Series Summary: After Bucky cheats on you, you leave the Tower shattered, humiliated, and convinced that love has only ever made you smaller. Steve comes back from a mission to find you gone - and when he learns the truth, his loyalty is tested in ways he never expected.
Wordcount: 7.9k
Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Reader (no use of y/n)
Warnings: tower fic, alternative mcu, slow burn, healing arc, hurt comfort, emotional hurt comfort, angst with comfort, infidelity angst, second chance at love, cheating / infidelity, emotional betrayal, toxic ex relationship, Bucky Barnes is OOC, forced kiss, non con elements (very light), boundary violation, sexual assault implications, emotional manipulation, jealousy and possessiveness, panic attacks / panic response, vomiting due to distress, STI scare / medical testing mention, violence / physical fight, blood mention, breakup grief, trauma recovery, found family, protective steve rogers, soft steve rogers, toxic bucky barnes, self-worth issues, mentions of emotionally abusive family dynamics, reader has a difficult childhood, happy ending, MDNI, some chapters will have smut or explicit intimacy
A/N: I want to thank every one who has reblogged and commented on the first part, I didn't expect such engagement for this story and it really warmed my heart. This entire story has been beta read by Cassie -`♡´-
Important note about Bucky: Bucky is very OOC in this fic. I want to be very clear about that from the start: I know he is OOC, I know canon Bucky would not act like this, and I am not presenting this as my interpretation of canon Bucky Barnes.
This story uses him in a deliberately darker, more toxic role for the sake of the angst, conflict, and Reader’s healing arc. So please, before sending me an ask or leaving a comment to tell me that Bucky would never behave this way: I know. That is what this warning is for.
I will not be replying to complaints about Bucky being written OOC. You have been warned, and if this version of him is not something you want to read, please feel free to skip this fic.
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Sam was still in the common room when Steve came back down.
Natasha had gone. Or maybe she was somewhere just out of sight, giving the illusion of absence while missing nothing. The television was still on mute. The spilled water still darkened the coasters on the coffee table. Nothing in the room had changed except Steve.
He felt changed.
Not in any noble sense. Not wiser. Not calmer. Only tighter somehow, as though every nerve in him had been pulled one notch too far and would stay that way until something gave.
Sam looked up the second Steve entered. One glance at his face seemed to tell him enough to make him straighten from where he sat.
Steve did not stop walking until he stood directly in front of him.
“Which safehouse?”
Sam’s expression closed immediately. “Steve, I don’t think–”
“Which,” Steve said again, “safehouse.”
He did not raise his voice.
He did not need to.
Something in the room shifted anyway. Sam’s posture changed, some reflexive recognition of command old enough between them that neither of them had to name it. Steve hated that he used it now. Hated even more that he could not quite bring himself to care.
Sam held his gaze for a long second. Then another.
Steve knew what he must have looked like in that moment: drawn tight with anger not yet cooled, fresh out of Bucky’s ruined room, still carrying the echo of the things said there. Sam was right to hesitate. Steve knew that too. If their positions had been reversed, he would have hesitated himself.
But he also knew something Sam did not.
He knew exactly what Bucky had just tried to make of this.
He knew how close he himself had come to saying something he would have regretted.
And he knew, with a clarity that had only sharpened since he left that bedroom, that the last thing he wanted was to let the night end with you alone in some borrowed apartment, probably drunk and hurt and convinced that if anyone came after you, it could only be on Bucky’s behalf.
He would not let that be the shape of this.
“Sam.”
Just his name.
That was all.
Sam exhaled slowly and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Brooklyn,” he said at last. “Dean Street. Building looks half condemned from the outside, three floors up, apartment 3B.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “She might not open the door.”
“I know.”
Sam stayed seated, but his expression sharpened. “Because you’re his best friend.”
Steve looked at him.
“Not tonight,” he said.
The words came out before he could soften them, and maybe there had never been any chance of that. They landed with an ugliness he felt immediately, because Bucky was still Bucky no matter what he had done, because history did not vanish in a single evening, because love and fury could coexist far more easily than people wanted to admit.
But Sam only watched him for a moment and then nodded once, as if he understood the distinction Steve had not managed to phrase cleanly.
Steve bent, scooped up his duffel from where he had dropped it near the elevator, and then set it aside again. He did not need it. He only needed his jacket and the keys to the Harley in the bowl by the sideboard.
His fingers closed around the metal with a small hard sound.
“Steve,” Sam said as he turned.
He paused.
Sam’s voice lost some of its edge then, became something lower and more careful. “If she tells you to leave, you leave.”
Steve nodded once. “Yeah.”
It was the only promise he could make.
The city at night usually cleared Steve’s head.
The motorcycle helped. The speed. The cold air striking his face hard enough to feel like punishment. The clean necessity of movement, one street opening into the next, traffic lights bleeding red and green over wet pavement, the engine vibrating up through the frame and into his bones. Usually it was enough to strip a man back down to instinct and road and weather.
Tonight it did nothing.
Or not enough.
The ride to Brooklyn did not take long, but Steve felt every block of it anyway. He stopped at lights and saw nothing around him except fragments of the evening replaying themselves in loops too sharp to blur together.
Natasha in the armchair, saying, I saw them. Once.
Sam on the couch, saying, She said if she started talking, she might stay.
Bucky in the wreckage of his room, blood on his hand, saying, I was going to ask her to marry me.
And worse still, afterward – mean and ugly and broken in exactly the wrong direction – You gonna take your shot, finally?
Steve tightened his grip on the handlebars.
Cold wind rushed past him, but it did not cool the heat in his jaw. He could still feel the fabric of Bucky’s shirt twisted in his fist. Could still see that look in Bucky’s face, half viciousness and half invitation to violence, as if being hit might have made him simpler to bear.
It had nearly worked.
That was what kept scraping at Steve on the ride over. Not only what Bucky had said, but how close Steve had come to giving him what he wanted. Not because Bucky deserved mercy. Not because Steve had suddenly become soft. Only because he knew too well what it meant when pain started searching for a fist to turn itself into. He had lived too long around men like that. Been one, once or twice, in quieter ways.
But underneath even that anger was something else now. Something steadier and harder to outrun.
You.
The thought of you alone in that safehouse would not leave him.
He pictured a dozen versions at once, each one worse than the last. You pacing the floor with your phone in your hand until Bucky’s messages turned the screen into something unbearable. You staring at a wall with a drink you never even wanted that badly. You sitting perfectly still in that dangerous kind of calm that came only after too much crying, when the body had exhausted itself into numbness and the mind kept going anyway. He knew enough about heartbreak to understand that solitude could help and still feel vicious. He knew enough about you to know you would rather chew through glass than let half the Tower witness you coming apart.
The bike growled under him as he turned onto the narrower Brooklyn street Sam had named.
Dean Street.
The building was exactly what Sam said it would be: anonymous, weathered, one of those old brownstone conversions that looked tired enough to be ignored by everyone except the people who knew what sat behind the doors. Stark had always favored places like that. Money hidden under shabbiness. Security disguised as neglect.
Steve parked at the curb and killed the engine.
The sudden silence rang.
He sat there for one second longer with both hands still on the bars, staring up at the dark windows. Not all of them were lit. One on the third floor showed a thin seam of lamplight through crooked blinds.
Maybe you were there.
Maybe you were asleep.
Maybe you were crying.
Maybe you were furious enough to throw the door in his face before he said two words.
He almost hoped for the last one. At least it would be movement. Fire. Something easier to bear than imagining you quiet.
He swung off the bike, crossed the sidewalk, and took the stairs two at a time.
By the time he reached 3B, his pulse had settled into that dangerous, deliberate rhythm it always found before a hard conversation. He stood outside the door and listened.
At first, nothing.
Then the faintest scrape from inside. Maybe a footstep. Maybe the sound of someone shifting against furniture. Then silence again.
Steve lifted a hand and knocked.
No answer.
He waited, counted two heartbeats, and knocked again, gentler this time.
Something thudded faintly inside. A pause followed. Then your voice came through the door, blurred at the edges and thick in a way that made something low in Steve’s chest pull tight.
“Who–” You stopped, swallowed, started again. “Who’s there?”
You slurred the words.
Not dramatically. Not enough for a stranger to mistake it for anything more than exhaustion if they wanted to be generous. But Steve knew your voice too well for that. He heard the softened consonants, the way the words stuck together in your mouth before you forced them apart.
You had been drinking.
He closed his eyes briefly.
Not because he judged you for it. God knew he did not. But because it added one more image to the list forming in his head: you alone in this place, reaching for the nearest thing that dulled thought by even a fraction.
“It’s me,” he said, pitching his voice low and steady through the wood. “It’s Steve.”
Silence.
He heard something shift again on the other side. A foot dragging this time. Then the scrape of a chain, the click of one lock, then another.
The door opened.
You stood there with one hand still on the frame as if you needed it to stay upright.
The first thing Steve noticed was your eyes.
They were swollen. Not wildly, not in some theatrical way, but enough that the skin around them had taken on that tender, rubbed-raw look that came after hours of crying and too little sleep. Your hair was a mess, falling around your face in tangled pieces. You had changed clothes at some point – sweatpants, one of those oversized shirts that might have belonged to you or might have been dragged from some emergency closet in the safehouse – but there was nothing settled in the way you wore them. Nothing restful. You looked like somebody who had stopped halfway through existing and then forgotten how to finish.
And yes, you were unsteady.
Not falling-down drunk. Not far gone. But your weight favored the doorframe, and when you shifted it took you a second too long to find your balance. In one hand you held a bottle by the neck. The label had peeled halfway off, but Steve did not need to see it clearly to know it was not vodka and not whiskey. You had always rolled your eyes at both, called them too obvious, too cinematic, too eager to turn misery into cliché.
Rum, then.
Of course.
You stared at him with an expression that seemed to war with itself in real time – surprise first, then suspicion, then something hotter and angrier rising over both.
“Go,” you said.
The word snagged halfway through and came out rough.
Then, because one was not enough, “Go away, Steve.”
He did not move.
Your fingers tightened around the bottle. “I don’t– I don’t need to hear anybody defend him.”
The way you said him told Steve more than a hundred details could have. It came wrapped in disgust and injury and the kind of forced distance people used when a name itself had become too intimate to bear.
He met your stare. “I’m not here for Bucky.”
Your mouth twisted like you didn’t believe him. Fair enough.
He went on anyway. “I’m here for you.”
For a second you only looked at him.
The hall light hummed faintly overhead. Somewhere farther down the building, plumbing knocked in the walls. Steve could smell the city through a cracked stairwell window – rain not yet fallen, old brick, distant exhaust. Underneath it all, drifting out from the apartment behind you, came the smell of stale liquor and air gone too warm from a room shut too long.
Your gaze stayed on his face, hard and searching and not nearly as unfocused as your balance had been.
He wondered what you saw there.
Bucky’s oldest friend.
The man who had not been here.
The man who could so easily have come to plead someone else’s case.
The man who might have known. Might have guessed. Might have chosen silence like Natasha had, except without even the excuse of once having seen enough.
Steve held himself still and let you look.
At last something in your expression shifted – not softening, exactly, but tiring. You stepped back and jerked your head toward the inside of the apartment in a movement that was more permission than welcome.
“Fine.”
He entered without a word.
The safehouse was small. Smaller than he had expected. A narrow entry opening straight into a living room with an old couch, a low table, a standing lamp in the corner, a kitchenette barely visible through an archway, one closed door that must have led to the bedroom. Stark money showed in the bones of the place more than the decorations. The windows were reinforced. The lock on the door was better than the rest of the building deserved. Everything else had the bare, temporary feel of a place meant for waiting, not living.
You lurched ahead of him toward the couch, then missed the cushion entirely in spirit if not in direction and let yourself collapse to the floor just in front of it.
Not gracefully.
Not even intentionally, Steve thought.
More like the floor had simply arrived and you had accepted it.
You folded yourself there with your back half against the couch and lifted the bottle straight to your mouth for another swallow. Steve followed more slowly and stopped a few feet away.
That was when he saw the phone.
It lay in pieces near the far wall, black screen cracked to powder, casing split open, part of it under the little side table as if it had hit once and skidded. The sight made him stop.
He looked from the wreckage to you.
You caught the glance and gave one small, ugly shrug that said enough on its own. Then you muttered, “I got tired of it buzzing every two minutes every time he called or sent another message.”
Steve looked at the broken phone again.
He could picture it. The relentless vibration. The screen lighting up in the dim room over and over until the sound itself became an assault.
“You could’ve turned it off,” he said.
The words came out before he had quite thought them through.
You gave him a look over the rim of the bottle so flat it made him wince inwardly at once. “Yeah,” you said. “Could have.”
He almost apologized.
Instead he came forward and lowered himself to the floor beside you, leaving enough space not to crowd, not enough to feel detached. The wood under him was hard. The apartment felt too warm after the ride. Up close he could hear the unevenness in your breathing now, the way you kept taking in air like your chest had forgotten its own rhythm.
Neither of you spoke for a moment.
Then you asked, very quietly, “Did you know?”
The question cut through the room with more force than anything louder could have done.
Steve turned his head.
You were still looking ahead, not at him. The bottle rested loose in your hand between your knees now, your shoulders curved inward as if trying to protect something that had already been hit too many times. But he heard it in your voice anyway, buried under the drink and the anger and the effort it took to keep it level.
A sob, pressed down into shape before it could become sound.
“No,” he said immediately.
You swallowed.
The silence after that was tiny and terrible.
Then, “You promise?”
This time you did look at him.
Steve had faced gunfire with steadier nerves than it took to hold your gaze right then. Because this was not really about information anymore. Not only that. It was about the narrow, shaking ledge you were standing on with trust in anyone at all. It was about whether one more person in your life had seen the trapdoor open beneath you and let you step anyway.
He answered the only way he could.
“I promise.”
He did not dress it up. Did not reach for an oath or explanation. Just the truth, clean and simple, because anything else would have sounded like defense.
You searched his face for another few seconds, as though checking the seams of the words for cracks.
Then, without warning, you held the bottle out toward him.
He stared at it.
“You know that doesn’t do anything to me,” he said.
Your mouth twitched, but there was no humor in it. “Yes. But you’ll look less like you’re judging me if you drink too.”
For one absurd second, that nearly broke his heart.
Not because of the bottle itself. Because even now – even drunk, even wrecked, even furious – you were trying to manage the optics of your own unraveling. Trying to make it less ugly for the person sitting next to you. Trying to negotiate the terms under which you could fall apart and still keep some piece of pride intact.
Steve took the bottle from your hand.
The glass was warm where your fingers had been.
He tipped it back and swallowed.
The rum burned all the way down, fierce and sweet and rough, useless against a body that metabolized too fast for any ordinary relief to last. Usually that immunity amused other people. A party trick. A mildly tragic side note to the rest of him. Tonight he hated it.
For once he would have liked the blur. The dulling. The permission not to feel every second as sharply as it arrived.
He handed the bottle back.
“I’m not judging you,” he said.
That was true, but the sentence felt inadequate the second it left him. Because he was judging something. Bucky. Himself, maybe. The whole ruined shape of the night. He was judging the fact that this was where you were: on the floor of a safehouse in Brooklyn with a broken phone and a bottle of rum because someone you loved had taken a knife to the center of your life and then tried to call it love anyway.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw you wipe at your face hard and fast with the heel of your hand, almost angrily, as though tears themselves were an insult added to injury.
You leaned your head back against the couch and covered your eyes with one forearm.
The pose looked temporary at first. Defensive. A way to hide from the room for a second.
Then the sound came.
It was not loud. It was worse than loud. A small, involuntary noise – part breath, part sob – as if something inside you had slipped despite your grip and broken the surface before you could stop it. It caught Steve so sharply off guard that for a second he forgot to breathe.
He turned fully toward you.
Your name left him almost without sound, a murmur more than speech.
You shook your head immediately, arm still over your eyes.
No.
Don’t.
Not that.
He understood.
Or thought he did. You did not want him to ask if you were alright when both of you knew you were not. You did not want the kind of comfort that came dressed in phrases too small for the wound. You did not want to be watched while the first crack widened.
Steve looked at your hand instead – the one still loosely holding the bottle by the neck.
Slowly, carefully, giving you every chance to refuse, he reached over and laid his hand over yours.
Your skin felt warm. Tense. Damp at the wrist from where tears had tracked down and you had not noticed.
You did not pull away.
That alone felt like trust. Fragile. Barely there. But real.
Steve eased the bottle from your fingers with a gentleness that seemed to matter more because he had to think about it. Not because he feared you. Because tonight everything hurt, and he had no wish to add one more rough edge to the list.
He set the bottle aside out of reach.
Then he put his hand back over yours.
He had no plan beyond that.
No speech. No strategy. No careful sentence he meant to give you now that would make the night survivable. He only knew he did not want to let the contact break. So he sat there on the floor of that small apartment with his hand over yours and listened to the silence gather around the two of you.
Then you broke.
There was no warning beyond the sudden tightness of your fingers under his.
One second you were rigid beside him, holding yourself together with the last ugly scraps of pride and anger and alcohol. The next you folded – completely, violently, as if whatever had been bracing you from the inside had finally given way. The arm over your eyes dropped. Your whole body jerked with the force of the first real sob, and before Steve had more than half understood what was happening, you had turned into him.
Not delicately.
Not with any grace or intention that might have left room for embarrassment later.
You just came apart and ended up in his arms.
Steve caught you on pure instinct.
One arm went around your shoulders, the other across your back, and then somehow you were against his chest with all the weight of your grief thrown into him at once. He adjusted fast, shifting so he could hold you properly without toppling you both sideways, one hand moving up between your shoulder blades in a slow steady pass that he hoped felt grounding and not pitying.
You were shaking.
Not a little. Not the contained trembling of someone trying not to cry. Your whole body convulsed with it, each sob hitting hard enough that Steve felt the impact through his own ribs. The sound of it tore through him. Not because he had never seen anyone cry before. Not because he was sentimental enough to mistake tears for intimacy. But because this was you, and because there was nothing performative left in it now. No anger sharp enough to shield. No drunken sarcasm. No restraint. Just pain, raw and total and too large to be made dignified.
He held you tighter.
Not crushing. Never that. Just enough that if the world had felt like it was giving way under your feet, there was at least one solid thing left in it.
“It’s alright,” he heard himself murmur, though he knew it wasn’t. The phrase came out instinctively anyway, worn smooth by old comfort, useless and necessary all at once. “I’ve got you.”
Your hands had fisted in his shirt without him noticing when. One of them twisted hard in the fabric over his shoulder. The other pressed flat against his side as if confirming he was there, real, not going anywhere in the next second either.
Steve kept one hand moving against your back in a rhythm he did not have to think about. Slow. Repeating. The kind of touch meant to soothe a frightened animal or a grieving child or a person too deep in hurt to bear stillness.
He had no right, maybe, to know how naturally it came.
That thought passed through him and vanished. This was not the time to examine what it said about him. About the way his body seemed already to know how to shape itself around your pain as if it had been waiting for instruction.
He rested his cheek for one fleeting second against the top of your head.
Your hair smelled faintly of shampoo and stale apartment air and rum on your hands. The scent struck him with such aching familiarity that he had to close his eyes.
Everything in him tightened then in a different way.
Because he was holding you.
Because you were crying into his shoulder.
Because Bucky’s vile accusation still rang somewhere at the back of his mind, and Steve hated that it did, hated that it had managed to stain this for even a second, because this was not that, would never be that. There was nothing opportunistic in the agony of wanting only to make you feel safe while knowing he could not fix the thing that had broken you.
That was the truth at the center of it.
He could not fix this.
He could not take back the night in the Tower.
He could not unsay anything Bucky had said.
He could not return you to the version of yourself that had woken up two mornings ago still believing in what you had.
He could not even offer you the ordinary small relief of a drink hitting your bloodstream the way it hit everyone else’s.
All he could do was stay.
So he did.
He let you cry.
He did not tell you to calm down. Did not ask you for details. Did not say Bucky’s name. He only held you while the sobs tore through you in waves, each one harsh enough to leave you gasping afterward. He felt the heat of your tears soaking into his shirt. Felt the way your shoulders tightened before every fresh break and loosened just slightly after. Felt the violence of how hard you had tried not to let this happen.
And God, that got to him.
The effort of it.
The fact that you had tried so hard to hold it in. In front of Sam. At the door. On the floor with the bottle. Even just now, under your arm on the couch, refusing the first crack of sound as if grief itself were one more indignity to fight.
Something deep in Steve’s chest ached with a force that bordered on helpless rage.
Not at you.
Never at you.
At the situation. At Bucky. At himself, maybe, for not having been here sooner, though he knew that was irrational. At the unbearable human truth that sometimes the best people got hurt in the cheapest ways.
He opened his eyes and stared over your shoulder at the room.
The broken phone lay by the wall like evidence. The lamp in the corner cast a warm dull circle over the floorboards. Shadows gathered in the kitchenette. There was a glass in the sink with water gone untouched. A blanket half pulled from the arm of the couch. Small things. Temporary things. A place to hide and hurt in private.
He thought suddenly of you arriving here that morning alone.
Unlocking the door with Sam’s keycard.
Walking into these quiet rooms with your bag and your grief.
Putting your things down somewhere.
Maybe standing in the middle of the apartment not knowing what to do first because the whole day had become an afterimage.
Maybe checking your phone once, then again, then again until the calls and messages made something snap.
Maybe throwing it. Hard.
Maybe opening the bottle because it was there or because it wasn’t and you had gone to buy it anyway.
The image nearly undid him.
His grip tightened by a fraction before he forced it to ease.
You shifted in his arms then, not away, only deeper somehow, your forehead pressing against the base of his throat as if trying to hide in the space under his chin. The movement was blind, all instinct and exhaustion.
Steve’s heart stumbled once, hard enough to feel.
He hated himself for noticing that.
No– not hated. That was not right.
He hated the timing of noticing. Hated that his own body remained honest even when he wanted nothing from it except steadiness. Because there was tenderness in him for you. More than tenderness. There had been for some time. Quietly. Carefully. In a locked room inside himself he had no intention of opening. He had known it in fragments: the extra second his eyes found you when a room got loud, the particular relief of your laugh, the way your opinion could steady or unsettle him more than he admitted. He had kept all of that under such tight discipline it had barely become language.
Now, with you in his arms and devastated, he felt only the cleanest version of it.
Not desire. Not hope. Nothing so selfish.
Just the ferocious ache of caring for someone and being unable to bear what had been done to them.
Steve bowed his head slightly until his mouth brushed your hairline.
The kiss, if it could be called that, was barely there. A pressure more than a gesture. Thoughtless in the best sense – done the way one might touch a bruise without meaning to, or a prayer one did not realize one still knew.
He froze the second he realized he had done it.
You did not seem to notice.
Or if you did, you mistook it for what it had been: not romance, not a line crossed, only comfort spilling over into whatever language the body found first.
Still, Steve felt a complicated surge of shame and protectiveness both.
He drew back the smallest distance and kept one hand moving between your shoulders.
Minutes passed. Or maybe less. Maybe more. Time had gone strange. Your crying did not stop all at once but slowly frayed, the hardest edges wearing themselves down into quieter shudders. Every so often another sob caught unexpectedly in your chest, smaller now, more exhausted than sharp. Steve stayed exactly where he was through all of it.
Eventually your grip on his shirt loosened by degrees.
Your breathing, though still uneven, began to lengthen.
One of his knees had gone half numb from the angle, and his shoulder ached under the weight of how tightly you had clung to him, but he did not shift. The discomfort felt irrelevant. Almost welcome. A physical thing to hold alongside everything else.
At last you made a sound – not words, just the rough exhale of somebody surfacing and hating that they have to.
Steve loosened his hold only enough to let you breathe more easily if you wanted. He did not force distance between you.
You stayed where you were.
He looked down and saw only the top of your head, the curve of your cheek turned into his chest, the damp shine of tears on the skin he could see.
So he said the only true thing left that did not ask anything of you in return.
“I’m here.”
Your fingers tightened once more in his shirt, weakly now.
Whether in answer or reflex, he did not know.
Either way, Steve took it and let the rest of the apartment fall away.
For a little while after that, neither of you spoke.
The room settled around the two of you in layers – lamp light in the corner, the faint hum of old plumbing in the walls, distant traffic moving somewhere below the window, the softened creak of the building easing into night. Steve stayed exactly where he was on the floor with you folded against him, one arm around your shoulders, the other hand moving slowly up and down your back in the same patient rhythm he had fallen into without thinking.
Your crying had quieted, but it had not truly ended.
He felt it in the occasional tremor that still moved through you without warning. In the way your breathing remained uneven, catching now and then as if another sob waited somewhere just beneath the surface and changed its mind at the last second. In the damp heat of your cheek through his shirt. In the stubborn tension that still held parts of you tight even in his arms, as though your body had not yet received permission to believe the worst of the moment had passed.
Steve knew that feeling.
Not this exact hurt. Not this shape. But the way grief clung to the body even after the sharpest crying stopped, as if the body knew before the mind did that pain was not a wave that came and went but weather that settled.
He let the silence stay.
He did not rush to fill it. Did not ask whether you wanted water, whether you wanted him to move, whether you wanted to lie down, whether you wanted to talk. He had the strong suspicion that too many questions would break the fragile thing the room had become. You had already spent enough of the day being forced into speech you did not want.
Then, after a few more seconds that felt both brief and endless, you spoke into his shirt.
“Steve?”
Your voice came muffled and rough from crying, the syllable almost lost against him.
He tipped his head slightly. “Mm?”
You did not move away when you asked it.
“You’re really not here to defend him?” You swallowed and tried again, more carefully this time, though your words still dragged at the edges. “And not to try and convince me to go back to him?”
The question entered him more deeply than it should have.
Not because he did not know why you asked. He knew exactly why. Bucky was Bucky. Steve was Steve. History had a gravity all its own. If Steve had spent the evening at the Tower hearing what happened, seeing Bucky half-out of his mind upstairs, and then shown up on your doorstep less than an hour later, of course some part of you would assume he had come as an emissary. Not because you were foolish. Because the world had just proved itself faithless in one direction and your mind would naturally search for it in others.
Still, hearing the doubt in your voice – small, exhausted, raw – made something inside him ache.
He kept his hand moving over your back.
“No,” he said.
He let the word settle before he went on.
“I told you. I’m here for you.” His thumb traced once, absently, along the line of your shoulder blade through the fabric of your shirt before his hand resumed that same slow path. “If you want to talk about him, we can talk about him. If you want to call him every name you can think of, I’ll listen. If you want silence, I’m here for that too.”
As he said it, Steve realized he meant it more fully than he had known until the words were already out in the room.
Because there was no version of tonight in which he intended to steer you anywhere. Not toward forgiveness. Not toward anger if you were too tired for anger. Not toward some noble calm you did not owe anybody. If you wanted to sit in the wreckage and hate Bucky until dawn, Steve would sit there and let you. If you wanted to say you still loved him and hated yourself for it, he would hear that too. If you wanted to say nothing else at all, he could do that. He could do quiet for as long as quiet needed.
You gave a small nod against him.
The movement brushed your forehead against the hollow just below his collarbone, so slight it might have meant nothing to anyone else. To Steve it felt enormous.
Not because it was intimate, though it was. But because it was trust. Frail, bruised trust offered in increments so small another person might have missed them. Tonight you had let him in. You had let him sit beside you. You had let him take the bottle from your hand. You had cried in his arms. And now you had asked the question that mattered most to you in the moment and accepted his answer with that one exhausted little nod.
He felt the weight of it all at once.
He also felt something like fear.
Not fear of you. Not of being here.
Fear of mishandling the moment. Of giving even a trace too much or too little. Of letting any feeling of his own – however buried, however carefully chained – show through in a way that would make this about anything other than your hurt. Steve had spent much of his life being trusted in one way or another. As a soldier. As a leader. As the man who stepped between danger and softer things. But this felt different. More delicate. He was not holding a line. He was holding a person, and not just any person. You.
So he stayed very still except for that one hand on your back.
The silence returned afterward, but it had changed.
It was no longer the silence from before – the brittle one at the door, the heavy one in the apartment, the silence of swallowed sobs and suspicion and grief pressing too hard against your throat. This one felt quieter in a different sense. Thoughtful. Worn through. The kind of silence that followed truth spoken simply enough to be believed.
Steve listened to your breathing while it gradually, stubbornly, tried to find some steadier rhythm.
His own thoughts refused to stay still.
Now that the immediate urgency of your breakdown had passed, they returned in slow, dangerous tides. Bucky’s room. The blood on his hand. The shattered frame by the door. The words he had thrown like knives because he had wanted pain to spread and not remain his alone. Steve still felt the echo of them, but they sat differently now that you were in his arms.
Before, the anger had been sharp, almost abstract in its force – moral, immediate, easy to direct. Here, with the reality of you leaning on him and trying not to shake apart, the anger changed shape. It became quieter and somehow much worse. Less like fire. More like a bruise pressed repeatedly with deliberate fingers.
This was what Bucky had done.
Not only the cheating. Not only the lies.
This.
This ruined exhaustion.
This question you had just asked because you could no longer safely assume anyone arrived for your sake alone.
This wary relief when told no one was here to persuade you back toward what hurt you.
This body gone limp with alcohol and crying because there had been no better place to put the pain.
Steve swallowed once.
His hand never stopped moving.
He thought, with a kind of tired astonishment, that Bucky still had no idea what he had truly broken. Maybe he understood the event. The facts. The magnitude in broad strokes. But not this. Not the lived shape of what betrayal did once the adrenaline burned off. Not the little aftershocks. The questions. The suspicion. The humiliation that lingered in the body. The way it made a person feel foolish for having believed the wrong thing for too long.
Or maybe he did know and that was worse.
He looked down slightly, though he could see little of your face from this angle. Only the curve of your temple, the dark fan of lashes still damp, the softened line of your mouth where it pressed into his shirt.
His chest tightened again.
He could not save you from this. He understood that. He could sit here and keep the room quiet and let you breathe and hold you through the worst of tonight, but he could not reach backward in time and become the person who had knocked on your door before all this happened. He could not give you back the version of your life in which love had still felt like shelter instead of threat.
All he could offer was presence.
It felt pitifully small.
It also felt, right now, like the only honest thing in the world.
You shifted again after a while – not away, but enough to tilt your head back slightly against the couch so your voice did not disappear entirely into his shirt this time.
“Steve?”
He answered immediately. “Yeah?”
There was a pause before your next words, and he felt them forming in the way your breathing changed first.
“You… would you stay tonight?”
Nothing in him moved.
Not outwardly.
Inside, though, the question landed with startling force.
For one instant his whole body went very still around it, as if even his pulse paused to listen.
Stay.
It should have been simple. In one sense it was simple. You were hurt, drunk, exhausted, raw from crying, alone in a safehouse with a broken phone and too much night left. Of course he would stay. There was no moral dilemma in that, no real question of duty. If Sam had asked him before he came over whether he meant to remain until morning if needed, Steve would have said yes without hesitation.
But hearing it from you directly changed the air.
Not because the request was romantic. It wasn’t. Not remotely. Steve knew that with absolute clarity. You were not asking him for anything except what the words plainly meant: presence through the dark hours, a witness, a guard against the silence once grief grew teeth again and you had no one to hand it to.
Still, the intimacy of being asked did something to him.
Not the kind of intimacy Bucky had accused him of wanting. Nothing cheap. Nothing triumphant. Nothing that made him feel like he had won anything. God, if anything it made him feel smaller. Humbled. Careful. Almost afraid.
Because tonight you were giving him something fragile without dressing it up as such. You were saying, in the only way you could still manage, I don’t want to be alone when this gets quiet again.
Steve’s hand paused on your back for the briefest moment before continuing.
“Yes,” he said.
He heard, in the very next heartbeat, that the answer had been too quick. Not wrong. Only too immediate, too instinctive, as if he had been waiting for the chance to say it. He did not want you to hear it that way. So he added, gentler, “If you want me to.”
A tiny, tired sound left you then. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sob. Just some soft frayed noise that meant the effort of words had cost more than you wanted it to.
“I do,” you said.
Steve let out a breath he had not noticed himself holding.
“Then I’ll stay.”
You nodded again, slower this time.
The room fell quiet once more.
Steve became painfully aware of practical things then, perhaps because practicality was safer to think about than the other sensation still moving through him – the one made of tenderness and protectiveness and the dangerous knowledge that if you asked him to remain, he would do it without resentment, without boredom, without even the secret wish that dawn came faster.
He looked around the apartment over your shoulder. The couch would do if needed. The floor too, if you insisted on the couch. There might be blankets in a closet. Water in the kitchen. Maybe aspirin, though with your phone destroyed and your emotions raw, a headache tomorrow morning felt inevitable no matter what he found. He could lock the door. Check the windows. Put the bottle farther away if you’d had enough or leave it if taking it from you now felt too parental. He could make coffee in the morning. Or tea, if your stomach turned at the thought. He could say very little. He could say exactly what you asked for and nothing more.
He had always been good at making himself useful.
That instinct, usually so steadying, suddenly felt insufficient.
Because usefulness was only part of what was happening here. The rest was far less tidy.
The truth was he wanted to stay.
Wanted it with a force that unsettled him.
Not because the night gave him some opening. Not because he thought pain might draw you closer in a way ordinary days never would. He despised the shape of that idea before it even fully formed. No – he wanted to stay because leaving now felt impossible in the face of your voice when you asked. Because he could not bear the picture of you waking in the night disoriented, reaching into empty air. Because there was something in him that had apparently decided, long before he ever admitted it, that if you needed someone at your side in the dark he would go.
The realization sat in him quietly and changed nothing and everything at once.
He kept his thoughts to himself.
After another minute or two, your body began to soften against him in increments so subtle he might have missed them if he hadn’t been paying such close attention. The rigid lines of strain in your shoulders loosened. The hand that had knotted his shirt eased, opening and closing once as if unsure whether it still needed to hold on that hard. Your breathing slowed, though every so often it still hitched on the tail end of a spent sob.
Steve brushed his palm once more between your shoulder blades and said, very softly, “Do you want to stay here?”
You did not answer at once.
He waited.
Finally you murmured, “Don’t make me move yet.”
He almost smiled.
There was no amusement in it, only a weary kind of tenderness. “Okay.”
So he stayed exactly where he was.
If anyone had told him, when he stepped off the elevator at the Tower less than two hours earlier, that the night would end with him sitting on the floor of a Brooklyn safehouse while you leaned against him and asked him not to leave, he would have called them insane. The whole evening still felt unreal in places, too jagged to fully process. But this part – this quiet aftermath, this solemn permission to remain – felt more real than anything else had since he came home.
He found himself wondering what tomorrow would be for you.
Whether the anger would come back first or the grief. Whether embarrassment would try to rise where trust had been tonight. Whether you would regret letting him see this much. Whether you would ask questions you had not wanted answered yet. Whether Bucky would keep trying to call from whatever number he could find, whether Tony would intervene, whether Natasha would already be building a defense around your absence sharp enough to cut through anyone curious.
He could do nothing about tomorrow right now.
That, too, was a kind of discipline.
He lowered his head slightly until his temple rested for a second against the couch above yours, just enough to anchor himself in the present. The fabric smelled old and clean. You smelled like salt tears, tired skin, and rum. The room felt warm. His legs were beginning to protest the floorboards. None of it mattered.
After a while, you shifted one hand from where it had fallen in your lap and reached blindly, as if through instinct more than intention, until your fingers caught in the sleeve of his jacket.
Not gripping. Just holding.
Steve looked down.
Your eyes were closed now.
Whether you meant to sleep or simply could not keep them open any longer, he did not know. But your fingers stayed there in the denim, and Steve felt the contact all the way through him.
He covered your hand lightly with his free one for a moment.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said.
He did not know whether you were fully awake to hear it.
Maybe it did not matter.
Your grip loosened only after that, not because you let go but because trust, for the moment, had done enough work that you no longer needed to cling so hard.
Steve sat with you in the soft hum of the apartment and let the night continue around you both.
And when he thought of leaving, even for the practical purpose of getting you a blanket or water, he found he could not quite bring himself to move until you asked.
GENERAL taglist: @/mellowfurynight | @castielscaplan | @whatisanniedoin
Summary - After a night of heavy drinking, some truths come to light.
Warnings - Alcohol consumption, Reader is drunk, Pining, Idiots in love, kissing, Fluff. 18+ Only. My warnings are not extensive so enter at your own risk!
Word Count - 1.7k
It had been a hell of a party, celebrating your latest victory at Avengerz HQ with your teammates.
Yelena had convinced you to go against her in a drinking contest and you had no idea why you thought agreeing to go up against a russian was a good idea.
Now you were stumbling through the Avengerz compound with Bucky's arm around your waist as he guided you to your room, insisting you were too drunk and he wanted to make sure you got back safely.
His earthy smell was all around you, making you intoxicated from his proximity as well as the alcohol coursing through your veins and you could feel the heat pulsing beneath his palm on your waist while you drunkenly rambled at him.
"I feel bad for you ya know?" You mumbled.
Bucky glanced over at you, brow raised in confusion at your sudden change of topic. How the conversation went from grumpy cat to him, he'd never know.
"You do?" He replied.
"Uh huh." You shrugged simply, as though the statement was completely obvious, missing the way his face dropped, mind running straight to the most obvious thing.
He hated that you felt that way, that you pitied what had happened to him. He didn't want your pity, he didn't want you to feel bad on his behalf.
"Right. Of course." He mumbled, pressing his lips together.
"No Bucky no!" You moaned as you looked up at his sad little pout, "Don't pull a sad face. Some regular non super human people can't get drunk either."
"That's what you're talking about?" He grunted back.
"Uh huh." You nodded as you continued wobbling forward, "Being drunk is great."
"I'm not sure you'll be saying that tomorrow." He said, the corner of his lips tugging up in amusement.
"Pshhh, live in the now Bucky." You grinned animatedly, "Now is great."
"It sure is." He smiled back, looking over your blushed face longer than a friend should.
"God you're so muscly." You said suddenly, pulling him from his thoughts as you stopped before him and grabbed his bicep.
"You know I'm a super soldier right?" He smirked.
"Mmm..." You nodded, running your palm along the length of his arm with your tongue slowly swiping your lower lip.
"Sweetheart?" Bucky laughed and your face snapped back to his, a deeper crimson flush spreading over your cheeks.
"Oh hey, sorry." You mumbled, "I was just looking."
"Just looking, right." He teased before placing his arm back around your waist and pushing you along the corridor, back on track.
"I wanna lick em." You mumbled to yourself.
"Lick what?" Bucky grinned and you looked back up at him with wide eyes.
"Your muscles." You shrugged, "They look lickable, you're very lickable."
"Okay, sure." He smiled.
"If I lick it, is it mine?" You smiled playfully.
"What?" He mused as you reached your door, quickly pushing it open to get you into to your room.
"You never saw that meme?" You asked as he helped you over the threshold and guided you to sit on the edge of your bed.
"What the hell is a meme?" He grimaced, as though the word alone had personally offended him.
You chuckled loudly as he crossed his arms over his chest with a raised brow, "Sometimes I forget you're old."
"You forget." He repeated.
"Yeah cause you're just so you and handsome and sexy and moody." You giggled, "The old is just extra."
"Moody..." He grumbled before his eyes widened, "Wait, did you say sexy?"
"Mmhmmm very sexy." You nodded, dropping back onto your mattress with a dreamy expression on your face, "Sexy and very lickable."
Bucky looked over you with a smile, unable to contain his emotions at the thought of you finding him attractive. If only he had the courage to act on how he felt, to tell you how he felt about you.
"Right, time for bed." Bucky chuckled.
"But Bucky!" You moaned, sitting back up with a pout, "I don't wanna."
"Well you need to sleep." He replied sternly, though the smile remained on his lips.
"You're mean." You sassed like a toddler, folding your arms over your chest.
"Mean, moody, sexy." He shrugged, crossing the room to your chest of drawers to find you something to change into.
"You forgot annoying." You grunted at him.
"I'll add it to the list." He replied, as he dug through the drawer, fitting into your space like he belonged in it.
"Can I have your shirt?" You grinned suddenly.
"My shirt?" He responded, looking back over his shoulder at you with furrowed brows.
"Yeah I wanna sleep in it." You shrugged like it was the obvious answer.
"Why?" He grumbled.
"Cause it'll smell like you and I can pretend you're in bed with me, holding me." You smiled sweetly.
"Sweetheart..." Bucky breathed, ignoring the way his heart skipped a beat at your statement as he crossed back in front of you, "You're drunk."
"I know that." You pouted, "Doesn't mean I don't want your shirt."
"But you're saying a lot of things you might regret in the morning." He exhaled, running his palm through his hair.
"I've never regretted being in love with you." You said with furrowed brows as Bucky's body froze, "I just wish I could be enough for you too."
"You...you're in love..." He stuttered while you remained completely oblivious to the bombshell you'd just dropped.
"T-shirt!" You whined, extending your arms and flexing your hands to grab at him, "Gimme."
"Fine, fine." He conceded while his heart hammered and his mind raced.
He slipped the T-shirt over his head, passing it over to you and trying to hide his grin when you snatched it from him with a happy squeal.
You raised the fabric to your nose, inhaling deeply with a smile and a sigh, "God you smell so good, like home and sin."
You stumbled onto your feet, attempting to stand and Bucky threw his hand out, catching your elbow to steady you. You suddenly began to slip your own shirt over your body and he spun around so fast he created his own gust of wind.
"I'll just...face...over..yeah..." He swallowed thickly, already cataloguing the small patch of exposed skin he'd seen.
"Wait!" You yelled, stilling your hands.
"What?" Bucky rasped as he turned back to you worriedly, "Are you okay?"
You crossed the small space between you with a mischievous grin and quickly placed your tongue on his exposed chest, trailing it up between the valley of his pecks with a giggle.
"I licked you, so you're mine now." You grinned.
Bucky's mouth was agape, shock painting his features, until it turned into a shy smile, his cheeks and ears tinting red.
"Okay sweetheart." He smiled shyly, before turning back around to let you change.
You slid from your evenings clothes quickly, teetering on your feet like a newborn deer before slipping Bucky's shirt over your head, smiling when it dropped over your ass and you were surrounded in his scent.
You climbed into bed and settled under the duvet with a happy sigh while Bucky turned, assessing you with a nod before heading for the door.
"Bucky?" You called out to him shyly.
"Yeah?" He replied, glancing back at you over his shoulder.
"Will you come see me?" You mumbled, "In the morning? I'll wanna see you but sober me might be too shy to ask."
"Of course." He sighed, "I'll even bring coffee."
"You're the best Bucky." You smiled happily, before sinking further into the mattress, ready for sleep to take you.
"Goodnight sweetheart." Bucky sighed before leaving the room with a smile pulling at his lips.
"Hey you." Bucky grinned as he padded into your room the next morning, extending the to-go cup in his hand, "Coffee."
"Oh god...thank you." You groaned, sitting up on the bed and rubbing your forehead, "My head hurts."
"But being drunk is so fun." Bucky mocked with a smile as he dropped onto the bed next to you, "That's what you said."
"Asshole." You pouted, taking the cup from him and taking a large gulp before raising your brow at him suspiciously, "And why am I in your shirt?"
"You asked for it." Bucky chuckled, "Said you wanted to feel like I was wrapped around you."
"Oh god." You gasped as your face turned a deep marron and your ears went hot, "I'm so sorry."
"Don't be." He laughed before reminding himself that it was now or never, "And just so you know, you are good enough."
"Huh?" You breathed with furrowed brows, feeling heated from the way bucky was looking at you.
"For me, I mean." He confirmed softly, "You're more than good enough, I'm not good enough for you."
"I..you...what..." You stuttered, as you tried to follow what he was getting at.
"You told me you were in love with me." He announced and you felt your soul leave your body, eyes widening and mouth snapping shut in horror.
"I did?" You squeaked.
"You licked me." He grinned.
"Oh my god. I'm so sorry." You gasped, burying your face in your hands, "I'm so embarrassed."
"Don't be." He laughed again before his face softened, "Hey, look at me."
He pulled your hands away from your face, gazing at you with such affection that you thought your heart may combust. He reached out and gently tucked your hair behind your ear, before settling his palm along your jaw.
"You licked me, so I'm yours now, right?" He questioned, eyes flicking between your own and your lips.
"I...please...yes..." You breathed.
"Well then." He smiled and he began to close the gap between you, lips closing in on your own while your breath hitched and your heart skipped a beat.
His lips brushed against yours, pressing the softest kiss against them before he placed another on your cheek, when suddenly his tongue darted out, licking a stripe up the side of your face while you squealed and giggled.
"Bucky!" You giggled manically.
"What?" He chuckled, "Just returning the favour, now you're mine."
You smiled widely, eyes shimmering with glee despite the hangover trying to pierce through your skull.
Summary: You came in to work every day with a fun fact, determined to catch the BAU's genius with one that he wouldn't know (friends to lovers, co-workers to lovers, mutual feelings, fluff, confession)
Note: my spencer reid debut fic <3 sorry if there are any inaccuracy, just started rewatching after 3 years
Word count: 10.9k (sorry)
“Small facts lead to great knowing” - Patrick Rothfuss (2011)
“I can’t believe anybody would do something like this,” you commented whilst looking down at the two documents in your hands—your thoroughly highlighted case dossier and your finished report. Every new case always exhibits unimaginable horror and unfortunately, there will always be something worse than your current worst.
You turned to Spencer whilst perched cross-legged on the edge of his table.
The corner of the genius’s mouth curled at your words. They were the very same ones that sprouted daily despite the nature of your job. But to Spencer, there was a strange comfort in such small repetitive murmurs of disbelief.
“I gotta agree with Rossi. This job really includes some of the worst lunatics out there.” You sighed before straightening up at a sudden thought. “Actually, fun fact…” You noticed the way your words peeled Spencer’s attention from his report. He finally glanced up, eager for the second half of that sentence.
“The word lunatic was invented based on the belief that mental illnesses were affected by moon phases.” You beamed at the idea of potentially providing your genius friend with new knowledge.
“Yeah, and it actually originated from the Latin word ‘lunaticus,’ which means moonstruck or influenced by the moon. The word was first used for conditions like epilepsy or overall just madness,” Spencer replied, perking up at the thought of a potential conversation about this.
The excited smile on your face instantly faltered and you groaned in feigned annoyance. Perhaps you should have known better than to think you could out-fact Spencer and say something he had not already known.
“Is there anything you don’t know, Spence?” you glowered jokingly.
“Well, it’s hard when you’re a child prodigy and genius.” You let out a scoff-like laugh at Spencer’s cocky admission, but you knew he was joking. Despite his IQ of 187, Spencer rarely ever announced himself a genius. It was a title dubbed by those around him. You knew if you had Spencer’s brain, though, you would hardly ever stay as humble as him.
“I’ll get you someday.”
Your declaration drew a snort from another work desk and you twisted around to face the source of such a faithless sound.
“You don’t believe in me, Derek?” You arched a brow, your competitiveness rising to the surface.
“Sweet girl, I believe in you for many things, but this is just not one of them.”
“But surely there is one single fact out there that Spencer doesn’t know about.” Penelope piped up from next to Derek, defending you.
“We’re talking about the same Spencer, right? Spencer Reid? Three PhDs and an IQ of Einstein?” JJ spoke as she made her way down the bullpen.
“Actually, there is no way of measuring Einstein’s IQ as he never took the test, so to say that—” Derek quickly interrupted Spencer.
“Come on, pretty boy. She’s backing you up.”
“Sounds like grounds to start a betting pool going,” Rossi spoke up as he approached the whole group, briefcase in one hand, car keys in the other. “$20 says she’ll do it within four months.”
“I think she can do it within three months.” Emily chimed up from her desk.
“I’m placing my bet on eight months,” Penelope added confidently.
“Alright, and if she can’t do it within one year, JJ and I will split the win,” Derek announced before directing his next words to you, “Stakes are on, sweetheart.” He winked.
“Yeah, yeah. I got it.” You rolled your eyes before turning towards Spencer, declaring to him with exaggerated cockiness, “I’m gonna get you real soon, just wait.”
“You’re welcome to try.” The challenging glint in Spencer’s eyes met your own. Again, you knew better than to think that you would know something Spencer did not already know. He was practically the master of facts. But, unfortunately, you were incredibly bad at quitting.
So, let the challenge begin.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Did you know that Australia is wider than the moon?” you questioned the second you saw Spencer enter the office the next morning. “Fun fact.”
“Yes, diameter-wise. Australia is almost 4,000 kilometres wide, while the moon’s diameter is nearly 3,500 kilometres. However, in terms of their masses, the moon is still larger.” You sighed dramatically at Spencer’s reply before spinning your chair towards your computer, turning the device on.
“And day one status: unsuccessful,” you grunted to yourself, catching Spencer’s grin from your peripheral vision.
“Oh? It’s gonna be daily?”
“You bet your ass it’s gonna be. There’s a betting pool and I’m unfortunately too competitive for my own good.” You caught the amusement dancing in Spencer’s gaze.
“Well then, good luck.”
“Won’t need it.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Did you know a cloud can weigh like a million pounds?” You crossed your arms while peering at the cotton candy-like objects floating amidst the bright blue summer sky. “Fun fact.”
Both of you had your bulletproof vests on, leaning against a car while waiting for JJ to finish speaking to the press before driving back to the precinct. Another case wrapped. Another unsub locked up.
Under the nice weather, you had your cap and Spencer’s sunglasses on, having forgotten yours. He had heavily insisted so, even after you had declined a handful of times.
You turned and looked at Spencer briefly. Though, for a split second, your body stilled as the sun played in his favor, casting nice highlights to his woodsy colored locks. The light crinkle of his nose and his squinting eyes made your lips curl, cause once again, it showcased just how self-sacrificing Spencer can be when it came to the people close to him.
“Yeah, because they contain different states of matter like trillions of condensed water droplets and ice crystals. Its weight is equivalent to the world’s largest aircraft working at full capacity. Though despite its heaviness, clouds have lower density in comparison to the dry air around them, enabling them to float in the same way as oil floats on water.” Spencer tried to maintain eye contact with you despite the blaring sun shining into his eyes.
“Hmm…” you pursed your lips before removing your navy blue cap and placing it on your friend’s head. This cast a shadow over his eyes, blocking the harsh sun from blinding his vision. “Beautiful weather to fail at winning this fun fact thing again.”
Spencer didn’t reject the clothing item.
Some time in the history of human beings, the act of sporting others’ clothing items—especially of the opposite gender—had been made to seem important. Spencer has never understood the significance in such a small exchange. But as your hat landed on his head, Spencer felt an added weight that was beyond the small clothing item.
Neither did he have it in him to adjust how you had left the cap on him, even if it didn’t sit on his head perfectly.
“I still have time to get you,” you continued after a moment of silence.
“359 days left.”
“More than enough.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
The clock was close to hitting 11pm. The whole team was taking a short break for a fresh perspective. Most were on their phones or taking a quick nap, but Spencer and you were playing a round of cards.
“Did you know ketchup used to be medicine? Fun fact.”
Both Emily’s and Derek’s watchful gaze panned from you to Spencer, anticipating his reaction to your daily shot at winning the bet.
“Around the 1830s, yeah. They marketed it as a cure for various ailments such as indigestion and diarrhea.”
Emily instantly groaned at Spencer’s reply while Derek snickered. Once again, Spencer already knew the information you provided, just like the 13 previous times.
“See? Not a single thing he doesn’t know,” Derek chirped up, earning him a glare from the co-worker beside him.
You finally placed your next card down, instantly eying Spencer, wanting a read of his reaction to your play. There was a distant look in his eyes, a clear indication that he was taking this game just as seriously as you were.
Your eyes swept over the rest of your opponent. The un-neat edges in his usually tidy work attire and the way his hair stuck in different directions had your lips curling. They were details that only unveil during late work hours after a long day. But strangely enough, there was something endearing about the slight tiredness in his eyes and the way his cardigan hung disheveledly on him.
“I won.”
Your eyes snapped to the pile of cards on the table at Spencer’s declaration.
“What?! No way. You must have cheated.”
“Now, now, don’t be a sore loser just because pretty boy over here won,” Derek teased you, despite also highly suspecting that Reid had cheated.
“Are we talking about the same pretty boy who is banned from many Vegas casinos because of his expert skill in counting cards?” JJ countered, placing her phone down.
Your co-workers’ discourse began fading out of your focus as Spencer took out a ticket from his bag and handed it to you with a cheeky grin. With hesitation, you took the paper begrudgingly. You knew you had to hold your end of the deal. You had lost, after all.
You glanced back at the winner of the card game, catching his toothy grin at your sulking manners. Against all maturity, you poked your tongue out in petulance, but such childish action had Spencer laughing quietly in his spot, eyes gleaming with fondness.
“Sore loser.”
“Cheater.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
Hotch halted in his tracks upon spotting you and Reid in the break room.
Both of your heads were side by side, just a hair short from touching, fighting to have adequate sight of the newspaper that the two of you were sharing. Each of you also sported a pen in hand, scribbling hastily onto the delicate paper with vigorous competitiveness.
The unit chief entered to refill his coffee, though his eyes continued investigating you two. In the narrow gap between your heads, Hotch caught sight of Spencer rapidly filling out a crossword puzzle. Meanwhile, just as fast, you were solving a Sudoku piece that resided on the same page.
“Did you know, like fingerprints, people also have unique tongue prints?” you murmured, eyes still glued onto the puzzle in front of you. “Fun fact.”
“Yeah, humans have unique color, tongue shape, and textural features, therefore making it a great form of identification. However, we currently do not have the suitable technology to capture intricate surface details of tongue prints. Also, switching costs are high partially because the idea of having to stick one's tongue out in public for authentication can be seen as rather awkward, unhygienic, and undignifying.”
You pursed your lips at another unsuccessful day. But such expression vanished when you dropped your pen on the table and declared with unadulterated joy:
“Done!”
Your victory drew a defeated noise from Spencer.
“Imagine though, having to stick your tongue out at airport immigration and place it onto a public scanner or something like that.” You cackled at Spencer's grimace and the way his body slightly shivered from such a mental image. Eventually though, your laugh reduced to a teasing smile.
Spencer’s gaze lowered to the little crinkle that appeared around your eyes as you smiled, before holding eye contact with you. Spencer knew there was no such thing as “eyes twinkling,” but you had him doubting that scientifically established truth for a second. It was lighting and he knew that, but he had to admit that he could finally somewhat understand why poets and writers were so obsessed with dedicating lines towards such a tiny detail.
Because even though there was no reason for him to, his own lips began to curl, mirroring the smile on your face.
From behind you both, Aaron Hotchner took a sip of his coffee before departing the room. Though on his way out, his eyes glinted a knowing look, while his lips lifted just the slightest bit before schooling back to a neutral expression again.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Did you know that back then, when raising a toast, people would literally drop a piece of toast into their wine?” you blurted out the second you slid yourself into the empty seat opposite Spencer at his breakfast table. Never have you ever skipped free hotel breakfast and today was no exception.
“Well, hello to you too.” Spencer grinned at your straight-to-business behavior.
He carefully placed the coffee he made for you into your hand—a casual daily routine. You took a good whiff of the comforting aroma before humming at the first taste. It was exactly how you liked it: a dash of milk along with two and a quarter teaspoon of sugar.
To date, Spencer has never asked how you liked your coffee.
He simply has always gotten it right.
It was not hard to guess that he had learnt your preferences from watching you make your coffee in the past. But you could not help but wonder if he took mental notes on others the same way he did with you. However, like every other time, you dismissed it as an occupational habit. Every member has been trained to be observant and notice little details. Spencer probably knew everybody’s coffee preferences.
“It actually originated from Ancient Rome, and back then, toast was an act to honor the gods and people would pour wine onto the floor. However, the custom evolved in many ways over time, depending on geographic regions. Around the 1600s, it became a common custom in England and this is where people would put a piece of spiced toast into their wine. They did it to improve the flavor of their beverage and also to “toast” to good health.”
Spencer caught your hum of satisfaction at the coffee and instantly felt pleased.
Science has long documented humans as naturally validation-seeking creatures. Your existence often humbled him from thinking he was not a recurring participant in that particular human instinct.
His eyes fell from you to your coffee—a particular mix that has ingrained itself into his memory since your first meeting. Funny that some time since then, he could no longer look at the beverage without ever thinking of you.
Neither could Spencer for the life of him recite the coffee order of anybody else at the BAU.
“36 days down…” you murmured, already picturing yourself rummaging the internet for more fun facts tonight.
“Maybe tomorrow.” The words came out softly, almost encouragingly. You hummed before matching his tone.
“Maybe.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Flies rub their hands as a sanitizing act, rather clean for an insect commonly associated with dirty places, no?” you murmured before peering up from your book whilst curled up in your seat on the BAU’s jet.
“Yes, it’s a self-grooming act. They do this primarily for two reasons. First and foremost, it’s because their legs are their flavour receptors, so they rub their front legs to ensure they can taste when eating. The other motivation is to remove dust and debris, therefore, ensuring survival.”
Your bottom lip jutted out slightly at another unsuccessful attempt.
“I’ll get you tomorrow…” you murmured with a teasing smile before re-immersing yourself in the fantasy world of your current novel.
Reading has become your escapism and method of self-grounding prior to any case. You tried to plunge into fictional worlds while flying to prepare yourself for the terrible realities that accompanied upcoming cases. Though at one point, Spencer started joining in. But instead of having his own book, he would lean over and scan your current page with unrealistic speed while you leisurely let each letter sink in. It became a routine that occupied your journey from Quantico, whereas on the way back, Spencer and you maintained your tradition of engaging in chess matches.
Spencer spotted your finger flipping the page once more and his eyes instantly swept over the printed words hastily.
Twenty thousand words per minute. That was Spencer’s known reading speed, which meant in merely two seconds or three, he was already done with the two pages in front of you both. As always, you were still reading at your own pace, unhurried. He knew he could adopt a slower speed to enjoy your chosen fictional literature. But lately, he found himself in a hurry, rushing himself to finish pages in a way that made him think maybe he was now above his previously established reading speed.
Why?
His gaze flicked over to you, mulling over the familiar details that made you, you. He studied the way your fingers trace the fore-edge of the book mindlessly, lingering on the way you tease your lips with your teeth as you registered the adventure that the story was taking you on. Spencer caught the slight shift in the space between your eyebrows and how they slightly twitch according to plot progression, displaying your commitment to your reading content.
Spencer would not classify himself as a people watcher, despite his necessary observant and analytical traits as a profiler. Yet, somehow, watching you had become one of his favorite quiet activities. In your little habits were his comfort. In moments when cases were overwhelming, his eyes have made a tendency to land on you. The spike in his heartbeat would normalize, whilst rapid thoughts would regulate. It was only in moments when Spencer would get caught by you that he would tear his gaze away sheepishly, before attempting to pretend that he was looking elsewhere instead.
The sound of paper rustling pulled Spencer out of his mind, and he instantly plunged himself into the same self-established cycle again.
And despite his fondness for literature, for once, it did not hold a candle in his eyes.
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“Cows have best friends, how great is that?”
Spencer stopped eating his ice cream the second he spotted someone passing the two of you in a cow onesie, giving away why you decided on that particular fun fact. His eyes fell back on you, glimmering with amusement.
“Yes, cows do have a ‘best friend’ who they tend to share spaces and rest side by side with. Research shows that when separated, these cows would show signs of stress and anxiety with higher heart rates.”
You hummed at that. By now, you were used to his immediate expansion on your facts, no longer surprised or disappointed every time he added onto your words.
In fact, you fondly looked forward to hearing what he had to say about whatever fact you would sprout. There was a deep sense of appreciation that you have grown for this challenge. You felt like, intellectually, your general knowledge had expanded immensely, both from researching fun facts to tell Spencer and also from the informative responses that you would receive from him.
“You know, cows also can develop what some may refer to as ‘accents.’ Research observed variations in their moos based on different regions and herds.” Spencer leaned closer to you before adding cheekily, “Fun fact.”
“Nuh uh, don’t go stealing my line. You’re not allowed to put me out of business.”
This tore a laugh out of Spencer, and you immediately bit back a smile at such a sound.
If humans have the ability to bottle noises for keepsake, you know now what sound you would try to capture.
Surprisingly, this was only the second time that Spencer and you had spent time together one-on-one out of work.
With the working hours at the BAU that forced you and all your co-workers to be in close proximity for an extensive amount of time, you tend to allocate your scarce free time to those who were outside of your work circle. But something about spending time with Spencer today had struck you with an epiphany:
You really, really wanted to see Spencer outside of work more often.
Both your phones started ringing at the same time.
“Penelope, is everything okay?” you answered quietly.
“Emily?” Spencer whispered at the same time into his phone.
After a few seconds, you both ended your respective phone calls before slowly turning to face each other again. You scanned yours and Spencer’s outfit before sighing.
“There’s not enough time to go home and change.” The devastation in your voice was imminent.
“I know.”
A few minutes later, both of you entered the office, and almost instantly, the noise level declined significantly as the whole team paused their actions. You winced, knowing immediately that you two were about to be the butt of many incoming jokes.
“Whoa, what time period did you guys travel back from?” Emily teased.
“We were at a convention, okay?” You huffed, picking up your go-bag from under your desk for a change of clothes.
“And you two are dressed up as…?” Rossi crossed his arms, undoubtedly amused.
The team scanned over both of your outfits. Spencer was wearing a brown fedora hat, an oxblood colored corduroy jacket, and grey pants. Despite the only semi-chilly weather, he also sported a colorful striped knitted scarf around his neck. As for you, you were in an all pink attire, but what stood out was your long pink coat, high pink boots, and long white scarf.
“The fourth doctor and Romana II, from Doctor Who,” Spencer answered, grabbing his go bag.
Derek’s eyes comedically bulged out at that, and he immediately spun his chair towards you. “Blink twice if Reid is blackmailing you with something to make you go to this convention with him.” You laughed at his remark.
“Listen, remember the card game I lost two months ago? That’s why I had to go, but when I actually started the show, I really enjoyed it.” You raised your hands in surrender.
“Oh, we lost another one. She got Reid-ified,” Derek exclaimed dramatically before placing a hand on his chest in jest heartbreak, grinning at your eye roll.
By now, Spencer had returned to your side with his go-bag. Though just as you two turned around to head off and change, an abrupt flash halted you both in your steps. Blinking away the after-effect of the blinding light, you saw Penelope with her phone facing you two and a cheeky grin on her face.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Delete that,” you immediately instructed, hands on your hips while your brows furrowed in fussiness. You then sucked in a deep breath and used your hand to comb through your hair before a smile broke your feigned annoyed expression. “I was not ready.”
Then, with dramatic flair, you posed properly for the camera, grabbing Spencer’s scarf exaggeratedly with both hands while tugging him lightly.
Spencer was unsure if his knees had buckled due to a slight loss of balance or from your proximity. He glanced at the camera, face slightly flushed, before witnessing another flash go off, evidencing his blush and putting it on record.
Your hands were gone from his scarf like a breeze.
“Alright, I’m gonna go change now.” By the time Spencer registered your words, you were already gone. All that was left at the spot you previously occupied was his attention. Spencer's eyes eventually moved when he heard a quiet giggle from Penelope, who was indescribably entertained by the dazed look on his face.
The tech expert slowly angled her phone towards Spencer to show what she had captured, and she carefully observed Spencer’s contemplative gaze. His eyes landed on you first, and they softened at the sight of your beaming face. They then traced the slope of your smile and the crinkle of your eyes before reluctantly trailing down to your hands and the way they bossily clung onto his scarf.
The sentiment of pictures has always been just a concept to Spencer Reid. He does understand the logic behind people’s attachment to colored captures of moments and why people have ‘important’ photos in their wallets or have framed physical copies. But personally, he rarely ever practiced it. Yet, in this precise moment, he suddenly wanted to begin.
Without even looking at himself in the photo, Spencer murmured to Penelope:
“Can you send that to me, please? Thank you.”
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“Where is she?” Derek’s gaze darted up to his friend. One glance at Spencer and the man already knew who he was referring to.
“Garcia said she called in sick this morning. Why?”
“Nothing.”
Derek scanned over Spencer from head to toe properly this time. Realisation flashed through his eyes before the man smirked as he looked back down at his work.
Ah, the perks of being a profiler.
“Sure, pretty boy.”
“What was that loo—”
The sound of Spencer’s phone ringing interrupted his question. He took the device out of his pocket, and the phone almost flew out of his hand when he saw your name flashing on the screen. He immediately picked up and placed the device beside his ear, breathing out your name in greeting.
Instead of your usual cheery tone, Spencer was met with a muffled voice and snifflings.
Immediately, his body stiffened.
“Are you okay?” He was by his desk within seconds. His fingers grazed over his jacket, as if prepared to scoop the clothing up and dash out of the office if your answer indicated any distress.
“My nose is blocked. Both sides. It’s horrendous,” then came a dramatic sigh, “I’m becoming a mouth breather, Spence.”
Your melodrama tore a laugh from Spencer’s throat.
Derek’s lips curled discreetly at the noise.
“Anyway, don’t think you can escape your daily fun fact just because I’m not physically in the office.” Spencer was glad you were not physically with him, because if you were, you would have seen the idiotic grin stretching his face. But how could he not smile at your stubborn resilience, and the cute sound of your nasally voice that was slightly more high-pitched than normal.
“You’re sick, and you took a day off work, but not off the fun fact thing?”
“In sickness and in health, as they say.”
Spencer accidentally snorted at your words and immediately cleared his throat in an attempt to cover it.
Derek’s brows scrunched at that.
“Apparently, while wired to specific scientific machines and whatnot, two lucid dreamers can have two-way communication in real time. How cool is that?” Spencer hummed fondly at your words before sitting down, his plan to flee from office hours long gone.
“That’s quite a recent fun fact. The study was recently concluded just about two years ago,” his voice came out soft as he focused on any sound that the technological device beside his ear could carry over from your end.
He caught your hum, though the sound resembled the same one you always did while sitting next to him on the jet as the team flew back to Quantico. The noise that often preceded the soft landing of your head on his shoulder and the way he’d sit straighter up to accommodate you entirely despite his germaphobia-led touch aversion.
“You should sleep and rest,” he whispered, despite wanting to hear your voice for longer. But selflessness came easy when you were in consideration.
Spencer carefully began listing all the things you ought to do later to get better. But halfway through, he noticed the lack of noise from the other end, except for your rhythmic breathing, signaling your sound asleep state. Spencer sighed before removing the phone from his ear. He stared at the device in long contemplation before clicking the end call button.
Finally placing down the device that signified his only contact with you today, Spencer flipped open today’s case dossier. However, he found himself re-reading the first sentence over and over again. His eyes kept scanning over the same words, and he felt the way they slid past his comprehension the same way small external details occasionally would escape his notice whenever he spent time with you.
Spencer’s mind kept trailing back to the phone call and to you.
It’s familiarity—he tried to tell himself. Humans were, afterall, creatures of habit, and considering you have been swirled into his daily routine like a necessity, it made sense that the lack of your presence had set him off balance.
Eventually, Spencer got up and went to the break room for coffee. But the second he opened the cupboard and his eyes landed on your mug, he felt his mouth run dry.
For the past one and a half years, he has always made two cups of coffee instead of one at the start of each day.
His eyes darted to his mug right next to yours. The idea of separating them sent some sort of ache in his heart, even if logically they were just ceramic vessels.
Perhaps he had mislabeled what missing someone meant all along, because your absence was bringing a hollowness that nobody had managed to carve out of him before. It was the kind of emptiness that made him feel incomplete, as if a piece of himself was not with him. Yet, as opposed to the expected numbness that often accompanied such a feeling, Spencer felt every second of your absence with a constant stinging ache that felt too akin to withdrawal symptoms.
Eventually, Spencer shut the cupboard and returned to his desk, coffee-less.
That evening after work, Spencer made a detour instead of going straight home, missing the way his friends huddled together, exchanging hushed whispers about his departure.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
Twenty two hours, forty eight minutes, and thirty one seconds.
Spencer witnessed as time quietly slipped through the cracks of his remaining strength.
The whole bullpen lacked the life his work family usually colored in. The janitor had long shut off the main lights, so the only thing illuminating the space near Spencer was his desk lamp. Everybody else had gone home except for Hotch, but the unit chief was in his office, leaving Spencer as the last man standing in the bullpen.
After a few more ticks, Spencer finally tore his gaze from the timing instrument and glided his vision back down to the pen in his hand, forcing it to ink his unfinished report, but words refused to string together.
Spencer’s free hand began tapping his desk rhythmically in a pathetic attempt to comfort himself.
Twenty two hours, fifty one minutes, and twenty one seconds.
Spencer wanted to say that it didn’t matter. Why should it? But he knew damn well that the answer was because the team mattered to him.
However, perspective was truly a funny thing. Someone could be your number one priority, and you barely just made it in their list.
Spencer averted his gaze from the unfinished report to the brand new photo frame on his desk, where a captured version of the recent memory of you two as Doctor Who characters resided.
It did not take a genius to see that you two were closer to one another than with others on the team. However, the fun fact challenge had truly unlocked another level of bond. It was the kind of connection that meant he had started placing you above the others, a position that implied he also expected more from you, cause perhaps he thought you had also valued him just as much as he treasured you in his mind.
So as much as the whole team was the source of his dismay, there was a spotlight reserved for your absence, one that was beyond glaring and punched his guts in ways that others could not.
His eyes traced your face in the photograph again, like they had done every morning since he had gotten the picture framed.
Oftentimes, you could never be absolutely sure where you stand in someone’s life.
Twenty two hours, fifty nine minutes, and ten seconds.
A resigned breath escaped the narrow gap between his lips.
With more effort than it usually took, Spencer got on his feet, hoping that another cup of coffee would be the cure for his inefficiency. He slowly placed more weight on one side of his body to turn around. At the same time, Spencer began rubbing his face in hopes that exhaustion and melancholy would push themselves aside for a brief moment so that he could finish this impending task.
When Spencer finally reopened his eyes to navigate the darkness, he froze at the sight that was once behind him.
Eight steps away was you, looking like a deer caught in headlights.
Then came your escaped nervous laughter, like you were scared of screwing up, but that was only because you were unaware that you could almost never do wrong in Spencer’s eyes. His heart—which Spencer’s brain has been having a harder time controlling lately—provided you with a much larger margin for error than anybody else.
Your gentle tone filled the fragile silence that was intertwined with suspense.
“Fun fact, birthday cakes are traditionally round as an Ancient Greek tradition to resemble the moon for the goddess Artemis.” Your eyes crinkled as your lips curled into that familiar smile that had previously held Spencer powerless on numerous occasions. “Happy Birthday, Spence.”
There you were, cake in hand after a long day of work on a gruesome case.
There you were, with a homemade cake after a long day of him thinking everybody had forgotten his birthday, or more importantly, that you had forgotten.
But maybe his probability was not entirely against him.
“I know I’m quite late, but trust me, there’s an explanation. When I got to the office this morning, I realized that I had forgotten your cake at home. I was planning to grab it after work, but the case kept us all back so late, and then traffic was super bad because of a concert today. But hey, I got the cake now, and I really hope you like it.”
You peered down at your own baking product and the slightly wonky penmanship before turning your eyes back onto Spencer.
“Also, since it’s your birthday, I’ll give you a bonus fun fact. There are roughly 30,000 people who have their birthdays on October 12th in the States, but…”
Your voice fell quiet as your eyes diverted back to the cake again.
“You’re my favorite October 12th.”
And right at that second, all of Spencer’s previous attempts at rationalising his feelings via scientific explanations collapsed. For once, science could no longer shield him, because as much as it was a field built on facts of concrete evidence, there was also an undeniable truth: he liked you.
It might not be rational, but it was still a fact, and that alone terrified Spencer.
And while he was your favorite October 12th, you were his favorite every day.
Spencer glanced down at the handmade cake and the singular purple candle pierced in the center. The tiny flame provided just enough light for the space between you both. His eyes then flicked back onto you, and they softened.
God, you were so clueless about the effect your actions have on him and his whole world.
One breath extinguished the fire, and grey smoke fluttered into the air.
Then, for the first time since he saw you five minutes ago, Spencer managed to form the only words he felt were worthy enough of your time.
“Thank you.”
Even if the significance behind those words didn’t reach you today, it was okay. But they carry the weight of his whole heart and every unspoken reason behind his gratefulness.
Thank you for not forgetting about him today. Thank you for always being so kind and paying attention to the details about him. Thank you for being such an important part of his life. Thank you for choosing the exact career path that you did to lead you to him. Thank you for existing.
And someday, maybe Spencer Reid will gather enough courage to tell you all of this.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
You halted in your step, and almost immediately Spencer followed suit. His eyesight followed yours, and he instantly knew what you were gonna ask from him.
“Come on, can you play for me? Please?” you urged, and it didn’t take more than your pleading face to make him approach the instrument that lay abandoned in the corner of the hotel where the whole team was staying.
Saying “no” became a significantly harder task for Spencer ever since he realised what kind of position his feelings were in when it came to you. It especially felt like an impossible task when your words came in that pleading tone and the smile that had him wishing stopping time was one of his abilities.
You followed Spencer and leaned against the instrument eagerly. You observed as he lightly cracked his knuckles, eying the mixture of ivory and ink-dark keys with a calculative gaze before placing his fingers delicately on them while his foot pressed gently on one of the pedals at the base.
For a moment, you wondered what Spencer would play. Maybe one of the classical pieces he liked a lot. Perhaps Bach? Or—
A familiar tune overtook the pleasant quietness in the empty hotel lobby, and recognition struck you with every flawless execution of each note.
First off, you knew he was a liar, saying he only dabbled in piano. But what caught you off-guard was hearing the piano version of your favorite song.
It was things like this that made you conclude that Spencer Reid was one of the sweetest individuals you have ever had the privilege to know. From making you coffee daily to hunting down first editions of your favorite books (the most recent one in which he handed over along with soup the day you got sick and were off work). Now, he was learning your favorite song on the piano.
Lucky felt like an inadequate word to describe your position in life when Spencer was in the equation.
Only when he finished the very modern composition did you speak up.
“I thought you only listened to classical?”
“I…did,” was all that came out of Spencer’s mouth, but it was enough for you to catch his implication that he had learnt this song specifically on the piano for you.
Spencer sniffled, diverting his gaze from you shyly as he inspected the keys in front of him again.
Ever since his birthday, Spencer could constantly feel the urge to confess right on the tip of his tongue while his lips trembled in self-control to keep them to himself for now. According to the internet and its various articles, he should try to ‘woo’ you first, and hence these actions instead of confessing right away. He wondered if you got his message. He wondered if you could tell this was his version of flirting. However, Spencer also knew that he had accidentally portrayed himself as an extremely sweet friend from your perspective, so thoughtful actions with the aim of impressing you romantically were most likely ruled as platonic gestures.
You began toying with the ring on your middle finger, the flattery from his sweet action manifested itself through the heat beneath your cheeks. For the first time in your almost three years of friendship with Spencer, you were struck by a minor nerve-wracking sensation. There was also a fleeting stutter in your chest that you decisively ignored.
You moved on with a quiet murmur.
“You know, humans owe squirrels a lot. They have planted at least thousands of trees.” You gave him a soft smile when his eyes met yours again. “It’s accidental, but no less a noble act contributing to the environment.”
“Yeah, they would bury nuts for later usage, but forget their locations. Many forgotten nuts can grow into trees, therefore, contributing to forest regeneration.”
“Anddd another fun fact failure.” You groaned, though your expression melted into a smile when you heard Spencer chuckle at that.
“We should head up. It’s getting late.”
You nodded in agreement and began walking, but looked back briefly at Spencer. “But it’s not too late for an episode of Doctor Who, right?”
An outstretched grin spread across Spencer’s face at your words.
“Never.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“No way.” You were speechless as you made way out of Spencer’s car, staring at the building in front of you in disbelief. “Don’t tell me…”
“Yeah, it’s for your favorite film,” Spencer confirmed your suspicion.
“So, it didn’t matter that I had lost, huh?”
Shortly after your Doctor Who convention together, Spencer had invited you to this event that was two and a half months after. Though he insisted on keeping the details a secret, relaying only the dress code—smart casual, but whatever you were most comfortable with.
The secretive factor of the whole ordeal had you guessing in suspense for the entire two months, but now that you were here, you fully understood why.
This was the event that you both would have gone to instead of the Doctor Who convention if you had won that game of cards.
An orchestra movie concert of your favourite movie.
Spencer sucked in a deep breath, fingers toying with the loose threads of his cardigan. There he went again, attempting to present to you that he was an option—the best one, at that—and giving signals that he was pursuing you. He has read at least five hundred online articles on the art of flirting in the past week alone. If Derek ever found his online searching history, Reid would never live it down.
“God, this is the best thing ever.” Seeing how pleased you were with his action made Spencer want to physically preen with pride.
Once you two had settled down inside, you took a couple of photos and observed your surroundings. You looked around at your neighboring audiences before averting your gaze to the empty chairs that were soon to be filled by instrumental experts. Your body was flooded with excitement at the prospect of finally being at this event.
You decided to chime in with your daily fun fact just minutes before the concert was due to start.
“Did you know that there’s a planet that is ⅓ made of diamonds?” you whispered.
“55 Cancri e, right?” he matched your volume, shifting in the chair beside you to make himself comfortable.
“Yeah, that one,” you confirmed, turning your head back to him. “Go on, I know you have details on it.” You encouraged, shifting yourself into a comfortable position as well.
“55 Cancri e is a super-Earth exoplanet, approximately twice the size of Earth, though roughly eight times heavier in terms of mass. First sighted and discovered in 2004, scientists have found that it is a very hot and rocky planet with a molten lava ocean surface due to its incredibly close orbit to its star…”
You were leaning into your palm while listening to him, clinging onto every word as they absorbed into your brain. The space you left in between you both out of consideration for Spencer gradually lessened as he leaned in closer the more he talked. His tone, too, grew more quiet as he went on, as if the information he was telling you did not exist in some cyclopaedia, but a secret passed in full trust.
The corners of your lips curled at the twinkle in Spencer’s eyes as he detailed out knowledge that previously sat in the corner of his brain, collecting dust.
Spencer’s intellectual rambling will always be one of your favorite things about him. You loved hearing him talk and the way he enunciated each syllable so clearly, as well as his wordings and his tonal patterns. You should have gotten used to it by now, but it marvelled you every single time that you had the chance to listen to him talk about things you would rely on an internet search to know. Just like usual, today was no different.
Spencer Reid was remarkable. It was almost impossible to take your eyes off him when he talked. He was a bundle of many things that made him an individual worth a lifetime of getting to know.
You wondered if you were looking at him a little bit too fondly right now. But how could you not when he was whispering sweet facts to you as if he only wanted you to know of it? It felt almost as if this fun fact challenge had turned into a sacred tradition between you two.
“Even though it is widely said that the planet is ⅓ of diamond, this is actually still only a theory and yet to be proven. So, to dub it the Diamond Planet when they’re not even sure if there are diamonds on the planet itself is like…suspecting you are a quarter or half French and then introducing yourself as French to people anyway.”
Your laughter burst out unfiltered, and you instantly grounded yourself by clearing your throat and pulling yourself away from Spencer slightly, putting yourself on timeout.
That was kind of embarrassing.
The joke was slightly funny, but nowhere close to warranting that kind of laughter.
It sort of reminded you of the videos you have seen on the internet about the kind of laugh that people would let out in reaction to their crush’s jok—
Oh.
You subtly slid deeper into your chair as thoughts shot in your mind at a hundred miles per second. Your fingers immediately curled into your palms to dig at it. You could not look back at Spencer in fear that he would notice that something was wrong.
Oh God.
But were you really surprised though?
A part of you had seen it coming, because as much as you adore all your co-workers, you knew in the bottom of your heart that Spencer was the only one you were willing to lessen your sleeping hours to prolong hanging out and conversing with. Also, to be immune to such sweet actions, you would have to be some statue made of stone. For years now, Spencer had intently taken time to know you and go out of his way just to make you happy. If anything, you were grateful that your heart had picked someone so kind and worthy to give itself away to.
You glanced at Spencer from the corner of your eyes, and just the sight of him alone had your heart hiccupping in a way that you had become familiar with for the past month. It was the kind of stutter that you had outright been trying to ignore and written off as nothing. But unlike all the previous times, you knew you could no longer deny that man next to you was the reason for such palpitations.
And maybe it was also time to face it: you like Spencer Reid, your genius of a friend and very much also a profiler.
Your eyes snapped away from him the moment you realized the significance of playing it cool. You could not have him picking up the signs and figuring out that you have feelings for him. But then again, you have seen how clueless he was around women who were hitting on him and failing to pick up their signals. So, maybe he would not notice your current body language either.
Before you could think more on the matter, the lights dimmed and instruments began stringing together in a well-rehearsed manner. It was only then that you began breathing again, relieved that you had two hours to collect your thoughts and come to terms with the newly attained knowledge about yourself.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Alright, what’s the fun fact of today?” you heard Spencer’s voice before peering up and seeing him behind your chair, hands on the back of the furniture, looking down at you with a shy smile. The sight of his adorable expression made your cheeks heat up, and you had to avert your gaze to prevent him from spotting signs of your flustered state.
The other members just boarded the jet as well, settling into their own spots after a tiring case. You were much less the same, sporting the now more noticeable eye bags that matched Spencer’s. Yet, that does not deter his gaze from the warmth they hold.
You gestured to Spencer’s usual seat right next to you. Once he had settled down, you made your next move on his chessboard, resuming your current ongoing match with him. You could see the instant way the cogs in his brain started spinning. At that, you provided your fun fact of the day, hoping it would serve as a distraction.
“You know, I read that there are more possible variations of chess games than the number of atoms in the universe.”
“Yeah, it’s known as the Shannon number—the number of possible chess games, I mean, which is 10120. Meanwhile, the estimated number of atoms in the observable universe is 1080to 1082.”
He made his move, catching your discreet yawn in the corner of his eyes.
“Fascinating, isn’t it?” The weight behind your eyes turned them half-lidded. They landed on the chessboard, trying to formulate the next best move, but your brain refused to cooperate as a fog of sleepiness overclouded your judgments.
“You don’t have to play now, you know. We can just play next time.”
“No, no. Give me a second, I’ll make my move.”
“You’re tired.”
You slowly turned your head towards Spencer, and there it was again. You caught the concern leaking from his gaze, and it instantly reminded you just how caring Spencer was to those in his life and especially you. Your mouth formed a tired yet grateful smile at his expressed worry.
You felt sorry for those who have never had the opportunity to be the subject of his affections.
For a split second, you pondered the kind of doting that Spencer would do if he were pursuing someone romantically. You have never seen him express interest in any woman during your time at the BAU, despite the advances he has gotten from various good-looking women. But if he was already this sweet platonically, you were fairly certain your heart would give out at what he had in mind as romance.
Your shoulders finally slumped before a truthful sigh escaped from you. “Yeah.”
Unlike usual, where you would fall asleep and land on his shoulder while you were knocked out, he outright shifted to sit up straighter for you, offering his shoulder.
Spencer never admitted it out loud, but he had foolishly started wanting the friction of your skin against his or the fabric of his belongings. It was an impossible he thought would never occur, but here he was, anticipating the next rare moment of physical touch beside the one where his shoulder would become your pillow.
Of course, he had noticed it—your lack of touch when it came to him. He was devastatingly aware of your mindfulness of his germaphobia, and Spencer was grateful, he really was. However, your reservation to accommodate his tendencies had begun feeling like deprivation. In fact, Spencer could count on one hand the amount of times you had ever touched him deliberately, with the last one being one hundred and sixty three days ago.
But it was that particular initiative factor that Spencer deeply yearned for. He craved and awaited for a touch made with purpose.
He wanted you to mean it.
You stilled at such a small action, gaze stopping on his shoulder. You did not want to over-interpret such a simple movement, but knowing Spencer, there were implications and significance in that little offering.
You knew it had become a recurring thing. As embarrassed as you were, you could not help the fact that you were the type to move around a lot in your sleep. You had tried using an airplane pillow, leaning against the wall, and so many other methods. However, most of the time, you would still wake up on Spencer’s shoulder before instantly jolting up and freeing him from the physical touch.
But the certainty on Spencer’s face left your rejection stuck in your throat.
Hesitantly, you began shifting closer, giving Spencer just enough time to retract the offer if he wanted to. But he stayed confidently still as your head started leaning down before finally landing on his shoulder.
One single small action had Spencer questioning how much longer he could go on like this. How much longer could he keep these feelings tightly locked and concealed? Because Spencer was utterly gone for you. Gone in the kind of way where one casual compliment from you about the cardigan he was wearing had him immediately putting the item into his clothing rotation a lot more frequently.
“I’m gonna get you some day, Spence…” Spencer watched as you drifted to sleep before closing his own eyes, all while he wished the flight back would last forever.
Unbeknownst to you both, the team exchanged knowing looks and discreet smiles at the sight they were witnessing. There had been nothing more obvious to them than this, but instead of intervening, they decided to let things play its course.
Because, despite the uncertain nature surrounding the occurrence of events in life, this was the one thing everybody was sure was inevitable.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏
The jet finally arrived back at Quantico around 11pm. Spencer had finished his report a few minutes before you did, but lingered behind as usual to wait for you. About two weeks ago, he had established a new routine between you both.
“Ready?” Spencer carefully peeled your bag from your hand, checking his watch to see that it was already past midnight, marking a new day.
“Yeah…” you breathed out tiredly, eager to collapse in bed. “More than ready.”
You like to think you have kept it cool well, in general. But Spencer’s new routine of walking you to your car after work had you a nail tip away from laying all your cards bare and revealing your feelings. Even on days when you finished your report first, he would walk you to your car before returning to the office. But the thing was:
Spencer Reid rarely ever drove to work, which meant he was going to the employee parking lot every day with you for no reason.
Well, for no reason but you.
The elevator began making its descent from the sixth floor with both of you inside. You were listening carefully as Spencer discussed an academic paper he had read last night. The doors soon jerked open, revealing the fairly empty parking lot. At the sight of your car, you subtly began slowing down your steps, biting back a smile when you noticed him mirroring your change of pace.
You observed as he animatedly gushed about the methodology of the research paper, paying particular attention to the tiny detail of his body language. The way his hands were passionately waving around, exaggerating certain points Spencer was trying to make. The flutter of his eyelashes as he blinked a bit faster than he usually would—a habit that often occurs when he speaks quickly, as you have learned. The smooth movements of his lips as his mouth tried to rush out words to match the pace of his incredibly brilliant brain.
Now that you were looking at his lips, you have to admit that it was kind of hard to look away.
Suddenly, an idea brewed in your mind, and it felt like the holy grail had finally landed in your lap. Who would have known that a random Thursday would be the day you ought to finally win this challenge and put Spencer in checkmate.
“Spence?” Your lips curled mischievously, observing the way Spencer halted in his steps at your tone.
God, despite being subjected to harsh and unflattering parking lot lights, Spencer still had the audacity to look good in a way that tugged at your heartstrings. The sight had you questioning if he was capable of ever looking bad. His warm eyes colored with interest as he eagerly awaited your next words. You took a couple more steps forward, wanting to hide the plotting expression on your face.
“Fun fact…” You paused before peering back at him. At those two words, you instantly caught the anticipation rolling off him. There was also a subtle confidence from him that signalled he was sure he already knew whatever you were planning to tell him. But you knew that this time, things would be different.
With a competitive glint in your eyes, you finally divulged today’s fun fact, your voice calm and stable.
“I like you.”
Just as you predicted, Spencer froze while his mouth fell agape. No words fell out of those talkative lips, a stark contrast to how fast he was speaking a couple of seconds ago. You practically beamed in victory at such a reaction. You wanted to celebrate, you really did. But you decided not to gloat about your win yet. Instead, you prioritised the better option: teasing your friend.
“I recalled you mentioning once that kissing spreads fewer germs than shaking hands?” You winked playfully, expecting nothing from it. It was simply a joke to make Spencer flustered for your entertainment, and there was zero expectation that he would somehow miraculously confess that he had been secretly liking you too and would actually kiss you at your workplace’s parking lot at 1am.
Because there was no way Doctor Spencer Reid liked you, right?
You observed as his lips slowly curled up in amusement as your words sunk in, and that partially made your shoulders relaxed. Well, at least your joke landed, and your friendship would make it out intact despite your confession.
But then, out of nowhere, that closed-mouth smile stretched into a full-on grin before a chuckle of disbelief escaped from Spencer.
Now, you were on alert. Instantly, you tried to read his reaction—was he in disbelief that he was finally stumped by a fact he had not yet known of? Was he amused by your clever trick of using your own feelings as a fun fact? But the elation on his face and the awestruck look in his eyes hardly aligned with someone who had just lost a long-term challenge.
Your lips parted as you continued assessing the man, but you caught the way his eyes flickered down at that small movement before he sucked in a deep breath.
Oh…?
Suspicion crept in, but confirmation came quicker.
In the blink of an eye, Spencer had completely eliminated the two steps between you both, sealing you two in a proximity that was closer than you had ever been with him. His palms found your face, and they cupped your cheeks in a careful yet certain way.
Spencer’s eyes darted all over your face, searching for all the clues that you were okay with what he had next in mind. He could see that your pupils were slightly dilated, as well as feel the way you were leaning into his touch and the heat that was transferring from your cheeks to his hands. Though it was only when you did not pull away and instead, had your tongue dart out to wet your lips, did Spencer kill the remaining space between your faces.
His lips slanted against yours in a desperate manner that outmatched his need for oxygen, kissing you like it was long overdue. He swallowed the gasp escaping your throat and the surprised noise that followed. There was an urgency he could not hide as his straining self-control snapped from your green light.
You began kissing him back just a second or two after, and almost instantly, you heard a sigh of relief. Your lips curled, but any trace of smugness vanished when his thumb began rubbing your cheek fondly. Suddenly, you were aware of just how close you two were. Every point of contact was sending a searing heat through your body, because despite his fears of germs, Spencer was touching your skin like it was a need, rather than an obligation for moments like these.
You pressed your lips harder against his.
Good lord, Spencer could do this forever.
He might have been able to count the number of times you have touched him on one hand, but even with the whole team, there were not enough fingers to account for the number of times he had glanced at your lips this week alone.
Your own hands touched the sides of his waist, and you instantly caught the longing noise that escaped from Spencer’s throat, echoing onto your lips. At such an encouraging sound, you curled your hands to the back of his body and snaked them up his back. Your lips smirked against his at the way he arched into your touch.
One hundred and sixty three days—Spencer reminded himself again, humming in utter satisfaction at the way those numbers spun down to zero. Finally, you were touching him on purpose and with purpose. He practically melted at the way your hands roamed so confidently without any trace of guilt that he was uncomfortable, because he was far from that.
In fact, he eagerly wanted to keep the number of days since the last time you touched him at zero permanently.
You picked that precise moment to pull away, documenting the way his eyes fluttered open and dawned into existence the unadulterated glimmer of yearning in them.
You have always thought he was gorgeous, but how he looked right then rendered the word inadequate. It was a vision exceeding all your daydreams, and to be the reason behind the look made you feel like you were an award winning fashion designer who had just invented a magnificent masterpiece. But unlike most, you had no intention of sharing this artwork with the world or with anybody else.
Spencer felt his heart squeeze at the sight of you again. Was it possible to miss someone so badly from not having a visual on them for approximately a minute? Maybe he was more screwed than he thought.
Breathlessly, he finally whispered the confession that he had long to say for a month.
“Despite all the facts I already know and have learnt during my whole entire life, you’re my favorite thing to study and know more about, and have been since you stepped into my life. Nothing I learnt after felt like it could outrank anything I learnt about you.” It was true. Every speck of information about you gets the forefront of his memory’s line-up, taking priority over every other knowledge. Spencer licked his own lips for remnants of you before continuing, “You’re my favorite fun fact, you know that?”
Your heart tugged at his words. You had no idea how you managed to compete with the vast amount of interesting information that existed in the world, but under Spencer’s stare, you truly could see he meant every word.
“But…” The smile on your face instantly dropped at that single word from Spencer. Good rarely ever followed that three-letter conjunction.
“But?”
“I do have to admit that, uhm…” The familiar sheepish glint in his eyes had one of your eyebrows shooting up. “I kinda already know that fun fact already, that you liked me.” Your hands on him stilled their movement before falling onto your sides in disbelief.
“Oh, come on. You can’t be serious.” He resisted the urge to whine at the lack of physical touch from you. “But you looked shocked.”
“I was shocked you actually said it. I didn't think you’d do it today…or tomorrow…or maybe ever–” You slapped his arm, but he gladly welcomed that contact. Anything was better than nothing.
“I thought you’re like highly oblivious to romantic signals? I’ve seen you being completely clueless and not picking up on the fact that women were flirting with you.”
“I think I wasn’t clueless when it came to you because my eyes were always on you.” Those words came out shamelessly. In fact, Spencer almost sounded proud of himself. You tried not to let his words make you flustered.
“When did you figure it out?”
“That you like me? At the orchestra.”
“How? I barely figured it out myself that I liked you then.”
“Yeah, I could tell.” Your huff drew a chuckle from him.
You finally peeled yourself completely away from Spencer, grabbing your bag from his hand before making your way to your car. As you unlocked the vehicle and swung the driver’s door open, you could hear his footsteps following. You crouched to lean into your car and place your bag onto the passenger seat. You could feel Spencer’s presence stopping just behind you, standing much closer than he had ever before tonight.
As you bent back up and leaned against your car, you didn't miss the way Spencer’s fingers twitched, giving away his urges for physical contact. You crossed your arms before tilting your head back teasingly.
“I’m still gonna get you someday.”
Spencer’s gaze melted to an even softer look than before at your declaration. There was a freeing component in his eyes, showcasing the joy from being able to openly look at you in the way he had really wanted to for a while. His voice lowered to a sweet, promising whisper.
“I’m counting on that.”
With that, Spencer leaned in again, wanting a second run of things before the two of you had to part ways for the night.
You grinned into the kiss and quickly wrapped your arms around him again. Quietly, your mind logged in today’s score.
Day 187 status: unsuccessful.
But it hardly matters when you think you’ve already won something a lot better.
・┈・┈・┈・┈・┈・
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Words: 1100 ~ Pairing: Rhett Abbott x female bookstore owner reader ~ Content: fluff, non explicit sex, tooth rotting sweetness
You hear a soft rap on the glass, and when you look up, Rhett Abbott is there, slight smile on his face, hat in place, hair curling under it at the nape of his neck.
You can’t help but grin.
If you’re working at the store, he comes to see you every day, without fail. Sometimes you’ll have lunch together, sometimes you don’t. Rhett might be busy collecting feed for the steer or mending fences; you might have a local author signing over the lunch hour. But you made time for each other as often as you could.
You wave and he waves back, the hint of a blush creeping up his neck.
You’d never known that Rhett Abbott could blush. Who’d have guessed?
A customer comes in, making the little bell on the shop door ring cheerily, and when you look back to the window, Rhett’s gone. It doesn’t matter; you know you’re seeing him tonight.
He’s a cowboy straight out of romance novels by the likes of Lorelei James, Linda Howard, and Sable Hunter, and you can’t get enough of his long legs in worn blue jeans, or the way he leaves the top few buttons of his plaid shirt left undone.
You’d never have imagined being with Rhett like this. It’s an unexpected plot twist.
In high school, he was often running wild with the rowdier kids. He’d started rodeo years ago, and you’d watch him on the bucking steer, wondering what it was like to command that much power, even for less than ten seconds.
It wasn’t until some years later, when his niece Amy broke her leg and had to stay in bed, that you got to know each other.
He’d come in to buy her some books to entertain her as she recovered. You were only too happy to recommend books for her age group. She loved them, and Rhett started to make a regular appearance, one day asking you out for coffee.
It went from there.
And when he slow danced with you on Valentine’s at the Handsome Gambler, you knew you were a goner.
Rhett sometimes brings you wildflowers, apologising that he can’t afford a fancy bouquet from the store. You don’t care. You prefer the ones he handpicks from the wild areas around the ranch pastures. They always smel so sweet.
The day at the bookstore passes quickly. You helped a regular, old Mrs Taylor, with collecting her new sci fi novel - her house was decorated like a spaceship, she was one of your all time favourite customers - and you priced up new releases by Jodi Taylor, Lee Child and Becky Chambers.
Five o’clock rolled around. When you locked up, Rhett was leaning against the lamppost opposite the door, hands in his pockets. He straightened up when you appeared.
“Afternoon, darlin’.”
“Afternoon yourself.” You lift your face for his kiss and he obliges, settling his hands on your hips. You sigh into his mouth, feel his lips curve against yours.
“Love gettin’ sugar from you,” he says softly. “How was your day?”
“Good. You?”
He tucks a curl of your hair behind your ear. “Sweaty. Dad needed help roundin’ up a steer that split from the herd. Had time to grab a shower before I came here, though.”
“Shame. I like you dirty.”
He groans. “Can’t talk like that in public, girl.”
“Maybe I better wait until we’re in your truck.”
He shakes his head, drawing his lower lip between his teeth. “I done lucked out with you, you know that? You’ve got all the sweetness of a librarian with the filthy mind of someone who writes erotic fiction.”
“Well, you have my extensive reading to thank for that.”
He kisses the tip of your nose. “Remind me to write and thank your favourite authors.” He takes your hand and leads you to the truck. You drive out together to your favourite picnic spot, a field of wildflowers on the very edge of the Abbott property.
You share a picnic basket Rhett has prepped, with ham and slaw sandwiches, strawberries, petit fours and potato chips, and then you draw a book out of your bag.
“Bought something to read to you.”
His face lights up. “You did?”
“Of course. C’mere, cowboy.”
He stretches out and settles his head in your lap. His hat has long ago been discarded over by the picnic basket and you thread your fingers through his hair. It’s soft from his shower, smells of some botanical mix of herbs from his shampoo, cypress and something else, and you love it.
He sighs and his eyes drift closed as you begin to read Our Souls are Mirrors by Rupi Kaur.
You read and read until the sun begins to set, and when it does, Rhett undresses you slowly, one garment at a time, until you’re naked under the big Wyoming Sky, and then he takes his time exploring you with his hands and mouth, until you’re trembling with pleasure, unable to form any syllables but his name.
Only when you’re lax with bliss does he push into you, bracing his body above your own. You wrap your legs around his waist as he mutters praise into the curve where your neck and shoulder meet. How you’re his good girl, the only one for him. How you make him feel so good. You clench your fingers on his shoulders, buck up into him. It makes him wild, and you come together under the early evening starlight.
After, you curl into him. He drapes his shirt over you to keep you cosy.
“Better drive you back soon,” he says absently. “Or you could stay over. If you want.”
“I do want. It’s not like your parents’ll be surprised to see me in the morning.”
He huffs out a laugh. “My mom’ll want to talk your ear off about books, I hope you know that. And Amy’s started readin’ that Heartstopper series you got her into. It’s all she talks about.”
You smile against his chest, as his heart bears steadily under your ear. “Who knew, the Abbott family, secret bookworms.”
Series Summary: After Bucky cheats on you, you leave the Tower shattered, humiliated, and convinced that love has only ever made you smaller. Steve comes back from a mission to find you gone - and when he learns the truth, his loyalty is tested in ways he never expected.
Wordcount: 9.8k
Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Reader (no use of y/n)
Warnings: tower fic, alternative mcu, slow burn, healing arc, hurt comfort, emotional hurt comfort, angst with comfort, infidelity angst, second chance at love, cheating / infidelity, emotional betrayal, toxic ex relationship, Bucky Barnes is OOC, forced kiss, non con elements (very light), boundary violation, sexual assault implications, emotional manipulation, jealousy and possessiveness, panic attacks / panic response, vomiting due to distress, STI scare / medical testing mention, violence / physical fight, blood mention, breakup grief, trauma recovery, found family, protective steve rogers, soft steve rogers, toxic bucky barnes, self-worth issues, mentions of emotionally abusive family dynamics, reader has a difficult childhood, happy ending, MDNI, some chapters will have smut or explicit intimacy
A/N: This story has been beta read by Cassie (with a lot of yelling at me and at the characters), so as always, a huge thanks to you.
While I think this series can be read as its own, it's a follow-up of this one-shot, and I suggest you read it for a better comprehension of the plot.
Important note about Bucky: Bucky is very OOC in this fic. I want to be very clear about that from the start: I know he is OOC, I know canon Bucky would not act like this, and I am not presenting this as my interpretation of canon Bucky Barnes.
This story uses him in a deliberately darker, more toxic role for the sake of the angst, conflict, and Reader’s healing arc. So please, before sending me an ask or leaving a comment to tell me that Bucky would never behave this way: I know. That is what this warning is for.
I will not be replying to complaints about Bucky being written OOC. You have been warned, and if this version of him is not something you want to read, please feel free to skip this fic.
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When Steve came back to the Tower after seven days away, he knew something was wrong before the elevator doors even opened.
It was not one thing so much as the shape of the silence.
The common floor usually carried noise no matter the hour – music from somebody’s speaker, Tony talking too loudly to fill a room that did not need filling, the television running unwatched, footsteps crossing polished floors, the low mechanical hum of a building too alive to ever quite rest. Even when the Tower stood quiet, it had a pulse. It felt inhabited.
That evening, it felt hollow.
The elevator opened onto dim light and stillness. Steve stepped out with his duffel slung over one shoulder, the stale taste of quinjet coffee still sitting on his tongue, and found Sam and Natasha in the common room.
Neither of them looked up at first.
Sam sat forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly the knuckles had gone pale. Natasha sat in one of the armchairs with one leg thrown over the other, but there was nothing relaxed about her posture. Her face looked flat and closed in that particular way it did when anger had cooled into something sharper. The television across from them was on mute. Some late-night news anchor moved her mouth in total silence.
A half-empty glass of water sat on the coffee table. Another lay on its side, a dark crescent soaking into a stack of coasters. No one had bothered to clean it up.
Steve let the duffel slide from his shoulder and land by the elevator with a dull thud.
Neither of them smiled.
His stomach dropped.
He looked from Sam to Natasha and, because instinct always made him reach for humor first when the air turned unbearable, he asked, “Okay. Who died?”
Sam looked up then.
There were jokes a room let survive and jokes it killed on sight. This one did not even make it to the floor.
Something in Sam’s face made Steve straighten.
Natasha finally turned her head toward him. Her expression did not change. “No one.”
Steve waited.
No one said anything.
The silence stretched a second too long, then another.
He felt the fatigue of the mission still in his bones – seven days of bad sleep, worse weather, and the kind of work that left no room for thinking about anything except the next step. He had expected to come back to the usual mess: Stark making some comment about how long they took, Sam complaining about quinjet rations, maybe Bucky lurking at the edge of the room with that watchful half-detached look of his. He had expected normal. Or the closest thing the Tower had ever had to it.
Instead he got this.
Steve’s gaze moved between them again. “What happened?”
Sam exhaled through his nose and leaned back at last, like a man resigning himself to an unpleasant duty. “She left.”
For one second, Steve did not understand the sentence.
The words landed, but not their meaning. There were too many people in the Tower for she to mean anything immediately. Maria had not lived here in years. Pepper barely stayed overnight. Wanda spent more time elsewhere than in. There were women in and out of Avengers Tower all the time.
Then understanding hit.
His head came up sharply. “What?”
Sam did not look away. “She left this morning.”
Something cold moved through Steve’s chest.
He had not seen you when he came in. He had noticed that without truly registering it, the way a mind dismissed small absences when it had not yet been told where to look. Now the omission flashed back at him all at once. Your jacket was not hanging over the back of the dining chair where you sometimes forgot it. There was no mug on the table that looked like yours. No book left face-down on the arm of the couch. None of those ordinary traces that meant you had passed through the room recently.
He frowned. “Left for where?”
Sam rubbed a hand over his jaw. “One of Stark’s old safehouses in Brooklyn. I gave her the keys.”
Steve stared at him. “Why?”
Natasha answered.
“Barnes cheated on her.”
The words fell clean and hard into the room.
Steve looked at her as if he had misheard.
The muted television flickered blue-white across the glass wall behind them. A siren moved somewhere far below in the city and faded. Steve heard all of it with unnatural clarity, as if the world had suddenly become too sharp around the edges.
He said, very carefully, “What?”
Natasha did not soften it. She never did when softness would have been a lie. “She had her suspicions. She confronted him last night.”
Steve just looked at her.
He had come back from battlefields that made more sense than that sentence.
Barnes cheated on her.
Not drifted. Not picked a fight. Not said something careless and unforgivable in anger. Not made a coward of himself in one of the quieter, more ordinary ways men ruined things.
Cheated.
Steve felt something like disbelief and nausea rise together.
He glanced at Sam, maybe because some part of him still expected a correction there, some sign this had been exaggerated in the retelling. Sam only gave a grim, weary nod that confirmed the worst of it.
“She packed this morning,” Sam said. “Didn’t take much. Just a bag.” His mouth tightened. “She was already gone by the time most people were up.”
Steve passed a hand over his face.
The skin around his eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep, but the gesture had more to do with buying himself a second than fatigue. He stood there in the middle of the room with mission dust still on his boots and tried to fit the news into any shape that made sense.
It refused.
He had known you and Bucky together long enough to have stopped thinking of you as temporary. The two of you were not easy, not in the glossy, effortless way some couples pretended to be. There had always been edges there. Bucky was Bucky – closed off, haunted, sometimes so deep inside his own head it seemed a miracle he remembered to come back out. And you had never been the kind to smooth yourself down for anyone’s comfort. But Steve had seen the way you looked at each other when you thought no one was paying attention. He had seen Bucky track your movement across a room without seeming to. He had seen you lean into his space like it was the one place in the world that asked nothing false of you.
He had gone away for a week.
He had come back to this.
And worse than that – he had seen nothing coming.
Nothing.
No crack obvious enough to alarm him. No sign in Bucky that screamed betrayal. No whispered argument in the hallway before he left on mission. No strange distance between you two that might have made him stop and ask a question. If anything, the last time he saw you together, it had looked normal enough to let pass without a second thought.
That thought angered him more than he expected.
He looked at Natasha.
“You knew,” he said.
It was not a question.
She held his gaze for a beat before answering. “I saw them. Once.”
Steve felt his jaw harden.
There were a hundred follow-up questions in that sentence. Who. When. Where. How long ago. Did Bucky know she had seen. Did you. Was it really enough to know, or just enough to suspect. But the way Natasha said it told him what mattered most: she had not guessed. She had seen enough to be certain.
His voice came lower. “And you said nothing.”
Natasha’s face did not change, but something colder moved through her eyes. “I saw enough to know something was wrong. I did not have proof of the whole shape of it. By the time I decided I should have dragged him into a room and forced the truth out of him, she already had it.”
There was no apology in the words. Natasha rarely apologized for making a bad call until after she finished surviving it. But there was something else there – disgust, maybe. At Bucky. At herself. At the mess of it.
Steve looked away from her and out toward the windows.
Night lay over Manhattan in a scatter of lights and reflections. The city looked exactly as it always did from up here: bright, impossible, indifferent. He had spent enough years leading people through catastrophe to know how absurdly ordinary the world remained while somebody’s life came apart.
He thought of you leaving that morning while he was still halfway across the Atlantic, probably on a quinjet, probably asleep sitting up with his arms crossed, unaware that you were walking out of the Tower with a bag in one hand and whatever was left of your trust dragging behind you. The image lodged under his ribs with strange force.
He had not seen you.
He had not been here.
The helplessness of that irritated him immediately.
“What did she say?” Steve asked.
Sam answered that one.
“Not much.” He glanced down at his clasped hands before going on. “She didn’t owe me details, and I didn’t push. She opened the door with a bag already packed, and looked like she hadn’t slept.” His expression tightened a little, remembering. “I asked if she wanted to stay. She said no. I asked if she was sure. She said if she started talking, she might stay.”
Steve’s head turned slowly toward him.
Sam met his eyes. “So I handed her the keycard.”
That landed somewhere deep and quiet.
If she started talking, she might stay.
Steve could picture it too easily: you standing there with your face stripped bare by exhaustion and fury, holding yourself together by will alone, knowing that the first real conversation might be the thing that made you weaker instead of stronger. He knew that kind of decision. The ones people made because motion was the only thing keeping them upright.
“Did she say anything else?” Steve asked.
Sam shook his head. “Only that she needed out.”
Natasha let out a low breath through her nose. “Which seemed smart.”
Steve looked at her again.
There was steel in Natasha tonight, but there usually was. What struck him more was the fury she was not bothering to hide beneath it. She had never been sentimental about infidelity. In her experience, betrayal was betrayal. Private treachery and professional treachery shared more DNA than people liked to admit.
He thought again of what she had said I saw them. Once.
That meant at least once there had been a moment clear enough, damning enough, that Natasha Romanoff had taken one look and known what it was.
His stomach turned harder.
“Who?” he asked.
Natasha’s mouth became a thin line. “You really want that answer right now?”
The fact that she did not say she did not know answered him almost as well as a name would have.
Steve did not ask again.
Maybe because the name itself did not matter in this exact second. Not compared to the larger fact of it. Not compared to you leaving. Not compared to Bucky doing something so ugly and ordinary Steve almost had more trouble with the ordinariness than the ugliness. He had seen Bucky as a weapon, a prisoner, a survivor, a ghost trying to become a man again. It did not fit cleanly in Steve’s head – that same man lying to someone who loved him and then doing it again long enough for suspicion to grow teeth.
And yet life was cruelly simple sometimes. A person could survive war and brainwashing and still fail in the oldest, most human way imaginable.
Steve swallowed once and asked the question that had been waiting underneath all the others.
“Where is Bucky?”
Sam leaned back fully now and turned his head toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms.
“Last I heard? In his room.”
There was a bitter kind of humor in his expression now, the kind that had no real amusement in it at all.
“Doing what?”
“Destroying everything he can get his hands on,” Sam said. “Physically, this time.”
Steve stared.
Sam gave a short, humorless huff. “Because I wouldn’t tell him where she went.”
That, at least, Steve could picture.
He could imagine the shape of Bucky’s rage when it had nowhere useful to go. Furniture splintering under metal fingers. Glass breaking. A wall caving in. The deliberate ugliness of a man who had run out of ways to punish himself internally and needed something in the world to show damage too.
A week ago, Steve might have been halfway down the hall already out of instinct alone, ready to stop him before he tore his hands open on the wreckage.
Now he stayed where he was.
“Good,” Natasha said.
Sam glanced at her, but did not disagree.
Steve stood very still.
It was one thing to hear that Bucky was in pain. It was another to discover that the first feeling that rose in him was not sympathy but anger so immediate and clean it almost steadied him. Anger for you, for Sam being put in the middle of it, for Natasha being left to sit on what she knew, for the entire filthy waste of it. Anger that Bucky had shattered something and then turned destructive only after consequences showed up at his own door.
He let out a slow breath.
“When did you find out?” he asked Natasha.
She uncrossed her legs and recrossed them the other way, gaze fixed on him. “About the cheating? This morning, officially. About there being something off? Earlier.”
Steve nodded once.
That matched too well with the room. The bad atmosphere. The fact that both of them looked like they had not slept much either. This had not been a clean morning reveal with tidy explanations. It had been a night of fallout. Confrontation. Packing. One person leaving and another breaking apart loudly enough for the Tower to feel it through the walls.
He looked down at the dropped duffel by the elevator and felt suddenly ridiculous for having come home still half inside mission mode. There had been gunfire forty-eight hours ago. Tactical briefings. Satellite feeds. Blood on concrete. All of it already felt easier to process than this living-room silence.
“Tony know?” he asked.
Sam nodded. “By noon.”
“And?”
“And he’s mad enough not to be funny about it.”
That told Steve plenty.
Tony, for all his mockery and noise, had a vicious protective streak once somebody was considered his. You had been around long enough, close enough, to count. Steve could imagine exactly how cold Tony’s anger might look when it turned practical.
For a second no one spoke.
Steve could hear something faint in the hallway now that he stood listening for it. Not voices. Not footsteps. A dull impact, maybe, far off and muffled by distance and expensive walls.
Sam heard it too and tipped his head slightly in that direction. “See?”
Another thud, heavier this time.
Bucky’s room.
Steve shut his eyes briefly.
He remembered all at once a hundred versions of his oldest friend – the skinny reckless boy from Brooklyn who laughed with split lips, the ghost of him in war, the nightmare that followed, the man clawing his way back to himself in fragments. He remembered fighting for him when nobody else thought there was enough left to save. He remembered believing, stubbornly and absolutely, that whatever the world had made of Bucky Barnes, there had still been a line inside him no cruelty could fully erase.
That belief did not vanish now.
But it changed shape.
Because whatever history Bucky carried, whatever damage had been done to him, none of it absolved him here. Steve knew that with a clarity so cold it almost surprised him. Pain explained. It did not excuse. Not this. Not repeated choices. Not lying to someone who loved you and letting them stand there asking themselves what was wrong with them when the wrongness sat with you all along.
A flash of memory came uninvited: you at the kitchen counter some night weeks ago, laughing at something Sam said, head tipped back, shoulders loose. Bucky in the doorway, saying nothing, but watching you with that small private softness he almost never let anyone see.
Steve had seen that look and trusted it.
His hand curled once at his side.
“Did she ask for me?” he heard himself say.
Sam’s expression changed – subtle, but enough.
“No,” he said carefully. “She didn’t know when you were getting back.”
Of course you had not.
The answer still landed harder than it should have.
Steve nodded once, more to himself than to either of them. It was not a wound, exactly. Just another fact. You had left in the narrow space available to you. You had not asked for him because you had not known he could be there, and maybe because this was not the kind of hurt you handed around to be held by committee.
He respected that.
He hated it too.
Natasha watched him with the sharp attention she reserved for dangerous moments – not because anyone had drawn a weapon, but because she knew emotional shock could turn a room volatile faster than a loaded gun sometimes could. “Steve.”
He looked at her.
She lifted one shoulder slightly. “Whatever you’re about to do, pick the useful version.”
He almost laughed, but there was no room for it.
Another crash came faintly from down the hall.
Sam stood up at last. “I already tried talking to him.”
Steve glanced at him. “And?”
Sam gave him a flat look. “And he only wanted to know where she was.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“He said he loved her.” Sam’s mouth twisted. “Which I’m sure was a big comfort.”
Steve looked away again.
That was somehow the worst part. Not because it softened anything, but because it did not. People liked to imagine betrayal coming from absence of feeling, as if the heart worked in clean equations. It never did. Steve had lived too long to believe that. Bucky could love you and still ruin you. The contradiction did not make the damage smaller. It made it uglier.
He drew in a slow breath and let it out.
“Is she safe?” he asked.
Sam answered immediately. “Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Does anybody else know where she is?”
Sam’s gaze held his for a second, measuring. “Only me. Probably Tony. And now you know there’s a place, not which one.”
Steve accepted that without argument. He would have done the same in Sam’s place. Maybe he would have done worse.
Natasha rose from the chair in one fluid motion. “If you’re going to see him, do it before he brings the floor down.”
Steve bent, picked up his duffel, then set it back down again. He was not going to carry luggage into this conversation like a man arriving for an ordinary evening.
He straightened and looked down the darkened hallway.
Part of him wanted to turn around instead. Walk back into the elevator, get in a car, find every safehouse Stark owned if necessary until he found you. Not to make you talk. Not to fix anything. Just to see with his own eyes that you were somewhere quiet, somewhere no one could reach you unless you wanted them to.
But Sam’s earlier words stopped him.
If she started talking, she might stay.
You had chosen distance. He would not be another person trying to take that from you.
So that left Bucky.
His chest tightened with something old and terrible. Loyalty, anger, grief, disbelief – none of it separated cleanly. Bucky was his friend. His brother in every way that mattered. And Steve knew, with the kind of certainty that hurt, that if he opened that bedroom door right now and saw the wreckage inside, he was not going to feel sorry first.
He was going to feel furious.
Maybe Bucky knew that. Maybe that was why he had not come out.
Steve started toward the hallway.
“Steve,” Sam called after him.
He stopped and looked back.
Sam’s expression had gone serious again. “Don’t let him make this about how bad he feels.”
Steve held his gaze for a moment and gave a single nod.
He understood.
Bucky would bleed guilt all over the room if allowed. He would talk about shame and self-hatred and how he had ruined everything, and all of it might be true, and none of it would be the point. The point was you packing a bag in the morning light, too hurt to risk one more conversation. The point was you leaving before anyone could stop you because staying would have cost you too much.
Steve turned back without another word.
The corridor seemed longer than he remembered. Lights came on ahead of him in soft succession as he walked, each step bringing the distant noise into clearer focus. A crack of splintering wood. The metallic ring of something thrown hard enough to hit a wall. Then silence. Then another impact.
By the time he reached Bucky’s door, the hall smelled faintly of plaster dust.
Steve stopped outside it.
For one second he simply stood there, hand at his side, looking at the scarred wood panel and seeing too many years layered over it at once. Brooklyn alleys. Army trains. HYDRA labs. Wakanda. Recovery rooms. Quiet dinners. Missions. Second chances. All of it came down, absurdly, to a closed door in Avengers Tower and the knowledge that the man on the other side had just done something Steve did not know how to forgive.
Inside, something heavy hit the wall.
Steve lifted his hand and opened the door.
The frame missed Steve’s face by inches.
It struck the wall just beside the door with a crack sharp enough to ring through the wrecked room, glass exploding across the floor in a scatter of glittering shards. Steve stopped on instinct, his body turning slightly with the old reflex of a soldier who had spent too many years stepping around violence before his mind properly caught up.
For a second, the only sound came from the piece of wood spinning once across the floorboards before falling still.
Then silence closed back in.
Steve looked up.
Bucky stood in the middle of the room like the last thing left after a fire.
His chest rose and fell too hard. His hair had fallen into his face. The knuckles of his right hand were split open and bloodied, the skin torn raw from repeated impact. It had smeared across his fingers, across the heel of his palm, onto the front of his T-shirt in half-dried rust-colored marks where he must have wiped at his mouth or his face without noticing. His metal arm hung stiffly at his side, flexing once, twice, the plates clicking faintly.
The room itself looked as if somebody had torn through it looking for a body.
A chair lay overturned near the desk with one leg snapped clean off. The lamp on the bedside table had been smashed against the wall hard enough to cave in the plaster. One drawer hung crooked and splintered from the dresser, its contents – shirts, papers, a handful of loose ammunition from some carelessly abandoned tactical pouch – strewn across the floor. The mirror above the bureau had cracked through the middle in a violent white line, spiderwebbing outward into fractured reflections that caught Steve’s shape in broken pieces. One of the closet doors hung open at the wrong angle. The mattress had been shoved partly off the bedframe. There were two distinct holes in the wall that looked roughly the size of Bucky’s fist.
Steve took in all of it in one long sweep, and disbelief moved through him so cold and clean it almost felt like clarity.
Sam had not exaggerated.
If anything, Sam had been charitable.
For one stupid second, Steve remembered the common room downstairs – the tipped-over glass on the coffee table, Natasha’s shut face, Sam’s clasped hands, that terrible hollow quiet – and the memory hit differently now, with context. This was what had waited behind it. This was the noise that had been traveling through the walls.
The thought hardened something already sharp in Steve’s chest.
He stepped fully into the room and nudged the broken frame aside with the heel of his boot.
The photograph inside had split behind the glass. Steve did not stop to see who had been in it.
“Is that it?” he asked.
His voice came flat. Not loud. Not sympathetic. There was no trace in it of the concern he would have shown under other circumstances, if this had been about a mission gone wrong or a nightmare or the aftermath of somebody else’s cruelty.
There was none of that here.
Bucky stared at him with eyes gone dark and raw from sleeplessness. “No.”
The answer did not surprise Steve.
Of course it did not.
This was not an ending. This was only the shape a consequence had taken when it finally stopped being theoretical. Rage had always come easier to Bucky than remorse did; Steve knew that better than most. Rage gave a body something to do. It let a man move. Break. Bleed. It saved him, sometimes, from having to sit still with what he had done.
Steve glanced again at Bucky’s hand. The blood had started to drip steadily now from the split skin over the knuckles, dark drops pattering onto the floorboards.
“You should wrap that.”
Bucky let out something that might have been a laugh if there had been any life in it. “That what you came up here to say?”
Steve closed the door behind him with deliberate calm. The latch clicked into place with absurd neatness in a room that looked bombed out.
“No,” he said.
Bucky looked away first.
That did something ugly to Steve, because it made him think of every version of Bucky he had ever known that could still meet a punch head-on and yet flinch from being seen clearly. It made him think of the boy from Brooklyn with bruised eyes and a grin that hid more than it should have. It made him think of all the years in between. It made him think of what Sam had said downstairs, of Bucky asking where you had gone and then tearing his room apart because Sam had refused to tell him.
It made him furious all over again.
Bucky dragged a hand over his mouth, smearing blood across his skin. When he spoke, his voice sounded scraped raw. “I had ended it.”
Steve said nothing.
Bucky swallowed once. The words seemed to drag against his throat on the way out. “Yesterday. When I came back.” He gave a short, shattered shake of his head, not quite looking at Steve. “I went to her. I told her it was over.”
For one beat, the room held still.
Then Steve heard his own voice answer, colder than even he had expected.
“And you want a medal for that?”
Bucky’s head snapped up.
Steve did not move.
He stood just inside the wreckage with his hands loose at his sides and looked at his oldest friend across the carnage of his own making, and whatever Bucky had expected to find on his face, it was not there. Not patience. Not understanding. Not the old instinctive mercy Steve had spent half a lifetime extending toward him.
Only contempt, clean and bright as a blade.
Bucky stared at him as if the tone itself had struck harder than a fist.
“I’m not asking for that.”
“No?” Steve took one step farther into the room, carefully avoiding the worst of the broken glass. “Because it sounded a lot like you were setting the scene. You know, in case I missed the part where you tried to stop being a bastard at the last possible second.”
A pulse jumped in Bucky’s jaw.
Steve saw it and did not care.
He could still hear Natasha downstairs, I saw them. Once.
He could still hear Sam, She packed this morning. Didn’t take much. She said if she started talking, she might stay.
Those words had lodged deep.
He had not seen you before you left. He had not been there for the confrontation, had not watched your face when Bucky failed to deny it, had not stood in the hallway while you walked out. All he had were the fragments Sam and Natasha had given him – and somehow that made the whole thing worse, because his mind kept supplying the rest. You standing in the kitchen after a sleepless night. Bucky saying I love you and meaning it in whatever useless, ugly way a man meant it after betrayal. You taking a bag and choosing distance because it was the only thing that kept you from breaking in front of everyone.
Steve looked at the wrecked lamp, the shattered mirror, the blood on Bucky’s hand, and felt no pity for any of it.
Bucky laughed once, but there was no humor in it. “You think I don’t know what I did?”
“I think you know now,” Steve said.
That landed.
Bucky flinched like he had not meant to, then set his mouth hard.
Steve went on before he could answer. “I think you knew enough to hide it while you were doing it. I think you knew enough to lie. I think you knew enough to come back here yesterday and end it with the other woman only after you’d already spent however long making a wreck out of both sides of this.” His voice stayed level, which somehow made it harsher. “And I think now that she’s gone, you want credit for having a conscience too late.”
Bucky’s breathing roughened. “It wasn’t like that.”
Steve looked around the room again, then back at him. “Then by all means, clear it up.”
For a second Bucky seemed almost unable to speak.
He looked exhausted in a way that went past sleeplessness. He looked gutted. Steve saw it. Steve believed it. It changed nothing.
Bucky turned half away, metal hand rising to grip the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean for it to keep going.”
Steve almost laughed.
That, more than anger, almost made him laugh in disbelief.
“You didn’t mean,” he repeated. “That’s what you’ve got.”
Bucky’s shoulders tightened. “It started and then–”
“And then you kept doing it,” Steve cut in.
Bucky snapped, “I know that.”
The words bounced off the cracked walls and fell dead.
Steve did not raise his voice to match him.
Downstairs, Sam had warned him, Don’t let him make this about how bad he feels.
Steve understood now exactly why he had said it. Guilt came off Bucky in waves. Shame too. The whole room stank of it under the plaster dust and the metallic tang of blood. But Steve had no interest in getting lost inside Bucky’s self-disgust if it meant losing sight of the actual damage.
“You know what I can’t get past?” Steve asked quietly.
Bucky’s eyes lifted to him again.
“That you let her figure it out.”
Something changed in Bucky’s face.
Steve pressed on.
“She suspected something.” Every word came measured, controlled. “Natasha told me that much. She saw enough to know something was wrong. And you still let the woman you claimed to love stand there with that feeling in her gut until she had to drag the truth out of you herself.”
Bucky shut his eyes.
For the first time since Steve entered, he looked less angry than sick.
Steve remembered another line from downstairs with painful precision, She confronted him last night.
He pictured that too easily. You in the kitchen, maybe. Or the hallway. Or somewhere private that had stopped feeling safe the second Bucky lied in it once too often. Your voice gone cold. Bucky going still. The silence after the first direct question. The look on his face when denial failed him.
Steve had not been there, but he knew enough about people to imagine it.
And imagining it made his stomach turn.
“Did you deny it?” Steve asked.
Bucky opened his eyes slowly.
The silence answered before he did.
Steve felt something inside him go hard as stone.
“You did.”
Bucky looked at the floor. “At first.”
Of course he had.
Steve took another step forward.
There were years of memory crowding behind his ribs, all of them trying to complicate this. Every fight he had fought for Bucky. Every grave he had refused to let close over him. Every miracle of survival. Every quiet step back toward personhood. All of it kept trying to stand up between them and say be fair, be patient, remember who he is.
Steve did remember who he was.
That was part of why this cut so deep.
“You had a chance,” Steve said. “Maybe more than one. To tell her. To stop. To confess before she had to come to you already knowing enough to be hurt.” His gaze dropped to the shredded room around them. “Instead you waited until she was gone and started punching walls.”
Bucky looked up fast, anger flashing through the ruin. “You think that’s all this is?”
Steve met it without blinking. “Right now? Pretty close.”
That stung visibly.
Good.
Bucky paced away from him in three quick steps, then stopped because there was nowhere left in the room to go without stepping on something broken. He looked down at his bleeding hand as if noticing it for the first time, then wiped it absently on his shirt again.
“She asked me why I loved her,” he said suddenly.
Steve said nothing.
Bucky laughed once under his breath, the sound cracked straight through with grief. “You should’ve heard how she said it.” He shook his head. “Like it was the ugliest joke in the world.”
Steve felt his jaw tighten so hard it hurt.
He could hear your voice saying it, though he had not been there. Not the exact sound, but the shape of it. Not confusion anymore. Not pleading. Something worse. The moment when love became unbearable because it no longer made sense beside what had been done in its name.
Bucky pressed the heel of his left hand against his eyes for a second. When he lowered it, his expression looked flayed open. “I told her I loved her.”
“And she left anyway,” Steve said.
Bucky stared at him.
Steve did not soften.
That was the truth of it. Whatever words had passed between you in the night, whatever confessions or excuses or shattered apologies Bucky had thrown at the damage, the only thing that mattered now was that you had still walked out in the morning. You had chosen a locked door and a safehouse over one more hour in the Tower with him.
Because you had needed to.
Because staying had cost too much.
Bucky’s mouth twisted. “You think I don’t know she left?”
“I think you still don’t understand why she had to.”
That brought Bucky up short.
For the first time, Steve saw something like uncertainty move beneath the grief. Not ignorance, exactly – Bucky was not stupid – but that more dangerous thing people clung to after doing harm: the belief that if their remorse was large enough, it ought to count for more than it did.
Steve knew better.
“You cheated on her,” he said. “More than once, from the sound of it. You lied until she confronted you. And now you’re upstairs tearing apart furniture because Sam won’t tell you where she ran to get away from you.” His eyes moved over the room one last time. “What part of that are you hoping makes you look less guilty?”
Bucky went still.
Then, very quietly, “I’m not trying to look like anything.”
“No,” Steve said. “You’re trying not to feel it.”
That landed even harder than the rest.
Bucky’s face changed in a way Steve had rarely seen – something almost defenseless moving through it before anger slammed back over the top. “What do you want from me?”
The question came out harsher than it should have, but Steve heard the truth underneath it.
What script was this. What punishment. What was he supposed to say to make the room stop spinning.
Steve knew the answer.
“Nothing,” he said.
Bucky frowned as if he had heard wrong.
Steve held his gaze.
“I don’t want anything from you. She might have wanted honesty. She might have wanted you to stop before it got this far. She might have wanted one conversation where you didn’t let her be the last person to know what was happening to her own life.” His voice lowered. “But me? I don’t want a damn thing from you right now except for you to stop acting like smashing your room changes what you did.”
For a long moment neither man spoke.
Somewhere below them, the Tower hummed on in that expensive, inhuman way it always did, climate systems and hidden engines breathing through the walls like nothing catastrophic had happened inside one of its bedrooms. Steve found the sound obscene.
Bucky finally sank down onto the edge of what remained of the bedframe, not gracefully, not with any real decision, but like his legs had simply given out underneath him. The mattress shifted crookedly under his weight. He bent forward with both forearms braced on his thighs, blood dripping from his knuckles to the floor.
“I didn’t get to tell her it was over,” he said after a while, staring at the boards. “I thought–”
Steve cut him off immediately. “Don’t.”
Bucky’s head lifted.
“I don’t care what you thought that bought you.”
Bucky’s mouth shut.
Steve saw the old instinct there – to explain, to reconstruct the sequence, to lay out the exact order of decisions in a way that might make him feel less monstrous if not innocent. Steve had seen men do it after combat, after failed missions, after friendly fire, after any irreversible thing. They reached for chronology because morality had become too ugly to hold directly.
But there was nothing in the timeline that saved Bucky here.
Yesterday he had gone to end it with the other woman.
Last night you had confronted him.
This morning you had left.
If anything, the sequence made the whole thing more grotesque. Bucky had come home full of belated intentions, as if he might quietly close one ugly chapter and spare himself the public collapse, and then found out too late that you had already seen enough to know your life had changed under your feet.
Steve thought of Sam giving you the safehouse key. Thought of Natasha seeing enough, once, and keeping it in the sharp silence of herself. Thought of Tony learning it too and going cold with it. Thought of all the ways betrayal rippled outward when people liked to pretend it stayed contained between two bodies in one room.
“You don’t get points for stopping only because you were finally forced to look at yourself,” Steve said.
Bucky did not answer.
Steve stepped farther into the room until he stood close enough that Bucky would have had to look up to meet his eyes.
Slowly, Bucky did.
Steve had known that face in every age of its ruin. He knew the set of pain in the mouth, the stubbornness in the jaw, the devastation stripped naked in the eyes. He loved Bucky. Maybe that was why the anger felt so merciless. Stranger fury burned fast. This had roots.
“She left with one bag,” Steve said. “Sam told me that. She got the key for a safehouse and she left with one bag. That’s what your grief looks like on her side of the door.”
Bucky’s throat worked once.
Steve kept going.
“She didn’t wait for me to get back. Didn’t wait for Tony to weigh in. Didn’t turn it into some Tower-wide spectacle. She just got out.” The words sharpened. “Do you understand what that means?”
Bucky looked away.
Steve did not let him. “Look at me.”
It was not loud, but it carried command the way only Steve’s voice could when he let that part of himself show.
Bucky’s gaze snapped back.
“It means she didn’t trust herself to stay,” Steve said. “It means whatever happened last night left her thinking distance was the only thing that would save her from taking you back too soon or letting you talk over the damage. It means she had to protect herself from you.”
The last word hung there.
From you.
Bucky took it like a blow.
For a second, Steve thought he might lunge up out of the bedframe and hit something again, maybe him this time. There was enough wildness in the room for that. Enough shame. Enough blood in the air.
Instead Bucky sat very still.
When he finally spoke, his voice had gone low and ragged. “Where is she?”
Steve almost smiled, but there was no humor in it.
“I dunno. And I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”
Bucky’s face closed on itself. “Steve–”
“No.”
Just that.
Bucky stared at him, breathing hard.
Steve held the line without effort now. Downstairs, Sam had already made the right call. Steve would not undo it. Not for history. Not for loyalty. Not because Bucky looked half-dead with regret. The minute Bucky made this about finding you rather than facing what he had done, Steve knew exactly how dangerous that could become – not physically, not necessarily, but emotionally. Bucky had a way of taking up all the air in a room when he wanted absolution. You deserved at least one place where he could not get to you with that face and that voice and all the old gravity between you.
“You don’t get to chase her because you panicked,” Steve said.
“That’s not what this is.”
“It’s part of what this is.”
Bucky stood again too fast, the bedframe groaning behind him. “You think I’d hurt her?”
Steve did not answer right away.
That silence gutted the room.
Because of course Steve did not think Bucky would lay a hand on you. That was not the injury here and they both knew it. But there were other ways to hurt someone. Bucky knew that now better than anyone.
Finally Steve said, “I think you already did.”
Bucky recoiled.
Good, Steve thought again, and hated how easy that kept becoming.
The room fell quiet except for the faint drip of blood onto wood.
Steve drew a slow breath and felt the rage settle into something colder, steadier. This, more than shouting, was the dangerous version of his anger – the one that stopped performing and started deciding.
“You need to clean this up,” he said.
Bucky stared, uncomprehending.
“The room. Your hand. Yourself.” Steve glanced once more at the destruction. “Then you need to sit down somewhere and think very hard about whether any sentence coming out of your mouth is going to be about her pain or only your own.”
Bucky’s brows pulled together. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Steve looked at him for a long moment.
“It means that if the first thing you say, every time, is some version of I love her or I ended it or I feel sick or I didn’t mean it to keep going, then all you’re doing is putting yourself back in the center of a wound you created.”
Bucky opened his mouth.
Steve did not let him speak.
“You’re sorry,” he said. “I believe that. You’re ashamed. I believe that too. But don’t confuse those things with having done right by her even once in this.”
Bucky shut his mouth again.
Steve had no idea whether the words were getting through. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not while the adrenaline still burned too hot and the room still looked like an impact site. But he said them anyway because somebody had to, and because Sam had already done the decent thing by protecting your whereabouts. That left Steve with the uglier task.
To stand here. To look directly at Bucky. To refuse to make him feel cleaner than he was.
At last Bucky spoke, barely above a whisper. “You think she’s never coming back.”
Steve thought of the Tower downstairs with your absence already worked into it like a missing step. Thought of the kitchen you would not want to see. Thought of the hallways Sam said you had left behind with one bag and a face that had not slept. Thought of the safehouse in Brooklyn, small and quiet and away from all of this.
“I think,” Steve said carefully, “that whether she comes back to this building and whether she ever comes back to you are two very different questions.”
Bucky looked like he had been punched all over again.
Maybe he had. Only now the blows were landing where they belonged.
Steve moved toward the door.
Behind him, Bucky said, “Are you done?”
Steve stopped with one hand on the frame.
He did not turn immediately.
He looked instead at the smear of blood Bucky had left on the wall near the broken lamp, at the glass on the floor, at the wreckage of a room that had not asked to be made the stage for one man’s collapse. He thought of everything downstairs still waiting – the silence, the questions, the fact that he had come home from a week-long mission and stepped straight into the aftermath of a private disaster he had been nowhere near in time to stop.
Then he looked back over his shoulder.
“No,” he said. “But she was the one you should’ve been listening to last night.”
A sound broke behind him before Steve could open the door.
It was laughter.
Not real laughter. Nothing with life in it. Nothing that belonged in a human throat without setting every instinct on edge. It came out of Bucky low and cracked and wrong, like something rusted through at the hinges had finally given way. There was no humor in it. No amusement. Only the ugly edge of a man standing too close to the center of his own ruin and trying to make it uglier still.
Steve stopped with his hand on the handle.
For one brief second, he did not turn around. He only stood there in the wreck of the room, jaw locked, the cold metal of the handle pressed into his palm, and listened to that horrible half-laugh die into silence.
Then Bucky said, “I was going to ask her to marry me.”
The words dropped into the room like another piece of furniture thrown hard enough to splinter.
Steve shut his eyes.
He did not move. Did not speak. Did not even breathe properly for a second or two.
He had thought the worst of the night had already arranged itself in plain enough terms: the cheating, the confrontation, you leaving with a single bag, Bucky upstairs smashing holes into the walls because remorse had finally found him with nowhere left to run. That had already been ugly enough. More than ugly enough.
But that… That was something else.
Steve’s hand tightened on the door handle until the tendons in his wrist stood out hard beneath the skin. He felt the pressure in his jaw first, then in the back of his neck, every muscle in him drawing taut with the effort of not saying the first thing that came to mind.
Because the first thing that came to mind was not fit to say to his oldest friend. Not if he wanted to walk out of this room without making the wreckage worse.
He opened his eyes slowly and stared at the door in front of him instead of the man behind him.
For one impossible, involuntary instant, the image rose anyway: a ring box hidden somewhere in this room before Bucky tore it apart. A proposal imagined in whatever private hopeful shape Bucky had given it. Maybe a dinner. Maybe a quiet night. Maybe the same kitchen where you had confronted him, where whatever remained of your trust had finally broken open in your hands. Steve did not want the image, but it came all the same, obscene in its timing.
A proposal.
As if betrayal could be outrun by a bigger promise made afterward.
As if a future tense could erase what had already been done in the past.
Steve still said nothing.
He knew silence could wound harder than words sometimes. Right now it was the only thing stopping him from turning around and saying something so vicious it would stick between them for years.
Behind him, Bucky let out another of those broken, mirthless sounds and shifted against the ruined wall. Steve could hear the fabric of his shirt drag over plaster. Could hear the faint wet tack of blood on his knuckles.
“And now what, Stevie?” Bucky asked. “You gonna take your shot, finally?”
That did it.
Steve turned.
Slowly at first. Too slowly, maybe. The kind of controlled movement that was more dangerous than any sudden outburst because it meant the anger had passed through heat and settled into something dense, cold, and deliberate.
Bucky was still where Steve had left him, standing amid the devastation of his room, one hand bloodied, hair hanging half into his eyes, mouth twisted into something cruel and exhausted and self-destructive. But there was a new look on his face now, something meaner than grief. Meaner than shame. As if he had reached the point where if he could not drag the night backward, he could at least poison whatever was left in the room.
Steve had seen that look before too, on men cornered by their own guilt. The moment when pain stopped turning inward and started looking for another target.
His gaze fixed on Bucky’s face. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”
Bucky’s laugh this time came shorter, rawer. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”
Steve did not blink. “Say it.”
There was danger in the room now, plain and hard-edged. Not the kind that came from weapons. Something older. Two men with too much history and too little patience left between them.
Bucky tipped his head back against the wall for a second, then looked at Steve through lashes heavy with sleeplessness and contempt – contempt for himself first, maybe, but no longer only that. “I know you always had a thing for her.”
The sentence hung there.
Steve felt it hit somewhere low and violent in his chest.
Not because it was wholly unrecognizable. He was honest enough with himself, if with no one else, to know that whatever he had felt for you had long since moved beyond simple fondness. He had buried that knowledge deep, given it no room to breathe, refused to examine it with any real care because you had been with Bucky and that should have been the end of it. Steve was not a boy anymore, whatever Bucky chose to imply with Stevie. He did not build secret hopes out of other people’s relationships. He did not stand around waiting for collapse.
But hearing it spoken like that – dragged into the light now, in this room, from Bucky’s mouth, with all the filth of the night on it – made it feel contaminated.
Made it feel like accusation.
Made it feel like the ugliest possible version of something Steve had spent months, maybe longer, making sure remained harmless.
The distance between them vanished in three strides.
By the time Bucky seemed to register that Steve had moved, Steve’s fist had already fisted itself in the front of his T-shirt.
The fabric bunched hard in Steve’s hand. He drove Bucky backward with enough force to send him slamming into the nearest intact section of wall. The impact knocked a dull thud through the room, rattling what remained of the cracked mirror. Plaster dust sifted down in a pale drift from the damage already done.
Bucky’s head struck first, then his shoulders. He made a rough sound in the back of his throat but did not fight the grip.
If anything, he leaned into it.
That was almost worse.
Steve got right up into his space, holding him there with one hand locked in his collar, his face close enough to see every sign of sleeplessness, every burst capillary in his eyes, every twitch of strain around his mouth. He could smell blood, sweat, broken plaster, and underneath it the bitter metallic scent of adrenaline long since gone sour.
“Do not,” Steve said.
His voice was low enough that Bucky had to listen for it.
“Do not ever make me into some opportunistic bastard standing around waiting for my best friend to screw up.”
Each word came out clipped and controlled, but rage ran beneath them like live current.
Bucky stared back at him. For a second something like surprise flickered over his face – not at the force, maybe, but at the sheer naked disgust in Steve’s voice. Then even that disappeared, and what remained was a darker, uglier expression than before. Something needling. Something almost hungry.
He wanted this.
Steve saw it all at once.
Not the accusation itself. Not the fight in any real sense. The punishment.
There was something in Bucky’s eyes now that looked almost relieved to have finally drawn a clean target. As if he had spent the last hours drowning in emotions too large and shapeless to bear – shame, panic, grief, self-hatred – and had reached the point where a fist across the mouth would be easier. Simpler. A wound he could understand. A pain with edges.
He wanted Steve to hit him.
Wanted the physical blow, the proof, the release of it.
Maybe because broken knuckles and split lips hurt less cleanly than whatever image kept replaying in his head of you leaving the Tower without looking back.
Maybe because being struck by Steve would give him a punishment he could survive instead of the one he had earned and could not control.
Steve saw all of that in a single brutal flash, and it disgusted him more than the accusation had.
His lip curled very slightly. “You’re pathetic.”
The word landed harder than a punch.
Bucky’s expression changed.
For the first time, the viciousness faltered. Not gone, but pierced.
Steve held him pinned a heartbeat longer, staring at him with absolutely no effort to disguise what he felt. Disgust. Anger. A profound, cold contempt for the way Bucky was trying to drag everyone else into the mud with him now that he had finally sunk deep enough to feel it.
Then Steve released him.
Bucky hit the wall once more on the rebound and straightened too fast, jaw tightening, chest heaving. Steve took one step back, then another, forcing space between them before instinct overrode restraint. He turned away sharply and headed for the door.
He got two steps before Bucky spoke again.
“So it won’t bother you, then,” he said, voice rough and poisonous, “to pick up what’s left.”
Steve stopped dead.
There were some lines a man crossed in ignorance, and some he crossed because he wanted blood.
This was the second kind.
For one second the entire room seemed to contract around Steve’s spine. Every muscle in his back drew tight. His hand flexed once at his side so hard the fingers ached. He could feel his pulse in his throat now, hard and heavy, the old dangerous urge rising fast – the one that did not care about regret until later.
He turned so abruptly the broken glass near his boot crunched underfoot.
“Shut up, Bucky.”
His voice cracked across the room like a shot.
Bucky’s head lifted.
Steve took one step toward him, then stopped himself there by sheer force. His face had gone hard in a way very few people ever saw. Not righteous. Not noble. Just furious.
“Shut your goddamn mouth.”
The silence after that was enormous.
Bucky looked at him, breathing hard, but he did not speak.
Maybe he saw something in Steve’s expression then that finally registered as real danger. Not because Steve was Captain America. Not because he was stronger, steadier, more controlled. But because they had known each other too long for Bucky to mistake the difference between anger and the brink.
Steve stood there for one heartbeat longer, maybe two, and felt every possible next move line up in front of him.
He could hit him.
He could say the cruelest thing he knew.
He could drag this into some older, bloodier shape of brotherhood where men broke each other open because they had run out of language.
He wanted, with a suddenness that shocked him, to do at least one of those things.
And that was exactly why he had to leave.
So he did.
He turned on his heel and strode to the door before Bucky could force one more word into the room. His hand closed on the handle, yanked it open hard enough that it slammed against the outer wall, and for one second the cool, quiet hallway lay before him like another world entirely.
He stepped through without looking back.
Behind him, the wrecked room remained silent.
Steve pulled the door shut with more force than necessary. The latch clicked, then settled. It was a small sound after everything else, absurdly neat.
He stood there in the hallway for a second with his breathing too high in his chest and his fists clenched so tight his own nails bit into his palms. The controlled mask he wore so easily for everyone else felt thin as paper right then. He could still hear Bucky’s voice. I was going to ask her to marry me. You gonna take your shot, finally? Pick up what’s left.
The last one stayed.
It stayed because of what it implied. Because of the way it reduced you – your pain, your choice, your dignity – to debris. To aftermath. To something broken another man might claim.
The thought made Steve feel physically sick.
He pushed a hand over his face and kept walking before he could change his mind and go back in there.
The hallway seemed too bright after the room. Too polished. The Tower’s hidden systems hummed softly through the walls, indifferent as ever. Somewhere below, a lift moved between floors. Somewhere farther off, a door opened and shut. The world had resumed its shape while Steve’s pulse still pounded like he had just stepped off a battlefield.
He kept going.
Not because he was calm. Not because the anger had passed. But because he knew himself well enough to understand the difference between restraint and weakness, and tonight leaving was the only thing keeping those two from being confused.
By the time he reached the end of the corridor, his jaw hurt from how hard he had been clenching it.
He did not look back once.
GENERAL taglist: @mellowfurynight | @castielscaplan | @whatisanniedoin
Pairing: Trailer Park!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Summary: Bucky walks you back to your trailer after the potluck.
Word Count: Over 2k
Warnings: Flirting, swearing, mild dirty talk, tension, sexual chemistry, world building, bits of insecurity, nerves, humor, fluff, slow-burn... ish (kind of, but not also not really?), Bucky Barnes (he's very forward and a warning, okay?)
Previous Part of AU: First Impressions
A/N: More of our trailer park!Bucky! I hope you like it! ❤️ Beta read by the wonderful @mumbles411 , but any and all mistakes are my own. Divided by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
The sun had gone down by the time the potluck wrapped up. You hadn’t expected to spend the entire day there, but you were glad you did. Your cheeks ached from smiling, and Bucky hardly left your side. It felt strange in the best way that you hadn’t spent the day measuring your words or reactions. You were simply there.
And no one expected you to perform.
The kids were yawning and blinking slowly as the adults cleaned up, a few slumped in their chairs with frosting smeared around their mouths. Their parents teased you gently that it had to be a sugar crash. You helped Gracie pack up some dishes while Bucky offered to escort Gigi back to her trailer. She didn’t go without giving your hand a small squeeze.
“Embrace that you’re blooming,” she reminded you, her smile kind and eyes full of quiet wisdom. “And welcome again to the neighborhood.”
“Thanks, Gigi. I hope you have a good night,” you said, shivering just a little. You should’ve brought a cardigan.
Bucky slipped his jacket off immediately when the breeze picked up to drape it over your shoulders. His hands rested there briefly, that familiar jolt of current running through your body when he touched you. It felt so warm and smelled like him, and you couldn’t help but try to wrap it around you.
“Can’t have my girl catching a cold,” he rumbled, his hands moving down your arms.
“Your girl, huh?” you asked, the words coming out a little more breathless than you intended.
“I did promise you and Gigi I’d earn you, right?” he asked, winking and taking Gigi’s arm again. “You mind waiting for me while I walk her back?”
“I’ll wait right here.”
You watched Bucky lead Gigi away, her smaller frame tucked against his side. A smile touched your lips and you pulled his jacket a bit tighter around you. He truly was a gentleman beneath his flirty, tough exterior.
Gracie followed your gaze and nudged your shoulder. “You know he’s already planning your wedding in his head, right?”
You nearly lost your footing when you turned to look at her. “What?”
“Kidding. Or am I?” She laughed at your expression. “He’s been waiting for someone like you to show up.”
You found yourself smiling again. Someone like you. It felt nice.
“I don’t know why I’m surprised to hear you say that,” you said, handing her the empty dish she reached for. “He said he already told his sister and best friend that he met his future wife.”
Those words felt unnatural rolling off your tongue.
“So he told Becca and Steve about you, huh?” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Should’ve known with those stars in his eyes.”
Your cheeks felt warm against the chill in the air. “You keep saying that.”
“‘Cause it’s true,” she said, glancing over your shoulder as footsteps approached. “Pretending to be a gentleman by giving her your jacket?”
You turned, your heart picking up when Bucky stepped closer with his hands in his pockets. His eyes found you immediately, his expression softening. His gaze flickered briefly to the jacket around your shoulders before returning to your face, your breath catching.
There was something like pride in his eyes now.
At least, you thought it was pride.
“I am a gentleman,” he teased Gracie, raising an eyebrow when she smirked. “What?”
“Oh, nothing. Just take care of her.” She leaned in to give you a hug. Not a fake air kiss like you received in the past with old friends. “We’ll hang out soon, okay?”
You barely had a chance to nod when Tucker appeared out of nowhere and wrapped an arm around her waist. Your heart turned over when she leaned against him. They were a sweet couple. A natural fit.
And the way he looked at her with so much adoration and warmth…
Bucky seemed to look at you that way, too.
“Babe!” She giggled when he tried to pull her away.
“Hey. I’ve had to share you all day,” he joked, glancing at Bucky. “Back me up here, Barnes.”
Bucky snorted. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Tucker dragged Gracie away before she could chime in, her laughter trailing behind her. The energy from the potluck lingered in the air before settling into something soft and quiet as you and Bucky stared at each other. You would’ve been content to stand there with him all night.
Maybe even dance with him under the stars.
He finally nodded toward your trailer and grabbed the empty dessert carriers for you. “C’mon, Sweet Cheeks. Let’s get you home before you decide you’re keeping my jacket.”
“Maybe I am,” you teased, making a show of snuggling into it. “You did give it to me.”
His gaze drifted over you slowly before he licked his lips for good measure. “Looks better on you anyway.”
You glanced at your feet and smiled before you fell in step beside him. It was a short distance to the trailers, and you wished it could’ve been longer. You weren’t ready for it to end, but he had already spent a good portion of his day with you.
The last thing you wanted was to be clingy.
“First neighborhood potluck,” he said after a moment. “How did you like it?”
You looked out of the corner of your eye. He was watching you instead of looking ahead. Would you ever get used to him asking questions and genuinely caring?
“Once my nerves calmed? I loved it,” you replied honestly. “It’s nice to be around genuine people and feel like I belong.”
There was a lingering bit of sadness that you didn’t experience that kind of warmth with your family and friends, but the smiles and laughter outweighed it.
“That’s what I wanted to hear.” His shoulder brushed yours gently. “And everyone loved you, just like I said.”
You bit your tongue so you wouldn’t deny it, but you shook your head anyway. “You mean they loved my treats,” you said quietly.
“Darlin’, Gracie is already making plans with you and Gigi is probably going to make you a blanket starting tomorrow. You're the official dessert queen now, and everyone loved you,” he said, his shoulder nudging yours again like he couldn’t stop himself. “How could they not?”
Your heart fluttered a little at the quiet certainty in his voice. Him calling you “darlin’” was swoon worthy, too. It wasn’t fair.
“I appreciate hearing that.”
You caught the small smirk on his face. “But I still love you the most.”
Butterflies filled your stomach. “I know you do.”
You turned to face Bucky once you reached your trailer. He stood close enough that you caught the way the porch light caught the blue in his eyes. You were certain you never held eye contact with anyone as long as you did with him.
“Thanks for walking me back,” you said.
His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth and you held your breath.
Was he going to kiss you?
The spell broke when he cleared his throat and took a half step back. You exhaled. You must’ve misread the moment.
“Thanks for letting me,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “You… got plans tomorrow?”
“I was going to go into town,” you replied, tilting your head. “Why?”
“Let me show you around,” he offered, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I did say I could be your tour guide.”
“You still want to show me around?” you asked.
“Yeah. There’s a diner with the best pancakes you’ll ever have,” he said, rubbing his stomach. “And a bookstore not too far from there.”
“I could use a new book,” you mused.
“Maybe I can show you my shop? Steve may give me a hard time about coming in on my weekend off, but it’s worth it,” he said, his eyes hopeful. “And the bakery, too. I know you wanted to check that out.”
You smiled. He wanted to spend more time with you. He wanted to show you his shop where you might possibly meet Steve. And he was going to take you to the bakery.
How could you turn him down?
“I’d really like that.”
His smile widened, his eyes warm. “Then I’ll pick you up at 10.”
“Picking me up?” You raised an eyebrow. “Your trailer is just a few feet away.”
“Told you. I’m a gentleman,” he said, stepping back a little more. “But I wouldn’t mind if you did a twirl for me since you’re still wearing my jacket.”
You shook your head at the shameless grin on his face. “Fine,” you sighed, stepping back and doing a slow twirl.
He placed a hand on his chest and groaned, the sound deep. “Jesus fucking wept, Sweet Cheeks. Your dress and my jacket? Wet dream come true.”
You giggled to hide how much his words continued to get to you. Not just the outrageous flirting, but his assurance and sweetness and everything else. If you ever had a bad day going forward or felt self-conscious, you could remember the things he told you and how he looked at you like you were someone worth sticking around for.
“Well, take a picture because it’ll-” You cut yourself off when he took out his phone. “Wait, are you seriously going to take a picture?”
“Oh, yeah. Say, ‘Sweet Cheeks’,” he teased.
You laughed again, ducking your head. “It’s dark. There’s no way you’ll get a good photo anyway.”
“Oh, yeah?” He smirked, turning the screen toward you. “Looks good to me.”
He managed to snap a photo just before your head went down. The porch light shined over you, giving your body a small glow. And your smile was open and carefree.
Beautiful.
“It’s not a bad photo,” you conceded.
He glanced at the screen, smiling softly before he slipped his phone back into his pocket. “I think it’s perfect,” he said quietly.
“Or maybe you just take really good photos,” you said, reluctantly slipping his jacket from your shoulders. “Trade?” you asked, nodding to the empty dessert carrier.
He glanced at your outstretched hand before he shook his head. “Keep it for now.”
Your eyes widened, your fingers tightening on the fabric. “Are you sure?”
“Looks better on you, and I’ve got others,” he said, something warm settling in his gaze. “‘Also it gives me an excuse to see you again when I want it back.”
Your heart stuttered. “If you insist,” you said, slipping the jacket back on.
“I do,” he said, only handing the carrier over once you unlocked the door.
He looked like he didn’t want to leave.
You didn’t want him to go either.
You lingered in the doorway, neither of you moving right away. The warmth of the day stayed wrapped around you like his jacket, and you wanted to bask in it. You owed it to yourself.
There was comfort in knowing you weren’t so alone anymore.
And Bucky…
There was comfort in knowing he was there.
“I’ll be here at 10,” he reminded you.
You nodded. “I’ll be waiting.”
“Sweet dreams, Sweet Cheeks.”
“Sweet dreams, Bucky,” you whispered. “And say hi to Alpine for me.”
“I will,” he promised, staying rooted to the spot until you went inside.
You leaned against the door once you shut it and exhaled slowly, your heart still racing. You were itching to go after him, but you were proud of yourself for staying put. Self-control was a necessity.
Besides, you were going to see him tomorrow. He was taking you to breakfast and around town. It was basically a day date.
Right?
You sighed, trying not to think about how much you were really looking forward to it. He had already spent so much time with you between the fire pit and potluck. He called you his girl and said he wanted to earn you.
“I got out of a relationship not too long ago. I don’t need a man,” you whispered, like you had to give yourself a reason for behaving.
You didn’t need a man. You didn’t want just any man either. Not after everything.
You wanted Bucky Barnes.
I know this update was a little short, but the day date will be lots of fun. We may even see Steve! Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
Pairing: Trailer Park!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Summary: You hope to make a good impression on your neighbors.
Word Count: Over 3.7k
Warnings: Flirting, swearing, mild dirty talk, tension, sexual chemistry, world building, bits of insecurity, nerves, backstory, humor, the neighbors are wonderful, Bucky Barnes (he's very forward and a warning, okay?)
Previous Part of AU: Beer and Bonding
A/N: More of our trailer park!Bucky! I hope you like it! ❤️ Beta read by the wonderful @mumbles411 , but any and all mistakes are my own. Divided by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
You tapped your foot against the floor, your hands on your hips as your head swept over the array of desserts you made. There was hardly any room left on the counter since you baked so much. Maybe you should've dialed it back, but it was better to have too much than not enough.
“Okay. This is fine,” you whispered to yourself, smoothing out your dress. You tried not to pick something too fancy, but you realized that the casual dresses you brought were on the nicer end, too. It felt like a little much, which made your palms sweat. It all felt like a little much.
You were too much.
Then you thought of Bucky from the night before, and how vulnerable you both were. He didn’t think you were too much. And he was a gentleman when he walked you back to your trailer, lingering close by but not making any sort of move. But the gaze he gave you, full of longing and something a bit deeper than lust, said that he wanted to if you gave him the green light.
“Sweet dreams, Sweet Cheeks,” he whispered, making sure you got inside okay before he left.
You smiled to yourself and took a deep breath before you checked the time. You didn’t want to be late. That would make a bad impression.
As if Bucky suspected you were thinking of the potluck, he sent you a message. “You on your way over? Need any help?”
You bit your lip. He really wanted you to be there. It was sweet that he offered to help when he didn’t need to. No one else would’ve offered at other functions before. Then again most of your old circle didn’t want you to bring any baked goods.
You quickly sent a message back. “No help needed, but thanks. I’m coming.”
His reply was almost instantaneous. “You’re not coming yet. And I’m more than happy to help with that.”
Heat flooded your cheeks and you whimpered, thankful that he wasn’t right there to hear you. That man was going to be the death of you, or your salvation. Maybe both.
You felt a little bold in your next message. “How do you know I’m not coming?”
You almost tossed your phone away once you hit send, and you could picture the surprised look on his face quickly shift to an impressed smirk. You held your breath when you saw that he was typing something back. “Because you’re sending me messages. And trust me, Sweet Cheeks. The only thing you’ll be able to do when I make you come is say my name.”
Another whimper bubbled up. Would you consider this sexting? Sort of? “Behave, Bucky.”
“I can’t promise I’ll behave, but I’ll be so good to you.”
Your cheeks felt hotter, but it was because you smiled. Smooth, yet endearingly honest. And you didn’t want to keep him waiting.
You gathered what you could in your dessert carrier and put the rest on top, pausing at the door. Your hand lingered on the handle, your heart racing. It took a second, but you pushed it open and stepped outside. The air was a little warm on your skin when you stepped outside, grounding you.
“Okay. This is fine,” you said again, a bit louder so you could believe it.
If you could survive being vulnerable with your flirty neighbor, surely you could survive a potluck.
Carefully balancing everything, you took a few tentative steps toward the middle of the lot. That was where Bucky said it would be. You could already hear laughter and chatter in the distance and you almost faltered. Each step felt heavy, the happy sounds both intimidating and inviting.
You adjusted the carrier and stopped when a couple of kids rushed by, giggling and chasing a ball. You smiled after them, but your heart was starting to race as you got closer. There were tables set up, and meat sizzling on the grill. Everyone looked happy as they chatted, dressed down and comfortable with each other. Were you going to fit in?
Before you could dwell on that, you looked around for Bucky, and frowned when you didn’t see him. Where was he? You hoped the two of you could sit together if he wasn’t sitting with anyone else.
“Wow! Look at all that,” a woman called out, rushing over and holding out her hands to take whatever you’d allow her to. Her eagerness almost startled you, but her smile only widened when you let her take the treats on top of the carrier. “Isn’t this a nice welcome to the neighborhood? You didn’t have to go through so much trouble.”
“Yeah, I may have gone a little overboard,” you said, smiling. “I’m sorry.”
The apology slipped out before you could stop yourself. Why were you apologizing for trying to do something nice? She wasn’t judging you. She didn’t look at all upset.
“Oh, no need to say you’re sorry. This is a blessing! We’ll eat every crumb,” she promised, gesturing to an empty spot on one of the tables. “Babe, make some more room!” she ordered a man sitting nearby.
He got to his feet and shifted some things around so you could unload the carrier. “Well, look at all that.” He whistled once you set everything out. “New girl trying to outdo the grill. I’m impressed!”
Blood rushed to your cheeks, but you didn’t shrink back when you realized the teasing was affectionate instead of cruel. You breathed a little easier when a few heads turned your way with smiles and nods. They looked happy to have you there. It was a nice feeling.
“I’m Gracie, by the way,” the woman introduced herself, nodding to the man nearby again. “That’s my husband, Tucker.”
“Nice to meet you,” you said, offering your name.
“Oh, Bucky told us your name,” Gracie said with a wink. Tucker had a subtle smirk on his face, too. “Had stars in his eyes when he said it. Didn’t he, babe?”
“Oh, he sure did.”
Your heart skipped a beat as you wondered what else he told them. “He’s a very welcoming neighbor,” you said casually, but you were certain there were stars in your eyes, too.
She leaned in and whispered, “Don’t let the rough edges fool you. He’s a good one.”
“He is,” you agreed, thinking of how fondly he spoke of his sister and how fiercely he defended her. How he checked on you just because. He was something special. It was nice that his neighbors recognized that he was a good guy.
“Did you get dressed up for him?” she asked, gesturing to your dress.
You smoothed out a non-existent wrinkle and hoped your hands didn't shake. “Oh, I… I was worried I overdressed,” you said. A small part of you did hope Bucky liked it.
That voice in the back of your mind reminded you that it wasn’t even about overdressing. It was old habits that died hard. Impressions meant everything. Looking less than perfect wasn’t allowed. If you were breaking, you had to cover it with a smile so no one would see the cracks.
“He’ll eat you up with a spoon when he sees you,” Gracie said, bringing you back to the present where you belonged.
You wondered if your face would catch on fire. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” you replied, a giggle slipping out because you could hear his voice so clearly in your head saying something just like that.
“Trust me,” she said, giving you a knowing look before nodding behind you. “Speak of the devil…”
You swore your heart stopped when you turned around. Part of it was because of Bucky. The jeans and t-shirt worked so well on him, showing off his wonderful physique. But the sight that nearly made your heart give out was him escorting an elderly woman across the lot. He had a gentle hold on her elbow and walked slowly, smiling warmly at something she said to him.
Gracie leaned close with a conspiratorial grin. “Heart of gold, that one.”
You believed her because you experienced it. Bucky was kind to you, and now you were witnessing him extending that kindness to others. Seeing it warmed you inside, and your heart ached in the best way because his kindness was genuine, not conditional.
Glancing at Gracie, you realized how welcoming she was, too. More than you expected, and something you weren’t used to others meeting you with. Everyone there had a story. Everyone seemed to belong in this community. It was a beautiful thing.
Time seemed to stop when you met Bucky’s gaze, shyly smiling when his mouth fell open. He recovered quickly, openly looking you over like he had nothing to hide. Like you were the only person who existed. “Fuck me,” he breathed, making your heart pound and chest tighten. The sheer intensity of being seen the way he saw you was overwhelming in the best way.
The elderly woman lightly elbowed him. “You show that young lady some respect, young man,” she ordered, but she did it with a smile.
Bucky chuckled and nodded. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, winking at you as he led her to the nearest seat.
You still felt like you couldn’t breathe. How often would he take your breath away? How deep was the promise behind that wink?
“Stars in his eyes,” Gracie teased, nudging you.
The weight of her teasing settled over you like a warm blanket, and you tried to deflect with a shake of your head. But your gaze drifted back to Bucky as he adjusted the woman’s seat with care. He looked your way as if he sensed your eyes on him. You could see the sparkle in his irises. You wondered if you still had the same shine in yours.
You swallowed when he straightened his back and walked toward you, stopping a foot away. “Jesus, Sweet Cheeks. You look more gorgeous every time I see you,” he said, his voice low and his hand brushing yours. “I’m glad you’re here,” he added in a whisper.
Your pulse quickened. The chatter, the community, it all faded away. He wasn’t expecting or demanding perfection from you. But it was like you being there made his entire day.
“Well, I didn’t do all that baking for nothing,” you said, trying to steady yourself. “I’m glad I’m here, too,” you whispered back, and you meant it.
He leaned in, smirking. “I still get the first taste, right?”
“You had a taste last night, remember?” Your eyes widened when you realized exactly how that sounded. And Bucky, the beautiful bastard, licked his lips. “I-I mean-”
“Oh, I did have a taste of you sweet treats, but I’ll savor whatever you let me taste,” he said, your knees weak.
Gracie cleared her throat and rolled her eyes playfully. “Lord help us. You are shameless.”
Your cheeks burned when Tucker and a couple of others laughed. Instead of trying to make yourself smaller, you laughed, too. Because the sound from your other neighbors was warm and open.
“Shameless? Yes. Honest? Also yes.” His fingers brushed yours again. “Told you I’d never lie to you.”
“Got a silver tongue, don’t you?” Tucker asked.
“Hey. I back up my words,” Bucky replied, leaning in again so his mouth met your ear. “And speaking of my tongue-”
He didn’t get to finish whatever he planned to say since a little boy ran over and tugged on his arm. “C’mon, Bucky! You promise you’d play!”
“You better go play,” you encouraged him, the little boy’s energy infectious.
He laughed and ruffled his hair. “I’m a man of my word,” he said, giving you a look mixed with an apology and a promise. “Don’t go anywhere, Sweet Cheeks. I’ll be back.”
The little boy dragged him over to an open area where a few more kids gathered. You were tempted to grab your phone and take photos when he crouched low and let them crowd him. He laughed when one climbed on his shoulders, and you thought you’d melt into a puddle. Why did it suddenly feel hotter?
“Here. Grab some food,” Gracie urged, putting a plate in your hands.
“And come sit with me, dear,” the elderly woman called out, patting the seat beside her. “We can keep each other company while he’s occupied.”
“Oh. Thank you,” you said, happily surprised that she wanted you to sit with her.
A few more neighbors introduced themselves as you put food on your plate, offering nods and smiles. Your hand didn’t tremble. Your smile wasn’t practiced or forced. It was strange and freeing not having to be on guard.
Once you had your plate, you made your way over to the empty seat. “Is there anything I can get you?”
“Oh, no. Don’t trouble yourself. You just sit with me,” she said, patting your arm once you sat down. “There.”
You set a napkin in your lap. “I appreciate everyone being so welcoming,” you said. It was more than you expected.
“Of course, you’re welcome here.” She patted your arm again. “And call me Gigi. Everyone calls me Gigi.”
You nodded. “Gigi.”
You began to eat quietly, your focus on Bucky playing with the kids instead of the food. Your breath caught when a little girl stumbled and fell. He was right there to steady her and carefully checked to make sure she wasn’t hurt. He even helped brush some of the dirt away. It was a tender moment.
“Now, dear,” Gigi began, drawing your attention back to her. “What brought you here?”
You pushed a bit of food around, trying to figure out just what to say. She didn’t need to hear your life story. “I’m trying to start over and figure out who I am without…” You didn’t finish that thought and she didn’t press. “I guess I just want to make a life that’s mine. One that I’m proud of.”
“Starting over isn’t easy, but you’re doing it. That’s something to be proud of.”
“Thank you,” you whispered. For a moment, it was like being back with your grandma. Like a balm for a sore you didn’t know you had. “You know, I was really worried about making a good first impression and fitting in,” you admitted.
“Oh, you already fit in because you’re here,” she said, making you loosen your grip on your fork. “And you certainly made an impression on James,” she added, nodding to Bucky who was currently on the ground while a little boy pretended to pin him down.
You smiled a little. “James?” you repeated. Was James his real name?
“He prefers Bucky, but my point still stands. That young man is smitten,” she said, smiling when you shifted in your seat. It was nice to hear that, but part of you wanted to hide your face. “You’re not used to being the center of attention, are you?”
“Not in a positive kind of way,” you said, struggling to remember the last time your parents had complimented you or your ex said something to lift you up.
“Well, you better get used to it around here, dear.”
You smiled softly. Bucky did pay a lot of attention to you. “It’s a strange feeling, but it’s nice, too.”
“Strange feelings are sometimes the best because they’re the start of something new. Something… blooming,” she said, her voice steady and eyes twinkling. “Embrace it.”
Her words echoed softly yet powerfully in your mind as you looked around, your chest tight. The visible affection and camaraderie wasn’t just refreshing, it was something you craved deep down. It felt safe. Like acceptance without conditions.
Bucky jogged over when some of the parents called their kids back to eat, a smile on his face. “Promised I’d be back,” he said, nodding to the empty spot on the other side of you. “That seat taken?”
“You kept your word,” you said softly, your heart fluttering. Something small, but significant. “It’s all yours.”
“What I love to hear,” he smirked, grabbing himself a drink and plate before he joined you. His knee touched yours when he sat down, and you felt that jolt of electricity again. It crackled more when you realized he filled most of the plate with your desserts.
You cleared your throat and tilted your head. “So, did you have fun playing… James?” you asked innocently, unable to resist teasing or flirting with him.
He stopped mid-bite and swung his head to stare. You maintained the innocent facade as Gigi cackled. “Did you just call me ‘James’, Sweet Cheeks? My government name while I indulge in your treats?”
You shrugged and tried not to laugh. “It’s what Gigi called you, so I thought I’d give it a try.”
He finished the dessert in his hand and slowly licked the crumbs away, heat pooling in your gut. Why was everything he did so sinful? “You can call me whatever you want.” He moved close, his mouth inches from yours. “Just don’t stop saying my name,” he added, his voice lower, firm, and you shivered when his gaze dropped to your lips.
Gracie chose that moment to walk by and snorted. “Shameless, Bucky. There are kids present.”
He leaned back, but still stayed close. “I’m just appreciating the baker.”
“Appreciate with your fork. Not your mouth,” she argued with a grin.
Bucky raised an eyebrow. “I can do both.”
The people nearby laughed at the exchange and you tried to ignore the spreading heat. You knew he’d fully appreciate you with his mouth if he had the chance. “Shameless and honest,” you teased.
“Damn right,” he agreed, his eyes softening. “And you’re doing okay?”
You exhaled. “I’m not so nervous anymore,” you replied, almost reaching for his hand before you stopped yourself. “Thank you for asking.”
His knee pressed against yours a bit more. “Good. You deserve to relax,” he said, glancing over at the kids who gathered around the desserts. “You’ll be their favorite neighbor in no time.”
You shook your head. “I don’t know about that,” you said, content to watch them happily pick through everything.
“I do,” he said, something unspoken lingering when he looked back at you.
“You really think so?” you asked.
“I know so,” he answered without hesitation. “They know a person with a good heart when they see them.”
“Must be why they’re so comfortable around you,” you said easily. Kids were honest to a fault, and excellent judges of character. “They trust you and that says everything.”
His breath hitched, like he didn’t expect the compliment. For a split second, you saw that vulnerability that he displayed when he told you about his past. And unlike you, he didn’t hesitate to touch your hand.
“You’re killing me slowly, Sweet Cheeks,” he whispered, his thumb brushing absentmindedly over your knuckles.
The feeling was mutual. “I’m just being honest.”
“It means everything,” he said, no trace of teasing, flirting, any of that.
His touch steadied you, and it seemed to steady him, too. In a world where you wanted to be seen, he didn’t hesitate to look at you. You wanted him to feel seen, too.
“Barnes! Introduce us to the person who made these wonderful desserts, and stop hogging her,” a woman demanded, and held up a half eaten brownie.
Bucky squeezed your hand and reluctantly let go as he said your name. “Spoiling us, isn’t she?”
“She sure is. They’re incredible,” she said, taking another bite. “Would you mind sharing the recipe?”
You smiled warmly. No one else in your old circle ever would’ve asked. “I wouldn’t mind at all.”
Bucky held a finger to his lips. “Just don’t tell her the secret ingredient,” he mock whispered. You smiled when you remembered that he said you made them with love and therefore loved him.
The woman laughed. “Secret ingredient, huh? Well, whatever it is, don’t stop using it.”
“I vote we make her the official dessert queen,” another neighbor chimed in, a few others agreeing.
“Oh. That’s…” You caught Bucky smiling proudly, and you felt like you’d cry. You managed to keep the tears at bay. “I’m glad you like them.”
“I get first dibs on any upcoming desserts,” Bucky teased, putting his hand over yours again. “Next door neighbor perk.”
“I think James has claimed you,” Gigi whispered loud enough for both of you to hear.
“Only if she wants to be claimed,” Bucky said.
The air rushed out of your lungs. It was desire without the need to possess you. He was empowering you. Did he realize that?
“Smart boy. Earn her,” she said.
Bucky nodded slowly. “I’ll spend every day earning her,” he said to Gigi while looking right at you.
Last night you were certain your appeal would wear off, but he was proving he was a man of his word. “I believe you, Bucky,” you whispered, looking out at the other neighbors. “And I’m going to need a list of favorite desserts if I’m going to be the dessert queen.”
“Attagirl,” Bucky whispered fondly.
The chatter picked up again and you relaxed in your seat, the remaining tension left in your body melting away. Gracie was already making plans to have you over at her trailer to hang out, signaling the start of a new friendship. Gigi subtly mentioned a few spots in town where Bucky could take you, a gentle nudge toward opening your heart more. A little boy even brought you one of your own treats with a big smile on his face, urging you to enjoy the very thing you shared with everyone else. The thing that you felt would be too much.
For once, you felt like you belonged.
“This feels… right,” you said almost to yourself.
Bucky laced your fingers together, anchoring you. “It’s because you’re home now.”
It did feel like how a home should feel. Not a place, but the people, the abundance of care, the acceptance, all of it. You were going to bloom and thrive because you owed it to yourself.
And with Bucky beside you, you were right where you needed to be.
I was originally going to take the potluck in a different direction. The muse refused, and I think it turned out JUST how it needed to. What do we think will happen next? And how long before your ex shows up? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
Pairing: Trailer Park!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Summary: Bucky can't stop thinking about you.
Word Count: Over 1.5k
Warnings: Bucky's POV, mention of flirting, swearing, sexual thoughts (oral and p. in v. sex), touching, longing, world building, bits of insecurity, backstory, mention of jail time, Bucky Barnes (he's very forward and a warning, okay?)
A/N: More of our trailer park!Bucky! A short fic between Beer and Bonding and First Impressions. ❤️ Beta read by the wonderful @mumbles411 , but any and all mistakes are my own. Divided by the talented @saradika-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
Bucky sighed as he rested on his bed, breathing in the scent of the laundry detergent that still clung to his sheets. Underneath that, a bit of your perfume lingered on his shirt from your earlier hug and he wished he could wrap himself up in it. He could still feel your arms around him, your body molded against his in a perfect fit. It was something he’d think about for days to come.
He couldn’t stop thinking about you, and he didn't want to.
You, Sweet Cheeks, with your soft smile, eyes he could fall into, and an ass that seriously didn’t quit. He breathed your name like it was something sacred and he wanted to be worthy. He craved you in a way he never craved anyone or anything else.
“My future wife,” he whispered, which really was what he told his sister.
A smile touched his lips when he remembered Becca’s gasp of disbelief. She swore she heard him incorrectly, so he repeated it. She wanted to know everything about you since her big brother experienced love at first sight. But it was something more than instalove or whatever people called it. He felt it deep within him.
“But, Bucky, you realize you just met her, right?”
“When you know, you know.”
It was funny how a single moment could change your entire life. Bucky knew that well enough. He had his parents, a happy family, and in the blink of an eye they were gone. He tried to be a good brother to Becca, to look out for her, and in a split second he found himself in handcuffs and behind bars.
And on a seemingly ordinary day, he saw your face and everything fell into place.
Your beauty was the kind that people wrote stories and fantasized about. He came on strong, making his intentions known. But life taught him that it was too short to bullshit or hold back.
Thankfully, you didn’t shoot him down or tell him to fuck off when you easily could’ve. You were still giving him the time of day. Hell, you asked him to help fix your door, and he was more than happy to lend a hand. Thank fuck he was able to get the job done since you unknowingly distracted him.
You could make a man forget his own name with a single stare.
Beyond your looks, fuck, you had kind heart and were somehow both open and guarded. It made him respect you while wanting to protect you. He was convinced that some higher being reached into his mind and conjured up the perfect woman to be his neighbor.
Oh, the neighbors. They knew something was up when he mentioned meeting you and inviting you to the potluck. He didn’t try to brush off the knowing stares or small smiles. He had nothing to hide or be embarrassed about.
“Stars in your eyes,” Gracie teased.
There were stars in his eyes since he saw you.
He turned his head to look toward the window, the moonlight barely visible through the curtain. Part of him wanted to get up and push it open to get another glance at the trailer next door. Just one more glance at you before he shut his eyes. One more gaze if he was lucky.
“I’m so fucked,” he huffed out in a laugh, reaching for his phone to send Steve a quick message.
“Told her about my past. She comforted me.”
He smiled a little and tossed the device away before he could see what his best friend typed back. He’d likely get a call tomorrow. The little punk would want all the details.
Opening up to you was like ripping a bandaid off. It was better to do it quickly. You didn’t make an excuse to cut the evening short or judge or pity him when he told you about one of the darkest chapters of his life. You hugged him, giving him the comfort he didn’t know he needed and refused to ask for.
He selfishly didn’t want to let you go, wishing he could hold you until the sun came up. He couldn’t. Not tonight. But you looked at him like he was worth something, not just the former convict turned mechanic living in a rundown home, and that made it much harder to end the night.
Knowing he had to go back to his bed alone just made him yearn for you more.
He was a gentleman when he walked you back to your trailer, not taking your hand or walking too close. It was difficult since his mind screamed at him to shove you against your door and kiss you with desperate hunger. But he refused to rush you or take what you weren’t willing to give. He would never cross that line. And he would never be like your prick of an ex.
Five minutes. If he could have just five minutes with the asshole. He wouldn’t do anything that would land him back in jail, but he’d defend you and make the fucker wish he were dead.
“Tonight was really nice,” you said, opening your door and giving him the small smile that made his heart beat faster. “Thank you.”
There was no teasing smirk or flirty remark waiting. “Thank you.” Next time he’d do something a little nicer than a fire pit and beers. “Sweet dreams, Sweet Cheeks,” he whispered.
He rolled on his side and reached for the empty spot beside him. He could picture you there so easily, curled up under his blanket and smiling at him. Maybe you’d snuggle closer for warmth.
Oh, he’d keep you warm alright.
He groaned and moved to his back again, wondering what kind of sounds you’d make for him. He wasn’t some selfish bastard who focused on his own pleasure. No, he’d get you off over and over. He’d take his time undressing you, and his hands would roam every delicious inch of your body. His lips would follow the path, leaving a delicious burn in its wake, until he got a real taste of you. There was no doubt in his mind that your pussy was a delicacy waiting for him to feast on.
And he’d eat until he had his fill.
“Fuck, Sweet Cheeks,” he sighed, palming himself through his pants.
He imagined nosing your clit, his tongue stabbing deep, and your hips jerking like you didn’t know whether to pull away or push back until you smothered his face. Maybe you’d try to cover your mouth to muffle your moans out of shyness or fear that one of the other neighbors would hear. He wouldn't let you hide from him. He’d coax out every single sound, wring out every ounce of pleasure until everyone nearby knew who you belonged to. He’d turn you into a boneless mess and make sure you were okay.
Then he’d give you his cock.
He rubbed himself more, thinking about how wet and tight your pussy would feel around him. He wanted to dig his fingers into your perfect ass and make you feel every inch of him. He wanted-
“MEOW.”
Bucky’s hand froze when Alpine jumped on the edge of the bed and stared at him, pulling him out of his daydream and giving him a tremendous set of blue balls. “Don’t give me that look. This is my bed, and I can do what I want in it.”
The feline’s tail flicked before she stared at the window, her meow much gentler.
“You looking out for her, too?” he asked gently, putting a hand out.
She brushed her head against his palm and purred. Becca and Steve’s opinions mattered, of course, but Alpine was the best judge of character. And she adored you from the start, bumping her head against yours in welcome and acceptance. That meant something.
That meant she felt it, too.
“I can’t stop thinking about her,” he whispered like it was a secret between them.
Alpine brushed his hand again before she curled up on the pillow beside him, facing the window. He chuckled quietly. You had a little guard looking out for you, and you didn’t even know it. Not that you couldn’t take care of yourself, but you shouldn’t have to.
He glanced around after a moment, suddenly wishing he had a nicer place. He quickly pushed that insecurity aside. Taking care of someone had nothing to do with having a fancy house. Just because he had a small kitchen didn’t mean he couldn’t dance with you between you baking and fill the place with laughter.
What he didn’t have in funds, he made up with in all the other ways that counted.
“Sweet dreams, Sweet Cheeks,” he said again, closing his eyes.
He’d see you soon enough at the potluck, even though it seemed so far away.
Tonight he’d dream of you and your smile and wishing he could hold you like you were the most precious thing.
And maybe if he got lucky, his dream would come true.
Down so bad and that was before the potluck. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
Pairing: Trailer Park!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Summary: You bond with Bucky over beers and get to know the man beneath the flirty surface.
Word Count: Over 5.7k
Warnings: Flirting, swearing, dirty talk, tension, sexual chemistry, world building, bits of insecurity, backstory, relationship issues, talk of sex, emotional abuse, mention of violence and attempted sexual assault, jail time, Bucky Barnes (he's very forward and a warning, okay?)
A/N: More of our trailer park!Bucky! I hope you like it! ❤️ Beta read by the wonderful @mumbles411 , but any and all mistakes are my own. Divided by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
You spent way too long trying to decide what to wear for your drink with Bucky. Why were you treating it as a big date? You were just hanging out with your neighbor. Your very hot neighbor. Your very hot neighbor who has made it clear he’d love to get in your pants if you gave him the go ahead.
How long before you let him?
“Jeans and a nice top it is,” you said, sorting through the small pile you made. You thought earlier that perfume and makeup would be too much since it wasn't technically a date, but a spritz and minimal makeup wouldn’t hurt. He’d like it, right?
You smiled when you checked your phone and saw another message from Bucky.
“Still won’t tell me about your dream? I’ll get it out of you somehow.”
You bit your lip as you reread it. You expected maybe a message or two from him, but he had been reaching out all day and you were checking your phone more than you wanted to admit. He asked how the unpacking was going, checked on your baking and not-so-subtly mentioned he wasn’t allergic to anything and should be your taste tester. He even sent a photo of Alpine curled up on his lap, which made your heart melt.
But the thing that really made your heart melt was when he asked how you were doing. It didn’t feel like a throwaway question. You didn’t know him well but you knew enough that he wouldn’t ask if he didn’t want to know. How was he so genuine?
You giggled as you typed a message back. Maybe he would get it out of you, or maybe you’d keep him guessing. “Keep dreaming. See what I did there?”
You felt a little silly sending that. Your ex certainly didn’t appreciate funny messages. He always found a way to turn them around and make you feel small when he bothered to reply.
But with Bucky, your phone lit up almost immediately. “You’re witty, Sweet Cheeks. I like that.”
You hugged your phone to your chest, wishing you could wrap your arms around him and thank him for being so kind. He likely had no idea how much his kindness meant to you. Why did that make your heart ache? Why did you feel pathetic for clinging to it?
“God, I really need a drink,” you whispered.
You tried not to look at the device again once you started getting ready, checking yourself out in the mirror with every angle possible. Bucky must’ve been rubbing off on you since you turned to look at your ass and wondered if it looked good. Since when did you care about that?
The knock on your door had you jumping out of your skin with anticipation. “One sec!” you called out, taking one last look at yourself and smoothing out your clothes before you rushed to the kitchen. You had a small plate of treats ready for him to try. God, what if he hated them? You didn’t need to impress him, but you wanted to.
You smiled once you opened the door and saw Bucky standing there. He wore long sleeves since it was cooler, but they only served to enhance his muscles. He made looking good appear so effortless. It wasn’t fair.
“Looking good, Sweet Cheeks,” he said, licking his lips. “Got the beer, chairs, blankets, Al, and firepit all ready to go.”
“And all I’m bringing are treats,” you said, presenting him with the plate. “That doesn’t really seem fair.”
“You’re bringing your sweet self, too, so that’s all I need,” he said, licking his lips again when he carefully looked over the desserts. “Bet you made these with love.”
“Of course, I did,” you said. You always put love into your baking.
“So, if you made them with love and you’re giving them to me, then you love me.” He smirked when your eyes bulged. “I know, I know. It’s a lot really fast, but I accept it.”
You shook your head. “That’s a bit of a stretch and you know it,” you said, but there was a wide smile on your face. “I haven’t even had that drink with you yet.”
“Okay. I’ll put a pause on the ‘love’ talk for now. Maybe after a drink or two.”
“Ridiculous,” you said to yourself. He was ridiculous and wonderful.
“Hang on. Turn around.” He made a spinning motion with his finger and you did a slow turn after a second. His groan drifted to your ears, raspy and lustful. “You’re seriously killing me. And I’ve decided those pants are illegal, so you should take them off. Now.” He waited a beat. “Why are you not taking them off?”
This man continued to praise you more and more in the very short time you knew him. “Oh, they’re illegal, huh?’ you asked, giggling when he nodded. “Well, they’re not coming off right now. And if they really are illegal, I guess I’m out here breaking rules tonight.”
“Happy to help you break some rules. Maybe break your bed while we’re at it,” he said, a promise hanging between you. “I can fix it and help you break it again.”
Your breath hitched and you tried to hide it. “Can we please sit and have a drink?”
“Since you asked so nicely,” he replied.
You glanced at him as he led you away from your trailers. He walked close to you, but not so close that you felt smothered. The slight breeze made you shiver and you were happy to see the fire pit just a few feet away. You smiled to yourself when you noticed that the chairs were right next to each other. And there were lights in the trees. Did he set that up?
It felt intimate though it was meant to be casual, and you liked that you weren’t far from your new home. It was thoughtful of him. “This looks great.”
He looked right at you. “It does,” he whispered.
You blamed the heat in your cheeks from the flames as you walked to the chairs. “Hey, Alpine,” you sat when she sat up and stretched. “Keeping Bucky’s seat warm for him?”
“She’s good at that,” he teased, helping you sit. His touch sent jolts up your arm. “But you’re welcome to take a seat on me and keep me warm.”
“Oh, my god.” You shook your head at the cat. “Your owner is something else.”
“Oh, she’s well aware,” he teased, catching her easily when she sprang into his arms and still managing to keep hold of the treats. “And she stays with me anyway.”
You were glad they had each other. “I feel bad. I should’ve made a treat for her. Maybe next time?”
You were banking on there being a next time, which you shouldn’t. You didn’t want to wear out your welcome or cling to him. That was the last thing he needed.
He paused before he sat down. “You’d make treats for her?” he asked softly.
“Yeah, if that’s okay with you,” you replied.
His smile was as soft as his voice. “That’s really fucking nice of you, and she’d love that.”
You smiled back. “I’ll make sure it’s something special,” you promised.
Bucky handed you a beer before he looked over the plate again. “Where to start?” he murmured, selecting the brownie after careful consideration. You held your breath when he sank his teeth in and let out a pornographic moan, his eyes slipping shut. You clenched and watched him lick his lips before he took another bite. The things he could likely do with that mouth…
“So, you like it?” you asked breathily.
“Like it? Are you kidding me? Best brownie I’ve ever had.” He opened his eyes and ran his tongue across his lips again. “I seriously think you baked this with sin and love. Jesus fucking Christ.”
You looked in your lap, suddenly shy and your heart full. There was no laughter from him, no joking, and that meant everything. “Thanks,” you whispered, lifting your gaze. “Not sure it’ll go well with beer, but…”
“Like I give a shit,” he said, shoveling the rest of the treat into his mouth. Your eyes widened. He really liked it that much? “So, talk to me,” he said once he swallowed.
“Talk to you about what?” you asked, too distracted by his perfect mouth. You sipped your beer and tried to imagine your old group doing this. It was always fancy drinks and dressing up. Nothing casual, nothing real.
“Anything you want,” he said, cracking his drink open. “Want us to get to know each other.”
You did want to know more about him. “So, I can ask you whatever I want?”
“Yeah. I’m an open book.”
“Okay,” you said, biting your lip. “How long have you lived here?”
“About ten years now. Seems like only yesterday,” he said, staring off like he was reminiscing. “Believe it or not, I grew up in a city. Stayed there until I was in my mid-20’s.”
“Never would’ve guessed,” you said, but you knew better than to judge a book by its cover. What brought him out here? “And you have a sister. What about your parents?”
A flicker of sadness crossed his face. “They passed away years ago. It’s just Becca and I,” he said.
That broke your heart. You didn’t know what it was like to lose a parent, but that was a terrible loss. “I’m so sorry,” you said, briefly touching his hand.
He stared at the spot you touched and gently smiled. “I like to imagine they’re together somewhere, dancing to some old music and watching over us,” he said. You hadn’t expected a deep discussion off the bat, but it was nice that he shared this with you. “Mom’s probably pissed that I’m not married yet,” he added with a chuckle.
“Do you… want to get married?” you asked curiously.
“To the right woman, hell yeah.” He stared at you and you managed not to shift in your seat. “I mean, I did tell Becca I met my future wife.”
Your heart skipped a beat. “And you don’t say that about all the new neighbors?”
He looked offended. “Hell no.”
“You ever sleep with a neighbor?”
“A couple,” he said easily, like he had nothing to hide. And he didn't.
Your eyebrows shot up just the same. It was nice that he didn’t dodge the question. And jealousy didn't rear its ugly head. There was no reason. “And…?”
“And what? I don’t have any kids running around if that's what you're asking. Clean as a whistle.”
“That’s good to know,” you said. He didn’t seem like the type to hide any of that.
He made sure you were looking in his eyes when he spoke again. “Not to mention that was ages ago. Not dating or sleeping with anyone.”
“Ages ago, huh?”
“Just me and my hand.” He held up his right hand before he looked at the other. “I mean, sometimes I switch to my left so it feels different.”
“Keeping it interesting,” you teased. “So, those old neighbors, no strings attached?”
“Nope. Not on either side. Blew off steam and nothing more,” he answered.
“I don't know what that's like. I’ve always been in relationships,” you admitted. You weren't sure if you were cut out for sex without some sort of label attached to it.
“It’s not for everyone.” He stared into his bottle with a sad smile. “Truthfully, it’s really not for me and that's why I don't do that anymore.”
You almost reached out to touch his hand again. “It’s not a bad thing to want more.”
“I guess not,” he said more to himself than you. “One of the things that almost everyone here has in common is that we all want something more in life. Some of the women are single moms trying to do better for their kids and others just got out of bad relationships and are trying to find their way. A few are a combination of the two.”
You sympathized. You didn’t have kids, but your heart went out to anyone freeing themselves from a bad relationship and trying to figure out the next step. “I hope things are looking up for them,” you said. You still wondered what brought Bucky to this place since he grew up in a city.
You thought he looked a little sad when he asked, “Does it bother you that I slept with women I wasn’t serious about?”
“No,” you answered immediately. Too fast for his liking since he raised an eyebrow.
“No?”
“No,” you said again, slower but firm. “Why would it bother me? We just met each other. Your past is yours, and I’m not going to judge you for it.”
It wasn’t your place to pick apart any of his past or his choices. You had a past, too. As far as you were concerned, he didn’t owe you a thing.
There was also a naively optimistic voice in your head that said you were different. If Bucky took you to bed it wouldn’t be a one and done thing. Not if he told his sister and best friend about you. Not if he looked at you the way he did.
“You may not judge, but I’ll bet you want to know if I flirt with everyone.”
“Do you flirt with everyone?”
“Not the way I flirt with you,” he said seriously. “I swear that I’ve never gone on about anyone else's ass the way I did with yours and will continue to do.”
Your heart stupidly skipped a beat. “So, why mine? What is so spectacular about it?”
What made you so special?
“It’s an onion ass.”
“It’s a what now?” you asked, beyond confused as you sipped your beer.
“Already told you the answer, Sweet Cheeks. It’s an ass so beautiful it could make a grown man cry.”
You almost sputtered. “Yep. You're utterly ridiculous.”
“Not ridiculous. I'm being honest.”
You shifted in your chair. “Well, my ass will lose its appeal. Trust me.”
He looked offended by the mere thought. “That’s highly unlikely. Your ass won’t quit. Ever.”
You wanted the optimistic voice in your head to come back and drown out the mocking laughter and taunts you were used to. Why did the mind like to remind you of the worst when you should’ve been focusing on the best? Why were you your own worst enemy?
“You’re just being nice,” you muttered, taking another swig.
He sat up straighter and took a good look at you. “You really don't believe me, do you?”
You sighed, not wanting to get into it while wanting to unleash it all at the same time. “Bucky, my ex-boyfriend was a two-faced liar with just about everything. The kind of guy who would say to my face that I looked great and then laughed and put me down to his friends when he thought I couldn’t hear him. Or maybe he knew I was listening and he just didn’t care.”
It was humiliating that the person who was supposed to protect and love you was the very person who tore you down. The worst part was that he did it with a smirk on his face. You would never understand a man who did everything to make their partner feel small just so they could feel big.
He stayed quiet for a minute. “Why stay with a prick like that?” he asked curiously, a bite to his voice as well.
You asked yourself the same thing so many times. “Because our parents decided that we were going to get married, so I was expected to put up with it,” you replied. And you didn’t say so, but a very small part of you thought that was what you deserved before you realized you deserved better.
“Fuck that. This isn’t the old days. They can’t just decide that,” he snapped before he sat back in his chair, his jaw clenching. “Sorry. You didn’t ask for my opinion.”
“It’s okay,” you said. It was nice that he was upset on your behalf. “But they didn’t care. Neither did my friends.”
“Some friends,” he mumbled so low you almost didn’t hear him.
“My parents told me it was par for the course for couples to argue like that and some of my friends were either in similar situations or they had their own issues to deal with, so they didn’t have time for mine,” you said, blinking a few times. If he asked, you could blame the burn in your eyes from the smoke. “I had to suck it up and deal with it on my own.”
You gripped the bottle tighter, trying to remember the last time your friends checked on you before you left. It was always you reaching out first, you trying to keep everything together. Did they even notice that you pulled away? Did they care when you stopped trying?
There was heartbreak in his stare when you glanced at him. Anger, too. “One of the things he said the most when we fought was that there were plenty of women just like me out there… better women, in fact. And to add salt to the wound after our fights he’d ignore me. He’d look right through me for minutes, hours, even days. I was just… invisible. Non-existent.”
You stared into the fire like it would hold answers to questions you hadn't asked yet. You weren’t sure what was worse, when he used his words as weapons or his indifference. Both left wounds that would heal with time, but the scars would remain. Maybe one day the right person would help them fade just a little more.
“And then you left,” he whispered.
“And then I left,” you echoed, taking a deep breath. You dumped a lot on him in a short time and you wished you could take it back since your burdens weren’t his to carry. It was nice to get it out, especially since he defended you and didn’t judge.
“Ended up here at the trailer park,” he said.
“My grandma left some money for me when she passed away, and I saved as much as I could from my paychecks, too. I think she knew I didn't want the life my parents thought I should have,” you said, glancing back at your place. It wasn’t a mansion and you didn’t need it to be one. “I think she’d be happy that I’m here because this is mine and it’s real. My life. My choices.”
“She sounds wise.”
“She was,” you agreed. You missed her. “She was sincere in a world full of insincerity.”
“You value that… sincerity. Honesty,” he guessed.
“I do. And you’re probably one of the most genuine people I’ve met in a long time. You have no filter whatsoever, but it's refreshing,” you said, seeing a ghost of a smile touch his lips. “So, I don't think you're a liar when you say the things you do. Not even close. I just think my appeal to you may eventually wear off.”
He leaned forward, the fire catching in his eyes. “That's never going to happen,” he said with enough force that it nearly knocked you back.
“You own a mirror, right? You’ve seen yourself. You can have anyone you want,” you told him. Anything to deflect and make him not see the parts of yourself you willingly opened. Anything to stop you from saying that he could do better than you.
“Don't want just anyone,” he said, keeping his eyes on you. “And thank you, by the way, for telling me part of your story. I have a feeling that wasn’t easy for you.”
You nodded, but didn't say anything. Maybe he understood why you didn't want to depend on others. Your support circle was never that at all.
Another minute of silence passed before you said, “Sorry to be such a downer, but thanks for listening. You're really easy for me to talk to.”
“Not a downer. I’m happy to listen,” he said, smiling wide when Alpine suddenly jumped in your lap. “So is she.”
“Quite the pair, aren’t you?” you asked, gently petting her fur once she curled up.
“We are,” he agreed, but he was looking at you. “So, what about work? You talked about filling out job applications.”
“Oh, yeah. Still figuring that out, but I don't think I want to be in an office ever again.”
An office or corporate setting would remind you too much of the world you left behind. You didn’t want to be surrounded by those cold walls and people being treated like robots or numbers. There was something else out there waiting for you to seize the opportunity.
He smirked. “Me neither.”
You smiled. The atmosphere felt lighter than it did a minute ago. “I can’t picture you being happy in an office.“
“Fuck no. I love my shop. Opening it was one of the best decisions I ever made,” he said, his pride evident. He should be proud. “Is there a job that you think could make you happy? Or at least make you feel content?”
You thought about it. “This may sound kind of silly, but baking is something that makes me happy and I’m decent at it. If there’s a bakery or shop or something that could use an extra hand, I’d love that.”
“Decent? Your brownie almost made me bust a nut.” You laughed, but he didn’t. “I’m serious. You should go into town and see.”
He was being serious. “I didn't see anything online.”
“Some of the owners are a bit more old fashioned. Prefer signs in the windows and face-to-face interaction instead of posting online.”
“I can do that,” you said. You wouldn’t get your hopes up, but it would hurt to look. “It'll be good to explore a little too.”
He looked pleased to hear that .”So, you really plan on sticking around.”
“Well, I didn’t uproot my life just to take off so soon,” you said. This is where you were meant to be. You could feel it. And you wouldn’t go back where you didn’t belong.
“Fair enough,” he chuckled. “If you need a tour guide, I can show you around.”
“You enjoy my company that much, Bucky?”
“I do,” he said. God, you believed him. “And .I'll do my best to keep proving that to you.”
“You don't have to prove anything to me,” you whispered. He had done more for you than he knew.
“I want to,” he whispered, gently and fiercely, like he really did have something to prove.
“You’re something else. You know that?” you asked.
“Is that a bad thing?” he countered, a smirk on his handsome face.
“No. Like I said, it’s refreshing. I think you already gathered that I’m used to passive aggression and being flat out ignored, so I will take honesty over that any day.”
“Your ex and everyone else… Fuck them and not the good kind of fucking,” he growled quietly. You liked that sound. “You’re better off without them.”
“I know,” you whispered. You deserved so much better. “Now I just have to prove it.”
He raised an eyebrow. “To them?”
“To myself,” you replied.
You learned to survive on scraps of love and affection when you deserved entire meals. Everyone deserved that. You weren’t going to settle. Not now, and not ever again.
His gaze softened considerably. “I think you already have.”
You smiled and bit your lip. “Thanks.”
He reached out and took your hand. “You know, you opening up to me, I should open up to you more, too.”
“This isn’t a contest. I’m not keeping score,” you said. He didn’t have to tell you anything.
“But it’s important.” He paused and you weren’t sure if he was bracing himself or you. “I’ve… been to prison. A while ago. Before I moved here.”
His confession settled like an echo after a gunshot. Of all the things you thought he'd say, that didn't come to mind. “Prison?” you repeated, swallowing when he nodded. He looked rough around the edges, but you still couldn't imagine him in a place like that. “Can you tell me why?”
Bucky wasn’t a common criminal. You felt it in your bones. So, what happened?
His gaze hardened, the light from the flames harsh against his face. “Some asshole tried to assault my sister, and I couldn’t let that happen.”
Your mouth fell open, once again not expecting the words that came out of his mouth. “Someone tried to hurt Becca?”
“Yeah.” He took a large swig of his beer and squeezed your hand. “We were out with some friends, and this one guy wouldn't leave her alone. I got a bad vibe from the start, and so did she. Anyone with eyes could tell she was really uncomfortable when he kept trying to buy her a drink, but he didn’t care and he wouldn’t take no for an answer.” He tapped his finger against the can. “My friends and I don’t appreciate guys who push when they’re told no.”
You thought back to the day before. Bucky graphically flirted with you and still continued to do so, but he backed off and was apologetic when you mentioned harassment. He had some sense of boundaries and respected them. No wonder a guy like that pissed him off.
“I told him she didn’t want a drink and to stay the fuck away from her.” You could just imagine the bite in his voice when he told the guy to leave Becca alone. He was a good big brother. “The asshole didn’t even look at me. Just smiled at her with empty eyes and walked away. I suggested closing our tab and taking off even though she tried to say she was just fine, but she wasn’t,” he said, his eyes flickering to you. “She was shaken.”
You leaned a little closer. Alpine did, too, likely sensing his turmoil. “What happened?” you asked above a whisper.
“Friend went to close out the tab while Becca and I both went to the bathroom. I came back and didn’t see her. Another minute passed and she still didn’t come back.” He breathed out slowly. “I should’ve just waited for her outside the door.”
“Bucky…” you whispered. You wanted to say whatever happened next wasn’t his fault.
“I had that bad feeling again and I rushed back there. I don’t know if that asshole was watching and waiting until she was alone, but he had her cornered just past the bathroom door.” He sounded so cold, nothing like the warmth you were used to. “I could see her struggling and crying and…” Your stomach turned while he took another deep breath. “I basically blacked out after that. I’ve seen the footage of what I did, but I have no memory of anything after seeing how scared she was.”
Your eyes burned. The rage and fear he must’ve felt seeing his sister in such an awful ordeal. Poor Becca. Poor Bucky. “What did the footage show you?”
“It showed that I snapped. I got the asshole away from her, but I beat the shit out of him. It was like I shut down and was outside of my own body when I did it. Like a fucking machine. Couple of bouncers had to pull me off him and Steve, my best friend, was trying to make sure Becca and I were both okay,” he replied evenly, but his shoulders slumped like he was suddenly tired. “The guy suffered a brain injury, but he recovered overall. And I went to jail for assault and battery. Sentenced to 5 years. Served less than 3 years. Good behavior, first offense.”
It sounded similar to a crime of passion to you. Bucky didn’t go out that night with the intention of hurting anyone. All he saw was his sister getting hurt and the intense emotions made him react the way he did.
God, you couldn't imagine being in prison. Did he have to watch his back? Did anyone hurt him? You were thankful he got out on good behavior.
“I actually had a girlfriend before I went behind bars. For a short time, I even saw a future with her… and she dumped me. Said it was too much for her, and she didn't speak to me again.” He scoffed a little. “Becca and Steve never liked her anyway, so I guess we were both better off.”
“I’ve been let down before, too, and it sucks when the person should’ve had your back.”
The air rushed out of your lungs. He saved his sister and his girlfriend dumped him? While you didn't know how serious they were, it had to hurt that she wrote him off and didn't stand beside him. Maybe that was part of the reason why he didn't do relationships for a period of time. People can't let you down if you aren't going all in.
“After I got out, I couldn't get an office job or anything like that with my record. Didn't really want to anyway. Couldn't afford rent on my own in the city and I didn't want to burden Becca or anyone else by crashing with them. So, I came out here.” He gestured to his trailer behind him. “Opened my garage with Steve and the rest is history.”
You sat in stunned silence, words lost to you. You wanted to comfort him because he certainly deserved it. God, you wanted to weep for him, but you willed yourself not to cry. You were sure your eyes were brimming with tears anyway.
“I get it if you don’t want anything to do with me after this,” he said quietly. It sounded casual, but there was hope that you wouldn’t push him away. “I just figured it was easiest to rip off the bandaid and tell you now. Especially since you were so honest about your ex and why you're here”.
You turned to fully face him, quickly blinking the moisture away. “Thank you for telling me,” you said, making sure he looked at you. You wanted him to see the compassion in your eyes. “I can't even imagine how hard that is for you to carry around every day.”
He paid a hefty price for saving his sister. She may have internal scars from what she experienced, but he prevented further damage. Your heart still broke for both of them. He lost time by being in prison, and she lost her brother for all those months.
He shrugged a little and took another sip. “You know, she blamed herself when I got sentenced. Said she ruined my life,” he continued, his voice raw. “But she didn’t. She’s my sister. I told her I can live with jail, but I can’t live with someone trying to hurt her or worse. And I’d do the same thing all over again.”
“She’s really lucky to have you for a brother.”
“And…” His jaw clenched. “I don’t scare you?”
“Not at all,” you promised. Just like he got bad vibes that night, you had gut feelings, too. There were no warning bells going off when he was around. He wouldn’t hurt you. He wouldn’t dare.
His smile didn’t reach his eyes. You set your beer down and Alpine hopped off your lap when you moved. Keeping his hand in yours, you helped pull him up. He stared at you curiously before you wrapped your arms around him in a tight hug. He exhaled, his body practically melting into yours when he hugged you back. You breathed in the scent of the fire and his cologne, soothing you as you soothed him.
“And I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered. You weren’t going to avoid or push him away because of his past.
“You still want my company, Sweet Cheeks?” he asked, his voice a low rumble in your ear.
You closed your eyes, shivering despite the heat from the fire. “Of course, I do.”
His arms wrapped a little tighter around you when you tried to pull away from the hug. “Can I just hold you for another minute?” he asked, your throat dry when you locked eyes. “It’s just… It means a lot that you’re so understanding.”
Bucky didn’t just peel back a layer of himself beyond the confident flirt. He showed you so much more. He was a fierce protector and a man with so much heart.
“You can keep holding me,” you agreed, leaning into him. It was nice to be needed, even for just a moment.
You closed your eyes, your heart both full and heavy from the discussion. He had a sister he’d kill for and you were barely a footnote in the story of your own family. But you didn’t feel alone tonight, and you refused to feel sorry for yourself. Not when he had his arms around you like you mattered in some capacity.
“Why don’t we finish those beers?” he suggested after a minute, but seemed reluctant to let you go.
“I think you should try the cookie with it,” you said, taking a seat again.
His trademark smirk appeared. “You’re saying I should eat your cookie?”
You giggled. “There he is,” you teased, the atmosphere completely back to normal. The tough discussion of the night was over, but it was something you both needed. “Thanks for tonight. This was a really nice change of pace.”
He held his beer can up. “To nice changes,” he said, clinking it with yours.
“To nice changes.”
Alpine meowed, too, taking her place on Bucky’s lap again. You gazed at the two of them, completely at ease as the night went on. You thought about Becca and wondered when you’d meet her. And Steve. And you hadn’t forgotten about the potluck. You didn’t expect everyone to open up to you the way he did, but you hoped they liked you because you weren’t going anywhere.
But tonight, you knew Bucky liked having you around and that was more than enough.
Oh, these two. They deserve a happy ending. What do we think of his past? How will the potluck go? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
This chapter/one-shot really got me, reading a little more about Bucky and see a different side to him was sad but wonderful, and seeing how he and the reader continue to evolve is just perfect!!
Pairing: Trailer Park!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Summary: Your neighbor helps with a small repair, and you'd like to repay him.
Word Count: Almost 4k
Warnings: Flirting, swearing, dirty talk, tension, sexual chemistry, world building, bits of insecurity, smut mention, Bucky Barnes (he's very forward and a warning, okay?)
A/N: More of our trailer park!Bucky! I hope you like it!❤️ Beta read by the wonderful @mumbles411 , but any and all mistakes are my own. Divided by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
The light had barely broken through your window when you decided you should work on the outside of your trailer. As much as you wanted to sleep in, your new chapter wouldn't continue if you didn't put forth the effort. Getting out of bed and distracting yourself would hopefully help forget about your dream of your bold and handsome neighbor. You didn’t want to think about it. You wouldn’t think about it.
But the wetness between your thighs served as a stark reminder that you dreamed of Bucky and his cocky smirk. How he said in a low voice that he was going to have you and that you’d enjoy every second of it. How he stripped you down and wrecked you with his mouth and cock, muttering filthy praise that still had heat flowing in your veins. You felt the burn between your thighs, which you didn’t think was possible in a dream. What was worse was that he held you after, whispering how well you took him and how lucky he was to have you. The tenderness was enough to break you from your slumber and make your eyes burn with unshed tears.
It was silly to get worked up in any capacity. The dream was just that… a dream. It was a fantasy, an illusion. There was no reason to cling to it, especially when it was too much and too soon.
“Don’t think about him. Just get up,” you mumbled.
You didn't jump out of bed, but you didn't drag yourself out either and that was already an improvement to your recent past. Waking up and facing the day should never feel like a burden. You shouldn't feel like a burden.
“I’m strong and capable.”
You went through a checklist in your mind as you showered and dressed for the day. You needed to fix the door, fill out applications, bake for the potluck, and unpack more. After the furniture was delivered, you had spent the rest of the previous day emptying some of the boxes. You stilled at times as you went through your past and memories, like something you had witnessed instead of being a part of. It was the life you lived, but it wasn't meant to be yours. You didn't cry, even when your chest tightened to the point that you felt something crack.
And for a second, you thought you spotted a pair of blue eyes watching you from across your trailer before you went to sleep.
“What am I doing?” you whispered when you walked out the screen door that was still hanging on its hinges.
After going through your toolbox, you managed to get the door off completely without hurting yourself in the process. But once you set the door down and listened to the instruction video you found online, your cheeks burned with shame when you couldn’t get the screen quite right. You stopped and started the video again. The tips didn't make any sense to you and your heart sank as you stared at the door. You prided yourself on being a smart and capable woman just like you told yourself earlier, but you couldn't begin to fix a simple screen. You could almost hear your ex laughing in your mind.
“You're pathetic.”
You silenced his voice. It wasn't fair to beat yourself up over it. While it was never too late to learn something new, you had to give yourself grace and remind yourself that you wouldn't be an expert overnight. Not to mention, the skills you learned growing up were different, but it didn't mean you were hopeless or less of a person because of it. You wouldn't let previous influences in your life make you feel bad about yourself.
You heard the footsteps before you turned your head, your heart picking up at the sight of Bucky. He was in an outfit similar to the one he wore the day before, except this time he had a denim vest on. You wanted to be angry at him for being so enticing, but that wasn’t his fault… or was it? And how were you supposed to stop thinking about him when he was right there?
The signature smirk was on his face when he said, “Morning, Sweet Cheeks.”
You snorted and pushed yourself up, wiping your knees off in the process. That nickname wasn't going away. “Good morning,” you said.
“It is a good morning since I’m seeing your beautiful face,” he said with the utmost sincerity.
You mentally scolded your heart for the funny flip it did. “Do you ever stop?”
“I would if you asked me to,” he answered just as sincerely.
You remembered how he backed off when you mentioned harassment and that brought you comfort. “Good to know.”
He looked relieved in a soft sort of way and you wondered if he had thought about you after you parted ways. “Did you have a good night?”
“Uneventful, which is good,” you replied. You slept much easier than you anticipated considering it was brand new and unfamiliar. You were not going to tell him you had a wet dream about him. Nope. But had he dreamed about you? “How was your night?”
“Same. Uneventful.” That mischievous look said something was up. It wasn't like he had visitors that you knew of. Not that you were looking or paying any attention to that. “Except for the dream I had about you.”
You bit your lip without meaning to. “You dreamed about me?”
You dared to look him in the eye when he moved closer. He looked like he was ready to eat you alive. “Happy to give you the vivid details if you’d like.”
Your breath hitched, but you maintained some sense of control. “Not until after I’ve had my caffeine,” you teased. You mentally kicked your own ass. Why not let him tell you?
“Fair enough,” he chuckled. It wasn’t fair how easily his laugh made you smile. “Oh. And I told my sister and my best friend about you.”
That made you pause. “You did what?” you asked. He told a family member and a friend about you?
“Said I met my future wife and that you have Alpine’s approval.” He winked and you glanced away to hide your smile.
“You're ridiculous,” you said with no heat behind it. He probably told them that a new neighbor moved in and nothing more. Maybe he mentioned that he flirted, but the future wife comment? Wait, weren't his parting words to you that you might be his future wife?
Bucky was trouble with a capital T.
“And you just glared at that door like it stole something from you.”
You were thankful for the subject change. “It did kind of steal something.”
He tilted his head. “What did it steal?”
“My pride,” you half teased. “And by stealing my pride, I mean… I don’t know how to fix the screen. I don’t… even know where to start.” Your fingers wrung together before you put your hands before your back. “I tried watching a video, but it didn’t help me.”
Admitting that this was a shortcoming was somehow a relief as painful as it was. That didn’t make sense since you felt so embarrassed by the thought before he walked over. If it had been anyone else, you would’ve folded in on yourself. Why didn’t you with Bucky?
Maybe it was because there was no judgement in his blue eyes. There was almost an understanding, the kind that had you choking up for no good reason. “I can help,” he offered, like it was no big deal. “I don’t mind.”
You had to turn your head away and will away the burn from your eyes. “I can’t ask you to do that,” you softly said. It wasn’t easy to ask for or accept help when you wanted to stand on your own two feet. Accepting a helping hand wasn’t a weakness though, and having help didn’t mean you couldn’t maintain the sense of independence.
“You didn’t ask, and you don’t have to since I offered.” He shrugged and offered you a smile. “Told you I’m good with my tools.”
He had said that in a very sexual sort of way. “I’d really appreciate it if you could, but if you're busy…” He was already jogging away, leaving you there to stare after him. He didn’t leave you hanging for long, his toolbox in hand as he came back. You didn’t question why he was using his own instead of yours. “Wow, you’re really going to fix it?”
“You sound surprised,” he said, setting the toolbox down close to you and allowing you to pick up the scent of his soap. It was a scent you wouldn’t mind having on your skin. “It’s what good neighbors do.”
You crossed your arms as he crouched down to go through his tools. “You do this for all the neighbors?”
“Pretty much,” he replied.
A smile tugged at your lips. While part of you wanted to feel special that he was helping you, you respected that he did this for everyone. “I feel bad. I haven’t had a chance to introduce myself,” you said. No one with the exception of Bucky had stopped by to say hi either. You wouldn’t take that to heart.
“They’re letting you get settled before the potluck,” he said. Did he somehow spread the word to give you some peace until then? “But they’re anxious to meet you.”
That had your stomach turning with excitement and nerves. “I am, too.” You hoped you made a good impression. “Do you mind showing me and explaining what you’re doing?” you asked, your smile widened when he looked up at you. He looked good from this angle, and you wouldn’t think of him kissing up your legs. “Just in case I ever have to fix another screen.”
He pointed at you with a screwdriver. “You mean so you don’t have to rely on anyone,” he guessed. Once again there was no snark or humor, just that quiet understanding that made you want to know more about him.
“You got me there.” It was difficult to depend on people when you were made to feel invisible. “But before you get started, do you want some coffee?” It was the least you could do since he offered to help.
It was his turn to look surprised. “I wouldn't mind, please and thanks.”
“Cream and sugar?”
He smirked and you awaited whatever dirty comment was about to leave his wonderful lips. “I’ve got plenty of cream, but you can provide the sugar.”
You burst out laughing and stepped back. “Yep. You're ridiculous.”
“Maybe just a little. If you're offering though, I would like some cream with that sugar,” he said.
“You got it.” You paused and winded. “I’d invite you in, but it isn't ready yet,” you said apologetically. It was going to be a warm and cozy place. You had already begun to leave little touches around, like vases and knickknacks, but it was far from visitor friendly.
It didn’t phase him since he had a smile on his face, likely sensing he’d be in your home sooner rather than later. “Your home, your rules.”
“So you won't come inside without permission?” Your face felt like it was set ablaze the second the words left your mouth and Bucky looked all too pleased. “Not. A. Word.”
He threw his hands up with laughter in his eyes. “Aww, c’mon, Sweet Cheeks. That was the perfect setup!”
“Not a word!”
“I won't come inside without your permission…” He smirked again and your knees went weak. “And you’ll beg for it.”
“Bucky!” You could hear his laughter when you rushed inside and you started giggling, too. When was the last time you laughed like this so early in the morning?
You sobered up quickly when you began to make the coffee. Bucky was being a kind neighbor and helping you fix the screen door, nothing more. Even if he was flirting and looking at you like you were the reason that the sun rose today. You needed to focus on your to-do list and he wasn’t on that list.
Not yet at least.
Bucky grinned the second you walked back outside. “Just made my morning all over again by seeing your beautiful face.”
You snorted so you wouldn’t swoon. “My face isn’t worth getting that excited about, but caffeine is worth it.”
He took the mug with a frown. “You think your face isn’t worth it? Tell that to my racing heart,” he said, gently blowing on the drink. The man was smooth like butter. The pleased groan he let out when he took a sip sounded smooth, too, and had you heating up. “Fuck, this might be the best coffee I’ve ever had.”
“Liar,” you smiled, not-so-secretly pleased that he liked it.
“I’d never lie to you. Anything I ever tell you will be the truth,” he said so seriously that your breath caught in your throat. You lived your whole life around fake smiles and people prepared to stab anyone and everyone in the back. Was Bucky the type to stab while looking someone in the eye and making them face the ugly truth? “What’s the pen and paper for?” he asked, nodding to where the pad was tucked under your arm.
“Oh. For the instructions for the screen. I like to write things down,” you replied, gripping the pen a little tighter. You relaxed when you realized he wasn't going to poke fun at you.
“Gimme.” He gently pried them from you and jotted something down on the sheet, your fingers tingling from where they touched. There was a soft smile on his face when he handed the pad back.
“‘How to fix a screen. Step one… Ask Bucky. Step two…’ Wait. Is this your phone number?” You giggled when he wiggled his eyebrows. “Seriously?”
“Yep. And I’m going to watch as you put my number into your phone before I leave,” he said, smugly taking another sip of the coffee.
You stared at the sheet to avoid his watchful eyes. “So, the neighbors all have your phone number, too, to help with repairs?”
“Everyone knows they can reach out to me for help, but I’m giving you my number because I want you to have my number.”
You lifted your gaze to see him scratch the back of his head. Was he worried you wouldn’t want it? It was sweet. “Tell me how to fix the screen and I’ll put your number in my phone.”
You held your breath when he leaned close to your ear. “Say ‘please, Bucky’,” he whispered.
Your brain nearly short circuited and you shivered when you felt his warm breath against your skin. He was driving you crazy. “Please, Bucky,” you whispered.
“‘Atta girl,” he whispered, quickly pulling away and giving you a chance to exhale. “Okay. Let’s get started.”
Watching Bucky work was admittedly a joy. The ways his brows pinched when he concentrated was adorable and he couldn’t seem to keep his tongue in his mouth. He didn’t roll his eyes or seem at all agitated when you asked questions and he paused every so often to drink his coffee, which gave you a chance to look at him between taking your notes. What you really appreciated was that he took the time to explain what he was doing and why in a way that was easy to understand without making you feel dumb. It was nice.
“Wow. It looks amazing,” you said once he was done. You could cross it off your list. “It looks as good as new.”
You thought his cheeks turned pink for a second when he picked up the door to put it back where it belonged. “Just about.”
“Thank you so much,” you said above a whisper. “Not just for fixing this, but for not making me feel bad about it.”
It would’ve been easy to shove it in your face that you didn’t know what you were doing, but Bucky didn't seem like that kind of man. Flirty, bold, but not cruel or discouraging. He wasn’t the type of person who would demand perfection from you. It comforted you like a warm blanket.
“Nothing to feel bad about,” he said, tenderly smiling. “I’m glad you accepted my help.”
Something soft passed between you before he put the door back on. He carefully tested it and while you didn’t feel any sense of pride since you didn’t fix it yourself, you were happy. That was a start.
“How much do I owe you?” you asked.
Bucky’s eyes narrowed and you realized how quickly you made a mistake by asking. “Not paying me, Sweet Cheeks. I said it’s what good neighbors do.”
“I need to do something,” you said, holding up a hand when he tried to argue. “And don’t say giving you a coffee counts. It took you a lot more work to fix my door than it did to make your coffee.”
He brushed his hands off with a huff once he put his tools away. “You don’t ‘need’ to do anything. I’m not an obligation.”
“That’s…” Guilt filled you and you didn’t want him to think you were trying to do something because you had to. “Bucky, I’m not offering anything out of obligation. I want to, okay?”
A heartbeat passed and a smile slowly crossed his face. “Oh, yeah? Have a drink with me.” He waited for another beat. “Tonight.”
You took a breath, only somewhat surprised by what he wanted. That sounded dangerously like a date. It wasn’t. It was just a drink with your neighbor. Your very hot, sexy, flirty neighbor.
“A drink?”
“A drink. Maybe two.” He shrugged, but his stance was anything but nonchalant. “Whatever you want.”
You considered it and slowly nodded. “Okay.” It wouldn’t hurt to hang out, especially with how happy he looked that you accepted. “Where do you want to go? Is there a bar around here?”
“Yeah, but it’s a total dive and everyone will hit on you. We can stay here.”
That had you laughing, but he wasn’t. “No one will hit on me,” you said. Whenever you went out with your ex and friends no one paid attention to you. Minus Bucky, you were invisible to people.
“Yeah, they will. Remember how I reacted when I saw you? It’ll be like that, but worse.” He looked you up and down. “Trust me. I’m a gentleman compared to them.”
You laughed harder. You couldn’t imagine anyone hitting on you the way Bucky did. “Fine, fine. We’ll stay here,” you agreed.
You were already thinking about what you were going to wear. Would perfume and makeup be too much? Yes, it would. It wasn’t a date, so there was no need to dress up. A casual drink meant casual wear.
“And we won’t have to yell over music to talk to each other.”
“Good point,” you said, tilting your head. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
“Because you still need to put my number in your phone.”
You playfully shook your head and grabbed your phone, but didn’t program it in just yet. “Say ‘please, Sweet Cheeks’,” you said, giving him the same order he gave you earlier. It didn’t sound anywhere near as sexy coming from you, but he seemed to like it since his eyes went dark. And you didn’t back up when he invaded your space, holding your gaze.
“Please, Sweet Cheeks,” he whispered, wrapping a calloused hand around yours. “Please, put my number in your phone and message me before we have that drink tonight.”
You thought back to your dream, how he had his hands and mouth on you, how husky his voice was… You needed to get a grip and fast. “Message you?” you asked breathily. “I have a lot to do today. I have to fill out job applications and-”
“Message me,” he interjected, cupping your other hand.
“Bake for the potluck,” you continued, your heart racing.
“And message me,” he said again, taking another step forward.
You exhaled. Was he going to kiss you? He wouldn’t. “And unpack some more.”
His forehead touched yours for a brief moment, but he backed away before you could blink. “And message me.”
It was dizzying that this man not only paid attention to you, but seemed to want your attention. Why? What was so special about you?
“You’re going to drive me crazy,” you said, pulling further away so you could breathe without taking in the scent of him. “I’ll send you a message, okay?”
He put his hands over his chest.
With a smile, you glanced at the pad and put his number in. “Did you really tell your sister and best friend about me?” you asked.
“I did.” His smile was gentle and easy. “They’re great. You’ll like them.” Your heart turned over at the fondness in his voice. They were clearly special to him. And if he thought you’d like them he clearly intended for you to meet them. “Do you really not want to rely on people?”
You looked at the door he fixed with a sigh. It was personal, but it didn’t feel like he was being nosy. “The people I should’ve been able to depend on let me down one too many times. I’m trying to be more careful going forward,” you explained, trying to keep your tone emotionless. It was difficult to pretend that you didn’t care because the truth was you cared too much.
“I get that.” His hand brushed yours again. “I’ve been let down before, too, and it sucks when the person should’ve had your back,” he said. Who did that? Who hurt him? “But we’re both still standing.”
“Yeah, we are,” you said. Bent but not broken.
“And I’m not saying you should depend on me since you don’t know me that well, but I will be an open book for you. No secrets, no bullshit,” he promised.
You blinked. Your ex fed you poison coated in sugar. Bucky was promising that he wouldn’t and you wanted it to be true, that he would be honest even when it was easier to lie. Because the truth hurt at times, but pain was real and you needed something real.
“I’ll be an open book, too,” you replied. You were rewriting your story and there was no reason to hide.
“Good,” he smiled, taking out his phone. “Now, I need to pick a ringtone for you once you message me. Let’s see… Pour Some Sugar on Me… Honkytonk Badonkadonk… Cherry Pie…”
“Oh, my god,” you groaned, but you smiled. He was ridiculous and wonderful.
“Milkshake… Fat Bottomed Girls…” He looked up when you gathered up the empty mug, pen and paper, and went back to your door. “Hey, where are you going?”
“I told you, I have things to do,” you answered.
His pout could make anyone lose their resolve. “You can do me between your other tasks,” he called out.
You could, but you had to maintain some of your dignity and not fall into his bed right away. He could work for it. “Another time, if you're lucky.”
He groaned a little. “You’re breaking my heart, Sweet Cheeks.”
“You’ll live. Say hi to Alpine for me! I’ll see you tonight for that drink!” You giggled to yourself and stared at his number before you shot off a text. “Hey, Bucky. It’s Sweet Cheeks. Thanks again for your help with the door. Looking forward to that drink. And by the way, I dreamed about you, too.”
You tucked your phone away, refusing to sit and watch for his response. You had work to do, but you were looking forward to tonight. What kind of questions would you two ask each other tonight? What were the stories behind his tattoos?
And who let him down?
Okay, lovelies. What are they going to discuss over drinks? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
It just keeps getting better!! I love this story…so much I’m neglecting other things like eating dinner but it’s worth it to read this!! Ugh, it’s so good!!
Pairing: Taxi/Cab Driver!Bucky Barnes x Passenger!Female Reader
Summary: You’re Bucky’s favorite passenger. He knows your schedule by heart. The same day, time, and location. You’re kind. You talk to him like he’s more than just the man behind the wheel. You always tip well.
He can’t help but fall for you.
But he’s just a cab driver. You deserve better than that. Better than him. So, he keeps things professional… until you lean on him one fateful night when the world feels too heavy.
He doesn’t just want to drive you home anymore.
He wants to be someone you can come home to.
Word Count: Over 12.2k
Warnings: Pining, mutual pining, slow(ish) burn, a bit of idiots in love, hurt/comfort, angst with comfort, slight jealousy, flirting, emotional breakdown, crying, insecurities, sick family member, Bucky Barnes (his POV and he's a warning, okay?)
A/N: @tavners suggested Bucky as a cab driver ages ago and the Barbie Dreamhouse helped bring him to life. Huge thanks to @miraclediviner for putting it together and for being patient and letting me submit this late and @stantastic-association for letting me participate. ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @mumbles411, but any and all mistakes are my own. Dividers by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
The city sky was still light as Bucky pulled onto your street, a smile touching his lips briefly. Every week for the last three months he picked you up to take you to your brother’s apartment. Same time, same day without fail. He knew the route by heart. Could do it in his sleep.
Thursday had become his favorite day of the week thanks to you.
His favorite passenger.
Someone bright and soft during his long shifts and rough nights.
He came to a stop in front of your building, making sure he adjusted the heat so you wouldn’t be too cold. There was a blanket in the back just in case it wasn’t enough. He also changed the radio station to something he knew you’d enjoy but kept it low enough in case you wanted to talk.
He liked it when you talked to him.
“Do I look okay?” he asked himself, checking his hair in the mirror before he chuckled.
Bucky didn’t dress up a lot since he drove a cab for a living, but he tried to take a bit of pride in his appearance. Clean clothes and a subtle amount of cologne. Beard and hair kept neat, too, even with the bit of gray showing more in his chestnut strands these days.
He liked to think it gave him a refined look.
Something you might notice.
The steady hum of the engine grounded him as he looked at the door, his breath catching when you stepped outside. You paused on the top step, your gaze sweeping along the street as you adjusted the bag on your shoulder. Something warm bloomed in his chest when you spotted him and gave him that familiar soft wave and smile. He wanted to believe that smile was reserved just for him.
Get it together. You’re just her driver. Nothing more.
It didn’t stop him from hoping.
He straightened up when you made your way to the car and opened the door.
“Happy Friday Eve, Buck,” you said, sliding into the backseat.
The corner of his lips twitched at the familiar greeting. Not “driver” or “sir” or anything like that. Just Buck. Steve was the only other person who called him that.
It sounded right coming from you.
“You mean Friday Junior,” he teased, trying hard not to make a show of breathing in your scent.
There were plenty of passengers who practically bathed themselves in colognes and perfumes. It was enough to choke on before he aired out the cab. But not you. You always smelled so nice. So sweet.
Jesus fucking Christ. Get a grip.
“Same thing,” you teased back, slipping your shoes off and tucking your legs beneath you.
The first time you asked if it was okay for you to take your shoes off, he almost laughed. It surprised him more than anything that you cared enough to ask. Like you cared about his space and him. He didn’t mind as long as you were comfortable.
He always wanted you to feel comfortable and safe in his presence.
“We made it through another day,” you sighed.
“And your prize for making it through another day is spending time with me,” he joked.
You laughed, a soft sound like music to his ears. “Lucky me,” you said without a hint of sarcasm.
He cleared his throat, his heart skipping a beat. “Blanket back there and the heat’s on.”
“Thanks,” you said, adding above a whisper, “You’re so good to me.”
Bucky opened his mouth and closed it. “Just doing my job,” he said, the words bittersweet on his tongue.
“Well, I appreciate it.” You hummed a little as you dug through your bag. “And… I got something for you.”
He already knew what it was.
“Protein bar?”
“Protein bar,” you confirmed.
He made an offhand comment in the beginning about his favorite brand.
You surprised him by giving one the following week, and you have brought him one every week since then.
Part of him wanted to save the wrappers, but Sam shut that down by saying it was serial killer behavior.
Your fingers brushed his when he reached back to grab, a jolt running through his body and settling deep in his chest. “I think you’re too good to me,” he said.
It was a thoughtful thing for you to do.
“Just being a good passenger,” you said casually, but he caught the hint of affection there.
Something soft… and real.
Bucky glanced at you in the mirror, his gaze lingering longer than it should’ve when you covered yourself with the blanket and settled into the leather with a sigh. His chest puffed out a little, a sense of pride filling him since you used the blanket. He picked the softest and warmest one he had.
You looked completely at ease, like you belonged there.
“Heading to your brother’s place, or you gonna switch it up on me?”
“Same trip as always,” you replied.
Of course.
A visit to your older brother’s place on the other side of the city. Dinner. Helping your sister-in-law with some chores. Spending quality time with your niece and nephew.
Every Thursday.
He knew about your routine more than he probably should, but he couldn’t help but pay attention. It was nice knowing that you had family close by. Nice that you got to spend time with them.
Some nights though, you looked a little worn down by the time he brought you home.
He carefully pulled away from the curb and glanced in the mirror again, catching your eye. “How was your day?”
Bucky was polite to his passengers, but didn’t typically initiate small talk. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about the people he transported. He did. But his job was to get people where they needed to go, not force them into conversations to fill the silence. If he sensed that they wanted to talk, he’d engage. Most were glued to their phones anyway. But not you.
Never you.
You groaned, your head falling back against the seat. “Work was a pain today. Short-staffed. Didn’t really get a full break. You know how that goes.”
He hummed sympathetically. “Sorry you had to deal with that.”
“Don’t be. Not your fault,” you said with a small shrug. “On the plus side, we’re close to the weekend, and I can relax once I get home.”
“Glad you can still see the bright side,” he said.
It wasn’t always easy to do that.
“I try.” You lifted your head with a soft smile. “How are you?”
He swallowed hard. It was nice to have someone outside of his normal circle ask him sincerely how he was doing. “Not too bad. Some guy tried to correct my driving.”
You sat up straighter. “Are you kidding me? You’re the best driver in the city.”
Warmth bloomed in his chest from how fiercely you defended him. You stated it like it was a fact. He wasn’t one to brag, but he was an excellent driver.
“I want his name,” you added, narrowing your eyes. “I’ll handle him.”
He laughed. “Oh, you’ll handle him, huh?” he asked, turning his blinker on.
“Oh, yeah,” you answered, his heart racing faster.
“I appreciate that,” he said above a whisper.
You really were something.
“And if I can’t, Alpine can scratch him up for me,” you mused lightly.
A wide smile broke out on his face. “Al’d make sure he never messed with anyone ever again.”
Alpine, his beautiful white cat. He found her in an alley when she was just a kitten, trying to stay warm on a chilly day. One look in her blue eyes and he knew he couldn’t leave her there.
“My place isn’t much,” he warned her when he crouched down. “But it’s warm and I have milk.”
She curled right in his arms and tried to burrow her face in his leather jacket.
She became his partner-in-crime from that day forward.
The feline flourished in his apartment, making herself right at home and sticking by his side whenever he was around. He admittedly spoiled her with toys and such, but she deserved it. She was also protective of him, quick to hiss at anyone who got too close, and could imitate his grumpy stare well. He knew she’d adore you.
He certainly talked about you enough to her.
He talked about you with his younger sister, too.
“Becca messaged me a bit ago, too,” he said, smiling a little. “You know how she likes to check in and make sure I’m not living off just protein bars and stubbornness.”
Becca didn’t live as close as your brother did, but he visited when he could. She visited, too, between work and her new boyfriend. She seemed happy, and that made him happy.
“And here I am giving you protein bars. I hope she doesn’t mind.”
“Not at all,” he promised. “She knows one extra bar a week won’t hurt.”
You smiled softly. “She cares a lot about you, doesn’t she?”
“Yeah,” he said warmly. “She does.”
And she liked that he had someone like you who cared, even when he tried to argue that you were just being nice.
“She isn’t just being nice, big brother. She cares.”
He liked to think so.
“Hey!” you said suddenly, leaning forward in your seat. “You know what I just realized?”
“What?”
“This is the thirteenth Thursday that you’ve driven me around.”
“Is that right?” he asked softly, knowing full well exactly how many Thursdays he had seen you.
Because he had been counting.
“That is right.” You settled back into your seat with a smile. “Feels like ages… and not long at all.”
It seemed like only yesterday to him.
He remembered the exact shade of blue you wore on the first ride, something pleasant against the harsh city lights. How you shivered when you slid into the car, and the smile you gave him when he turned the heat on. You were so beautiful. And kind.
The kindest passenger he had that day.
“Thanks for getting me here safely, Bucky! Happy Friday Eve!”
“Friday Junior,” he’d called after you like an idiot.
“Same thing!”
He was a goner.
Every week his crush grew stronger.
But every week he told himself he was just your cab driver and nothing more.
“Thirteen Thursdays,” he said. “That why you look so nice today?”
Your gaze flickered to your lap, smiling. “You think I look nice?” you asked gently.
His heart hammered in his chest. “Yeah. You always do,” he said honestly, willing himself to concentrate on the road.
Don’t make it weird. Don’t make her uncomfortable.
“Thanks, Buck,” you whispered.
He should’ve left it at that, but he didn’t.
“You sure I’m taking you to your brother’s and not some date?” he blurted out.
The air thickened in the cab, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. Something uncomfortable twisted in his gut. He paid enough attention to know that there wasn’t a ring on your finger, and you hadn’t mentioned having a boyfriend.
Not once.
But what if there was someone? What if one day you dressed up for someone else? What if you gave some other man that soft smile you always gave him?
His jaw clenched and he was thankful you couldn’t see his expression.
I have no reason to be jealous. She isn’t my girl. She can see whoever she wants.
I just wish it was me.
“A date?” Your laughter made its way to his ears. “Please. I’m very single.”
For a moment, all Bucky could hear was the sound of his heart slowing to a steady rhythm, effectively blocking out the moving vehicles around him. His next breath was easier, his grip loosening. It shouldn’t have been such a relief to hear that, but it was.
Single. Good. That’s good. Stay single. Stay away from bad guys. Stay… here. With me.
…I’m in deep.
“Haven’t dated in months,” you added.
That made him pause.
“Months?” he repeated. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Well, it’s true,” you said, quieter than before and gazing out the window. “Guess I haven’t caught anyone’s eye.”
Your words wiped out his relief. You didn’t have to say out loud that you were lonely. He sensed it. Recognized it.
It just didn’t make sense to him that you were alone. You were a catch. How were guys not lining up down the block to ask you out?
Your words also weren’t true. Because he was there and he saw you. Wanted you.
“Or… maybe you have,” he said carefully. “And they just haven’t said anything yet.”
A beat passed. “Maybe,” you said.
He tapped the wheel when he stopped at a red light.
Say it. Tell her. Tell her that she caught my eye. Tell her that she’s…
He sighed to himself, the cab feeling smaller than usual. He wanted to admit how he felt, but he couldn’t like this. It wasn’t right when he was in the driver’s seat and you were back there.
“And what about you?” you asked, turning away from the window. “You seeing anyone?”
He huffed out a laugh. “No.”
Women weren’t exactly fighting to date a cab driver.
“My ‘date’ nights are me, a book or a movie, and Al,” he told you. “That or kicking the guys out of my place once the pizza and beer are gone.”
You smiled. “Those sound like good nights to me.”
“They’re not bad,” he said casually.
As if the idea of a date night with you wasn’t painting a picture in his mind.
“You know,” you said, snuggling into the blanket more. “If you ever need anyone to critique your book or movie choices, I’m available.”
He didn’t think it was possible for his heart to trip over itself, but it did. “Yeah?” he asked, keeping his voice even.
“Yeah,” you said casually, but your eyes flicked to the mirror. “I mean, I’m sure you have great taste, but it doesn’t hurt to get my own confirmation.”
Bucky swallowed hard. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
You smiled. “You better.”
The cab fell into a comfortable silence after that, but something shifted. You had given him an opening that would’ve been easy to take. But maybe you were just being nice. Maybe it didn’t mean anything at all.
Or it might mean everything.
He eased the car to a stop at your brother’s building minutes later. “Here we are.”
You slipped your shoes on and folded the blanket as best as you could. “Thanks,” you said, holding out the cash for him.
He reached back automatically to grab it, feeling that spark again when your fingers touched. He didn’t need to count it to know it was all there, along with a nice tip. You were generous.
Always.
“Anytime.”
You lingered when you opened the door. “Hey, Buck?”
“Yeah?”
“You look nice today, too,” you said.
It was a simple compliment, but it hit him square in the chest.
“Yeah?” he managed to ask.
“Yeah,” you said, smiling softly. “You always do.”
It was an echo of his own words to you.
Before he could respond, you slipped out and tapped the roof twice. “See you later. Drive safe.”
“See ya,” he whispered.
He didn’t leave right away. He watched as you made your way inside safely, his hand still clutching the cash. Glancing at the protein bar on the seat beside him, he exhaled.
You said he looked nice. Offered to watch a movie with him. Kind of.
But he was just your driver.
Nothing more.
“I’m in trouble,” he muttered.
By the time Bucky pulled back up to your brother’s building later that night, things felt quieter. But his mind didn’t. It was too busy racing with thoughts of you and wondering how long he could keep his line drawn in the sand.
You waved to him when you stepped outside, your steps a little slower. Your smile wasn’t as bright as earlier, but it was still soft and easy. It made sense. Family time after a long work day was tiring, even if it was nice.
“Hey,” he said once you got in.
“Hey,” you echoed, settling in.
“Good night?” he asked, easing back into the road.
“It was,” you replied, laughing a little. “But those kids wear me out.”
He smiled to himself. No way they didn’t adore spending time with you. “Sounds about right.”
“Did you have a good night?”
It was the best night because he got to see you again.
“Not too bad,” he answered.
You checked something on your phone and put it away. “Random, but I have a few extra dollars in my account, so I may do takeout for dinner tomorrow as an end of the week treat for myself.”
You could have takeout with me.
“Get those noodles from the place you like on 5th,” he suggested instead. “The number seven, right?”
Why did I say that?
“That’s right.” You giggled. “Am I that predictable?”
He almost said, “I notice everything about you.”
“You’re not predictable,” he replied instead, easing his foot off the gas. “I just… pay attention.”
Because you’re… you.
It was quiet for the rest of the ride.
He glanced back a few times and saw that your eyes were heavy. He hoped you were able to relax more when you got back to your place. You deserved the rest.
A pang of disappointment hit him when he got to your place, the drive seeming quicker than normal. “Here we are.”
You stifled a yawn. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
“Oh. I almost forgot.” You sat up, seemingly more awake now. “I have something for you.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You already gave me a protein bar.”
“Well, this isn’t from me,” you said, handing him a folded piece of construction paper along with the cash. “It’s from my niece and nephew.”
He opened it carefully, his heart melting on the spot.
A drawing of a car stretched across the sheet. It was lopsided with uneven wheels and windows that were too big. There were two stick figures inside. One in the back with a large smile that was clearly you. And one in the front with brown hair, blue eyes, and a small smile.
It was him.
There was a message in crooked letters above the car, surrounded by glitter glue.
BUCKY DRIVING AUNTIE! YAY!
His throat tightened unexpectedly. “That’s us?” he asked with a hint of disbelief.
You mentioned him to your family?
“That’s us,” you said affectionately, making him wonder if that was for him or your niece and nephew. “They wanted to thank you for always getting me there and back every week.”
He swallowed, his throat dry. “You… talk about me?”
“Of course, I do,” you said like it was obvious. “You’re part of my week.”
He folded it back up like it was something fragile, your words slowly sinking in.
You talked about him. Your family knew he existed. Your niece and nephew had never met him, but still made him a card like he mattered.
His heart felt full.
And he didn’t know what to do with that feeling.
“Tell ‘em I said thanks,” he said quietly. “Really.”
“I will,” you promised, hesitating when you reached for the door handle.
You waited long enough for him to look at you over his shoulder. Long enough that his heart thudded. Hope flickered deep within.
She feels something, right? It can’t just be me.
Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag, but your eyes were soft. “I…” Your gaze flickered down before looking back at him, sighing a little. “I’ll see you next week, Buck.”
He exhaled, trying not to let disappointment show. Something passed between you. He felt it. It was real.
Or… maybe he just imagined it.
“Yeah,” he said, offering you a small smile. “Next week.”
“Good night.”
“Good night,” he repeated. “And thanks again for the card and tip.”
You smiled softly before you got out.
He leaned against his seat and once again stayed to make sure you got inside safely. You didn’t rush inside when you got to the door. You paused instead and glanced over your shoulder at the door, like you were waiting for him. It was an opening. Maybe.
But he didn’t take it.
He kept that line drawn.
You waved before you went inside, and he closed his eyes, the quiet surrounding him once again.
His fingers brushed the construction paper in his lap.
Steve and Sam would flip when he told them about it. Hell, they already did whenever he talked about you. He could practically hear them now once he gave them the recap of tonight’s events.
Sam shaking his head and saying, “She gives you protein bars, offers to watch movies with you, her family knows about you, her niece and nephew made you a card, and you didn’t ask for her number?”
Steve, a little quieter but no less insistent, with, “Buck… you’re allowed to want something.”
Bucky’s jaw clenched. They acted like it was simple, like he could just ask and it wouldn’t change a thing. It would change everything.
He didn’t want to risk losing you or holding you back when he didn’t have you to begin with.
For now, he’d continue driving you where you needed to go and leave it at that.
Coward. Life’s too short.
He set the card aside and took one last look at your building.
“Yeah,” he sighed. “I’m in big trouble.”
Bucky arrived a couple of minutes early the following Thursday.
He told himself it was habit. Being mindful of traffic. Not because he was eagerly waiting for you.
Not at all.
And you also weren’t the reason he spent ten extra minutes picking out a shirt.
Just because she said I look nice…
He made a mistake of checking the group chat he had with Steve and Sam while he waited.
Sam: “Be a man and get her number.”
He gritted his teeth, quickly typing. He almost regretted confiding in them about you. It would’ve been easier to keep his mouth shut.
“Fuck off, Samuel. I am a man.”
The dots appeared with both of his friends writing something back.
Sam: “OOH. Samuel. My full name. Hit a sore spot, huh?”
Maybe he did.
Stevie: “Just go at your pace, jerk. We got your back.”
Some of the tension left his shoulders.
“Thanks, punk.”
He put his phone away and smiled just a little. They were good guys. Had been with him through thick and thin. Brothers.
Sam definitely acted like an annoying brother in the most supportive way.
And as much as he adored Becca, he didn’t want to bother his little sister with his lack-of-relationship woes. She had enough on her plate. He’d be just fine.
Eventually.
His attention snapped in your direction when you left your building and everything else faded away.
There you were again.
The same familiar sweep of your eyes along the street before you found him. The soft smile. The small wave. How you always looked incredible no matter if you dressed up or down.
Like tonight, you had on the same soft sweater you wore last month. It reminded him of comfort. It also made you look gentle in a way that made him want to take care of you.
The instinct hit him harder than before.
Yeah. I’m royally fucked.
He straightened up as you walked closer, his brows furrowing. You were still smiling at him, but your steps didn’t look as light as normal. There was tension in your shoulders.
“Happy Friday Eve, Buck,” you said, unfolding the blanket with extra care.
There was a touch of weariness in your tone under the warmth.
It would’ve been easy to miss if he wasn’t paying attention.
“You mean Friday Junior,” he said automatically.
“Same thing,” you murmured.
“Your brother’s place?” he asked gently.
“Same trip as always,” you replied just as gently.
He looked at you in the mirror after pulling away from the curb. You were already gazing out the window, relaxed but not completely. His chest tightened when he spotted the slightest frown on your face.
It didn’t belong there.
Is she okay? Was work extra rough?
He waited a couple of blocks before he asked, “Long day?”
Bucky didn’t want to push if you didn’t want to talk, but he did want to make sure you were okay. If something upset you, he wanted to fix it. If someone upset you, he wanted to handle it.
Let me help however I can.
“Yeah,” you replied after a second. “Long week, actually.”
“Those are the worst.” He tapped a finger on the wheel. “Becca always tells me to take a breath and not let the week eat me alive.”
“That’s good advice.” Something soft and a little sad flickered in your eyes. He didn’t know if his words triggered a memory, but it felt important. “Especially coming from a sibling.”
“It is,” he replied. “Siblings just get it some days.”
You hummed in agreement, but didn’t say anything else.
He bit his tongue. It was times like this when he wished he wasn’t driving. He wanted to turn around and give you his attention. You deserved it.
“Would it make you feel any better if I said you look nice today?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt.
That brought a smile to your face. “It does make me feel better,” you said, your tone almost back to normal. “Thank you.”
He smiled back gently, the sound of the engine and low music filling the space for a moment. It didn’t fix your long week, but he was glad the compliment helped. He’d consider that a win.
“You look nice, too.” You craned your head to look at him. “I really like that color on you.”
His pulse jumped. The usual ease was coming back, the cab lighter. And you noticed his shirt.
I chose well.
“Oh, this old thing?” he teased, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Really brings out my eyes.”
You giggled. “It sure does.”
He stole another glance at you when you looked out the window again. You were tired, but you were okay. Still warm. Still you.
He felt like he could breathe again.
“Hey,” he said after another block, reaching into the console. “I, uh… made you a list.”
“A list?” Your eyebrows went up. “What kind of list?”
“Movies. Some I like. Some I think you’d like,” he clarified, passing it back to you before he could change his mind. “You did offer to critique them.”
“And you’re taking me up on it?” You gasped, putting a hand to your chest. “I’m both shocked and flattered.”
“You should be,” he deadpanned before grinning.
You smiled, a little tired but genuine. “The first title has a star next to it.”
“Because it’s my favorite and a good one to start with.”
“Did you get Steve and Sam’s seal of approval?”
He scoffed. “They’d like it. Enough oldies for Steve, and Sam has somewhat decent taste in recent stuff… but he’ll never know I said that.” He coughed into his hand and added, “They’ve heard about you.”
You smiled. “Is that right?”
“Yeah, I talk about more than I probably should.” He shrugged, but his left foot lightly tapped. “You’re a good passenger.”
And I’m just your driver.
Your smile faltered, just for a second, before you smoothed it over with a laugh. “And you’re a good driver.” You scanned the small piece of paper once more. “You put a lot of thought into this, didn’t you?”
Warmth rushed to his cheeks. “You should see the book list I’m making for you,” he muttered.
He valued your opinion, and the lists were a way for you to think of him between rides. A way to keep you two connected. Maybe it was selfish that he wanted you to have him on your mind.
But maybe it wasn’t.
“You’re making me a book list, too? Oh, I can’t wait for that.” You folded it neatly and put it in your bag. “I’ll watch the first movie tomorrow night.”
Another Friday night with no date? I wish I could man up and change that.
“I expect a full report next week,” he teased.
“You got it, Sarge,” you teased back.
His breath caught. “Sarge?” he repeated. “You remember my military ranking?”
Sergeant Barnes.
It was mentioned only once, just like the protein bars. A passing comment and nothing more. But you listened.
You remembered.
“Of course, I do.”
The same thing you said about mentioning him to your family.
He blinked rapidly, trying to steady the emotions stirring inside him as he drove. You continued to surprise him with your soft words and smiles, making him feel special in your eyes. You undid him in ways nothing or no one else could.
“Here we are,” he said minutes later.
“Thanks, Buck.” You gathered your things before you stopped, your inhale sharp. “Oh… you kept it.”
He followed your gaze to the dashboard. Your niece and nephew’s card was proudly on display. It was a beautiful reminder of you.
“Of course, I did,” he said, trying to play it cool. “It’s a nice drawing.”
“That’s really sweet, Buck.”
He shrugged a little, but heat crept up his neck. “It deserved a front and center spot.”
Your gaze softened more. “They’ll think you’re the coolest guy ever when I tell them.”
They made him feel cool by giving him the card.
“Guess I’ll have to try to live up to that.”
“You already are,” you said without missing a beat, passing him a protein bar with the cash.
His heart pounded in his chest. Another thoughtful gesture. More words that made him feel good.
Say something. Do something.
But he didn’t.
There was a small pause before you sighed and got out, the door gently closing behind you. Tap. Tap. The familiar rhythm against the roof should’ve felt normal and comforting.
But why did it feel like you were disappointed?
“See you later,” you said. “Drive safe.”
“See ya,” he exhaled.
He watched until you went inside, half tempted to hit the dashboard since he chickened out. He held himself back. There was no sense in taking his frustration out on the car. He could hit a punching bag later.
Maybe he could knock some sense into himself, too, and man up.
“Should’ve said something,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.
Some of the frustration at himself faded when he looked at the card. He imagined your niece and nephew were the kind of kids who loved when the garbage men came by every week or drivers dropped off packages. They’d probably have a blast riding around in his cab, cheering him on for driving you around. If Becca ever had kids, they’d likely be the same way.
He wondered, briefly, if you’d ever meet her, and the thought didn’t scare him the way it should.
But what would your brother think of me? Would he think I’m good enough?
At the end of the day, didn’t it matter only what you thought and saw in him?
His phone buzzed.
Sam: “Well??? We’re waiting.”
Bucky stared at the message before typing back. “Dropped her off. Didn’t ask.”
Three dots appeared immediately. He didn’t want to look. Didn’t need the additional salt on the open wound of his self-doubt.
But he looked since he was a glutton for punishment.
Sam: “Man, if we can even call you that, you're killing me! I’m gonna lose the bet.”
Bet? What fucking bet?
Stevie: “There’s no bet. You’ll do it when it’s right.”
Sam: “Don’t make me get Becca and Sarah involved. I’ll do it.”
He tucked his phone away and shook his head. Tough and gentle love. He needed both.
And he needed just a little more time to convince himself to erase the line he had drawn.
The next passenger he picked up, a man complaining about the state of the economy, didn’t shift his focus fully away from you. The restaurant he dropped him at seemed like a nice one to take you to, something quiet and romantic. A couple of women he drove after that mentioned an acoustic concert in the park, which made him picture you leaning your head on his shoulder while listening to music together. Every passenger was like that, managing to tie something back to you.
He still got everyone where they needed to go safely since that was the job.
He just couldn’t stop thinking about you.
By the time he arrived to pick you up again, the city lights had taken over the streets. He spotted you immediately, your arms wrapped around yourself to keep warm. You looked about the same as when you went in. A little more tired, but okay.
And you still gave him a smile when you got in.
Smiling like she’s happy to see me.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” he replied, double checking the heat. “Kids wear you out again?”
“You know it. They had so much energy tonight, and I almost stepped on a lego when I was chasing them around.”
“Occupational hazard of being a great aunt.”
“You know it.” You laughed a little. “They were also thrilled that you have their card up.”
That warmed his heart. “So, they think I’m cool?”
“The coolest.”
He smiled at the sincerity. He believed that they believed that. It was a feeling he needed to lean into more.
“Did you have a good night?”
“Yep. Just driving. Getting everyone where they need to go,” he answered.
And thinking of you. Always thinking about you.
He turned the radio up a notch after that instead of trying to fill the silence, letting you relax. For a moment, he pictured swaying with you. Minus the quick brush of your fingers, he hadn’t touched you in any way.
To hold you would be a gift.
“Hey, Buck?” you asked once he pulled up to your place.
“Yeah?”
You bit your lip. “I wanted to give you something.”
“Yeah?” he asked, his chest tightening in anticipation as you reached into your bag.
You hesitated before you nodded. “Yeah.”
Your hand shook a little when you passed him a small slip of paper with the cash. He unfolded it, blinking hard to make sure he was reading it correctly. He turned it over, too.
It was your handwriting. Your name. Your number.
You gave him your phone number.
His heart forgot how to beat before it thundered. He imagined this scenario for weeks, but he hadn’t prepared himself for the reality of it. He didn’t think the universe would be that kind to him.
“I just figured, this way you don’t have to wait until next week for my report on the movie. You could just text me and see what I think,” you explained, trying to play it off casually. “Or if you ever want to send me pictures of Alpine. Or you’re just… bored.”
His pulse roared in his ears. You wanted to hear from him. You gave him another opening while he kept mentally blocking the door with his foot.
You trusted him enough to want a connection outside of the cab and the rules he internally created and enforced.
“But you don’t have to,” you added quickly, reaching for the door handle. “I can wait until next week to talk to you and-”
“Wait,” he begged, trying not to panic. The last thing he wanted was for you to think he didn’t want to reach out. “I’ll, um… give you mine, too.”
You met his gaze in the mirror. He wanted to memorize how you looked at this moment. Hopeful. Beautiful.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he whispered.
He found a pen and a receipt, making sure his writing was legible as he jotted it down. Your smile when he handed it over soothed his nerves. The smooth thing to do would’ve been to put his phone number on the movie list when he gave it to you earlier. But this was better.
This felt more right.
“Thanks.” You tucked it away like it was something sacred. “I’ll text you.”
He nodded, his throat tight. “I’d like that.”
You stepped out into the cool air, glancing back at him. The tension was almost completely gone from your shoulders. The glow from the street lamps made your eyes sparkle.
He couldn’t look away from you if he tried.
“Good night, Buck.”
“Good night.”
Once you were inside, he glanced at your number again, reading it until the numbers ran together. He reached for the phone to message the guys and Becca before deciding against it. Sam would lose his mind. Steve would tell him not to overthink it. Becca would be somewhere in the middle. He didn’t need that tonight.
He wanted to hang onto this just a little longer and let it sink in that it was real.
Besides, it was just an exchange of phone numbers. You didn’t ask him out. He didn’t ask you out. He was still being professional.
But he did check his phone immediately when a new message popped up.
“Happy fourteenth Thursday. Thanks again for the ride.”
Still counting like me.
“Anytime. Get some rest. And let me know when you watch the first movie.”
A neutral message. Polite. Professional.
“I’m still in trouble.”
And he grinned like an idiot because of it.
You messaged him on Friday night.
He saved you under his contacts as MFP, my favorite passenger.
MFP: “Halfway through the movie.”
His fingers hovered over the screen. If he typed back too quickly, he’d look desperate. If he waited too long, he’d look aloof.
A full minute was enough time.
“And?”
He winced at himself. That was too short. Too blunt.
MFP: “They switched part of what happened in the book. Trying to reserve my judgement until the end.”
A sense of awe filled him. You read the book. Of course, you did. That made him want you even more.
But he couldn’t say that.
“I didn’t like the switch at first either, but keep watching. Trust me.”
MFP: “I trust you.”
That made his breath catch.
He scratched behind Alpine’s ear, smiling when she purred. “She’s watching it and texting me. That’s good, right?”
She meowed happily.
He put the movie on, too, in the hopes that he wouldn’t keep checking his phone.
You messaged him again an hour later.
MFP: “My score: 8/10. Adventurous, heartwarming, and visually stunning. I see why it’s your favorite.”
He smiled, typing out, “Dinner and tell me more?”
He deleted it and started over.
“8/10? I’ll take it. What didn’t you like besides the book switch?”
MFP: “A one point deduction was for the book switch. Another deduction for the bad wig. I mean, a huge budget like that and they couldn’t give the lead some good hair? Tragic.”
Bucky chuckled. “You make a good point. It was pretty bad.”
MFP: “But movie wise? So far, so good for your taste.”
That was a win in his book.
You didn’t message him again until Saturday night.
MFP: “Is brinner an acceptable choice on a Saturday night?”
He smiled immediately.
“Brinner is an acceptable choice every night.”
MFP: “I knew you’d understand. I can eat while I watch the second movie on the list.”
“I bet you’ll give it a 7/10.”
MFP: “We’ll see if you’re right. Hope you're having a good weekend.”
He reread that statement twice. It felt measured. Careful.
“You, too.”
He read the message again after sending it.
Maybe it was another message that was too short.
And it was too late to erase it.
You sent him a photo of a white cat on Sunday.
MFP: “Is this Alpine’s doppelganger?”
He chuckled. The image wasn’t too far off but Alpine was prettier. He was a bit biased when it came to his feline.
“There’s no cat like Al.”
MFP: “I believe it. And you were right, but the way. 7/10. I deducted two points for the one terrible accent.”
He tilted his head and laughed again. He had almost forgotten about the bad accent. It was amazing how one actor or actress could throw off an entire scene.
“Much deserved deduction. Al would approve.”
MFP: “I’m honored.”
He didn’t hear from you for the rest of the day.
It was his turn to message you first.
“Hope you have water and caffeine to get you through Monday.”
He stared at it after sending. Maybe that too personal. Maybe it wasn’t enough.
MFP: “Do I have to have water?”
He laughed, picturing you scrunching up your face.
“Need you to stay hydrated.”
Because he cared.
MFP: “But what if I try to live on stubbornness like you?”
You’re too good to live on stubbornness.
“Still need water.”
MFP: “Yes, Sarge.”
Oh, that did something to him.
MFP: “But only if you drink some water, too.”
“I will.”
He would for you.
He didn’t hear from you on Tuesday.
That was fine. You were busy. You had a life outside of him. And he didn’t want to bother you.
But he checked his phone more than he should have.
You messaged him first thing on Wednesday.
MFP: “Is it Friday Eve yet?”
Relief hit him faster than he expected.
“Almost. You surviving?”
There was a delay this time. Long enough for him to notice.
MFP: “Barely, but I’m trying.”
He frowned a little.
“Hang in there.”
He hesitated before adding another message.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
There was another pause.
MFP: “Yeah. See you tomorrow.”
He stared at it longer than he meant to.
Something about it felt different. Quieter. He could’ve been imagining it.
He sent one more message before he could stop himself.
“Can’t wait.”
He meant it.
Even if something told him tomorrow would feel different.
Bucky waited at the curb as patiently as he could, checking his hair three times. Just like every week before, he looked forward to seeing you. But this felt different because the texts had been good overall. Almost effortless.
Almost.
Tonight could be a turning point.
Bucky checked his phone again, even though he told himself he wouldn’t.
Sam: “You better not fumble this now that you got her number.”
Stevie: “Ignore him. Just be yourself.”
He huffed under his breath, locking the screen.
Like it’s that easy.
He turned his attention back to your building, his heart sinking the moment you stepped outside.
The usual sweep of your gaze didn’t happen since you were looking at your feet. You hardly seem to notice or care that your bag slipped from your shoulder. When you finally lifted your gaze, you looked worn out in a way he had never seen before.
It was like someone took the light inside you and dialed it down.
Everyone had bad days. That was a normal part of life. But this was you.
It didn’t sit right with him at all.
“Happy Friday Eve,” you stated with a dim smile, hugging the blanket against your chest like a pillow. Your fingers trembled just enough that he spotted it.
“Friday Junior,” he said because that’s what he was supposed to say.
Same thing.
You didn’t say it.
You looked out the window, your jaw tight enough that he could see the tension in your neck. There was no teasing either as he drove. No references to any of the messages between you, like brinner or the bad wig or accent from the movies. No jokes about staying hydrated or calling him Sarge.
There were no comments on anything.
Just the kind of silence that for the first time felt off between you two.
Something was wrong.
I fucked this up, didn’t I?
He thought back to every message he sent like he could figure out the exact moment things flipped.
He responded in a timely manner. He initiated at times so it wouldn’t all fall on you. They weren’t overly flirty but they weren’t cold either.
Maybe you expected more and he let you down.
Or maybe he leaned in too far with the “can’t wait” message and now you were pulling back.
“Hey, um…” He cleared his throat, his grip shifting on the wheel. “If I said something wrong, or if I upset you with one of my texts…”
“What?” Your head snapped toward him, your brows pinching. “Buck, no.”
He blinked, surprised at how quickly you shut that down when his mind was screaming at him. “You sure?” He bit the inside of his cheek. “You just seem off, and I didn’t want it to be because of me.”
He was sure he could handle just about anything but that.
He didn’t want to lose the one bright part of his week because he misread a moment or sent the wrong text.
“Buck,” you said, even gentler this time. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
His shoulders dropped. “Really?” he pressed, needing to be absolutely certain.
“Really. I like talking with you… a lot,” you promised, a shallow breath leaving your lungs. “I swear, it isn’t you.”
The weight in his chest eased enough for him to breathe but not enough to feel okay since your voice cracked. You liked talking to him, which was good. Better than good. But if he wasn’t the issue, it was something else. Something you weren’t telling him.
It worried him.
“Can I ask you something?” you asked softly.
“Yeah. Anything,” he said honestly.
“I don’t think I’ve ever asked you this.” You paused to consider your words. “Why do you drive?”
He inhaled. It wasn’t unusual for you to ask about him. But most people didn’t care enough to ask why he did this job.
You weren’t most people there, were you?
Your gaze was back on him instead of looking out the window, waiting patiently for his answer because you wanted to know.
Like Becca said… you care.
“I guess the easy answer is having a flexible schedule, getting decent money on the right nights, and it beats being in an office with some boss hounding me.”
You gave him a knowing, very small smile. “And what’s the real answer?”
He took a breath. “You remember I served in the army.” You nodded in acknowledgement. “When I got out… there was no clear objective. No structure.” His voice stayed even, but quieter. “It was just… a lot of noise.”
He stared at the taillights in front of him, lost for a moment.
His smile had been wrong for days when he got out. Everything seemed like too much or not enough. And the world didn’t slow down just because people couldn’t keep up.
“I had my friends. My sister. I wasn’t alone,” he said like it mattered because it did. Not everyone had that support. “But it still felt like I was supposed to be doing something… and I didn’t know what that was.”
You didn’t interrupt or rush him, so he continued.
“But this?” He gestured around the cab. “It gave me something again.”
A sense of purpose. A mission.
“I have an objective… orders,” he explained, tapping the dashboard. “I pick a passenger up and I get them from point A to point B. That’s the job.”
You nodded slowly. “That makes sense.”
“And how I get you there? That’s on me.” He tapped his chest. “If the weather’s bad, I take it into account. If there’s awful traffic, I adjust. If my usual route is blocked, I find another way.”
“So, it gives you a sense of control,” you mused. “You know what you have to do, but you choose how you execute it.”
He nodded. You seemed to understand. Not everyone did.
“It’s simple in a good way. Discipline and structure with adaptability.” He ran a hand along the wheel, smiling to himself. “I know what I’m supposed to do. I know I can do it well.”
He glanced at you in the mirror, vulnerability shining in his eyes.
“And at the end of the ride… I get someone where they need to go. Safely.”
He paused, the sounds of honking horns and engines surrounding him. It was strangely comforting. But the most comforting thing was your presence and tender expression.
“And sometimes… that’s enough,” he finished.
“It is. It matters,” you insisted, gently but firmly. “More than you think.”
You make me feel like I matter.
“I do my best.” The words came out nonchalantly but he meant it. “I can’t control what others do when they’re on the road, just like they can’t control me. But if something does happen, I fix it.”
Your expression shifted. “And if there’s a time that you can’t fix it? You can’t control what’s happening?”
Bucky stilled before he realized it. That didn’t sound like you were talking about driving. He had a good read on people, but he couldn’t read between the lines of this. Couldn’t figure out why you were asking that.
What needs fixing?
“I just keep driving,” he finally answered. “Like Steve always says… We have to move forward.”
You shifted in your seat. “I guess it’s all we can do,” you said more to yourself than him. “And for what it’s worth, you really are doing a great job,” you added.
He inhaled sharply. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. You help people every time you drive. You don’t just drive well. You do it safely, like you said,” you pointed out, giving him a small smile. “I always feel safe when I’m with you.”
Those words landed in the middle of his doubt in himself, threatening to tear it apart. There was trust within your compliment. It was pure in an impure world.
“Good.” He had to swallow to keep his voice steady. “I’m glad you feel that way.”
You smiled again, but it didn’t reach your eyes.
His chest ached. Every smile seemed to take more effort than it should, like you were chipping away little pieces of yourself. He hated that.
He hated that he couldn’t shoulder the weight still pushing you down, even just a little.
“Here we are,” he said once he stopped, quieter than before.
“Thanks, Buck,” you said, handing over a protein bar with the cash. “And I’m sorry if I made you think that you upset me.”
“Don’t apologize,” he said quickly, turning around as best as he could so he could see you. “You don’t have to do that with me.”
There was no reason for you to apologize when he was the one overthinking.
“But are you sure you’re alright?” he asked, searching your face for the answer your lips may not say.
Lean on me if you aren’t.
Something passed in your eyes and then it was gone. “I will be,” you assured him.
His stomach dropped when you took the blanket with you, like you forgot you were holding it. You clutched it like a lifeline as you walked away from the cab. He watched you go, reaching for the door handle. You disappeared into the building before he could follow, which he had never done before.
You weren’t okay.
For the first time since he met you, he had no idea how to fix it.
But something told him he was about to find out.
By the time he came back, he was tense. He told himself you just needed time with your family tonight. That whatever was on your mind eased with some laughter and familiar warmth.
It had to have helped.
…Right?
His heart didn’t sink when he saw you.
It cracked.
You had the blanket around your shoulders, trying to hold yourself together as you put one foot in front of the other. The look of sadness on your face wasn’t fleeting or light. It was the kind that settled in your bones.
What the hell happened?
You forced a smile when you met his eye and it twisted something inside him painfully.
Don’t do that. Please, don’t do that.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” you replied, your voice thin.
He didn’t drive off right away, giving you a moment to get your bearings.
But you didn’t.
You didn’t slip your shoes off or tuck yourself in. The blanket stayed around your shoulders like an afterthought. Your breaths were too measured. Too careful.
He held the wheel so tight that his fingers ached.
You were a heartbeat away from unraveling.
“Ready?”
“Yeah.”
The city bustled around like normal, but nothing inside the cab felt the same.
The air felt even heavier than earlier. The silence was too loud.. Louder than any word you ever spoke.
And you simply stared ahead like you were bracing yourself for impact.
His teeth snapped together, trying hard to keep himself in check. His job was to get you home safely. If you wanted to confide in him, he’d listen. But you didn’t have to lean on him.
He was just…
Your breath hitched on the next turn.
He made it three more blocks before he couldn’t take it anymore.
Fuck this. I’m not just your driver.
He switched lanes and turned down a road he had never taken on your route before. It was familiar to him, of course. Away from some of the noise. It had a soothing view, too.
Exhaling through his nose, he stopped the car and turned to look at you.
He recognized pain when he saw it. Had lived through it. He couldn’t recall ever seeing you look so fragile.
It’s okay to break with me.
“Hey,” he said carefully because you needed something gentle. “I know you said you’ll be alright… but you’re not.”
“I will be,” you said quickly, your lower lip trembling. “I have to be.”
“Hey…” he whispered again.
You don’t need to be strong tonight.
You shook your head automatically, your next breath shaky. “I don’t want to dump this on you.”
“You’re not dumping anything on me,” he promised, needing you to believe him. “You’re hurting.”
Your eyes filled and you tried to blink the moisture away.
He didn’t think when he got out of the cab, his body moving on instinct at the sight of your tears. He got in the back with you, leaving you enough space so you wouldn’t feel cornered. His hands rested on his knees, making sure not to touch you since he didn’t know if that would help or make things worse.
But he wanted to be there for you.
“Please, let me help,” he begged, his voice thick. “Even just a little.”
That did it.
A sob burst from your chest, your hand coming up to cover your mouth and failing to keep it in.
His heart stopped, his fingers curling to hold himself back from hauling you into his arms.
You hastily wiped your tears away that fell, like it would hide them. Your shoulders shook the more you tried to hold them in. Another broken sound escaped, the threads inside you slowly pulling apart.
“He’s sick,” you whimpered. “My brother…”
Your words were like a punch to the gut.
Oh, no…
“He has been for a while. They thought he was getting better, but the last couple of weeks have been bad,” you admitted, your face crumbling. “He barely made it through dinner tonight before he had to lay down.”
His jaw tightened in that helpless way when grief felt too close and overpowering.
“And the kids… They don’t get why their dad is so tired or why their mom looks so sad when she thinks no one’s looking.” You hiccuped, the sound raw. “And I’m trying to help when I can. I’m trying to be strong for everyone, but I’m scared and… I can’t fix this.”
His throat went tight.
“And if there’s a time that you can’t fix it? You can’t control what’s happening?”
It all made sense now.
The nights where you looked a little worn down. Your smiles that didn’t reach your eyes. Your light dimming. The talk earlier tonight.
While he had been overanalyzing his interactions with you, you were carrying this.
Alone.
And he couldn’t fix it for you.
“I help cook, clean, make the kids smile, but I don’t know what to do anymore,” you whimpered, looking at him with teary eyes. “It hurt for me to smile tonight.”
Trying to smile through pain was one of the hardest things a person could do.
“I’ve been holding this in and I… can’t anymore.”
Bucky couldn’t keep staying behind the line he drew.
Not anymore.
His arms went around you without another thought, strong and steady, pulling you in like it was the most natural thing in the world. You clung to him, your fingers curling in his shirt as you sobbed painfully into his neck. He closed his eyes, willing whatever being was watching over them to feed some of your pain into him.
Don’t do this to her. Give it to me. I can take it.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, cradling the back of your head as your cries continued. “I’ve got you.”
He didn’t say it was okay because it wasn’t. But he was there. Solid and real. Nothing else mattered except you.
“He’s my big brother. He’s a good guy. He’s supposed to be okay,” you choked out between sobs. “But he isn’t, and I can’t make it any better.”
He pressed his cheek to your temple. He knew how afraid Becca had been when he served and how relieved she was when he came back. If he were to get sick now… If anything happened to him…
“You just need to love him,” he whispered against your ear. “And you do. You have such a big heart.”
You cried harder, making him hold you closer.
“Just let it out,” he urged, rubbing your shaking back.
Minutes passed before your cries eventually slowed to small sniffles. Your body slumped against his, the tears wearing you out. And he held you through it all, letting you feel his warmth and comfort.
You lifted your head slowly, your cheeks wet. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”
“Don’t you dare apologize for that,” he said, wiping a stray tear away with his thumb. “Sometimes saying it out loud makes it more real and it opens up the floodgates before you’re ready.”
Like me being a coward about my feelings for you.
You leaned into his touch briefly. “I didn’t want to be a burden,” you said, your voice wrecked.
“You’re not.” He pulled back enough to really look at you. “You never could be.”
You searched his face, your lip trembling again. “Am I doing enough?”
Your grief already cut open his heart, but your question made him feel the blade all over again.
“You’re doing more than enough. You’re showing up for everyone. That matters,” he swore to you, echoing some of your earlier words as he held you tighter. “More than you know.”
Your eyes shimmered again, but the tears didn’t fall.
“And you can lean on me whenever you need to,” he added, giving you a tender smile. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
You smiled back faintly. “Thanks, Buck.”
“Yeah,” he whispered. “Anytime.”
You let go of his shirt, but didn’t make an effort to move out of his arms. He didn’t move either, taking a second to breathe with you and memorize how it felt to hold you. He’d keep you in his embrace all night if he could.
“Can I just...” You glanced down, your fingers absentmindedly tracing a pattern on your thigh. “Can I say something?”
“Anything,” he answered, adjusting the blanket around your shoulders.
Say whatever you need to. I got you.
“Seeing you… talking to you,” you began. “I always look forward to it.”
You lifted your gaze, somehow more exposed and vulnerable than your earlier tears.
“It’s the best part of my week,” you admitted.
Bucky froze completely.
You exhaled shakily, like you said too much.
“I didn’t want to fall apart in front of you,” you went on while his brain was scrambling to catch up. “But everything felt heavy and I just… I felt safe enough that I could. So… thank you. For that.”
He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. Your words flowed through him, filing every crack he couldn’t seal shut himself.
I’m the best part of your week?
Not work, your friends, or even your family?
Me?
Since the beginning, he told himself to stay in his lane and keep things simple. To be professional. Driver and passenger. That was it.
But you were here in his arms, trusting him enough with something so raw and admitting that he was the one thing that made your week a little lighter.
Him.
And he was still acting as if there was a line he shouldn’t cross?
His thumb brushed your shoulder. You looked to him for comfort tonight. You needed him in a way.
Maybe you wanted him, too.
If that were true, what the hell was he waiting for?
Don’t rush her. Don’t make this about me.
“I appreciate you telling me that,” he whispered once he found his voice. “Let’s get you home, okay?”
You nodded, your energy spent as you shifted from his hold. He felt the loss immediately, the cab feeling colder. But he didn’t linger, as much as he wanted to.
He moved back to the driver seat grudgingly and started the engine.
You weren’t too far from your place, but he drove a bit slower and checked the mirror more than he needed to. You had your legs curled up now, your eyes heavy but open. Not distant or shut down. Just tired.
You had a good reason to feel tired.
But you also gave him a smile when you caught him looking the last time. A small, real one. Because you felt safe.
You’re safe with me.
The lights didn’t seem as harsh when he turned onto your street. The breeze wasn’t as strong. The world seemed to realize you needed little wins after breaking down.
Neither of you moved right away when he parked.
“Hey.” He turned slightly in his seat, your expression glassy but more clear when you handed him the money. “I’m gonna walk you to your building tonight.”
It wasn’t a question or suggestion.
Should’ve been doing that since the first night.
“I’d like that,” you uttered.
“And you can take the blanket,” he offered when you started to fold it. “If you want.”
“Really?” Your eyes widened in realization. “Oh, my God. I took it with me earlier. I’m so sorry.”
Bucky had to smile at the way you looked genuinely distressed, like you had done something unforgivable.
“It’s okay,” he said gently. “You had a lot on your mind.”
You hesitated, but didn’t set it down. “Are you sure I can take it with me?”
“Yeah.” His gaze softened. “I put it back there so you’d be comfortable, and it kinda defeats the purpose if you don’t use it.”
He wouldn’t be there to hold you tonight if you cried again, so the blanket would have to do. It was a small piece of comfort. A small piece of him.
Warmth filled your eyes. “Thank you.”
“Anytime,” he replied, meaning it in more ways than one.
He stepped out first, going to your door to open it. He didn’t rush you as you gathered your things, letting you go at your pace. He understood how the body lagged sometimes after everything spilled over.
And his hand was already outstretched to help you out if you wanted it.
You took it.
Instead of the usual spark when your fingers touched, something steadier and grounding moved between you both.
It felt like your hand belonged with his.
It feels right.
He helped you out and fell in step beside you, matching your pace without thinking. Your thumb brushed his skin, making his grip tighten a fraction when he glanced at you. Faint exhaustion lingered in your body, but you weren’t as tense. Your breathing had evened out.
The hurt was still there, but you were safe.
You made it to the door, the light above it casting a glow over you, but you didn’t reach for the handle or let go of his hand.
The soft good nights usually happened at the car, but not tonight.
“Thank you for tonight,” you said above a whisper.
He nodded, everything from the last few weeks pressing into his mind.
Sam on one shoulder. “Be a man and get her number.
Steve on the other. “You’re allowed to want something.”
The teasing. The smiles. The protein bars. The card your niece and nephew made. The movie list.
How you quietly gave him your number. The careful texts. The deeper talks.
The way you trusted him and broke in his arms tonight.
The way you said he’s the best part of your week.
The way he was done pretending that there wasn’t something there between you.
Time to erase the line for good.
He kept your hand in his, refusing to retreat into neutral territory. “I, uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled. “I was thinking.”
You gazed at him expectantly.
“I know things are… a lot right now,” he said, trying to be careful and not add pressure when you had so much on your mind. “With your brother and everything.”
Your grip tightened on the blanket, but you nodded for him to continue.
“And I’m not trying to…” He huffed a little, almost frustrated with himself. “I’m not trying to make things harder for you.”
That was the last thing he wanted to do.
“You’re not,” you said, stepping closer. “You never could.”
That gave him just enough courage to keep going, taking one last deep breath.
Just say it.
“I just… I don’t want to keep pretending that I’m just your cab driver anymore. Not after tonight,” he said, his forehead almost touching yours. “Because you’re the best part of my week, too.”
Your breath caught enough that he felt it.
“So. When things feel less heavy, or you just need a break…” His heart was pounding now. “Would you like to have dinner with me?”
He didn’t breathe as the question hung in the air.
Opening up and asking you out wasn’t going to magically erase the pain or worry you felt. It wouldn’t fix what was happening with your brother. But you didn’t need to go it alone.
You stared at him, almost like you were afraid he’d take the offer back. “Dinner?” you echoed.
“Yeah. Dinner. With me,” he said, his voice low. “No meter running or route. Just… us.”
Just the two of you enjoying each other’s company.
“Because I want to see you outside of the cab.” His thumb brushed your knuckles. “I want to critique movies and books with you and eat pizza or noodles or brinner and just talk. I want Al to finally see my favorite passenger in person.”
A small laugh escaped you, the sound like sunlight appearing after a storm.
“But only if you want, and only when you’re ready.”
You stared at him for a long moment before you smiled, one that reached your eyes for the first time tonight.
“I’d like that,” you said
The rush of relief hit him so fast it almost made him lightheaded. You wanted to have dinner with him. You wanted to see him outside of the weekly routine.
“Yeah?” he asked, just to be sure.
“Yeah,” you replied, tender and certain. “Is… tomorrow too soon?”
Bucky blinked, genuinely thinking he misheard you.
Tomorrow?
His heart stuttered. He expected an offer to check your schedule or something weeks down the line. But not this.
“Tomorrow?” he repeated breathlessly.
You nodded, a tad shy. “Yeah. I mean, if you’re free… and it’s not too fast or anything?”
Too fast?
I’ve been waiting fifteen Thursdays now for this.
“It’s not too fast.” He shook his head, a faint, disbelieving smile tugging at his lips. “It’s actually kinda perfect.”
“It is?”
“It is,” he said, more certain. “Tomorrow’s great.”
Tomorrow meant you wanted this. Not just someday down the line, but now. Even with everything going on.
“We can keep it easy,” he said, his thumb moving over your knuckles again. “Whatever you’re up for.”
“Movie?” you suggested, a small hint of your usual warmth slipping back in. “And noodles?”
He laughed. “Number seven?”
“Number seven,” you confirmed, your smile widening.
“Alright. Noodles and a movie at my place.”
“It’s a date,” you whispered.
A date.
You were still standing close. Close enough that if he leaned in just a fraction… God, he wanted to kiss you. More than anything.
The two of you took an important step. He finally stopped being a coward. You didn’t hold everything in.
But he didn’t kiss you.
Tonight wasn’t about that.
His forehead, however, did intentionally brush yours this time.
“I’ll text you,” he murmured.
“I’ll be waiting.”
And I’ll be counting down the minutes.
You squeezed his hand before finally stepping back, his blanket tucked against your chest. “Good night, Buck.”
He memorized the way you gazed at him, basking in that glow. “Good night.”
You slipped inside, the door clicking shut behind you. There was no drop in his stomach. No nerves.
He didn’t have to wait for another Thursday to see you again.
He finally turned back toward the cab, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to physically process what just happened.
Dinner and a movie.
You wanted to spend time with him.
“Jesus,” he muttered happily under his breath as he slid back into the driver’s seat.
His gaze drifted to the backseat, landing on the empty space where you had been curled up just minutes ago, his blanket wrapped around you, trusting him with something rough and fragile.
When he picked you up tomorrow, you could sit in the front beside him.
His phone buzzed, his heart picking up before he even saw your message.
Of course, it was you.
MFP: “Curled up on the couch with your blanket. Thanks again. For everything.”
It gave him peace of mind knowing you made it into your place safe and sound since he only walked you to the building door.
“Thanks for letting me help.”
He made a difference tonight.
He almost set the phone down when another message popped up.
MFP: “My brother was awake when I reached out.”
He held his breath. Was he okay? Did something happen?
“Yeah?”
Three dots appeared long enough that he sat up straighter.
MFP: “I told him we’re having dinner tomorrow, and he said he’s looking forward to meeting the guy who keeps me safe every week.”
He reread the message until the screen went dark.
Your brother, the one you were terrified for, wanted to meet him.
Becca would want to meet you.
He rubbed a hand over his mouth, trying to ground himself. Something earnest and dangerously close to overwhelming spread from his chest, the card on the dashboard staring at him. It brought a smile to his face.
“I’d be honored to meet him. I’ll have to make a good first impression.”
As a big brother, Bucky sensed and respected that he would be a bit protective of you.
MFP: “You already have.”
The additional layer of assurance did wonders.
MFP: “Get some rest tonight, okay? Happy Friday Eve.”
There it was.
Soft, familiar, and you.
“You, too. And it’s Friday Junior.”
MFP: “Same thing. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” he whispered, happiness filling him to the point where he thought he’d float away.
He shot off a quick message to the guys and Becca. “Got a date tomorrow night. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
With a smile, he put the phone away. He could already see Sam losing his mind and Steve would try and fail to act subtle about it. Becca would demand every detail after. He’d wait until later to see and hear their stunned reactions.
For now, he was going to drive and get a few more people where they needed to go.
But not before taking one last look at your building and picturing you curled up with his blanket.
Fifteen Thursdays.
Fifteen weeks of watching you slip into his cab with tired eyes, soft smiles, and sweetness that made a difference in his day. Fifteen weeks of falling for you in steady increments. Fifteen weeks of chances he almost let slip by because it took him some time to feel brave.
And tonight he erased the line he drew in the sand for good because you mattered more.
You let him see you and it was a beautiful thing.
“Tomorrow,” he said again like a promise, starting the car and pulling away from the curb.
Tomorrow there wouldn’t be a meter running or rearview mirror glances. No pretending it was just another ride. It would just be you and him.
He was counting down the minutes.
And for once, he didn’t feel like he needed to second guess any of it.
Whew! Did we make it? This isn't the end for these two. It's very much a beginning. Would love to hear your thoughts!
Okay I just love everything you write for Bucky! This was so wonderful, the whole time I was so eager for him to just admit his feelings, I’m genuinely amazed I didn’t squeal when reader gave him her number!
Pairing: Trailer Park!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Summary: You're ready to start over, and your neighbor makes a lasting impression.
Word Count: Over 3.7k
Warnings: Flirting, swearing, dirty talk, tension, sexual chemistry, world building, asshole ex, Alpine appearance, Bucky Barnes (he's very forward and a warning, okay?)
A/N: Here we are! My trailer park!Bucky intro. We're calling this AU Diamond in the Rough. Thanks to the nonnies and everyone who has asked about him. He's here, @ellethespaceunicorn, @targaryenvampireslayer, @vunblr, @vesearlee, @startcarvingdarling, @thezombieprostitute, @buckybarnesfic (sorry to anyone I missed)!❤️ Beta read by the wonderful @mumbles411 , but any and all mistakes are my own. Divided by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
Your life went up in flames recently all thanks to the match you struck. If people asked your parents, your friends, your old boss, or your now ex-boyfriend, they’d likely say it was a mid-life crisis or form of rebellion to get some sort of attention. The truth was that the fuel had spread for years, daring you to light it all on fire, and you did when you finally had enough. You wouldn’t say the old you was dead and that you were reborn, but you weren’t who you were yesterday either.
This was the start of a different, and hopefully happier, version of you.
Staring at the worn down trailer in front of you, you hadn't made your way inside just yet. While your place with your ex had been large and open and new, this place had seen better days. It needed a fresh coat of paint to start, a new door and windows. It was sinking in that this was really going to be your new home, and it made you happy.
“I’ll bring you back to life,” you whispered, determined to give this place the TLC that it deserved. If you poured yourself into this, maybe it would fix something inside you, too. You certainly didn’t need your ex or anyone else to help.
You looked over at your car, your beautiful Mustang, which had everything you thought to pack. Your bed and other furniture wouldn't get delivered until later, but that was okay. It hurt to think so much of your life, what defined you, could be boiled down to material possessions, but weren't you fortunate since so many had much less? Maybe unpacking as much as you could today would occupy your time and thoughts.
Like finding a new job, something you truly wanted to do and not what was expected of you.
Your phone went off and you hesitated to look at the message, not sure who it would be from. It was funny how for years no one went out of their way to talk to you unless they needed something. Now that you were gone they suddenly cared? The thought left a hollow feeling in your chest, one you didn’t want to examine today.
“I have a bet on how long it’ll take you to come crawling back to me. Can’t wait to see you on your knees with those pretty tears when you beg for forgiveness, Pumpkin. And let’s face it, on your knees is where you belong because you’re nothing without me.”
A surge of anger flooded your veins as you reread it. Even now he expected you’d come back with your tail between your legs where he could look down on you. He had another thing coming. “Trust fund prick,” you muttered, your finger hovering only for a moment before you blocked him. You should’ve done that the moment you dumped him, but doing it now in front of your new home, it felt more right.
Your eyes burned when you put your phone away and an empty feeling began to consume you. Why were you close to tears? Because of him? You knew from the beginning what kind of man he was and you lied to yourself to maintain the facade that everyone else wanted. You were tired of living for other people’s expectations. This was your life, you didn’t need a man, and-
“You lost?”
You turned at the sound of the deep voice just feet behind you, trembling ever so slightly when you saw the man that husky voice belonged to. The sight knocked the very breath from your lungs. You were used to being surrounded by guys who paraded themselves as men, but they were little boys playing dress up. But the man in front of you? He was all man.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
He stood tall and proud, but relaxed and at ease in his element. Blue eyes like an ocean, yet he was the calm of the storm. The short dark brown hair matched his thick goatee and you wished you could feel it against your skin so you knew if it was soft or scratchy. The white tank top showed off his muscles and tattoos and the chain around his neck dipped beneath the neckline. The low hanging jeans hid what you knew was an amazing package. He was something out of a wet dream, the kind of man who looked like trouble.
The kind of man you should stay away from, but wanted to chase after you.
He slowly licked his bottom lip before he asked, “Cat got your tongue, Sweet Cheeks?”
Your face felt like it would go up in flames. Being attracted to what you believed was a new neighbor wasn’t going to happen. It couldn’t. “No, and I’m not lost,” you replied, gesturing to what was now your home. “I live here now.”
You could see why he thought you were lost since it was obvious you weren’t from around there. When you looked for a new place, you purposely picked an area far from your old place. If you had stayed close, it wouldn’t have severed the ties enough. It would’ve made your leash longer and that wouldn’t do.
“Is that right?” He looked you over from head to toe and your mouth went dry when he smirked, the kind that likely disintegrated panties. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”
The ruggedly handsome man held his hand out for you, and you only just realized he was wearing rings. What would it feel like if they dug into your skin? And, yes, you may have glanced at his left hand to see if he was wearing a wedding ring, which he wasn’t. “Thanks for the welcome,” you said, taking his hand.
Electricity crackled between you, feeling the crackle from head to toe. The intensity shook you to your core when he locked his eyes with yours and brought your hand to his lips and kissed it instead of shaking it. You let out a breath when his goatee tickled your skin, his eyes locked with yours. Well, that answered your question- both soft and scruffy, the kind that would leave a delicious burn between your thighs.
Jesus, you needed to keep your libido under control. You just got out of a relationship. Weren’t you just thinking moments ago how you didn’t need a man?
“I’m Bucky,” he said against your skin, reluctantly releasing your hand. “You wanna tell me your name, or should I just keep calling you ‘Sweet Cheeks’?”
You told him your name, the sound barely above a whisper. He hummed and repeated it. Never once did you think your name sounded sexy until he said it.
“Why are you calling me Sweet Cheeks?” you asked. Did he call every pretty woman that? Not that you were full of yourself and thought you were drop-dead gorgeous, but you had some confidence in your looks.
He chuckled, a throaty sound that made you want to hear it again. “Well, I hope you don't mind me being forward, but…” he began.
You tensed up a little and looked down at yourself. Was he going to make a comment that you didn't belong there? That you stood out like a sore thumb? You were dressed down, but still looked pristine as you always did, a habit instilled in you that you had to look put together no matter if you were crumbling inside. Appearance meant everything to your family, and you needed to let that expectation go.
“Your ass looks incredible in those jeans. Sweetest fucking cheeks I’ve ever seen and that’s with your pants on.” He licked his lips when his gaze drifted down your body. “I don’t think I’ve seen a better ass than yours.”
You blinked and looked behind you to get a look at yourself. “Excuse me?” you asked. Of all the things you thought he’d say, that wasn't one of them.
“I saw you from behind and stared for a good minute, thinking of all the things I wanted to do to you, before I walked over. You have the kind of ass that should be worshipped. Could make a grown man cry,” he said, your heart speeding up and your core throbbing. “And then you turn around with the face of a fucking angel and I swear my heart stopped,” he added, putting both hands on his chest for emphasis. “Givin’ me a heart attack over here.”
You almost laughed because he couldn’t be serious, but there was no humor in his eyes. In fact, he scanned your face like he was trying to memorize it. “That’s… no. My ass isn’t that great. Neither is my face,” you said. It wasn’t to fish for a compliment, as nice as it would've been, because while you had some confidence in yourself, you didn’t have that great of an ass.
But beauty was in the eye of the beholder, wasn’t it, and he looked like he was two seconds from dropping to his knees in the dirt to worship you like he claimed he wanted to.
“Tell that to my racing heart and my cock,” he said, your mouth parting when he pointed to his crotch. “But if you continue to disagree, I’m more than happy to show you how wrong you are.”
Your words were stuck in your throat, not used to being the center of someone’s attention that way. “I’m sorry, but we just met,” you said, unsure of how else to respond. He didn’t know you, apart from your name, and he was talking about worshipping your ass and looking at you like he wanted to devour you whole?
It was… kind of flattering. What would you have to be upset about? Weren’t you mentally telling your libido to calm down at the sight of him? You were attracted to him, he was just the one being brave enough to vocalize his attraction to you.
His gaze didn’t waver when he said, “Yeah, we just met, but I want you.”
Your mouth parted again. Well, he was certainly forward and that didn’t bother you. It was better than the fake people you surrounded yourself with before spouting pretty lies. “You want me? You don’t know me and I could be a taken woman,” you pointed out.
“I’ll get to know you if you let me. ‘Sides, it’s not like I see a ring or indentation on your finger, so I don’t think you’re married or engaged. And I sure as hell don’t see anyone here helping you with your stuff, so I’m guessing you’ve been single for a while or you recently got out of a relationship,” he said, taking a look around to make his point before he focused on you once again. You weren’t at all upset that he noticed your bare finger since you had looked at his, too. “You wanna be a taken woman?”
Was it that obvious that you were all alone? “So what if I did just get out of a relationship?” you asked. There was nothing wrong with getting out of something that wasn’t right.
He smiled, not pushing when you didn’t answer his question. “Then he’s a fucking idiot for letting you go. And what better way to get over someone than getting under another?”
“I dumped him,” you clarified, not knowing why you needed him to know that. Your ex was likely spewing to everyone that he dumped you to save face, but that’s not what happened. “And I’m already over him.”
You should’ve felt guilty for that, but he wasn’t your forever and you weren’t his. He was free to find someone who fit with him better than you ever did. You were free to find your own happiness.
“Good girl,” Bucky smirked, your legs pressing together. You had to get a grip. “And I wasn’t implying that he dumped you, only that he’s an idiot for letting you go and I’m happy to help you forget all about him.”
You finally let your laugh out and you swore you heard him groan. Did he like the sound of your laughter? “You really are forward, and I just said I don’t need to get over him.”
“I said I’d help you forget about him,” he said, taking a step forward and smiling when you didn’t step back. You weren’t some wilting flower he’d pluck from the soil. “Just let me fuck him from your memories and I swear you’ll thank me when I’m done.”
You frowned. Did he think you were an easy lay, or was he picking up on your attraction to him and running with it? “I haven’t even moved into my trailer yet, so maybe you should let me get settled before you continue to… I don’t know, harass me.”
His eyebrows shot up and the amusement died in his eyes. “Harass you? That’s not what I’m doing,” he swore, taking a step back to give you space. “Look, I’m sorry if I upset you or came on too strong.”
The apology took you by surprise and slowly warmed you inside. Not many people ever apologized to you for anything. “No, I’m sorry. Harass wasn’t the right word,” you said. It was just flirting. Very… strong flirting. “But if that isn’t it, what are you doing?”
He smiled after a moment, that spark back in his eyes. “Just grabbing an opportunity when I see it. Life’s too short not to,” he said.
You respected that perspective. “Is that what I am? An opportunity?” you asked. Something to get out of his system?
“I think you’re a lot more than that and that you may be running from something,” he replied, tilting his head. “Are you running from something or someone?”
He asked like he genuinely cared and you didn’t know how to process that. “I wouldn’t say I’m running,” you said, though you were running in a way, running from the life you no longer wanted. “More like I finally closed a chapter.”
“Well, I’m looking forward to getting to know you and helping you write a new chapter.”
“You say that like it’s a sure thing,” you said.
When his eyes swept over you again, it didn’t look like he was checking you out. It was as if he was trying to figure you out. “‘Cause it is,” he said, glancing at your door before you could say anything to his cocky remark. “Can help you out with repairs if you’d like.”
“I might take you up on that,” you said since you didn’t really have a clue what you were doing when it came to the handyman type of stuff. You could pay him, too. “Don’t get too excited. I said ‘might’,” you teased when he smiled.
Something in your gut said that even if he wasn’t hitting on you that he would’ve offered to help. It was a feeling you had, just like he had a feeling about you. And sure, he looked like danger and sin and everything you should stay away from, but there was more to him than met the eye.
What was his story? Who was the man behind the swagger and tattoos and rough edges? Did he grow up here or did he make a choice like you?
“I run my own shop. I’m very good with my…” He rolled his lip between his teeth. “Tools.”
You laughed again, louder than before, and his smile widened. “You really are something, Bucky,” he said.
“Love hearing you say my name,” he whispered, heat pooling in your gut before he pointed at your car with a whistle. “And she is a beauty. You ever need any help with her, you let me know.”
You agreed. She was a beauty. “Is this the part where you tell me you’ll take me for a ride or something like that?”
“Oh, I'll give you a ride,” he said in a low voice. “As many as you want.”
You ignored the ache between your thighs. “Not today, Bucky. I need to unpack.”
“One sec, Sweet Cheeks.”
“...Is that seriously what you’re going to call me?” you asked as he rushed to his trailer. It was ridiculous, but you didn’t hate it. You sure as hell liked it better than Pumpkin.
“‘Til the day I die,” he called back, whistling when he opened the door. “C’mere, girl. I got someone I want you to meet.”
Your brows furrowed. Who was in there who would possibly want to meet you? Did he have a kid?
You weren’t prepared for a white ball of fur to curl up in Bucky’s waiting arms. “And who is this?” you asked when he strolled back over. The image of such a beautiful cat in his arms was one that would put a smile on your face for days to come.
“This is Alpine. Found her near my shop a while back, starving and shivering. Nursed her back to health and she’s been by my side ever since,” he said, affection written all over his face. There was no bragging in his tone and that made you appreciate his story more. “Al, meet our beautiful new neighbor.”
You weren’t about to preen since he called you beautiful. “Oh, my god,” you whispered, tentatively holding a hand out to her when she lifted her head and regarded you with bright eyes. “Hi there.”
Alpine stared for a few seconds before she sniffed your fingertips and rubbed her head against them, encouraging you to pet her. You felt Bucky’s penetrating stare when you gently stroked her fur. “She’s a great judge of character,” he said, swearing under his breath. “I’m such a dick.”
“What do you mean?” you asked. He was a very forward flirt, but you didn’t get the impression that he was a dick.
“I didn’t ask if you were allergic,” he muttered with a shake of his head. “Fuck.”
Your heart turned over. No one you knew would’ve ever considered that. “I would’ve told you right away if I was allergic,” you assured him, smiling when Alpine purred. “I’m glad he was able to nurse you back to health. I’ll bet you watch over everyone around here, don't you?”
You could just imagine her being a little guardian and your heart twisted. Maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea for you to get a pet. Like your trailer, you could shower a pet with love, too.
Alpine surprised you when she moved forward and pressed her head to yours. “Fuck me,” Bucky whispered when she curled up again and closed her eyes. “She really fucking likes you.”
“Maybe she’s just being nice,” you said.
“Trust me, she wouldn’t do that unless she really liked you,” he said, leaning down slightly to kiss the top of Alpine's head. “Would you, Al?”
Your heart melted. It wasn't fair how sweet and sexy he looked holding an animal. The only thing missing was him in a leather jacket, which you had no doubt he owned. If you ever saw him in a leather jacket holding a cat, you’d probably combust.
“Like seeing me kiss a pussy?” he asked nonchalantly when he caught you staring.
“Oh, my god,” you giggled, not dignifying him with any other sort of response to his question. Because if you pictured him eating your pussy, your legs would start shaking and you were altready hot and bothered enough thanks to him. “I really should start bringing my stuff in,” you said. You really needed to look over your resume, too, and find a job sooner rather than later.
“Say bye, Al.” He lifted her paw to give you a wave as she meowed.
You smiled and gave her a wave, too. “Bye bye. Thank you for the warm welcome.” It was a smooth tactic bringing his cat out. You imagined she helped win a lot of people over if his charm didn't.
“Wait,” Bucky said when went to turn away. “You sure you don't need any help? I don't mind doing any heavy lifting.”
“I can manage,” you answered. You had to get used to doing things on your own now. “But I appreciate it.”
“If you change your mind-”
“I’ll let you know.”
He frowned, but nodded. “One more thing,” he said, nodding over to a clearing. “Potluck lunch two days from now. You should stop by. Give you a chance to meet everyone.”
“Really?” Your eyes lit up. “I can bake something,” you said. Something delicious that would leave a good impression on the neighbors.
He raised an eyebrow. “You bake?”
“Yeah, I like to bake. Cakes, cookies, brownies, pies, whatever I feel like.” You shrank in on yourself, waiting for the inevitable laughter or insult.
But it didn’t come.
Bucky merely stared when he ran his tongue over his lips. Did the man ever keep his tongue in his mouth? “Now, I think it’s only fair that I get to taste your sweet cheeks and I don’t know if I want to share.”
You shook your head. Surely you hadn’t heard him right. “...You mean my treats?” you asked.
“Cheeks, treats, all of it. Bet it’ll all melt on my tongue,” he replied with a wink and turned away, giving you the chance to check out his ass when he slowly walked away. He spoke about worshipping your ass, but you couldn’t take your eyes off his.
“You cocky son of a bitch,” you whispered with a smile. Of course you heard him right, and you bet he ate like a starved man. “Keep dreaming,” you called after him.
“Oh, I will, Sweet Cheeks. I will dream about you,” he promised over his shoulder before he looked back once more. “You might just be my future wife,” he declared and went inside with Alpine while his words hung in the air.
“Fuck me,” you breathed out, your shoulders shaking as you laughed because that just happened.
You didn’t know how the rest of the day would go, but you did know that your new home and neighbor were going to make for a very interesting and exciting chapter in your new life.
Okay, lovelies. What do we think? Talk to me. Let me know if you love him as much as I do. And let me know where you think this is going. 🥰 See what happens next with Good as New. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
Omg what a start!! I’m so ready for these two to get together and Bucky is everything to me!! I love him in this so much! He’s so flirty and cocky and just…🥵🥵
((a bit obsessed with wicks!dauaghter being a huge atheist. am thinking of writing a bigger fic about that ahah. self indulgent aha))
.⋆♱ in hindsight having a cigarette whilst leaning against the outside wall of a church is probably not the best idea, but you're not there to make impressions on these people.
it all happens rather quickly, the side door opens, there's footsteps and soon the half smoked cigarette is taken out of your fingers, ash falling as done so. fighting off a small smirk, you turn on the wall to face father jud who's fingers hold your cig. he looks a bit angry.
well, suppose it's better than punching people.
"these people!" he's hastily taking a drag, fingers fumbling with the end of it.
"i know"
he looks at you, obviously irritated (not by you), looks at the greenery around before quickly looking back at you a bit sheepishly this time upon realising he's about to finish your smoke.
"finish it"
"thank you" and he does finish it, before attempting to hide the stub in the plant pot on the gravel in-between you. it makes you smile a bit. martha will definitely find it and the blame will be put on you, as always.
"okay" he lets out a breath, going back to the door, he looks at you, his beautiful, soft eyes, "thank you, y/n"
you let out a small breathy laugh, "anytime, father" . he smiles at you before heading back inside.
Hiei’s Guide to Wooing Witches is back and better than ever! 🤭 Commissioned from @sorceressmyr , it has been adapted into a short manga. I am beyond impressed with her art and so grateful for the time she put into this.
Eddie Munson being the friend of innocent! reader and they both (unbeknownst to the other, even though everyone else knows) have the hots for each other, but are both too scared/shy to admit it so when they get stuck in a preDICKament and are all pressed up against each other he gets all flustered and embarrassed but when he realizes they both want the seggs he just goes fucking apeshit and kinda mean/rough? Yes.
More Than Friends
Pairing: Eddie x Innocent!Reader
Summary: You've been best friends with Eddie for years, and that's all you've ever been. Friends. But things become complicated when you start to develop more than friendly feelings towards him. You don't know if you're brave to tell him. But unbeknownst to you. he feels the same way, so when you both find yourselves locked in a janitor's closet, you're forced to confront your feelings for each other once and for all.
A/N: Thank you so much for the request! Honestly when I read it I just couldn't wait to write it. Hope you like it! <3
Eddie Munson. He was your best friend, your favourite person. You'd loved him for years but somehow, over the recent weeks, that love had come to mean something more than friends. Everytime you looked at him, you found yourself attempting to memorise everything about him. The way his smile seemed to light up the room, the way he would jump onto the table at lunch to deliver a speech. The way everything he did seemed to make your heart swell with happiness.
You wanted to tell him all of this, but you were too afraid of ruining what you already had with him. What if he didn't feel the same way? So instead, as you sat beside him in the cafeteria, you were forced to beat the dreaded words back down your throat. You couldn't tell him, you just couldn't.
But the longer you sat beside him, the words resting painfully on your tongue, the more you struggled to keep your composure.
"I'm just gonna go pee." You said quickly, your chair scraping on the floor as you stood up.
Eddie simply looked up at you in confusion before you turned and practically ran out of the cafeteria. You were aware that that probably didn't look very normal, but you didn't care. Sitting there with him, knowing he could never be anything more than your friend, was suffocating.
When you made it out into the hall, your breathing was coming out in shallow puffs now, your eyes beginning to well with tears. You couldn't understand why this was so difficult. You'd been his friend for years, so why couldn't you be now?
"(y/n)?" A familiar voice suddenly came behind you. Eddie. "You okay?"
You quickly wiped at your eyes, praying that you looked somewhat fine, and then you turned around to face him. "I'm good."
He didn't say anything then. He just continued to stare at you for a moment, concern evident in his brown eyes, before stepping forward and pulling you into the janitor's closet.
"Eddie! What the hell?" You protested, trying to yank your arm free from his grip.
He let go once the door was closed behind you, leaving you both incredibly close to each other in the small room.
"What's going on with you?" He asked, his face serious now as he stared down at you. "You've been acting weird all week."
"It's nothing." You shrugged before turning to wrap your fingers around the door knob. But when you tried to turn it, it wouldn't budge.
"What's wrong?" Eddie questioned, clearly noticing your struggle.
"The damn door's stuck." You grumbled, becoming increasingly frustrated now as you continued to pull on the door knob.
Eddie tried to reach forward to help, but you quickly swatted his hands away, bending over slightly to get a better look at the door. And as you inspected the lock, Eddie's presence behind you had become practically nonexistent.
"Uh, (y/n)?" He spoke after a few minutes of you angrily pulling on the door knob.
"What?" You growled, your attention still fixed on getting the door open.
"You uh...might wanna stop leaning over so much."
And that was when you felt it, something hard pressing into your ass. You stood up straighter then, awkwardly turning to face him as heat crept up your cheeks.
"Is that...?" You trailed off, swallowing before attempting to continue. "Are you?"
He looked down between you then, a quiet cough leaving his lips. "Sorry, I uh...I can't help it."
"Oh." You whispered, the breath seemingly knocked out of you as you stared up at him.
Heat was beginning to pool between your legs and the longer you stood like this, with his erection pressing against your thigh, the worse things seemed to get. And somehow the knowledge of what this was doing to him had made you a little more confident. Confident enough to say the words that were now desperate to slip out.
"Do you...want some help...with that?" You muttered, nervously looking down at the tent forming in his jeans.
And it was that sentence that seemed to knock all the breath out of Eddie's lungs. He was shocked to say the least, that his best friend, who he'd never heard say anything close to that, had just offered such a thing.
"Um...are you sure?" He asked, in complete disbelief as he gawped at you.
You nodded at him, carefully reaching down between you to ghost your hand over his bulge. He shuddered then, his hand flying down to wrap around your wrist, stopping you for a moment as you stared at each other.
"What was up with you?" He asked, his expression softening as he looked at you. "Back in the cafeteria?"
"It doesn't matter."
You knew that it did matter, and that you'd have to tell him at some point, but right now your only focus was on him, more specifically what was in his pants.
He released your hand and you took one last look at him then before unfastening his belt and his jeans, carefully pulling them down, his boxers going with them. And when his cock sprang free from its constraints, you couldn't hide the fact that you were taken aback, your breath catching in your throat as you stared at it.
"You okay?" Eddie asked, clearly noticing your sudden nervousness.
"Could you...show me how?" You said, your voice barely a whisper as you spoke.
A wide grin broke across his features then as he looked down at you. He nodded before reaching down to take your hand in his, guiding you towards his aching cock. You wrapped your hand around his length, and he helped urge your movements over him, and you both let out a sigh as you watched what was happening between you.
"Is...is that good?" You asked, noticing how his eyes had fluttered closed.
He nodded, his hand leaving your own now as he reached to the side to grip onto a shelf. "Uh huh."
You continued to move your hand up and down his length, and when you swiped your thumb over the tip, he let out a moan, which sent a jolt of pleasure straight to your core.
This only made you more confident as you worked to coax more moans out of him, finding the sounds gratifying as you jerked him off.
But after pumping him a few more times with your hand, he stopped you, pulling you away.
"Did I do something wrong?" You asked, confused.
He shook his head, smiling at you. "No, not at all. It's just...when I come for the first time, I want it to be inside you."
"Okay." You breathed out, your pussy throbbing now as you stared at him.
"Okay?"
You smiled. "Yeah, okay."
He grinned at you, and within seconds, he was pulling your jeans down, your panties going with them as the material pooled around your ankles, and then he had you pressed against the wall.
You gasped when he slipped his hands under your thighs, lifting you to wrap your legs around his waist. And you couldn't help the moan that escaped your lips when you felt his dick prodding at your entrance.
"You have no idea how much I've thought about this." He breathed out before pushing inside you, both of you moaning as he stretched you open.
"Yeah?" You asked, your hands desperately gripping his shoulders as he started to move inside of you.
"Yeah." He groaned. "Shit, you feel good."
You could only respond with a loud moan, your eyes screwing shut as he continued to thrust in and out of you at a steady pace. But that seemed to be enough of a response for Eddie as he only leaned further into you, his lips brushing the skin just below your ear.
"Eddie--fuck!" You groaned, screwing your eyes shut when he started slapping his hips up into you harder, your back knocking against the wall.
And as he fucked you like this, you'd never felt closer to him. Your best friend, who was now deep inside you, your chests pressed together as he held you up against the wall.
"Harder." You pleaded, your fingers digging into his jacket as you held onto him.
He picked up the pace then, his hips pounding into you more forcefully now as he tightened his grip on your thighs, his face buried in the crook of your neck.
"Fuck, I love you." He groaned against your skin, as he thrusted into you at a brutal pace, making you cry out.
He hadn't even realised the intensity of what he'd just admitted to you, but to be honest, he couldn't find it in him to care. He was completely entranced by you, the feeling of you seeming to consume him as he moved inside you, his release starting to come close.
And you were barely even able to process his admission as you cried out his name, heat beginning to pool in your belly as you neared your own release.
"Oh my god, Eddie. I'm gonna...I'm-"
"I know, sweetheart, I know." He breathed out, his pace never wavering as he continued to drive himself into you, bringing you both closer to the edge.
And after a few more hard thrusts, the fire that had been building finally exploded, a wave of pleasure crashing over you as you moaned loudly, your fingers still digging into his shoulders.
He wasn't far behind you as his hips suddenly stilled, his warm release coating your walls as he groaned into your neck.
"Oh my god." You whispered, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath.
Eddie's hands were still gripping onto your thighs as he carefully lowered you to the floor, waiting a moment before pulling out of you, and quickly pulling his jeans back up.
And as you both stood there in silence, the only sound being your heavy breathing, you were both finally forced to confront your feelings. Eddie had told you that he loved you. He said those exact words, the same words that you had been wanting to say to him for weeks.
"Did you mean it?" You finally asked, busying yourself with pulling your jeans and panties back on. "Do you love me?"
Eddie sighed, leaning his head back to stare up at the ceiling before turning his gaze back to you. "Yeah...I do."
Your heart seemed to swell with happiness then, a small smile gracing your features as you lifted your head to finally look at him. "I love you too."
"Yeah?" He asked, his eyes lighting up as he smiled at you.
You nodded. "Yeah."
He gave you one last smile then before stepping closer to you, his hands resting on either side of your face as he pulled you into a kiss. He was still smiling as he moved his lips over yours, his warm hands still cradling your face.
But before you could part from each other, the door was suddenly pulled open. You both jumped, turning around to find Dustin standing in the doorway, a knowing smile on his face as he looked at you both.
He was grinning at you as he spoke. "I see you two finally worked things out. I was wondering how much longer you were gonna tiptoe around each other."
"You knew?" You asked, staring at Dustin in disblief as he continued to grin at you both.
"Well it wasn't like you were both being subtle about it." He shrugged, seemingly unimpressed. "You've both been gawking at each other for weeks. It was actually kinda fun to watch. We even made a bet on which one of you would break first."
"You did?" Eddie asked, staring at his friend with a look of confusion on his face.
"Uh huh."
You both laughed nervously then, your eyes flicking between each other and Dustin.
"Just some advice though. Next time, if I were you, I'd pick somewhere a little less public."
[me screaming HE DOES in my head right now…I know exactly where this is going in the best possible way]
You’d been his friend for years so why couldn’t you be now??
[cause you love him and he’s irresistible!! Obviously]
…pulling you into the janitor’s closet.
[I love a convenient janitor’s closet…the one at my school had a back door and I used it to ditch a few times]
And that was when you felt it, something hard pressing into your ass.
[Damn this really is a small closet 😭😭]
“Do you…want some help with that?
[Yes girl, get the D!!!]
Your only focus was on him, more specifically what was in his pants.
[Me too girl. The love confession can wait!]
Your best friend, who was now deep inside you, your chests pressed together as he held you against the wall.
[It’s a love story baby just say yes…]
“Fuck, I love you.”
[YAS!!!!]
You both jumped, turning around to find Dustin standing in the doorway…
[Dustin you better have just showed up and not been creeping in the hallway…nevermind he’s definitely been creeping in the hallway]
This was so good! I knew it would be but this is wonderful! I loved it. I really like the way you write Eddie, I know this was mostly smut but I think sometimes when people write smut the characters start to lose personality but I feel like you wrote a great smut and kept Eddie feeling exactly like his character is! All the personality I love!!
areudirty
pixelskylines
dailybridgerton
