But I missed them so much.” Bucky’s family had always been much more hands on than yours. They’d never been upset by your presence, they’d just wanted to know if you were staying for dinner so that they could get an extra plate out.
A cool breeze came in from the shoreline, and it made you shiver as your hair caught on it, blowing across your face. The weight of fabric pressed against your legs a moment later. “Here, take it.”
It was Bucky’s sweatshirt. I was a bad idea to accept it, especially when you were quickly approaching melancholy and introspectiveness, but another gust of wind hand you hastily pulling it over your head. The maroon fabric nearly drowned you, the sleeves hanging past your fingers. It smelled of him. His cologne had always had a little bit of a lavender smell to it. You resisted the urge to pull the hem over your nose, to breathe him in more. You could almost believe it was like old times. You’d constantly stolen his clothes. You liked them more than your own, the way they felt so lived in. The way he always felt close. You’d taken no less than three of his shirts with you when you’d gone to France the year before, away from him for spring break. It had made the time difference bearable.
You pushed your hair back behind your ears even though you knew another billow of wind would send it flying loose around your face again. You wished that someone else would come by, pull you into a more mundane conversation, save you from reliving the past. But it was just you and Bucky on that bench. Everyone else seemed oceans away. When you looked at him again, you regretted it. His eyes were dark in the night, but every time the bonfire flickered, you saw that telltale blue. His mouth was pursed in a line, his forehead creased. He turned to the side, resting his elbow along the back of the bench so that he could look at you with the full force of his gaze. “You know my mom would still love to see you, even if we’re not together, right?”
“I know,” you said softly. “But it’s too hard for me. I can’t… I can’t go into that house anymore. I can’t look at your picture on the wall. Because then I’ll remember that I was there when she took it, and all the others.” You sighed, your eyes fluttering closed for a second. “It’s all just a reminder of before. And I can’t keep looking back on it.”
His fingers touched his mouth as he considered, then nodded. “I understand.” For once, you thought that he actually did.
You both sat in the silence of what had broken you apart, before he nudged your knee with his. “Tell me about school. Straight A’s?” The subject was an abrupt, obvious change, but you grabbed it with both hands.
“Of course. like I'd ever get any less.”
He laughed. “Wish I could say the same. got a D- on a first year seminar.”
At your look of dismay, he held up his hands. “You made all my study guides for me. I tried to recreate them the way you do, but it just didn’t really work.”
“Did you colour code everything?”
“I tried. But orange and red kept getting mixed up.”
You shook your head. “Novice move.”
The smile on his face faded then, his eyes going serious. His hand paused in the air between you, before he followed through, brushing your hair back again from where it had, predictably, come loose. “I want to kiss you right now.”
It was the wrong thing to say. The tentative, easy spell of camaraderie broke, and you shied away, ignoring the sparks on your skin from where he’d touched you. You could see regret swimming in his eyes. You stood suddenly, placing your half-finished lemonade on the bench. “I should go. I wasn’t gonna stay long, anyway.”
You took a stumbling step backward when he tried to reach for you, his lips forming your name. There were no two ways about it, you were shaken. You’d thought for a brief, shining moment, that maybe you could just enjoy the evening as something close to friends. That you could just pretend, for one night. But your feelings had risen in you like an unsteady tide, threatening to spill from your mouth. You felt like you had salt water in your lungs, the way they burned. You patted at your pockets frantically, almost at your car. It was too much, it was too soon. You didn’t know what you wanted. For a second, all you’d wanted was him. You sat in your car for a full moment, both hands on the wheel, staring blankly ahead, before finally shifting into drive and backing out of your spot.
You just hoped you’d get to your room before you started to cry.
The country road ahead was dark, with only your headlights to guide the way. It was a ten minute stretch before you’d reach suburbia again. You drove with no music, only the sound of your breathing and the car rumbling over the road. Your fingers were tight on the wheel.
You supposed you should have expected him to say something like that. It was Bucky, after all. No matter how genuine he seemed, his goal had always been to get back in your pants. Maybe that was cheapening what your relationship had been, but when you had the foundation of your love crumbling because he’d wanted to chase down some tail that wasn’t you, what else were you supposed to think? You were sure it would take nothing at all to re frame every action he’d taken over the course of the summer and twist it into something that hurt.
A flash of lights caught in your rear view mirror. The road had been empty, but there was a car behind you now. If they wanted to overtake, they could. But the lights flashed again, and you could just barely make out the shape of it. it was Bucky’s car. He was following you. “Shit,” you murmured to the air freshener hanging from the mirror.
You couldn’t let him follow you all the way back to the house. Your mom was home, and she’d ask questions. Hell, she’d probably invite him in. He flashed them again, keeping pace. You slapped the indicator with your hand, letting out a resigned sigh, and pulled onto the shoulder. He copied you, pulling in neatly behind you. You parked but stayed in the car, one hand on the wheel, the other clutching at your seatbelt where it rested over your chest. You stared straight ahead, blinking away any glassiness from your eyes.
From the edge of your periphery, you saw him lean down by your window, observing you for the space of three breaths, before he knocked gently on the glass. Your hand left the wheel to push the door open, but you stayed in the car. “I'm sorry,” were the first words out of his mouth. “I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean—I'm sorry.”
You chewed your lip, eyes flicking to him and away. “And to be clear, I don’t mean that I regret the fact that I want to kiss you. I still do. I always do. But I'm sorry for saying it and making you upset. It’s the last thing I wanted to do.”
His hand gripped the top of the car’s door. You wouldn’t even have to extend your arm the entire way to touch him. Belatedly, you realized you were still wearing his sweatshirt. “Do you want this back?” you asked absently, waving the long sleeve at him.
“What? Oh, no. You can keep it. Colour suits you more, anyway.”
“Bucky,” you said on a sigh, turning your head to look at him finally, “I'm not gonna keep it. It’s not mine, and neither are you.”
“You’re wrong. I'll always be yours. Even if you don’t want me.”
The admission left you in stunned silence. He’d already said to you in so many words that he was intent on getting back together. But to hear it like that… to hear him say it with honest eyes and no expectation… Your next breath was shaky. You refused to cry.
“What can I do? I’ll do anything. Anything to make it up to you. To start making it up to you.'“
You didn’t even know how to respond. Your mind had drawn a total, perfect blank, like someone had taken an eraser to the whiteboard that was your brain, any ideas completely gone.
“Do you know why I really failed that class?” A cricket chirped between the words of the question. “Yeah, it was partly because I suck at studying without you. But it was also because I missed you, so damn much. God, I was still so gone for you—I kept a photo of you on my nightstand.”
At this, your eyes went wide, a look he caught. He gave you a grim smile. “Yeah, that’s right. It’s you on that tire swing. You know, the one at my uncle’s lake house? And the sun was in your eyes, but you looked like you were glowing. Same one I keep in my wallet.” He pulled said wallet out of his back pocket and unfolded it, sliding a creased photo from its depths. He flipped it in his fingers to face you.
It had been warm that fall. So warm, unseasonably so, that his family had hosted Thanksgiving at the lake house that year, and you’d come along. The next day had been a complete and utter downpour. You remembered because he’d forgotten to roll up the windows on his car, and the drive back had been extremely soggy. Bucky tucked it back in his wallet. “You were the last thing I saw at night, first thing I saw in the morning. I wasted hours I should have spent studying just thinking of you, trying to remember your voice. Old videos aren’t the same. I was gonna come to your house over winter break, you know. I was gonna beg you to take me back then, but then I heard from Stevie you weren’t comin’ home.”
Yes, you and your parents had flown across the country to spend Christmas with your grandparents, instead. And you’d been relieved. You hadn’t wanted to come back to town, worried you’d bump into Bucky with some new girl on his arm. “I knew that for the last three summers, you’d worked at the pool, so I was planning to just show up there. But then I heard you were being a hero at the beach instead. And the first day I saw you, it took everything I had not to just run across the sand and hold you until you forgave me, until you told me everything was okay.”
His voice broke a little on the last word. “Stop.” you whispered.
He didn’t. “I miss you so much, baby. I miss you when you’re standing right in front of me. I miss when you used to tell me everything you ate in a day. I miss when you’d tell me what dumb thing your dad said. I miss all of it. I was such an idiot. I got cold feet and I didn’t think it through. I didn’t need other girls, or time apart. I just needed you. I'm so sorry.”
You felt his sadness like you were swimming in a sea of it. You felt his regret, his anger at himself. And even though he’d hurt you more than you’d thought he ever could… he wasn’t entirely right. Time apart, whether you liked it or not, had forced you both to grow without the other, instead of tangling your roots together and staying intertwined.
The click of your seatbelt coming undone went unnoticed.
His hands hovered in the air between you again, like they had on the beach. He settled his palms on the sides of your face gingerly, like he was afraid you’d duck away. This time, you didn’t. Looking into his eyes hurt, it burned. But you wanted to ignite, you thought. You wanted to smoke and smolder and disintegrate. “Please,” he whispered, “please give me another chance.”
Each word had brought his face closer to yours. Your head was tilted up to his. He was outlined by the silvery moon, you both were. You didn’t know which one of your closed the gap, only that your hands came to rest over his. You both tasted like lemonade, but underneath it was his distinct flavour, the one that awakened your senses like an ember sparking on dry leaves. Suddenly the forest of your memories was aflame. It was a kiss both delicate and searching as well as frantic and pleading, like Bucky was pouring every single regret and wish into the same shared breath. His forehead knocked against yours. Your teeth grazed his bottom lip. The sound he made, one you thought you’d never hear again was what made you come to your senses. You pulled back, breaking the connection of your mouths, but his hands stayed on your face. His eyes stayed closed for a long moment and you were free to admire the way his lashes embraced his cheeks.
“How do I know you won’t hurt me again?”
“You don’t. but I'll spend every day proving to you that I'm worth your trust.” His eyes were still closed, like if he didn’t open them, he wouldn’t have to see what you’d decided flying across your face.
He looked at you again when your silence became the clear answer. His fingers stroked across your temples. “I have to think about it.” you said honestly.
In truth, you were unsure. You weren’t ready to trust him yet, even though your nervous system was screaming at your to dive off the board and into the deep end without a life vest. You saw his chest deflate on a long exhale, his breath fanning across your lips. “Okay. Okay, take all the time you need. I'm not going anywhere. You know that.” He seemed reluctant to let go of you. “You know that, right?”
You nodded as much as you could with his hands on your face. “I know.”
That was what made him drop his hands. “I love you.”
You didn’t say it back, and you thought you saw a flicker of pain in his eyes, before he shook his head. He knew you weren’t about to reciprocate. “I'm sorry I ruined your night.”
Your laugh was born of nervousness more than humour. “You didn’t ruin it. I really wasn’t planning to stay long. You should go back, though.”
He shook his head again. “I think I got what I came for.”
“And what’s that?”
“A foot in the door.”
He stood up straight then, hand on the door. “Drive home safe, okay? I'll see you tomorrow?” The question was full of unrestrained, naked hope.
“Yeah. I start at 12.”
He moved to close your door, but ducked down at the last moment, leaving a lingering kiss on your forehead. “See you at 12.”
Then he closed your door, and you were alone in the car, the scent of him overwhelming, the taste of him even more so. It took a long time for you to buckle your seatbelt again and start driving.
It took Bucky even longer, staring at the empty space your car had been in, before he got on the road, too.
You didn’t really know what to do with yourself in the morning. You’d been on total autopilot the night before, after you’d gotten home. You didn’t remember crawling into bed, even, but you had woken up still wearing Bucky’s sweater. The faint trace of his scent was still on it. You’d let him kiss you last night, you remembered, but you couldn’t summon the strength to be horrified. You had never, never seen him so emotional before. You couldn’t believe, after that admission, that he was just trying to bed you. He had to be serious. There was no way he wasn’t.
But that didn’t mean you were ready to pick up where you left off. You needed time to wrap your head around it. You supposed you had a month before you were back on campus. You had to decide whether you wanted him haunting the hallways of your dorm or not. You didn’t want to hold onto hope only to be crushed by ‘cold feet’ again.
You didn’t remember getting ready for your shift. You only noticed as you were doing a final check of your bag that you’d gotten dressed and brushed your hair, and your teeth as well judging by the minty taste on your tongue. Somehow, you’d blown through the morning in a total fugue state.
You blacked out on the drive, too, only realizing where you were with sudden clarity as you pulled into your usual spot. Bucky’s car was already there. He’d started before you—your shift only overlapped with his for about an hour. You were nervous to see him. What if last night had actually been a cruel dream?
You drummed your fingers on the strap of your bag where it rested over your shoulder, striding over the sand and heading to the cabana. Bruce glanced up at you from over his glasses and murmured a greeting before turning back to whatever paperwork had graced his desk, and you sat heavily on one of the rickety chairs. You fumbled with your water bottle just for something to do. Even though you were wearing a loose t-shirt over your bathing suit, you felt like the fabric was pressing against you like a second skin. You couldn’t even blame it on the humidity.
You basked in the silence for all of five minutes before slinging your bag on one of the hooks by the door and heading back outside, throwing your hair into a ponytail. It was overcast today, and you had a feeling you’d get rained on at some point, but you found yourself welcoming the possibility. Maybe you needed to get in touch with nature a little more, despite the fact that you’d been spending your days surrounded by it. You were scheduled to walk the perimeter and then cover Overwatch for a while. The beach was fairly empty today. You understood—if you’d had the choice, you would have spent the day inside. Everything was awash in shades of gray, the waves looking choppy and rough.
Bucky was almost right in front of you before you noticed him, too lost in thought, too busy trying not to think of him, because if you did, you’d remember the feeling of his hands on your face and the way he’d kissed you and the sound he’d made, along with a million other tiny things he’d done last night. But then he was there in the light of day, hardly a foot from you. You stopped, narrowly avoiding kicking up sand. “Hi,” you already sounded breathless. You hated it.
“Hey,” he said with a nod. His expression was guarded, like he was afraid you’d come to your senses and decided not to take a chance on him.
You both observed each other. “Was it busy this morning?” you asked. It was a lame, easy out.
He shook his head. “The standard early morning swimmers, but otherwise, no. I’ve actually been bored out of my mind. It gave me too much time to think.” It was a leading statement, but you decided not to pull at that thread.
“It’ll probably be more of the same for you. It’s supposed to rain around three.” he added, glancing skyward.
You mirrored him, taking in the gathering storm clouds. “It’s been a pretty dry summer.”
You knew things were awkward when you were discussing the most basic of topics. You could almost picture an elephant there on the beach, a sign on its neck saying ‘address me!’
You pointed at the shoreline. “Well, I should probably get to it. Are you taking a break?”
“Yeah.” But you both stayed standing there for another few seconds, before you ducked your head and started to move.
Right as you were about to pass him, Bucky snaked a hand around your front, settling it on your hip, and kissed the side of your head. It was a small gesture, a simple one. He let go of you and walked away right after he did it, not keeping you there, but it was enough to send your heart ricocheting around your chest like it was taking a turn in a pinball machine.
For your sake, you hoped it would suddenly get very busy on the beach, just so you would have something else to focus on.
The month continued on in a slow crawl, and all of your interactions with Bucky felt like a tentative, shy dance. Sometimes he’d leave you alone, with nothing more than a cursory hello, a searching look, and a small smile, which you’d return. Other times, he’d hover in your orbit like a little lovesick fly. When you’d gone to check the schedule at one point, he’d stood right behind you as you leaned over the desk, not saying a word. You could feel his body heat radiating in waves. You wouldn’t have had to take even a full step back to lean back against him. You imagined if you did, he would have put his arms around you.
You’d started quietly pulling him to the side with no fanfare, turning him around by the shoulders, and slathering him in sunscreen without saying anything about it, though you’d only let him return the favour once, because he’d trailed his finger down your spine and your shiver had been so obvious, you couldn’t look him in the eye after.
The well of longing that you’d boarded up with nails and plywood had flooded, and it felt like it was pushing against the barrier of your skin with insistent, needy hands, begging to be let loose and consume. You were aware of the grains of sand running down on the hourglass. Your personal benchmark of the end of August was approaching, and you felt it looming over you like a vast shadow.
You were running out of reasons to deny Bucky. He’d continued to show up every day, continued to do his job as if he’d wanted to be a lifeguard all along. He was still coming to the beach on most of the days that you worked, though he’d started to give you a little more space. You’d unblocked his number from your phone, and there were now disjointed strings of texts between you. Short things like confirming each other’s schedules, even though you both new the other’s as well as you knew your own. Messages from him wishing you sweet dreams. But the ones that had you holding your phone to your chest with heated cheeks came in the middle of the night, when Bucky would send you things like, “I can’t sleep so I’m looking at your picture,” and “I think I was dreaming of you. I couldn’t see your face, but it was you. It couldn’t be anyone else.” Sometimes he’d tell you what Becca was up to, and pass on messages from you to her as well.
You had started to entertain what the fall might look like. If you took Bucky back, would it be exactly how you’d envisioned it the year before? Would you stop by each other’s campuses, have lunch and study dates together? Would you sneak him back to your dorm, tugging him along by the strings of his hoodie? Would you be one of those couples lazily making out in the quad? Or would you keep this strange tightrope of distance between you? You could picture it just as easily, telling him you still weren’t ready. Him nodding, swallowing whatever he wanted to say, but asking if he could still visit you. You had a feeling that would be worse. You’d be so distracted by the possibility, wondering if he’d make some sort of grand gesture or if he’d keep down this new path, respecting the distance and the time and your hesitation.
With two weeks to go before you needed to get packed up and head three hours away to your school, a couple of new lifeguards were being trained. The off-season was approaching, but the beach was still bound to be busy on weekends all through September and some of October. The heat loved to linger before the cold snap came closer to Halloween. Your hours had started to scale back, or else you’d be in the company of a newbie. Training Kate was somewhat of a challenge. She was good—quick, sharp, determined—but she was also akin to a dog seeing a new toy with the way her attention would shoot elsewhere. Oftentimes, you’d have to repeat yourself or try to get her to refocus. It left little time for Bucky and you, and whatever was going on there.
It was why you were so caught off-guard by Kate asking you one day, “So is that Bucky guy your boyfriend, or what?”
You dropped the bundle of life preservers that had been looped over your arm. “What?”
She pointed at the cabana. Bucky was outside of it, leaned against the wall. He was talking to Sam, but his eyes were on you. He didn’t look away when you made eye contact, and you felt your heart flutter at his open stare. “There’s something going on there, right?” she probed, crouching to pick up some of the preservers.
You joined her, knees in the sand. “We um, we used to date, yes.” You were doing a piss-poor job of picking the red and white rings up. Your fingers suddenly felt slippery.
“Used to date? How long ago?”
“A year ago, give or take.” you said mildly, hoping she’d drop it.
But Kate latched onto it like it was a bone. “A year? Then why is he looking at you like that? Oh! Are you the one that got away?” she sang the last part with enthusiasm, eyes twinkling as she looked at you.
You bit your lip and dusted sand from one of the preservers, a useless thing to do. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose.”
“Are you getting back together? No one looks at a person like that.”
“I know.”
“No, no, I mean… no one looks at a person like that.” she said, grabbing your arm. “My grandparents have been together sixty years, and I don’t think I’ve ever even seen them look so love struck. He’s looking at you like you’re keeping his heart held hostage in a box or something.” To make matters worse, she pointed at him very obviously, then at you. It couldn’t be clearer what you were talking about if she’d started twirling a baton and carrying a neon sign.
When you meekly looked up at him, he hadn’t taken his eyes off you. And damn it, Kate was completely right. You felt stripped bare under his gaze. “Well, it’s sort of complicated,” you muttered.
“What’s so complicated? He looks like he’d get down on one knee right now. It’s actually sort of gross.” She mimed throwing up. Then she looked at you. “And besides, you look equally struck by cupid.”
“What? No I don’t!” You touched your face as if you could confirm or deny her accusation.
She grinned at you, successfully collecting all the preservers and tying them together with a section of rope—the thing you’d been trying to do when you’d dropped them. “If you say so.”
As the rest of the day went on, you couldn’t help thinking about Kate’s question. What’s so complicated? Yes, you’d been hurt beyond belief when Bucky had broken up with you. Yes, it had also sucked extra hard to know that he’d boned Natasha that same night at one of the grad parties. You’d stuck your fingers to the edges of that seeping wound many times over, feeling it bleed over your hands, feeling the pulse of your veins, the hurt pumping through them. But with some level of surprise, when you put your palms over the wound now, you were met with a scar instead. It was puckered, marred, not pretty and clean. But it had healed over, nonetheless. You were sure you’d always feel the phantom ache of the slice, but you found it wasn’t something you were at risk of bleeding out over.
Did that mean you forgave him? You imagined that if you told the whole sordid tale to a council, there’d be varying levels of both outrage and passiveness. You’d seen how girls got ridiculed for going back to men that had done them wrong. But this was the only wrong thing Bucky had done to you, if you thought about it. Any argument you’d ever had, even at your immature ages, had been smoothed over. You had never been the high school couple that broke up every other week. You’d been solid. And it shouldn’t matter what other people thought of your actions, should it? If things went poorly again, you only had yourself to blame for making the choice. You didn’t want outside influence to muddy the waters of your thoughts.
And, you had to admit that as soon as Bucky realized that trying to be suave and charming in order to win you back wouldn’t work, he’d put a stop to it. Since then, he’d been nothing but sincere. He’d prostrated himself before you. He’d tried to meet you where you were at. Maybe it was something worth considering. If you were honest with yourself, you’d never fallen out of love with him, even when you’d had your heart broken, even when you hadn’t seen him for months. As soon as you had, all those feelings came rushing back in a tsunami.
You’d just stepped inside your house, shaking sand from yourself and throwing your keys on the table. At that moment, like he’d known you’d been thinking of him, Bucky sent you a text.
There was no expectation of anything, just an offer of help. and he was right—you were a serial overpacker. It was one of your more endearing qualities, apparently, or so he’d told you once. You considered the offer, considered him. And miraculously, you came to a decision.
You had a week to go, and four shifts left. You only had two days between your last one and your return date to school. You’d asked for it to be that way—you hadn’t wanted to haunt the house with your overthinking.
You had what was considered a closing shift, though it wasn’t a very long one. Four to nine, and the promise of a gorgeous sunset. You knew that Bucky was closing alongside you. After eight o’clock, you’d be on your own with him.
You managed to keep your distance for most of it—the beach was busy that evening, and you’d had to rescue some kids that had gotten a little too far from shore and started to panic. It had all been fine, nothing except for a few tears, some shaken pride, and some furious parents, but you’d kept a sharp eye on the water regardless. You were here to do a job, after all, not moon over your ex, no matter how great he looked with no shirt and dark red shorts that brought out his tan. You’d had the luxury of other lifeguards at the beginning of the shift, but as time went on, they dropped off one by one.
Ava was the last to leave, a couple minutes after eight. You had an hour to kill. You were staying up on Overwatch and keeping an eye on the dwindling beach goers while Bucky started clean up duty, making sure all the essential gear was in its right place, checking the batteries on the walkie talkies, and making sure none of the off-limits areas had been breached. You tried your best not to watch him, but it was hard when the beach was slowly emptying.
Right at nine, the soft clearing of Bucky’s throat alerted you to his presence. He stood next to Overwatch’s stilts, a hand extended up like he was a knight waiting to assist his princess down from her horse. You accepted his hand when you were low enough, your jump down the last remaining foot of the chair noiseless. “Did you lock up yet?”
“Not yet. I wasn’t sure if you needed anything else from there.” He’d already grabbed your bag and was holding it over one shoulder.
You nodded, waiting for him to pass you your bag, but he seemed utterly content to just follow along, continuing to hold it. “I just want to double check the schedule. I think my next shift is my last one with Joaquin.”
He fell into step with you easily, trudging through the sand in the twilight. The sun was gone but the sky was still a few shades lighter than black. You could see the outline of him from the edge of your sight. At least he’d put on a shirt now. It made him just a fraction easier to deal with. He followed you into the cabana and stayed hovering beside you while you ran a finger down the schedule tacked to one of the walls. The different times of day were highlighted in varying colours. You nodded to yourself. “Yeah, last one with Torres.”
“Mine was Tuesday,” Bucky said.
In the back of your head, you’d known he was going back to school, too, but it still jolted you to be reminded that you’d be drifting apart again if you didn’t do something about it.
You flicked the lights off and ushered him from the cabana, locking it and tucking the key in the mailbox, which latched when you closed it. Bruce would be able to unlock it with the master key in the morning. The walk to the parking lot was quiet. Only yours and Bucky’s cars remained, tucked side by side together. You both stopped at the edge of the lot, and he turned to you. You could see the moths thumping their tiny bodies against the street light above him. He was limned in warm gold as he handed your bag back to you. This wouldn’t be the last time you saw him, and you knew it, but you felt rooted to the spot like your brain was trying to trace his exact shape and height and leave it as an imprint behind your eyelids.
“Well, I guess I’ll see you,” you finally said.
He’d been doing the same as you, twirling his car keys in his hand but otherwise making no move to go. He nodded. “Good night.”
You turned to go, but you only got halfway to your car before stopping. You felt like you’d stepped into a thin pocket of time where only the two of you existed. There was no sound except the crash of the waves and the moth bodies against the street light’s glass. You turned, your flip flops skidding on the asphalt. He was still standing where you’d left him, still watching you. He didn’t say a word as you walked back over, right into his proximity.
It was time to be brave and take a chance, you supposed. You let your bag slip off your shoulder and down to the crook of your arm before letting it fall in a pile by your feet. There was the barest hint of a question in Bucky’s eyes, and they flared wide when you put your hands on his shoulders, before you slid your arms around his neck. This was the closest you’d been to him in over a year, barring the mouth-to-mouth incident. This was real. You rolled up onto your toes. Your vision was overtaken by his eyes, so dark in colour but so bright in a sudden gleam of hope.
“I’m not saying we can pick up where we left off,” you started, your voice hushed, “not like we were before. I’m not even saying I want to dive in headfirst. But I’m… I’m willing to try, if you can take it slow with me.”
There it was, your heart on a platter. You didn’t know if Bucky would readily accept it or if he’d have a counteroffer. He was slow to put his hands on you, like he was afraid that if he did, you’d pop like a bubble and disappear. You thought you felt one single tremor as his fingers landed on your waist, before the full weight of his palms branded you. “I’ll take whatever you give me. Even if it’s just phone calls and texts. I can’t do another year without you in my life.” You shivered under his touch, his words, his gaze.
“Can I just ask for one thing? It’s the only time I will, I swear.”
You tilted your head to the side just a little. “What is it?”
“Please, for the love of God, can I kiss you?”
You felt like you were going to be swallowed whole by those dark blue eyes. “Yes—”
The word wasn’t even fully out before your mouth was claimed by his. Your noses bumped together. The kiss was chaste, demure, even. The first one, at least. But each time his lips parted from yours, he came back, like he wasn’t satisfied with just one taste. Like he was parched and you were a full cup of water and he couldn’t resist chugging you. It wasn’t that you’d forgotten what kissing Bucky—really kissing Bucky—was like, but all your memories seemed to pale in comparison when you got to experience the real thing in full sound and colour again. There was the telltale taste of peppermint in the brush of his tongue. The slow exploration of your mouth felt like he was kissing you for the first time ever, not like he was revisiting an old haunt. It made you feel weightless.
When you really did part, your breaths fanned over each other’s faces, your heads bent together, your foreheads touching with each exhale. “Please don’t let that be the last one before we go back to college,” he muttered. The tiniest hint of the Bucky you’d known and loved before was threaded through the words, the smallest, softest whine of disgruntlement.
You couldn’t hold back your laugh. “Maybe not, we’ll see.”
As silly as it sounded, it felt like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders. You practically floated all the way home, a dreamy smile on your face—you’d seen it when you’d gone to brush your teeth. Your phone had been lighting up almost nonstop after you’d gotten into bed. It was all texts from Bucky, ranging between sweet messages he’d apparently been dying to say all summer and had kept in his notes app, and plans for the future. Those ones were more tentative, more shy. He sent you a couple of links to restaurants between your two schools, mentioned some of the events happening on his campus. He didn’t expressly invite you, but… the implication was there, and it was clear. Now that he had the chance, he wasn’t going to make light of it.
And it continued on, all through the week. He did end up helping you pack your things, throwing your last suitcase and storage box into the trunk of his car and promising to bring them to you sometime in the first week. In between packing and plans, you’d allowed him to steal some sweet, shy kisses. You couldn’t help it. Your resolve had officially crumbled. And you didn’t think you wanted it any other way.
Your days at work were dwindling down. You were right on the finish line. Unfortunately for you, when you got there for your next shift, Sam took one look at you and groaned before fishing out his wallet and slapping twenty bucks to Joaquin’s chest. “God damn it, Torres, you won.”
You’d frowned and cocked your head, confused. Sam had gestured up and down at you. “You forgave Bucky.”
“How do you know?”
“I can just tell. If you could see you right now, you’d know. It’s really obvious.”
You looked down at your clothes, your bag, your lotioned legs. You didn’t seem any different, you thought. You felt different, but that wasn’t visible to the naked eye… was it?
But it became impossible to ignore when Bucky came sauntering across the sand. He wasn’t working, but he held two ice cream floats in his hands, and handed one to you before slinging an arm around your waist. “What’s going on?”
You had been smiling goofily at him as soon as he’d come into your eyeline. And that was when you knew that your happiness was as clear and obvious as a stain on a white shirt. You gave Sam a look. “You placed a bet?”
He snorted. “Of course I did.”
Your last day on shift was bittersweet. Bruce had thanked you for your time, and asked if you’d consider coming back the next year, which had been an easy yes. You’d had one last ice cream at the Langs’ stand, chatted with Cassie and Scott, and joked about how the former would probably look totally different in a year’s time.
Bucky swung by in your last hour. He’d already been reprimanded the previous time when he’d corralled you into the showers. You’d admittedly been playing hard to get that day, revelling in the wild look in his eyes, but you’d ultimately been mortified when he’d pinned you to the shower’s wall, a handful of your ass in his grasp, and heard a small, disapproving, “Ah-hem…” from Bruce. You wouldn’t have been surprised if he hadn’t invited you back next year.
You were still fully intending on taking it slow. You didn’t want to burn too bright, too quick. You thought being on different campuses would help with that. You were doing your very last walk of the perimeter, Bucky in tow, his hand sweaty in yours, but you kept a firm grasp on him anyway. The sun was beating down on your head mercilessly.
You came to a complete, sudden halt, hand loosening from Bucky’s, when you saw a flash of copper ahead of you. Attached to the copper was the body of a model in a black and white striped bikini, doing what could only be described as a Baywatch-eqsue run into the water.
It was Natasha.
You went cold all over, despite the heat. You hadn’t seen her since your graduation. She still looked great, as always. You were fairly sure she could wear a garbage bag and still turn every head on the beach. But then you were pulled back to reality by Bucky tugging on your hand. “Why’d you stop, love?”
You looked between him and Natasha, 50 feet away. “Natasha’s here,” you said limply, gesturing to the waves.
He frowned, a look of genuine surprise on his face. “Huh, you know, I didn’t even notice.”
It seemed crazy—even you had been ogling her. The crazier thing was, you believed him. He really had been looking at you the whole time. As you resumed your walk, his eyes flicked over to her once, as you passed. But then they slid forward, to the next swimmer, and the next, and the next… Just a cursory glance. There was nothing there, no heat, no fire. And then when he looked at you again, he smiled. “Do you want to grab dinner when you’re done? Nothing crazy, just, I don’t know, burgers? At that one place?” Then he lifted your joined hands and kissed the back of yours.
bonus author's note: a special thank you to @pinksplace, who helped me cook up a plot/trope while i was floundering; you threw me the life raft, for real. um, in the end i didn't really work with any of our spicy, rated r for radical think pieces, and it ultimately came out much more yearning-forward and with none of the planned smut... i hope you're not disappointed, the place that is pink.
I usually get the ick if bucky is mentioned to have literally touched any other woman before, but this was so beautifully written, i managed to not.
the grovelling, the cuteness, I NEED HIM!
“do you want me to beg? I’ll beg. I’m not above it” yes in fact i want you to scrape up your knees begging me to get back together and then I’ll scrape up mine by sucking your co—
you write feeling and sentiment so intensely and wholeheartedly that i genuinely feel the strings of my heart getting tugged like a guitar’s.
100000/10. another masterpiece by THE chateaubarnes
warnings: mdni, forced proximity, exes to lovers, grovelling, minor teasing, vague mentions of sex, kissing, light groping, all plot and feelings my bad, bucky is down astronomically bad, feelings realization, banter carries the first half, player!bucky turned loverboy!bucky, sam and joaquin for comedic relief, fluff, a little bit of angst with a happy ending!
author's note: this is my humble contribution to @artficlly's moodboard event! i ripped my hair out every step of the way!💞this is only about 80% proofread because it's 10pm and i'm tired; i've been working on this for three months. 😩
The air felt sticky. It wasn’t surprising, given the humidity was sky high. But that didn’t make it pleasant. Your thighs stuck together, sunscreen working somewhat like glue from your spot in your chair. The water glistened like a great, vast jewel, the sun overhead making white beams, the foam of the ocean looking like frosting with each crest. Small dots broke up the blue, in various bright colours, beach goers enjoying the gorgeous day. You could just barely make out the floaties of the little kids right on the surf, parents watchful and close by.
A few teenagers were clustered around the rock pool, poking into its depths with a long piece of driftwood. Umbrellas and towels covered the beach like litter. You’d be walking the beach soon, but right now, your post was up here on the chair. You’d only had one encounter so far wherein you’d had to scale the ladder of the chair and sprint through the sand, kicking it up behind you as it scalded your feet, ignoring the shock of cold water as you dove into a forward stroke to get to the little girl who’d gotten a bit too far into the waves. It had been an adrenaline pumping moment, even after you’d brought her back to safety.
You’d been a lifeguard at the local pool in your last year of high school, but this was a step up. Back from college, you’d known immediately how you wanted to pass the time. Though some found the heat stifling, you enjoyed it. You felt like you withered away in the winter, and you’d take all the summer air you could get until you were forced to hide away in the ivy covered buildings on your campus again.
You loved this job, actually. The other lifeguards ranged in age, but the ones you were on shift with the most, Sam and Joaquin, were your favourites. It was never a dull moment with those two, and you’d seen both of them in action. You’d thought you were fast, but you had nothing on either of them. Sam seemed to fly through the sand when he had places to be, Joaquin hot on his heels. It was very clear that they were some of the most perfect people for the job.
It wasn’t like you were always stuck on the chair, up high where only the seagulls could reach. You’d stay on your perch for a couple of hours at the most before coming down, walking a circuit on the beach, and then disappearing into the shack a little ways down. It was a rule, actually, to get into the shade every two hours. What good was a lifeguard with heatstroke? Bruce was normally in there, sitting at the shabby desk with his glasses slipping down his nose. He was always poring over the schedule and checking to see if he needed to order more life jackets, rafts, or anything else that was necessary to function as a busy, popular beach. And you’d sit in one of the rickety chairs, grab one of the paper fans on the side table, and try to remember what ‘room temperature’ felt like.
This job was a dream for you, aside from one glaring issue. It wasn’t something you could easily fix—you couldn’t just ban someone from the beach if they weren’t doing anything wrong except for to get on your last nerve.
Bucky Barnes came to the beach.
Every. Single. Day.
Bucky Barnes, your former high school sweetheart, who broke up with you at your graduation, when the plan had been to stay together. You went to sister schools, after all. It would have actually been quite easy to stay together. But he’d wanted to sow his wild oats, as it were. Starting with head cheerleader Natasha.
It shouldn’t have been a problem. You’d seen him a handful of times—you shared friends, after all—but you hadn’t had to speak to him, or look at him for longer than a minute. You didn’t want to see his stupid perfect face, to remember what it felt like when he kissed you. You would stubbornly say there was no love lost there, only a wound that had been hard to heal. You had cried all night, your first evening in your dorm. The original plan had been for him to help you move in, and for you to help him, and then to tour both of your campuses to see what buildings you would be in, where the best spots to wait for each other would be.
It would have been fine if he was just on the beach because he liked it there. Unfortunately you knew, with a sinking feeling in your gut, that that wasn’t the reason. He was simply there for your attention. The first time you’d been alerted to his presence, you’d been walking the beach, heading to the chair, or Overwatch, as you and the others liked to call it. You’d seen him from the corner of your eye, and started walking more briskly, hoping to get past without him noticing, but he fell into step with you easily.
You’d tried to put all your force into pushing him away from your side, but he just laughed, immovable, keeping your pace. “Will you just talk to me?” he finally said, though he sounded amused at your ire.
“No, fuck you. I’m working.” you said crossly, not bothering to censor your words. You weren’t about to scream and shout at him, but you were very much unimpressed by his lack of contriteness.
“Yeah, I know. I’m here because I know how good you look in a bikini.”
You cut a glare his way, annoyed beyond belief that he was looking you up and down. You were actually wearing a pretty conservative suit, the top a black band around your chest, not unlike a sports bra, the bottoms high waisted and full coverage. You’d worn skimpier for sure.
You ignored his navy blue shorts, his lack of shirt. He was already halfway to a decent tan, sunglasses perched on his head rather than over his eyes. You could see the twinkling, mischievous blue of them even when you weren’t looking directly at him. “What do you want?” you hissed, almost at your destination.
“I think we should talk.” he said simply, reiterating what he’d first claimed. But you knew that it wasn’t as easy a request as he made it sound. Because how could you talk to him while ignoring your shared history?
“I don’t think so.” If he was about to ask you to be friends with him again, something you hadn’t been since you were fifteen years old, when that that word had changed, the prefix of ‘boy’ and ‘girl’ added to the front of it, then he was in for a surprise.
“Come on,” he said, drawing out the words, arms spread wide. “You’re already doing it right now!”
“Fuck off, Bucky, I’m working.” At last, you reached Overwatch. You scaled it with ease, grimacing to yourself all the while, because you just knew he was checking out your ass.
“I’m gonna be here all summer, sweetheart.” he called up to you, cupping his hands around his mouth. You gave him a withering stare. He’d projected his voice loudly enough that a few heads turned in your direction. “Can’t avoid me that easily.”
Then he’d smiled at you, smug, like he thought he’d be able to corner you easily. Well, he was about to find out how wrong he could be.
You hadn’t expected him to actually come to the beach every day. The first two weeks, sure, you guessed. Bucky was one of the most determined people you’d ever met. But you thought that eventually, even someone as tenacious as him would get tired of it.
But no, he rolled up sometime after you, without fail, even going so far as to park in the spot next to yours when it was available.
He’d lay out on a towel, or join whoever was playing a spirited game of volleyball, or try his hand at surfing. You’d begrudgingly watched him, alert as ever, to make sure he didn’t get a lungful of saltwater and drown. You were not looking forward to the prospect of giving him mouth-to-mouth. You thought it would be much more entertaining if one of your male colleagues got that pleasure.
If you weren’t up at Overwatch, he was chasing you down, pestering you to take five minutes to talk, though you still didn’t know what exactly he wanted. You’d already complained to Sam about it at length. Nonplussed, he’d told you, “Just see what he wants, and if he’s being an asshole, I'll throw him in the sea,” to which Bruce had looked up from the desk disapprovingly, and said quietly, “I don’t want to hear about any threats to someone’s life.”
You didn’t want to talk to Bucky, though. You knew that if you did, he could easily swindle you into something in under five minutes. He was very good at that—he’d always excelled at turning your brain into mush with a few carefully persuasive words and a gleaming white smile.
You didn’t think that you had ever affected him nearly so much. If you had, he probably wouldn’t have broken up with you. Regardless, you continued to ignore him to the best of your abilities. Until…
Bruce liked to have meetings every two weeks to make sure everyone was still up to code, and to mention anything important like upcoming events that might make the beach busier, or harsh weather warnings. It was standard procedure, and everyone would trudge into the office, whether they were on shift or not, to listen in.
When you got there, canvas bag hoisted on your shoulder, you stopped short. Joaquin walked into you, not noticing you'd stopped, and let out a soft “oof!” You’d only come to a halt because standing in the middle of the office amidst a handful of the other lifeguards, was Bucky.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” you muttered.
Bucky noticed you right at that time, and his pensive, distant expression melted into a charming grin. “Guess we’re coworkers for the rest of the summer. Isn’t that great?”
“You know that I can’t change the schedule to favour any of you over the other.” Bruce sat at his desk, watching you pace back and forth. There was sand caked into the worn floorboards. “You’ll be on shift with him at one time or another.”
Your hands were fists behind your back, your head down, looking at your flip flops. “But isn’t there some way we can look at it more strategically?”
“Look, I know that you have some kind of history with this guy—”
“Does he even have his certification?” you interrupted, unable to stay neutral any longer.
At this, Bruce frowned. He was very thorough of course, so it had been a silly question to ask. But you were grasping at anything, anything that could bar him from being around you 24/7. “Of course he does. And even if he didn’t, we’re doing the CPR drills on Saturday morning, remember? He would have got it then, if not.”
You stayed silent, trying to refrain from screaming.
Bruce said your name, quiet as always, and you looked over at him. “Did this guy… did he hurt you?”
You could see the concern on his face, and you sighed, defeated. “No, not physically. Just… emotionally.”
You both sat with that for a moment. “I’m sorry about that. But there’s nothing I can do. You know that I don’t tend to double you guys up unless I have to, but I can’t guarantee that you’ll never have to work with him. I know you’re professional, so I’m not worried about you,” he paused, pushing his glasses back up, “but if he goofs around or something, I’ll get rid of him. okay?”
You didn’t allow your shoulders to slump like they so wanted to. “Okay.”
It looked like your nightmare was about to begin.
Something you hadn’t anticipated, something far worse than what you’d imagined, was that Sam and Joaquin got along with Bucky like a house on fire. It had you spitting mad. Those were your friends, your work buddies, not his. At least Joaquin had the sense to look guilty when you caught the three of them laughing it up at the end of a shift.
You stomped to your car, shaking sand from yourself, as you cut past them. You didn’t hear footsteps jogging behind you until you were on the asphalt, just a few feet from the safety you were banking on.
“Hey, wait!” you scrunched your face up at the sound of Bucky’s voice and started to fumble blindly in your bag, looking for your car keys.
He caught up with you right as you fished them out. “Hey, I just wanna talk.”
“Yeah, so I’ve heard.” you said icily.
“Well, can you just hear me out?”
“No.” You unlocked your car, throwing your bag in the backseat. Once you’d slammed the door closed, you turned to face him. He was blocking the driver’s side. “Move.”
“Not until you talk to me.”
You crossed your arms. “Move right now, or I swear, I’ll—”
“I want to get back together.”
“Are you fucking joking?” You were incensed. The fact that he had the balls to say that to you…
His expression was serious, pleading. “Look, I know I made a mistake—”
“A mistake?” you screeched. “You broke up with me right before I took grad photos with my mother!”
You’d made her banish them to a cupboard behind all the other photo albums, unable to bear the sight of your red rimmed eyes and streaky makeup.
He winced. “I know. Shitty timing on my part, I’m sorry. But I regret it. I regret all of it. I miss you. I’ve been missing you.”
“What, Natasha not giving enough in the sack?” you said sarcastically, a vicious bite.
You thought he went a shade paler as you continued on. “Yeah, I know about that. We hadn’t even been broken up 24 hours before you slept with her.” You sounded hysterical, and for good reason. You’d never had the chance to scream and shout at him before. Now seemed to be as good a time as any. You didn’t care if you drew a crowd. Hell, the entire beach should know what a piece of work he was. “I gave you almost three years of my life, Bucky, and you stepped all over it like it was dirt. Why the hell would I take you back?”
“Well, you never dated anyone after me, did you?” he asked, though he knew the answer.
You flushed, your skin hot, and it had nothing to do with the sun beating down on you. “What’s your point? I was pretty busy studying.”
“Now, you and I both know that’s not why.” he said, leaning down and getting close to your face. You could smell his breath, peppermint. You knew he kept Lifesavers in his glove compartment—it seemed that hadn’t changed.
“You haven’t dated anyone because you still love me. And I still love you. And I’m not going to stop fighting for you.”
If he’d said it to you any other time, maybe it would have cracked your exterior, exposed your gooey center. Maybe. But right now, it was only proving to you that he didn’t even get it. That just because he said he still loved you, didn’t mean you’d drop everything. Because if he’d loved you even at all, he never would have broken up with you.
“The only thing you miss is having a girl sneak into your room at night and warm your bed.” you said, disgusted.
At this, he had the audacity to look wounded. “No, I—”
“Move out of my way, or I will scream.”
The wild look in your eyes told him you were serious, and he stepped to the side. You got in the car, shoving your key so hard into the ignition you thought you might have damaged it, and then tugged your seatbelt with enough force that it got stuck. You put the car in reverse and heard tap tap tap against your window. He was still there.
You rolled it down, just a crack. “Back up or I’m gonna run you over, I swear to God, Bucky.”
“I’ll show you how sorry I am. I swear. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll be good to you for the rest of my life.”
“Go fuck yourself, Bucky.” And then you were speeding out of the lot, feeling your eyes burn with unshed tears.
That evening, as you laid in your bed, the window wide open to let in the outside air, you closed your eyes and thought of drowning Bucky in the ocean. You were sure you could lure him out there late at night, with the promise of being understanding. You could play the game, lead him out into the water under the guise of being playful. He was stronger than you, but you thought your rage might be enough to hold him under water for long enough.
You felt a small stab of peace at the idea.
Of course, you couldn’t do it—it would be just your luck that you’d land in jail because of him—but thinking about it was nice.
Instead, you would do the next best thing.
You’d make him regret ever looking in another girl’s direction. If he wanted to play, you could play. He didn’t realize what the game really was. You just had to wait for the right moment.
You had the next day off, and thank God for that. There was no way you could face Bucky so soon after what he’d said to you—you hadn’t calmed down enough yet. But you did spend the day with a couple of girlfriends at the mall. You hoped he was disappointed to pull into the lot and not see your car. After all, he might have gotten the job just to bother you, but it still meant that he had to actually work when he was there, whether or not you were scheduled.
On Saturday morning, you arrived a little after sunrise. You weren’t working that day, either, but the drill was necessary, so there you were in light, loose clothes over your bathing suit, your hair a tousled mess, prepared to spend the next couple of hours in the sand. You weren’t the first one there, but you’d beat Bucky at least, so you had a few minutes of calm before he showed up.
The drills were meant to work as refreshers and to also help team building. After all, in a real crisis, you’d all have to be synchronized with each other well enough to administer help as quickly and efficiently as possible.
As well as standard CPR on the beach, you were being tested on pulling people from the water. It was harder for someone like you, not built like Bucky or Sam, but you still always aced that part of the drill. There were also some drills based on call and response times among yourselves, and when and how a two person job should be administered. It would be a piece of cake, you thought to yourself. You were never worried about tests like these.
Your sunny mood threatened to sour when you saw Bucky, long and lean, loping across the beach to where the rest of you were gathered. Bruce and one of the older lifeguards were off to the side, speaking quietly. The drills would start in the next five minutes, but you wished it would be in the next five seconds.
Taking a deep breath, you willed yourself to be calm when Bucky entered your orbit. You knew that he’d make a beeline for you. He stood by your side, hands on his hips, as he admired the ocean. “Missed you yesterday,” he commented.
“Okay.” You were plain in your response. There was nothing to say, really, and you figured that for now, one word answers were the best you could do.
“I remember you telling me about these types of drills when you still worked at the pool. Is it gonna be similar to that?”
You pursed your lips, eyes to the sea line. You didn’t want to think about last summer, or the one before that. “In the act of saving lives? Yes.” you said drily.
“I got my certification last week,” he admitted.
you bit the inside of your cheek. So he had definitely planned this, not just taken the job up on the fly. It had been his goal all along to force you into his proximity. “Okay.” you repeated, back to the safety of a single worded answer.
“I never told you before, but I think it’s really cool that you care about this sort of stuff.”
If he thought a compliment was going to get him anywhere, he was sorely mistaken. You were saved from saying “okay,” for the third time by Bruce striding forward and clasping his hands in front of him. It had been noiseless, but it may as well have been a clap, because everyone straightened and turned in his direction. “Alright, everyone. We’re going to get started now. You know how to do this, so we’re skipping the demonstration. Just show us that you remember the right protocols, okay?”
And with that, the drills were underway.
It had started out fine. You were quick, and you knew exactly where all the extra equipment was. You knew what you should have on your person, what should be secured at Overwatch, and where any emergency backups were. You knew the best way to get them without leaving your victim. Communication was key in this sort of situation. The walkie-talkies were waterproof, but you tended to know exactly what you were dealing with before you were too far out in the water, able to call and anticipate what you’d need, or if you would require assistance, before reaching your target.
For most drills, you used dummies, though some were with your fellow lifeguards acting as helpless swimmers. So far, you’d been able to keep well away from Bucky.
That was, until it came time for the last one. It was a two person drill, and Sam, despite his newfound friendship with Bucky, was still your number one for group situations when the choice was possible. You high fived each other as you got ready on the presumed start line, right by Overwatch. The idea was that in this particular drill, two people would be needed to bring the person back to land and administer CPR or anything more serious.
The only hitch in this was that you were supposed to be saving Bucky, who had eagerly volunteered to float in the ocean and wait for his rescue. It irked you, but you pushed it to the side, ready to show that you were worth your salt. Bruce stood off to the side with a stopwatch. “Alright, ready…?”
At your determined nod, he clicked the button of the watch. “Go!”
You took off in a dead sprint. You were in only your swimwear by now, your clothes discarded in a pile along with everyone else’s. The water was still cool at this time of morning, though you’d been in and out enough that it didn't slow you down. Sam matched your pace pretty evenly, his legs longer, but you had a killer breaststroke, and got to Bucky first. He grinned at you, flicking water from his eyes. “My hero.”
“Shut up and don’t make things difficult. If you screw this for me, I’ll kill you.”
Sam got to you both right as you finished the threat, and Bucky allowed himself to be pulled to land. Once you got him down on the sand, far enough away from the lapping waves, there was a brief, hesitant pause. You were already on your knees beside him. It had been automatic. The thing was, one of you was supposed to administer CPR while the other went for the first aid kit. You and Sam hadn’t discussed who would be doing what. Inwardly, you cursed. You thought maybe somewhere in your subconscious, you were anticipating mouth-to-mouth. What you wouldn’t have given to let Sam do it instead, to leave Bucky spluttering as you held in a laugh.
But you didn’t have time to switch now, because in a real situation, that wouldn’t be an option. Sam took off towards Overwatch, and Bucky blinked up at you innocently. “Save my life, angel. What are you waiting for?”
“Shut up!” you whispered harshly. “Drowning victims usually don’t talk!” Then you started with chest compressions. You were using a bit more force than you really needed, especially since Bucky could breathe, but you didn’t care if he wheezed a little. He deserved it.
Even still, his eyes seemed to sparkle when you stopped after the count. “Do not enjoy this,” you warned, before pinching his nose and covering his mouth with yours.
You weren’t supposed to actually breathe for him, but mimicking the motions was supposed to do the trick. Why, oh why did you not get to use a dummy for this? It was because all your other compatriots were currently performing the same drill, and there were no more left, but it felt like some cruel twist of fate to you, like the universe was having a laugh at your expense.
To your utter relief, he let you do the first set without issue. Then you went back to the chest compressions, where mercifully, he stayed quiet. It was when you did the second set of mouth-to-mouth that things went south. You felt the barest twitch of his fingers against your knee. Then he was snaking his hand up your thigh and to the dip of your waist. You sucked in a breath, moving to pull away, but not before you felt his tongue breach your lips and touch the inside of your mouth.
You stared at him, stunned by his boldness. How in the world had no one noticed the obvious violation of the drill? Instead, he only smiled at you lazily, head pillowed by sand. “You taste just like I remember.”
“Oh, I’m gonna kill you,” you glowered at him, putting your hands on his chest and pressing down with all your weight. He only looked pleased.
“Hey, don’t break our dummy. He’s not one that we can replace.” Sam’s voice snapped you out of it, the first aid kit dangling from his hand.
You sat back on the sand heavily. “Work away, Wilson. I did my part.”
“And you did it so well,'“ Bucky cooed, ignoring the daggers in your eyes.
You excused yourself as soon as you could, under the plea of a bathroom break. It was a short jog down to the cabanas where the stalls were. The lighting was dingy, the four by four room made up of blue tiles. You stared at yourself in the mirror. The drills were almost done, and it was still early in the day. After this, you could go home and put Bucky out of your head, at least until tomorrow.
You still couldn't believe that he’d kind-of-sort-of kissed you. It shouldn’t have been a shock—he’d made his motivations to win you back somehow very clear—but still, you didn’t think he’d put your job at risk in order to do it. Okay, maybe that was a bit dramatic… the most Bruce would have done would be to give you a deeply disappointed stare. But even still, that wasn’t something you wanted to be on the receiving end of.
When you walked back out, the sky had started to cloud over, just a little. You thought you could smell rain on the horizon. It didn’t matter to you. You’d already been in and out of the water a dozen times. You hoped the sky would open up and pour all over Bucky after you left.
The rest of the drills were a breeze. You stayed far away from him, choosing to stick with Ava instead, though you could feel Bucky’s eyes on you. At the end of the circuit, Bruce, pleased with everyone’s efficiency, began handing out coupons. They were a dollar off for the ice cream stand, redeemable any time during the summer. You usually gave yours to Cassie, the stand owner’s daughter, but you decided to keep it this time. You deserved the treat for dealing with Bucky all morning.
You stuffed it in the pocket of your shorts before throwing your clothes on and stealing away to your car while Bucky was distracted by pats on the back from Sam and Joaquin, glad to be away from him, though you had a feeling the memory of his mouth would plague you for the rest of the day.
You settled, reluctantly, into the routine of seeing Bucky often. If you weren’t filled with bubbling annoyance, you would have felt almost like you had in high school, being in his proximity all the time. From the way he kept finding excuses to be close to you, it really did remind you of high school. Back then, when you’d been surrounded by teachers and other students, he’d had to be subtle with his affections. You remembered your hands being linked together behind your backs, or his shoe touching yours, arm to arm. Him scooting his chair closer, or pulling yours across the tile until your knee knocked into his. Back then, you’d mooned over each other like any other lovesick couple. You’d frequently been told to ‘get a room’ even when all you’d been doing was sitting on the bleachers under his arm, leaned against him, or resting back against his chest under one of the trees outside.
It was different now, of course. He’d get close to you, kicking up sand and disturbing the pecking gulls, and you’d simply move away. You had the excuse of surveying the beach, at least. Being around others didn’t really deter him either—any time you were in the middle of a laugh with Sam and Joaquin, he’d join right in, and you’d abruptly stop your giggling and become stone faced for the remainder of the interaction.
You thought you’d at least get some peace and quiet when you ventured to the ice cream stand on your break. You liked Scott—he and his daughter ran the stand all by themselves, sometimes with a volunteer on really hot, busy days. He was always very silly normally, even more so to the little kids, and there was usually a line about a mile long to get a rocket pop or ice cream sandwich. You were lucky to be the last of a rush of customers, and stuck around as you started in on your vanilla cone. You were half leaned into the window, making conversation with Cassie and enjoying the cold that you could feel blasting from the deep freeze. The stand was really more of a little hut, decorated in a Hawaiian theme. Scott always wore the most goofily patterned shirts he could find.
Your fun was short lived when you felt the heat of a warm body at your side. You felt yourself stiffen, knowing exactly who would be that bold. You barely had to turn your head to see Bucky, looking innocently at Cassie. “Is this where I redeem my coupon?” He held the paper between two fingers, and it waved lazily in the breeze.
She grinned at him and took the coupon, and it was only a matter of seconds before Bucky was mirroring you, ice cream cone in hand. “I should have known this was where you’d be hiding.”
You straightened and pulled away from the stand, offering a half-hearted wave to the Langs. “And now I need to find a new spot.”
As you spoke, you felt the slow drip of vanilla curling over your fingers. It had started an instant melt the second you’d moved away from the window. Without thinking, you licked the offending melt away, grimacing at the stickiness you knew it would leave behind, and glanced back at Bucky.
The look on his face was comical. Eyes wide, mouth slightly open, completely ignoring his own melting ice cream. His eyes had been locked in on your hand, and more specifically the trip your tongue had taken. You snorted. “Oh, grow up.”
He tried and failed to school his expression. “That was hot.”
You wrinkled your nose and resumed eating, trying for bites instead of licks—you were almost down to the cone now, and you didn’t really feel like eating vanilla soup, but his eyes tracked your every move. “You’re so gross.”
“Do you remember that night… at that John kid’s party?” Bucky asked, eyes still on your mouth.
You rolled your eyes. “Seriously—”
“When we stole wine from his dad’s cellar and hid in the pool house, and you started hiccupping so much that you couldn’t breathe, but you kept laughing and laughing and laughing?”
You did remember, though it was fuzzy. You’d drank way too much that night. It had been about two months before graduation, and the nerves had been getting the better of you for weeks. But Bucky had convinced you to go, to try and get your mind off of it. “I remember. But I remember what happened after more than I remember that part,” you admitted.
He gave you a half-smile. “Yeah, me too.” The ‘after’ had been very rushed, very giggly sex, and your ‘B’ necklace had kept smacking you in the chin every time you’d moved. And then Bucky and you had snuck out, slinking behind patio furniture, hands tightly clasped, when another drunk couple had stumbled in there. And he’d taken you to a fast food drive thru, and you’d sat on the hood of his car eating ice cream and looking up at the stars.
You didn’t want to get sentimental. It was a road you’d already travelled far too many times, and you didn’t want to drive the familiar path to your dead relationship again. You didn’t want to eat your ice cream anymore, either. You threw the cone in the trash, felt the stickiness between your fingers, and looked at your hands in distaste. Your break was over soon, anyway. Bucky was still staring at you, with eyes as blue and warm as the Southern sea.
“Well, this was fun and all, but I’m gonna go wash my hands before I get back to Overwatch.” You moved to sidestep around him, but he moved with you, cutting you off.
“I miss hearing you laugh.” His voice was quiet, almost drowned out by the shriek of a gull.
You bit your tongue before saying, “Well, that’s a privilege only my friends get to hear. And you’re not my friend, Bucky.”
You left him there, with ice cream dribbling down his wrist, and a bitter taste in your mouth.
You were subject to moments like this all throughout the week. There were days where you almost reached salvation in the form of not being scheduled with him, but every time you thought you were free from Bucky’s pleading stare, he’d show himself. You really thought he’d have better things to do with his summer, but if you were at the beach, then so was he, without fail.
One of the hottest days of the year had approached. Bruce had scheduled many of your for that weekend, encouraging frequent breaks and eagle eyes on the beach goers to ensure that heatstroke was at a minimum. You’d worked days like this before, the sun no joke. The ocean shimmered like a disco ball. It was almost painful to look at, especially from your vantage point on Overwatch. Your stint up high was almost over, with only a few minutes before someone switched with you. Your little handheld fan was losing the battle with the heat, only serving to blow more hot air your way.
You caught sight of a group of girls around your age, a striped blanket held between them as they squealed at the burn of the sand on their feet. They set up not far from you, before pulling off their beach coverups. Obviously, they were intent on getting their tan on. If that hadn’t been clear already, their bathing suits were little more than floss and scraps of fabric. It left nothing to the imagination, that was for sure. You idly watched them lay out, before scaling Overwatch when one of the other lifeguards came to take over.
You were totally unsurprised to see Joaquin and Sam a little further down the beach, not hiding their ogling in the slightest. Joaquin’s eyes were so huge that they looked like dinner plates. You rolled your eyes. Typical men. You approached and lightly shoved Joaquin’s arm. “How about you look at the rest of the beach too, and not just the hot girls, hmm?”
“But—
“Oh, come on. Lighten up. It’s not every day we get to see girls that hot just laid out like that.” Sam complained, gesturing at them.
You gave him a look. “Actually, it is every day. This is the fucking beach, Sam. Hot girls are kind of a dime a dozen.”
You dragged them both along with you, hands firm on their elbows. “You’re just jealous that no one’s making eyes at you.” Joaquin muttered petulantly.
It wasn’t worth commenting on, so you just sighed and shook your head, but then Sam said, “Well, that’s not true… Bucky’s been checking her out all day.”
Your head whipped to the side to stare at Sam. Today had been a day that you’d mercifully not seen much of your ex. You’d covered up today. The UV was high, and you’d worn your rash guard, not wanting to risk a sunburn. Compared to the group of girls, you might as well have been furniture. Sure, maybe Bucky was doing his standard eye-fucking, but there was no way he’d be checking you out over those girls. You weren’t blind—even you knew they all looked like they belonged on the cover of Sports Illustrated.
You arrived at the cabana and immediately sat down on the floor in front of the dinky little air conditioner, letting it blow in your face. Sam fished in the cooler for some bottles of water and tossed one to you, which you caught with a grateful look before chugging half of it. Joaquin rounded Bruce's desk to look at the schedule, before letting out a whistle. “Well, good luck, because you’re walking the shoreline with Bucky in like, ten minutes.” He said to you.
You grimaced. “I know.”
You’d looked at what the day would bring for you when you’d first arrived. Walking the perimeter wouldn’t be so bad. And if Bucky really got on your nerves, you’d just push him into the surf and keep walking.
“Are you ready to forgive him yet?” Sam asked, slouching in one of the chairs.
You glared at him over your shoulder. “Why on earth would I do that?”
“I don’t know, maybe so we don’t have to hear him pining over you or whatever. Dude’s got a heart boner for you so strong that it makes me nauseous.”
“Shut up, Sam.”
“It’s true,” Joaquin admitted with a shrug of his shoulders. “He won’t shut up about you. I know things that I should never know.”
That gave you pause. “Like what…?” You were afraid of the answer.
“Like for your one month anniversary—lame, by the way—you made him a giant skillet cookie and stuck a sparkler in it. Why do I know that? I didn’t want to know that.”
“Or,” Sam added, “that your yellow sundress with the lemons on it is what shows off your legs the best. Why do I care? It’s gross. You’re like a sister to me. I don’t wanna know that.”
“Oh my God.” You groaned, covering your face with a hand.
“Yeah, think of how we feel.”
“Well maybe you shouldn’t have gotten so buddy-buddy with him, ever think of that?” you snapped, looking between them.
“When he’s not waxing poetic about how your eyes look like the stars, he’s a cool guy. But my God, he’s so down bad for you.” Joaquin laughed at your disgusted stare. “So either forgive him, or put him out of his misery. Seriously.”
But it wasn’t up to your friends to decide whether you should forgive and forget. They weren’t the ones that had had to nurse a broken heart between shifts at your part time job and 8am lectures. You sniffed disdainfully. “Sounds like it’s gonna be a long summer for you two, then.”
You spent the remainder of your inside time sitting back against the wall, finishing your water and reapplying sunscreen to your face and your legs, listening to Sam and Joaquin talk about something or other, before you stood with a sigh. “Off to serve my sentence,” you said, stretching your arms.
“Good luck out there.” Joaquin said with a mock salute.
When you pushed open the cabana’s door, you almost screamed in surprise, your hand flying to your chest to calm your racing heart. Bucky had been standing right outside. “Jesus Christ, Bucky. Were you lurking out here like a feral raccoon the whole time?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “No, only the last two minutes. I saw you guys come inside but I didn’t want to crash the party.” His eyes flicked over your form, before he said, “Are you ready to go?”
“I guess.” You blew hair out of your face, then started walking, not waiting for him to catch up.
You basked in miraculous quiet for all of three minutes, the walk around the shoreline barely started, before you noticed that you were the only one with your head on a swivel, watching the water and the beach. Bucky had been staring at you almost the entire time.
“Ugh, god, Sam was right.”
Bucky met your eyes. “Huh?”
“He said you kept checking me out. How about you check out the beach instead? You know, seeing as it’s your job.”
“I can’t help it,” he held his hands up, giving you puppy eyes. You were pretty sure he was pouting a little, too. “I only have eyes for you.”
You scoffed, turning to look at the sea, the group of kids splashing around nearby. “Yeah, right.”
“It’s true!”
“Pretty sure you’d be singing a different tune if Natasha was here.” You sounded bitter, and you knew it. You hated it. You didn’t want to keep bringing it up, to keep bringing her up, but the whole thing was like a splinter in your palm, one that had gotten so deep under your skin that you couldn’t remove it.
There was a moment of silence between you both. You felt the sand under your feet. You were closer to the water than he was, the waves lapping at your ankles as you walked. Your footprints were washed away after every step.
“What do you want me to do,” Bucky finally said, a heavy breath escaping him, “do you want me to beg?”
And to your embarrassment, he got on his knees right there, stopping you in your tracks in front of a large family, who all turned to stare. You looked left and right, mortified as any other surrounding beach goers started turning your way as well, keen interest in their eyes.
“Oh my God, get up.” You flicked your hands, beckoning him to stand, your voice strangled.
“I’ll beg, I’m not above it. I’ll do whatever it takes. I have no shame. I know how I feel about you.” He said steadily, looking up at you like you were the sun.
Oh, no… you had a terrible feeling that he was about to begin a whole speech. “Bucky—”
“I was a total idiot. I’m gonna be kicking myself for it for the rest of my life. I was stupid and scared and everything was changing, and you were my only constant. And instead of clinging to you like I should have, I did the dumbest thing I could possibly do, and I hurt you. And I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I know forgiveness isn’t easy, but I’m asking you to consider it.”
You weren’t really listening, too focused on the heat under your skin, heat that had nothing to do with the warm weather and everything to do with being in the spotlight of a bunch of strangers.
“If you don’t get up right now, there’s no chance in hell.” You whispered harshly.
To your surprise, he stood immediately, latching on to hope. “So there’s a chance?”
“That’s not what I said.”
Bucky grabbed onto both of your hands, and you fought a shudder. It had been a long time since he’d touched you, and even something as innocent as this sent you into a tailspin. When you looked at his face, your eyes slow to move from where he’d been kneeling, you saw a horrible amount of earnestness there. You pulled your hands away from his, rattled. He didn’t usually let you see his true feelings, not when you were together. It had been pretty rare.
“Can we just… can we just finish the perimeter, please?” you asked. People finally started looking away, disappointed that there hadn’t been more of a spectacle.
“Okay. Whatever you want.” But Bucky stayed standing in front of you for a moment longer, before stepping to the side and falling in line next to you.
The rest of the walk was quiet, but his words kept echoing in your head anyway.
It didn’t take you long to notice, after that, that Bucky had started to switch shifts to see you. Even if he didn’t necessarily get to work with you directly, you had noticed names being scribbled out and switched with his. He was always working when you were, now. He was everywhere. Even for things as unnecessary as helping you down from Overwatch. You’d climbed that chair dozens of times without any need for assistance, but all of a sudden, there he was with an extended hand to help you down. You always ignored it, but he did it anyway.
Frankly, it was unnerving. You had to believe that was it, because if you thought about it further... you were worried a small piece of you would find it sweet.
You could no longer ignore him quite so easily. Not when he was being so nice. You could only be so much of a bitch, and it was getting harder and harder to do when he’d bring you water or a snack, or offer to take over so that you could have a couple of minutes inside. He was certainly doing the most to win you over. And you were just a little bit worried that you’d fold like a house of cards if he pushed some more.
Unfortunately, being around him so constantly also made you aware of things you didn’t really want to be aware of. Like the consistent sunburn between his shoulder blades. Bucky refused to wear a shirt, not on any of the days that he’d worked. He technically wasn’t required to, but you thought it was silly to risk a burn just to show of his Adonis-like figure. It was hard to look at him without remembering what it had been like to trace your fingers over his abs. But eventually, the perpetual red mark between his shoulders and up his neck had you taking pity on him.
The next time you were working together, you saw him wince when Sam clapped him on the back in greeting, before trading off. You’d just arrived yourself, your bag on your shoulder. Suddenly, it felt heavy with the weight of sunscreen. “Bucky, doesn’t that hurt?” You touched your own shoulder for emphasis.
He bit his lip, frowning. “Yeah, but I can’t reach there.”
You hesitated before biting the bullet. “Do you want me to—”
“Yes.” He answered before you could even finish the question, his eyes locked onto you.
You regretted asking. You fumbled with the lid of the sunscreen before squeezing some out onto your hand. Standing behind him like this made you think of all the times he’d given you a piggyback ride, walking you from his car to your house. You’d pepper the side of his face with kisses and he’d dig his fingers more firmly into your thighs, keeping you strapped to him like a backpack. You willed the memories from your head at the first gentle touch of your fingers to his skin. You could feel the heat of the burn and winced, imagining the pain. It only took turning into a lobster one time for you to always slather yourself in sunscreen and light layers of clothes, and you thought he’d do well to remember it too, but you said nothing as you rubbed the lotion in. Bucky let out a soft hiss of discomfort but stayed still otherwise. Even though it was overcast today, it was still worth the protection.
Once you were done, you gingerly patted his shoulder. “Okay, you’re good.”
You went to put the bottle back in your bag when he turned to face you. “Can I… return the favour?”
Your instinct was to say no, absolutely not, he was never getting his hands on you again. But the way he’d asked was so distinctly unlike him, it made you reconsider. There was no bravado, no cockiness. Just that same earnest look from the day he’d gotten on his knees, and a soft undertone of shyness that you’d never heard from him before. Usually, you got one of the other female lifeguards to help you with any spots you missed. But as you observed him now, his lack of flirtatiousness made you believe that he’d be on his best behaviour, for once. No lingering touches of heady stares. “Okay.” The answer left you on an exhale.
You had a racerback one-piece on today, meaning it was really only your shoulders on display. You’d done your arms and legs already. You turned away from him after handing him the bottle.
The first touch of his fingers on your skin had you fighting a shiver. This had been a bad idea. It was impossible for Bucky to touch you without your brain catapulting you to the past. All he was doing was rubbing sunscreen into your skin, and yet it was making you think of when you’d been hunched over textbooks for hours, making flashcards, and he’d sat behind you and massaged your shoulders, pressing kisses between your shoulders and to the side of your neck. You were glad that you weren’t looking at him right now—you were sure that your thoughts would be written all over your face. It was making you feel skittish, too self-aware of where your mind was spiraling. He carefully swept your hair to one side, his hand stroking against the back of your neck. You didn’t like how comfortable you felt, how easy it was to sink into the feeling of his hands on you.
When he was satisfied with his application, he let his hands linger on your shoulders before murmuring, voice close to your ear, “All done.” A flurry of butterflies exploded in your stomach. You didn’t want to turn around. You knew exactly how close he’d be.
“Thanks.”
And you both stood there for a moment longer, him behind you, hands still on your shoulders, and you staring down at your sand-filled sandals, suspended in a single stretch of time where he hadn’t hurt you and you hadn’t refused his apology, before someone called your name in greeting, and then it cracked like glass, and you were hastily shoving the sunscreen in your bag and striding across the beach like you were on fire.
Each time you found yourself alone with Bucky after that, it all felt compromising. He didn’t even have to necessarily be close to you, but you felt some sort of intangible spark between you that kept trying its hardest to flicker to life, despite your attempts to smother it. Keeping your distance wasn’t working, and almost all of Bucky’s earlier bravado seemed to have melted away in favour of more genuine connection. He’d stopped flirting with you like he had at first, stopped trying to take advantage of how he could fluster you. It made it worse when he’d stand right beside you, not touching, but only an inch or so away. The heat on your skin had nothing to do with the weather.
You started to wonder, as you observed him, if your time apart had been… good for him.
Not with the way he’d ended things, no, but he hadn’t had anyone in his corner, you believed, except for his best friend, Steve. You had always been the third person in that friendship, even before you’d started dating. And you had long since known that Steve had been the most studious of the three of you. It made you consider the long nights Bucky would have spent alone, without your company or Steve’s to keep him grounded. Something that Bucky had never done much of was stand alone. And whether you liked it or not, your break up would have forced him to do things by himself.
You found yourself thinking about it every time you saw him when he wasn’t aware of you. When he’d been getting off shift, but he’d stopped to help an elderly couple fold up their beach chairs and take them to the car. When he’d helped a lost kid find their mother, holding their hand and then wiping away their tears when they’d cried, accepting the mother’s profuse thankfulness with nothing more than a smile. The Bucky you’d known before wouldn’t have bothered with going out of his way to help people. He’d been totally absorbed in your bubble, your world with the population of two. Maybe he’d grown up more than you’d originally thought.
It was hard for you to reconcile the fact. The boy you’d loved, who’d been all of your firsts, who’d broken your heart, had changed. You wondered, if you were still together, if he’d have still become who he was now. If you’d love him more than you thought possible. But you’d changed, too. You weren’t so trusting, you weren’t so open to new things, like you’d been with him. When you’d been together, you’d felt utterly fearless. Bucky had always been good at entertaining your every whim. But you’d become a little more guarded in his absence. Your rose-tinted glasses weren’t so pink anymore.
Still, you weren’t quite ready to consider taking any steps towards anything more than a working relationship. You didn’t think you could be friends. It would never be just that, not to you. You’d always be thinking of before, when you’d been more. And he’d already made it clear that he wanted you back. You entertained the idea of telling him you wouldn’t take him back, that you could only be friends in the same capacity that you were friends with Sam or Joaquin. You didn’t know if he’d be able to respect your wishes or not or if he’d cross the line. All you really knew was that it would be too easy for you to fall under his spell if you gave in. That was the real reason for your continued distance. Falling back into Bucky would be as easy as wrapping yourself in an old, well-loved blanket, and snuggling so deeply that you’d fall asleep and never wake up again. And you couldn’t do that to yourself. Not now.
The bonfire happened every year, apparently. It was after hours at the beach, no swimming allowed, just the promise of a fire and food and music. It was always at the beginning of August. Almost everyone from the lifeguard team was going. You felt somewhat nervous at the prospect, like there was some sort of anticipation under your skin, but you couldn’t figure out why. After all, you’d spent most of your summer days with these people. You knew what to expect—Sam had filled you in, having attended these things with a cousin a couple of years in a row—but still, you couldn’t shake the feeling. It was just supposed to be a fun, lighthearted evening.
You’d heard through the grapevine that Bucky wouldn’t be attending. You felt a strange sense of disappointment, though you tried to convince yourself that it was actually relief. But when the night of the bonfire came, and your tires slid smoothly across the sand that had blown over the lot, you noticed that his car wasn’t there. You wiped your palms on your shorts, even though they were dry, a nervous tic that you had, and made eye contact with yourself in the rear view mirror. You were just going to have a nice evening, probably attached to Sam and Joaquin the whole night, indulging on hot dogs and popsicles and drinks, and then you’d go home. It sounded like a perfect summer memory to capture and keep like a firefly in a jar.
When you moseyed on over to the beach, you were greeted warmly by your fellow lifeguards. It was just after eight, the sun low in the sky, setting the entire beach ablaze. The last stragglers that had been out enjoying the day were departing, rolling up towels and gathering toy shovels and buckets into bags. You could just barely make out Bruce standing by Overwatch, having taken over so that the rest of you could start your night. You were handed a lemonade and hustled over to the metal fire pit. Some chairs were scattered about, as well as a wooden bench that had seen better days. One of these years, it would probably serve as kindling. The breeze was subtle, carrying the scent of the burning logs across the open air.
Everything was very relaxed, with no expectations but to have a good time. The stars slowly woke up over the course of the next hour, brightening up the darkening sky in soft blinks. Marshmallows were being roasted over the open flame, but you were content to sit on the bench listening to the idle chatter. The evening carried on lazily, most all of the lifeguards present, each of them weaving between each other. A Bluetooth speaker had been set up on a towel, music pumping steadily, a couple people swaying to the melody. The songs were all popular ones, whatever was trending for the summer. The chorus of one was broken up by the distant slam of a car door. You looked around the beach, but you didn’t think anyone had left yet. It was too soon, you thought.
And then you saw him, on the other side of the flames. First a long shadow, then more concrete, more real. Bucky, in a t-shirt and shorts, swinging the his keychain around his finger as he strolled up to the rest of you. He had a sweatshirt hanging over one arm. He was late, but he was here. You tried to tamp down the feeling spreading through your chest at the sight of him. He didn’t see you right away, sidling over to Sam and accepting a drink. They were hovering around the grill. You saw Bucky laugh, but you were too far away to hear him over the music, the roar of the flames, and the swish of the waves. He clapped Sam on the shoulder before turning to survey the rest of the beach, raising his red solo cup in greeting to whoever waved or shouted in his direction.
Then, predictably, his eyes came to rest on you. He stayed staring at you as he took a sip of his drink, and you broke the contact to stare into the fire. You weren’t surprised when he sat down beside you. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see him resting his cup against his knee. “I thought you weren’t coming,” you said, the words leaving the side of your mouth.
“I was always coming. I just had to drop off Becca at a sleepover first. And you know how long she takes to get ready. She ran back and forth from the car to the house like ten times before she was ready.”
With a pang, you silently agreed that yes, you did know how Becca got. She always forgot something. Dates with bucky had been interrupted dozens of times because she’d called him, begging him to bring her something she’d left behind. And he’d always say yes, and then look at you apologetically, and you’d only smile and kiss the tip of his nose before standing and offering a hand. Becca had sort of been like your little sister, too. You had been the one she’d always come to about boy troubles. You missed her.
“How is she?” you asked. It was easier to talk about someone other than yourselves.
“Oh, you know, same as always. Still taking her dance classes way too seriously.”
You hummed, remembering the recitals you’d attended with Bucky’s family. “She’s got the talent for it. Is she still thinking of going to Julliard?”
“‘Course. It’s on her wall. She made this, uh…” he trailed off, searching for the word, “vision board thing. I don’t know. A bunch of pictures all stuck together?”
You nodded. “Right. It’s supposed to manifest your hopes and dreams, remind you of your goals, that sort of thing.”
He snapped his fingers, pointing at you in confirmation. “Yeah, that. God, can’t believe she’s gonna be applying for universities this year.”
“I remember when she still had frizzy hair and braces,” you said, your voice wistful. If you closed your eyes, you could see her clearly. The summer she’d gotten blonde highlights and cried because she thought they were too chunky, you’d helped her dye her hair back to brown. You used to give her your old clothes, ones you’d outgrown or no longer thought suited you. She would raid your closet and call it thrifting.
“And now she’s got her learner’s permit and a part-time job.” Bucky sounded equally pensive.
It was easy to talk about Becca and the passage of time. Bucky filled you in on what she’d been up to. It was nice to hear. No matter what had happened between you and Nucky, you’d always have a soft spot for his family. “…And then her and my mom called me in tears. I was almost late for my mid-term.” he laughed, looking at you.
You smiled at the tale. It was a classic case of dramatic teenage girl versus worried mother. You tried to ignore the fact that Becca probably would have called you, if you’d been around. Bucky seemed to think of it too. He swallowed, and you watched the line of his throat. “You know, she was uh… she was really mad at me, when we broke up. She didn’t talk to me for two weeks.” You could barely hear him over the crackle of the fire, but the words seeped into your skin, regardless. “She would have picked you over me, if she could have.”
You looked away from him, crossing your arms. You didn’t quite know what to say. “Mom, too, actually.” Bucky added after a moment. “She slapped me upside the head.”
You bit your lip to keep from smiling at the idea. Wilhelmina was one of the gentlest women you knew, who only had to threaten to count to three to get her children to fall in line. The idea of her making Bucky see stars with a smack to the skull was admittedly funny. The words left you before you could consider them. “You know, that was almost the worst part for me. Not only did you break up with me, but I lost my second family because of it.”
He said your name then, and you heard the remorse laced in it, but you cut him off before he could say another word. “I wasn’t gonna be the ex-girlfriend that kept making your life hell by keeping up with your family. You might have deserved it, but any future girlfriends didn’t. But I missed them so much.” Bucky’s family had always been much more hands on than yours. They’d never been upset by your presence, they’d just wanted to know if you were staying for dinner so that they could get an extra plate out.
A cool breeze came in from the shoreline, and it made you shiver as your hair caught on it, blowing across your face. The weight of fabric pressed against your legs a moment later. “Here, take it.”
It was Bucky’s sweatshirt. I was a bad idea to accept it, especially when you were quickly approaching melancholy and introspectiveness, but another gust of wind hand you hastily pulling it over your head. The maroon fabric nearly drowned you, the sleeves hanging past your fingers. It smelled of him. His cologne had always had a little bit of a lavender smell to it. You resisted the urge to pull the hem over your nose, to breathe him in more. You could almost believe it was like old times. You’d constantly stolen his clothes. You liked them more than your own, the way they felt so lived in. The way he always felt close. You’d taken no less than three of his shirts with you when you’d gone to France the year before, away from him for spring break. It had made the time difference bearable.
You pushed your hair back behind your ears even though you knew another billow of wind would send it flying loose around your face again. You wished that someone else would come by, pull you into a more mundane conversation, save you from reliving the past. But it was just you and Bucky on that bench. Everyone else seemed oceans away. When you looked at him again, you regretted it. His eyes were dark in the night, but every time the bonfire flickered, you saw that telltale blue. His mouth was pursed in a line, his forehead creased. He turned to the side, resting his elbow along the back of the bench so that he could look at you with the full force of his gaze. “You know my mom would still love to see you, even if we’re not together, right?”
“I know,” you said softly. “But it’s too hard for me. I can’t… I can’t go into that house anymore. I can’t look at your picture on the wall. Because then I’ll remember that I was there when she took it, and all the others.” You sighed, your eyes fluttering closed for a second. “It’s all just a reminder of before. And I can’t keep looking back on it.”
His fingers touched his mouth as he considered, then nodded. “I understand.” For once, you thought that he actually did.
You both sat in the silence of what had broken you apart, before he nudged your knee with his. “Tell me about school. Straight A’s?” The subject was an abrupt, obvious change, but you grabbed it with both hands.
“Of course. like I'd ever get any less.”
He laughed. “Wish I could say the same. got a D- on a first year seminar.”
At your look of dismay, he held up his hands. “You made all my study guides for me. I tried to recreate them the way you do, but it just didn’t really work.”
“Did you colour code everything?”
“I tried. But orange and red kept getting mixed up.”
You shook your head. “Novice move.”
The smile on his face faded then, his eyes going serious. His hand paused in the air between you, before he followed through, brushing your hair back again from where it had, predictably, come loose. “I want to kiss you right now.”
It was the wrong thing to say. The tentative, easy spell of camaraderie broke, and you shied away, ignoring the sparks on your skin from where he’d touched you. You could see regret swimming in his eyes. You stood suddenly, placing your half-finished lemonade on the bench. “I should go. I wasn’t gonna stay long, anyway.”
You took a stumbling step backward when he tried to reach for you, his lips forming your name. There were no two ways about it, you were shaken. You’d thought for a brief, shining moment, that maybe you could just enjoy the evening as something close to friends. That you could just pretend, for one night. But your feelings had risen in you like an unsteady tide, threatening to spill from your mouth. You felt like you had salt water in your lungs, the way they burned. You patted at your pockets frantically, almost at your car. It was too much, it was too soon. You didn’t know what you wanted. For a second, all you’d wanted was him. You sat in your car for a full moment, both hands on the wheel, staring blankly ahead, before finally shifting into drive and backing out of your spot.
You just hoped you’d get to your room before you started to cry.
The country road ahead was dark, with only your headlights to guide the way. It was a ten minute stretch before you’d reach suburbia again. You drove with no music, only the sound of your breathing and the car rumbling over the road. Your fingers were tight on the wheel.
You supposed you should have expected him to say something like that. It was Bucky, after all. No matter how genuine he seemed, his goal had always been to get back in your pants. Maybe that was cheapening what your relationship had been, but when you had the foundation of your love crumbling because he’d wanted to chase down some tail that wasn’t you, what else were you supposed to think? You were sure it would take nothing at all to re frame every action he’d taken over the course of the summer and twist it into something that hurt.
A flash of lights caught in your rear view mirror. The road had been empty, but there was a car behind you now. If they wanted to overtake, they could. But the lights flashed again, and you could just barely make out the shape of it. it was Bucky’s car. He was following you. “Shit,” you murmured to the air freshener hanging from the mirror.
You couldn’t let him follow you all the way back to the house. Your mom was home, and she’d ask questions. Hell, she’d probably invite him in. He flashed them again, keeping pace. You slapped the indicator with your hand, letting out a resigned sigh, and pulled onto the shoulder. He copied you, pulling in neatly behind you. You parked but stayed in the car, one hand on the wheel, the other clutching at your seatbelt where it rested over your chest. You stared straight ahead, blinking away any glassiness from your eyes.
From the edge of your periphery, you saw him lean down by your window, observing you for the space of three breaths, before he knocked gently on the glass. Your hand left the wheel to push the door open, but you stayed in the car. “I'm sorry,” were the first words out of his mouth. “I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean—I'm sorry.”
You chewed your lip, eyes flicking to him and away. “And to be clear, I don’t mean that I regret the fact that I want to kiss you. I still do. I always do. But I'm sorry for saying it and making you upset. It’s the last thing I wanted to do.”
His hand gripped the top of the car’s door. You wouldn’t even have to extend your arm the entire way to touch him. Belatedly, you realized you were still wearing his sweatshirt. “Do you want this back?” you asked absently, waving the long sleeve at him.
“What? Oh, no. You can keep it. Colour suits you more, anyway.”
“Bucky,” you said on a sigh, turning your head to look at him finally, “I'm not gonna keep it. It’s not mine, and neither are you.”
“You’re wrong. I'll always be yours. Even if you don’t want me.”
The admission left you in stunned silence. He’d already said to you in so many words that he was intent on getting back together. But to hear it like that… to hear him say it with honest eyes and no expectation… Your next breath was shaky. You refused to cry.
“What can I do? I’ll do anything. Anything to make it up to you. To start making it up to you.'“
You didn’t even know how to respond. Your mind had drawn a total, perfect blank, like someone had taken an eraser to the whiteboard that was your brain, any ideas completely gone.
“Do you know why I really failed that class?” A cricket chirped between the words of the question. “Yeah, it was partly because I suck at studying without you. But it was also because I missed you, so damn much. God, I was still so gone for you—I kept a photo of you on my nightstand.”
At this, your eyes went wide, a look he caught. He gave you a grim smile. “Yeah, that’s right. It’s you on that tire swing. You know, the one at my uncle’s lake house? And the sun was in your eyes, but you looked like you were glowing. Same one I keep in my wallet.” He pulled said wallet out of his back pocket and unfolded it, sliding a creased photo from its depths. He flipped it in his fingers to face you.
It had been warm that fall. So warm, unseasonably so, that his family had hosted Thanksgiving at the lake house that year, and you’d come along. The next day had been a complete and utter downpour. You remembered because he’d forgotten to roll up the windows on his car, and the drive back had been extremely soggy. Bucky tucked it back in his wallet. “You were the last thing I saw at night, first thing I saw in the morning. I wasted hours I should have spent studying just thinking of you, trying to remember your voice. Old videos aren’t the same. I was gonna come to your house over winter break, you know. I was gonna beg you to take me back then, but then I heard from Stevie you weren’t comin’ home.”
Yes, you and your parents had flown across the country to spend Christmas with your grandparents, instead. And you’d been relieved. You hadn’t wanted to come back to town, worried you’d bump into Bucky with some new girl on his arm. “I knew that for the last three summers, you’d worked at the pool, so I was planning to just show up there. But then I heard you were being a hero at the beach instead. And the first day I saw you, it took everything I had not to just run across the sand and hold you until you forgave me, until you told me everything was okay.”
His voice broke a little on the last word. “Stop.” you whispered.
He didn’t. “I miss you so much, baby. I miss you when you’re standing right in front of me. I miss when you used to tell me everything you ate in a day. I miss when you’d tell me what dumb thing your dad said. I miss all of it. I was such an idiot. I got cold feet and I didn’t think it through. I didn’t need other girls, or time apart. I just needed you. I'm so sorry.”
You felt his sadness like you were swimming in a sea of it. You felt his regret, his anger at himself. And even though he’d hurt you more than you’d thought he ever could… he wasn’t entirely right. Time apart, whether you liked it or not, had forced you both to grow without the other, instead of tangling your roots together and staying intertwined.
The click of your seatbelt coming undone went unnoticed.
His hands hovered in the air between you again, like they had on the beach. He settled his palms on the sides of your face gingerly, like he was afraid you’d duck away. This time, you didn’t. Looking into his eyes hurt, it burned. But you wanted to ignite, you thought. You wanted to smoke and smolder and disintegrate. “Please,” he whispered, “please give me another chance.”
Each word had brought his face closer to yours. Your head was tilted up to his. He was outlined by the silvery moon, you both were. You didn’t know which one of your closed the gap, only that your hands came to rest over his. You both tasted like lemonade, but underneath it was his distinct flavour, the one that awakened your senses like an ember sparking on dry leaves. Suddenly the forest of your memories was aflame. It was a kiss both delicate and searching as well as frantic and pleading, like Bucky was pouring every single regret and wish into the same shared breath. His forehead knocked against yours. Your teeth grazed his bottom lip. The sound he made, one you thought you’d never hear again was what made you come to your senses. You pulled back, breaking the connection of your mouths, but his hands stayed on your face. His eyes stayed closed for a long moment and you were free to admire the way his lashes embraced his cheeks.
“How do I know you won’t hurt me again?”
“You don’t. but I'll spend every day proving to you that I'm worth your trust.” His eyes were still closed, like if he didn’t open them, he wouldn’t have to see what you’d decided flying across your face.
He looked at you again when your silence became the clear answer. His fingers stroked across your temples. “I have to think about it.” you said honestly.
In truth, you were unsure. You weren’t ready to trust him yet, even though your nervous system was screaming at your to dive off the board and into the deep end without a life vest. You saw his chest deflate on a long exhale, his breath fanning across your lips. “Okay. Okay, take all the time you need. I'm not going anywhere. You know that.” He seemed reluctant to let go of you. “You know that, right?”
You nodded as much as you could with his hands on your face. “I know.”
That was what made him drop his hands. “I love you.”
You didn’t say it back, and you thought you saw a flicker of pain in his eyes, before he shook his head. He knew you weren’t about to reciprocate. “I'm sorry I ruined your night.”
Your laugh was born of nervousness more than humour. “You didn’t ruin it. I really wasn’t planning to stay long. You should go back, though.”
He shook his head again. “I think I got what I came for.”
“And what’s that?”
“A foot in the door.”
He stood up straight then, hand on the door. “Drive home safe, okay? I'll see you tomorrow?” The question was full of unrestrained, naked hope.
“Yeah. I start at 12.”
He moved to close your door, but ducked down at the last moment, leaving a lingering kiss on your forehead. “See you at 12.”
Then he closed your door, and you were alone in the car, the scent of him overwhelming, the taste of him even more so. It took a long time for you to buckle your seatbelt again and start driving.
It took Bucky even longer, staring at the empty space your car had been in, before he got on the road, too.
You didn’t really know what to do with yourself in the morning. You’d been on total autopilot the night before, after you’d gotten home. You didn’t remember crawling into bed, even, but you had woken up still wearing Bucky’s sweater. The faint trace of his scent was still on it. You’d let him kiss you last night, you remembered, but you couldn’t summon the strength to be horrified. You had never, never seen him so emotional before. You couldn’t believe, after that admission, that he was just trying to bed you. He had to be serious. There was no way he wasn’t.
But that didn’t mean you were ready to pick up where you left off. You needed time to wrap your head around it. You supposed you had a month before you were back on campus. You had to decide whether you wanted him haunting the hallways of your dorm or not. You didn’t want to hold onto hope only to be crushed by ‘cold feet’ again.
You didn’t remember getting ready for your shift. You only noticed as you were doing a final check of your bag that you’d gotten dressed and brushed your hair, and your teeth as well judging by the minty taste on your tongue. Somehow, you’d blown through the morning in a total fugue state.
You blacked out on the drive, too, only realizing where you were with sudden clarity as you pulled into your usual spot. Bucky’s car was already there. He’d started before you—your shift only overlapped with his for about an hour. You were nervous to see him. What if last night had actually been a cruel dream?
You drummed your fingers on the strap of your bag where it rested over your shoulder, striding over the sand and heading to the cabana. Bruce glanced up at you from over his glasses and murmured a greeting before turning back to whatever paperwork had graced his desk, and you sat heavily on one of the rickety chairs. You fumbled with your water bottle just for something to do. Even though you were wearing a loose t-shirt over your bathing suit, you felt like the fabric was pressing against you like a second skin. You couldn’t even blame it on the humidity.
You basked in the silence for all of five minutes before slinging your bag on one of the hooks by the door and heading back outside, throwing your hair into a ponytail. It was overcast today, and you had a feeling you’d get rained on at some point, but you found yourself welcoming the possibility. Maybe you needed to get in touch with nature a little more, despite the fact that you’d been spending your days surrounded by it. You were scheduled to walk the perimeter and then cover Overwatch for a while. The beach was fairly empty today. You understood—if you’d had the choice, you would have spent the day inside. Everything was awash in shades of gray, the waves looking choppy and rough.
Bucky was almost right in front of you before you noticed him, too lost in thought, too busy trying not to think of him, because if you did, you’d remember the feeling of his hands on your face and the way he’d kissed you and the sound he’d made, along with a million other tiny things he’d done last night. But then he was there in the light of day, hardly a foot from you. You stopped, narrowly avoiding kicking up sand. “Hi,” you already sounded breathless. You hated it.
“Hey,” he said with a nod. His expression was guarded, like he was afraid you’d come to your senses and decided not to take a chance on him.
You both observed each other. “Was it busy this morning?” you asked. It was a lame, easy out.
He shook his head. “The standard early morning swimmers, but otherwise, no. I’ve actually been bored out of my mind. It gave me too much time to think.” It was a leading statement, but you decided not to pull at that thread.
“It’ll probably be more of the same for you. It’s supposed to rain around three.” he added, glancing skyward.
You mirrored him, taking in the gathering storm clouds. “It’s been a pretty dry summer.”
You knew things were awkward when you were discussing the most basic of topics. You could almost picture an elephant there on the beach, a sign on its neck saying ‘address me!’
You pointed at the shoreline. “Well, I should probably get to it. Are you taking a break?”
“Yeah.” But you both stayed standing there for another few seconds, before you ducked your head and started to move.
Right as you were about to pass him, Bucky snaked a hand around your front, settling it on your hip, and kissed the side of your head. It was a small gesture, a simple one. He let go of you and walked away right after he did it, not keeping you there, but it was enough to send your heart ricocheting around your chest like it was taking a turn in a pinball machine.
For your sake, you hoped it would suddenly get very busy on the beach, just so you would have something else to focus on.
The month continued on in a slow crawl, and all of your interactions with Bucky felt like a tentative, shy dance. Sometimes he’d leave you alone, with nothing more than a cursory hello, a searching look, and a small smile, which you’d return. Other times, he’d hover in your orbit like a little lovesick fly. When you’d gone to check the schedule at one point, he’d stood right behind you as you leaned over the desk, not saying a word. You could feel his body heat radiating in waves. You wouldn’t have had to take even a full step back to lean back against him. You imagined if you did, he would have put his arms around you.
You’d started quietly pulling him to the side with no fanfare, turning him around by the shoulders, and slathering him in sunscreen without saying anything about it, though you’d only let him return the favour once, because he’d trailed his finger down your spine and your shiver had been so obvious, you couldn’t look him in the eye after.
The well of longing that you’d boarded up with nails and plywood had flooded, and it felt like it was pushing against the barrier of your skin with insistent, needy hands, begging to be let loose and consume. You were aware of the grains of sand running down on the hourglass. Your personal benchmark of the end of August was approaching, and you felt it looming over you like a vast shadow.
You were running out of reasons to deny Bucky. He’d continued to show up every day, continued to do his job as if he’d wanted to be a lifeguard all along. He was still coming to the beach on most of the days that you worked, though he’d started to give you a little more space. You’d unblocked his number from your phone, and there were now disjointed strings of texts between you. Short things like confirming each other’s schedules, even though you both new the other’s as well as you knew your own. Messages from him wishing you sweet dreams. But the ones that had you holding your phone to your chest with heated cheeks came in the middle of the night, when Bucky would send you things like, “I can’t sleep so I’m looking at your picture,” and “I think I was dreaming of you. I couldn’t see your face, but it was you. It couldn’t be anyone else.” Sometimes he’d tell you what Becca was up to, and pass on messages from you to her as well.
You had started to entertain what the fall might look like. If you took Bucky back, would it be exactly how you’d envisioned it the year before? Would you stop by each other’s campuses, have lunch and study dates together? Would you sneak him back to your dorm, tugging him along by the strings of his hoodie? Would you be one of those couples lazily making out in the quad? Or would you keep this strange tightrope of distance between you? You could picture it just as easily, telling him you still weren’t ready. Him nodding, swallowing whatever he wanted to say, but asking if he could still visit you. You had a feeling that would be worse. You’d be so distracted by the possibility, wondering if he’d make some sort of grand gesture or if he’d keep down this new path, respecting the distance and the time and your hesitation.
With two weeks to go before you needed to get packed up and head three hours away to your school, a couple of new lifeguards were being trained. The off-season was approaching, but the beach was still bound to be busy on weekends all through September and some of October. The heat loved to linger before the cold snap came closer to Halloween. Your hours had started to scale back, or else you’d be in the company of a newbie. Training Kate was somewhat of a challenge. She was good—quick, sharp, determined—but she was also akin to a dog seeing a new toy with the way her attention would shoot elsewhere. Oftentimes, you’d have to repeat yourself or try to get her to refocus. It left little time for Bucky and you, and whatever was going on there.
It was why you were so caught off-guard by Kate asking you one day, “So is that Bucky guy your boyfriend, or what?”
You dropped the bundle of life preservers that had been looped over your arm. “What?”
She pointed at the cabana. Bucky was outside of it, leaned against the wall. He was talking to Sam, but his eyes were on you. He didn’t look away when you made eye contact, and you felt your heart flutter at his open stare. “There’s something going on there, right?” she probed, crouching to pick up some of the preservers.
You joined her, knees in the sand. “We um, we used to date, yes.” You were doing a piss-poor job of picking the red and white rings up. Your fingers suddenly felt slippery.
“Used to date? How long ago?”
“A year ago, give or take.” you said mildly, hoping she’d drop it.
But Kate latched onto it like it was a bone. “A year? Then why is he looking at you like that? Oh! Are you the one that got away?” she sang the last part with enthusiasm, eyes twinkling as she looked at you.
You bit your lip and dusted sand from one of the preservers, a useless thing to do. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose.”
“Are you getting back together? No one looks at a person like that.”
“I know.”
“No, no, I mean… no one looks at a person like that.” she said, grabbing your arm. “My grandparents have been together sixty years, and I don’t think I’ve ever even seen them look so love struck. He’s looking at you like you’re keeping his heart held hostage in a box or something.” To make matters worse, she pointed at him very obviously, then at you. It couldn’t be clearer what you were talking about if she’d started twirling a baton and carrying a neon sign.
When you meekly looked up at him, he hadn’t taken his eyes off you. And damn it, Kate was completely right. You felt stripped bare under his gaze. “Well, it’s sort of complicated,” you muttered.
“What’s so complicated? He looks like he’d get down on one knee right now. It’s actually sort of gross.” She mimed throwing up. Then she looked at you. “And besides, you look equally struck by cupid.”
“What? No I don’t!” You touched your face as if you could confirm or deny her accusation.
She grinned at you, successfully collecting all the preservers and tying them together with a section of rope—the thing you’d been trying to do when you’d dropped them. “If you say so.”
As the rest of the day went on, you couldn’t help thinking about Kate’s question. What’s so complicated? Yes, you’d been hurt beyond belief when Bucky had broken up with you. Yes, it had also sucked extra hard to know that he’d boned Natasha that same night at one of the grad parties. You’d stuck your fingers to the edges of that seeping wound many times over, feeling it bleed over your hands, feeling the pulse of your veins, the hurt pumping through them. But with some level of surprise, when you put your palms over the wound now, you were met with a scar instead. It was puckered, marred, not pretty and clean. But it had healed over, nonetheless. You were sure you’d always feel the phantom ache of the slice, but you found it wasn’t something you were at risk of bleeding out over.
Did that mean you forgave him? You imagined that if you told the whole sordid tale to a council, there’d be varying levels of both outrage and passiveness. You’d seen how girls got ridiculed for going back to men that had done them wrong. But this was the only wrong thing Bucky had done to you, if you thought about it. Any argument you’d ever had, even at your immature ages, had been smoothed over. You had never been the high school couple that broke up every other week. You’d been solid. And it shouldn’t matter what other people thought of your actions, should it? If things went poorly again, you only had yourself to blame for making the choice. You didn’t want outside influence to muddy the waters of your thoughts.
And, you had to admit that as soon as Bucky realized that trying to be suave and charming in order to win you back wouldn’t work, he’d put a stop to it. Since then, he’d been nothing but sincere. He’d prostrated himself before you. He’d tried to meet you where you were at. Maybe it was something worth considering. If you were honest with yourself, you’d never fallen out of love with him, even when you’d had your heart broken, even when you hadn’t seen him for months. As soon as you had, all those feelings came rushing back in a tsunami.
You’d just stepped inside your house, shaking sand from yourself and throwing your keys on the table. At that moment, like he’d known you’d been thinking of him, Bucky sent you a text.
There was no expectation of anything, just an offer of help. and he was right—you were a serial overpacker. It was one of your more endearing qualities, apparently, or so he’d told you once. You considered the offer, considered him. And miraculously, you came to a decision.
You had a week to go, and four shifts left. You only had two days between your last one and your return date to school. You’d asked for it to be that way—you hadn’t wanted to haunt the house with your overthinking.
You had what was considered a closing shift, though it wasn’t a very long one. Four to nine, and the promise of a gorgeous sunset. You knew that Bucky was closing alongside you. After eight o’clock, you’d be on your own with him.
You managed to keep your distance for most of it—the beach was busy that evening, and you’d had to rescue some kids that had gotten a little too far from shore and started to panic. It had all been fine, nothing except for a few tears, some shaken pride, and some furious parents, but you’d kept a sharp eye on the water regardless. You were here to do a job, after all, not moon over your ex, no matter how great he looked with no shirt and dark red shorts that brought out his tan. You’d had the luxury of other lifeguards at the beginning of the shift, but as time went on, they dropped off one by one.
Ava was the last to leave, a couple minutes after eight. You had an hour to kill. You were staying up on Overwatch and keeping an eye on the dwindling beach goers while Bucky started clean up duty, making sure all the essential gear was in its right place, checking the batteries on the walkie talkies, and making sure none of the off-limits areas had been breached. You tried your best not to watch him, but it was hard when the beach was slowly emptying.
Right at nine, the soft clearing of Bucky’s throat alerted you to his presence. He stood next to Overwatch’s stilts, a hand extended up like he was a knight waiting to assist his princess down from her horse. You accepted his hand when you were low enough, your jump down the last remaining foot of the chair noiseless. “Did you lock up yet?”
“Not yet. I wasn’t sure if you needed anything else from there.” He’d already grabbed your bag and was holding it over one shoulder.
You nodded, waiting for him to pass you your bag, but he seemed utterly content to just follow along, continuing to hold it. “I just want to double check the schedule. I think my next shift is my last one with Joaquin.”
He fell into step with you easily, trudging through the sand in the twilight. The sun was gone but the sky was still a few shades lighter than black. You could see the outline of him from the edge of your sight. At least he’d put on a shirt now. It made him just a fraction easier to deal with. He followed you into the cabana and stayed hovering beside you while you ran a finger down the schedule tacked to one of the walls. The different times of day were highlighted in varying colours. You nodded to yourself. “Yeah, last one with Torres.”
“Mine was Tuesday,” Bucky said.
In the back of your head, you’d known he was going back to school, too, but it still jolted you to be reminded that you’d be drifting apart again if you didn’t do something about it.
You flicked the lights off and ushered him from the cabana, locking it and tucking the key in the mailbox, which latched when you closed it. Bruce would be able to unlock it with the master key in the morning. The walk to the parking lot was quiet. Only yours and Bucky’s cars remained, tucked side by side together. You both stopped at the edge of the lot, and he turned to you. You could see the moths thumping their tiny bodies against the street light above him. He was limned in warm gold as he handed your bag back to you. This wouldn’t be the last time you saw him, and you knew it, but you felt rooted to the spot like your brain was trying to trace his exact shape and height and leave it as an imprint behind your eyelids.
“Well, I guess I’ll see you,” you finally said.
He’d been doing the same as you, twirling his car keys in his hand but otherwise making no move to go. He nodded. “Good night.”
You turned to go, but you only got halfway to your car before stopping. You felt like you’d stepped into a thin pocket of time where only the two of you existed. There was no sound except the crash of the waves and the moth bodies against the street light’s glass. You turned, your flip flops skidding on the asphalt. He was still standing where you’d left him, still watching you. He didn’t say a word as you walked back over, right into his proximity.
It was time to be brave and take a chance, you supposed. You let your bag slip off your shoulder and down to the crook of your arm before letting it fall in a pile by your feet. There was the barest hint of a question in Bucky’s eyes, and they flared wide when you put your hands on his shoulders, before you slid your arms around his neck. This was the closest you’d been to him in over a year, barring the mouth-to-mouth incident. This was real. You rolled up onto your toes. Your vision was overtaken by his eyes, so dark in colour but so bright in a sudden gleam of hope.
“I’m not saying we can pick up where we left off,” you started, your voice hushed, “not like we were before. I’m not even saying I want to dive in headfirst. But I’m… I’m willing to try, if you can take it slow with me.”
There it was, your heart on a platter. You didn’t know if Bucky would readily accept it or if he’d have a counteroffer. He was slow to put his hands on you, like he was afraid that if he did, you’d pop like a bubble and disappear. You thought you felt one single tremor as his fingers landed on your waist, before the full weight of his palms branded you. “I’ll take whatever you give me. Even if it’s just phone calls and texts. I can’t do another year without you in my life.” You shivered under his touch, his words, his gaze.
“Can I just ask for one thing? It’s the only time I will, I swear.”
You tilted your head to the side just a little. “What is it?”
“Please, for the love of God, can I kiss you?”
You felt like you were going to be swallowed whole by those dark blue eyes. “Yes—”
The word wasn’t even fully out before your mouth was claimed by his. Your noses bumped together. The kiss was chaste, demure, even. The first one, at least. But each time his lips parted from yours, he came back, like he wasn’t satisfied with just one taste. Like he was parched and you were a full cup of water and he couldn’t resist chugging you. It wasn’t that you’d forgotten what kissing Bucky—really kissing Bucky—was like, but all your memories seemed to pale in comparison when you got to experience the real thing in full sound and colour again. There was the telltale taste of peppermint in the brush of his tongue. The slow exploration of your mouth felt like he was kissing you for the first time ever, not like he was revisiting an old haunt. It made you feel weightless.
When you really did part, your breaths fanned over each other’s faces, your heads bent together, your foreheads touching with each exhale. “Please don’t let that be the last one before we go back to college,” he muttered. The tiniest hint of the Bucky you’d known and loved before was threaded through the words, the smallest, softest whine of disgruntlement.
You couldn’t hold back your laugh. “Maybe not, we’ll see.”
As silly as it sounded, it felt like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders. You practically floated all the way home, a dreamy smile on your face—you’d seen it when you’d gone to brush your teeth. Your phone had been lighting up almost nonstop after you’d gotten into bed. It was all texts from Bucky, ranging between sweet messages he’d apparently been dying to say all summer and had kept in his notes app, and plans for the future. Those ones were more tentative, more shy. He sent you a couple of links to restaurants between your two schools, mentioned some of the events happening on his campus. He didn’t expressly invite you, but… the implication was there, and it was clear. Now that he had the chance, he wasn’t going to make light of it.
And it continued on, all through the week. He did end up helping you pack your things, throwing your last suitcase and storage box into the trunk of his car and promising to bring them to you sometime in the first week. In between packing and plans, you’d allowed him to steal some sweet, shy kisses. You couldn’t help it. Your resolve had officially crumbled. And you didn’t think you wanted it any other way.
Your days at work were dwindling down. You were right on the finish line. Unfortunately for you, when you got there for your next shift, Sam took one look at you and groaned before fishing out his wallet and slapping twenty bucks to Joaquin’s chest. “God damn it, Torres, you won.”
You’d frowned and cocked your head, confused. Sam had gestured up and down at you. “You forgave Bucky.”
“How do you know?”
“I can just tell. If you could see you right now, you’d know. It’s really obvious.”
You looked down at your clothes, your bag, your lotioned legs. You didn’t seem any different, you thought. You felt different, but that wasn’t visible to the naked eye… was it?
But it became impossible to ignore when Bucky came sauntering across the sand. He wasn’t working, but he held two ice cream floats in his hands, and handed one to you before slinging an arm around your waist. “What’s going on?”
You had been smiling goofily at him as soon as he’d come into your eyeline. And that was when you knew that your happiness was as clear and obvious as a stain on a white shirt. You gave Sam a look. “You placed a bet?”
He snorted. “Of course I did.”
Your last day on shift was bittersweet. Bruce had thanked you for your time, and asked if you’d consider coming back the next year, which had been an easy yes. You’d had one last ice cream at the Langs’ stand, chatted with Cassie and Scott, and joked about how the former would probably look totally different in a year’s time.
Bucky swung by in your last hour. He’d already been reprimanded the previous time when he’d corralled you into the showers. You’d admittedly been playing hard to get that day, revelling in the wild look in his eyes, but you’d ultimately been mortified when he’d pinned you to the shower’s wall, a handful of your ass in his grasp, and heard a small, disapproving, “Ah-hem…” from Bruce. You wouldn’t have been surprised if he hadn’t invited you back next year.
You were still fully intending on taking it slow. You didn’t want to burn too bright, too quick. You thought being on different campuses would help with that. You were doing your very last walk of the perimeter, Bucky in tow, his hand sweaty in yours, but you kept a firm grasp on him anyway. The sun was beating down on your head mercilessly.
You came to a complete, sudden halt, hand loosening from Bucky’s, when you saw a flash of copper ahead of you. Attached to the copper was the body of a model in a black and white striped bikini, doing what could only be described as a Baywatch-eqsue run into the water.
It was Natasha.
You went cold all over, despite the heat. You hadn’t seen her since your graduation. She still looked great, as always. You were fairly sure she could wear a garbage bag and still turn every head on the beach. But then you were pulled back to reality by Bucky tugging on your hand. “Why’d you stop, love?”
You looked between him and Natasha, 50 feet away. “Natasha’s here,” you said limply, gesturing to the waves.
He frowned, a look of genuine surprise on his face. “Huh, you know, I didn’t even notice.”
It seemed crazy—even you had been ogling her. The crazier thing was, you believed him. He really had been looking at you the whole time. As you resumed your walk, his eyes flicked over to her once, as you passed. But then they slid forward, to the next swimmer, and the next, and the next… Just a cursory glance. There was nothing there, no heat, no fire. And then when he looked at you again, he smiled. “Do you want to grab dinner when you’re done? Nothing crazy, just, I don’t know, burgers? At that one place?” Then he lifted your joined hands and kissed the back of yours.
bonus author's note: a special thank you to @pinksplace, who helped me cook up a plot/trope while i was floundering; you threw me the life raft, for real. um, in the end i didn't really work with any of our spicy, rated r for radical think pieces, and it ultimately came out much more yearning-forward and with none of the planned smut... i hope you're not disappointed, the place that is pink.
