Momma Wyld. @desimarie12 - Tumblr Blog

Jan 29

Weather Girl

Summary : Bucky Barnes has a harmless crush on the local weather broadcaster. He watches her every morning, and even admits it to his friends. Its not like he’ll ever meet her, right?

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x weather girl! reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Fluff!!! Meet cute(?), Reader is weather girl and meteorologist, Steamy, and sex is heavily implied, cursing. mention of past trauma, but not a lot. Nervous Bucky! Set after FATWS but before Thunderbolts* (let me know if I missed anything!)

Word Count : 10.6k

Notes : Hi all! This was meant to be a shorter fic, but I got carried away. Enjoy!

Bucky Barnes had really tried to like the twenty-first century.

Trying counted for something, right?

Post-war, post-everything— life was supposed to feel better. No Hydra handlers in his head, no missions, no one telling him who to be. After everything, he thought it would just be him with a notebook full of names crossed out, and a century that had sprinted ahead while he’d been frozen in place.

There were days when he didn’t feel so out of time. Sometimes, he could walk down the street without flinching at car horns. And then there were days when everything reminded him that he didn’t belong here.

He tried the things that friends suggested.

Baseball games, for one. Sam had suggested it like it was a cure-all: You like baseball. Go to a game. So Bucky went.

Baseball had always made sense to him, but the stadiums were different now. It was too big, too loud, too… commercial. Even worse, the Yankees felt wrong to support, and the Dodgers being in Los Angeles still tripped him up every single time he thought about it. He sat through a few innings, hands folded tight in his lap, before leaving with the same hollow feeling he’d arrived with.

Coffee was worse.

He liked it black, bitter, no nonsense. Now it came with foam and syrups and names he couldn’t pronounce without feeling ridiculous. He ordered the wrong thing more than once and drank it anyway, grimacing through sweetness that stuck to his tongue long after the cup was empty.

Everything felt overcomplicated.

There were too many choices to make, too much noise. Too much pressure to be something to someone.

So he built small routines, the kind his old therapist said were good for him.

One of them was the weather.

Back in the 30s and 40s, his ma used to turn on the radio every morning. The weather report would crackle through the kitchen while she moved around, apron on, humming a song. It didn’t matter if it was rain or sun. “Listen close,” she’d say, pressing a kiss to his hair. “Weather tells you how to dress for the day.”

It was… comforting.

One morning, after a whole night of being unable to sleep, he turned on the TV.

That’s when he saw you.

You were the weather newscaster, standing in front of a green-screened map with blues, greens, and yellows curling across the screen. You smiled as you spoke, not forced nor overly bright. Your voice was comforting, like the weather mattered because people mattered.

Bucky sat down on the edge of the couch without realizing.

You talked about cloud cover and chances of rain, gesturing, explaining things like storms and sunshine were just part of a bigger, understandable pattern.

When the segment ended, Bucky didn’t turn the TV off right away.

The next morning, he turned it on again.

That was all it was at first…. a routine. It was a familiar pattern to anchor himself to.

He’d wake up, make coffee, and watch the weather. He told himself it wasn’t about you, specifically. You just happened to be there.

Except… he started noticing things.

He noticed the way your brow furrowed when you talked about incoming storms, like you took it personally. He noticed how you leaned into the screen slightly when you were excited about clear skies and sunshine. He noticed your smile when you signed off, wishing everyone a good day like you genuinely hoped they’d have one.

He learned your schedule without meaning to, but not in a bad way. He just knew which mornings you’d be on, which afternoons you covered, though rare. If he missed you because he woke up too late, there was a flicker of disappointment as he pretended not to care about it.

And yeah, okay— he thought you were really pretty.

And it certainly didn’t help that Bucky caught himself wondering if you liked rainy days or just tolerated them. If you drank your coffee black or sweet. If your smile looked the same off-camera.

Still, he never lingered on those thoughts, never let them spiral. He wasn’t building some fantasy version of you in his head. He knew better than that.

It was just a crush.

A small one, harmless one.

But some mornings, he realized he’d woken up a little earlier than usual, just to be sure he wouldn’t miss you.

—

Letting Sam and Joaquin stay in his apartment after a boy's night out had felt like the decent thing to do.

Bucky had even told himself that as they stumbled through the door sometime after midnight. Sam had been riding the high of a good night out. Joaquin had been buzzing in that restless way, fueled by sugar-heavy cocktails and the thrill of getting Bucky out of his apartment for once.

The mistake became clear the moment the door shut behind them.

They stood in the living room, taking stock of the space like they hadn’t been there a dozen times before.

See, Bucky only had one spare bedroom. The other would have to stay on the couch.

“I’m taking the spare room,” Sam said immediately, toeing off his shoes.

Joaquin laughed. “What– that’s not fair!”

Bucky didn’t bother looking up as he shrugged out of his jacket. “Figure it out yourselves. I’m going to bed.”

“You hear that?” Joaquin said. “Man’s clocked out.”

“Rock, paper, scissors,” Sam announced. “Like adults.”

They tied. Once. Then twice. On the third round, Joaquin won and celebrated far more loudly than the victory warranted. Sam accused him of cheating. Joaquin accused Sam of being a sore loser. Bucky disappeared into his bedroom before it could escalate.

—

The next morning, Bucky woke before sunrise.

He laid still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, orienting himself. He moved through the apartment without thinking as the kitchen light stayed off. He measured coffee grounds, the bitter scent blooming in the air as he brewed. Sam was still sprawled across the couch, throw blanket tangled around his legs, one arm flung over his face like he’d lost a fight with gravity.

Bucky hesitated before turning on the TV.

He told himself it was a habit. Surely, Sam wouldn’t mind.

So the screen flickered to life as he turned the volume low enough not to wake anyone… at least, that had been the intention.

You appeared on-screen, framed perfectly against a colorful map. You smiled as you greeted the viewers, getting on with your job. Bucky leaned back against the counter, mug warming his hands, shoulders loosening without him noticing.

Sam stirred from his sleep, shifting beneath the blanket. He let out a quiet groan, waking too early against his will.

“Why,” he mumbled, “does it sound like a civic duty in here?”

Bucky didn’t look over. “Go back to sleep.”

Sam cracked one eye open, squinting blearily at the TV. “Why is the news on?”

“It’s just the weather,” Bucky said, casual to the point of rehearsed. “You don’t need to be awake for it.”

Sam hummed, unconvinced. Before he could say anything else, the spare bedroom door creaked open.

Joaquin shuffled out, rubbing his face, hair sticking up in defiance of any law of nature. He paused, eyes landing on the TV.

“Oh,” he said. “It’s her.”

Sam lifted his head now, more alert. “Her?”

Joaquin nodded toward the screen. “The weather girl, she used to cast in Miami. My mom loved her, even cried when she moved to New York. She used to be on all the time.”

“Well, sometimes,” Bucky corrected, maybe a little too quickly.

You were explaining a shift in pressure systems, gesturing at the metrics. Joaquin watched for a beat longer than necessary, then nodded to himself.

“…Okay,” he said, squinting at Bucky’s response. “Whatever. My cousin thinks she’s cute.”

“Yeah,” Bucky nodded fondly. The moment his reply landed in the room, he knew he’d screwed up.

Sam’s head snapped around. “Hold on.”

Bucky took a long sip of coffee, buying himself half a second that did absolutely nothing.

Joaquin’s eyes lit with sudden clarity. “Do you think she’s cute?”

Bucky felt heat creep up the back of his neck. “I meant—yeah, she’s objectively—”

“Ohhh,” Sam interrupted, sitting up now, blanket sliding off his shoulders. “Oh, no, no. That was not an objective ‘yeah.’”

Joaquin grinned, instantly energized. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Are you telling me—”

“No,” Bucky said firmly.

Joaquin leaned forward. “—that the Bucky Barnes—”

“Nope.”

He pointed at the TV. “—has a crush on the weather girl?”

“Fuck,” Bucky let breath out through his nose. “…Maybe?”

Big mistake. The room exploded.

“Oh my God,” Sam laughed, dragging a hand down his face. “This is incredible.”

Joaquin clutched his chest. “The Winter Soldier, reduced to heart eyes over the Weather Channel.”

“It’s not the Weather Channel,” Bucky snapped. “It’s local news.”

“Oh, even worse,” Sam teased. “He likes her accessible.”

Bucky shot him a glare. “You’re both idiots.”

Joaquin wasn’t letting it go. “How long has this been a thing?”

“It’s not a thing,” Bucky said, defensive now. “She’s just… she happens to be on in the morning. It’s routine.”

“Mmhmm,” Sam said, nodding exaggeratedly. “And you just happen to know her schedule?”

Bucky’s metal fist tightened. “…Look.”

They both leaned in.

“She’s just my type, okay?” he said finally, words tumbling out in a rush.

Joaquin’s eyebrows softened, just a bit, as Sam grinned anyway. “That’s adorable.”

“It’s just a harmless crush,” Bucky rolled his eyes. “I don’t think I know her. I don’t pretend she knows me.”

On-screen, you smiled as you wrapped up the forecast. “Looks like clear skies for most of the week. Whatever the weather, have a great morning, folks!”

Bucky’s eyes were glued to your sign off before realizing Sam and Joaquin were staring at him.

Sam nudged Joaquin. “Look at his face.”

Joaquin softened just a bit. “Aw, man.”

Bucky muttered, “I hate you both.”

Sam slapped him on the shoulder.

“I think it’s good,” Joaquin said. “Means you’re still capable of liking someone who isn’t actively shooting at you.”

Bucky huffed, though a smile creeped on his face. “Real comforting.”

—

A couple of months later, Sam was yet again stuck in Bucky’s apartment after an overnight blizzard.

After it passed, snowbanks still lined the streets like barricades, gray and uneven from plows that had done their best and moved on. The city felt wrong, quiet in places it was usually loud, crowded in the buildings that still had power and heat. People were digging themselves out, checking on neighbors, trying to piece everything back together.

Bucky watched it all from the window, mug warming his hands.

“The shelter’s doing post-storm relief,” Sam said, scrolling on his phone. “They’re short on volunteers.”

Bucky didn’t hesitate. “Let’s go.”

Sam glanced up, eyebrows lifting. “Sure”

To both of them, helping made sense, it always had. They saw a need, they filled it.

They bundled up and headed out, boots crunching through packed snow, wind biting but manageable now that the worst had passed. The shelter sat on a corner still half-buried in slush, lights blazing inside.

The moment they stepped through the doors, the noise hit them all at once.

People crowded the space, some shaking snow from their coats, others already clutching steaming cups of soup. Volunteers moved quickly, voices raised just enough to be heard. Tables were set up along the walls, one stacked high with donated coats in every size and color.

Sam was immediately flagged down by a coordinator. To be fair, she probably recognised them both.

“Here to help out?” she asked, eyeing both of them.

Sam grinned. “Born ready.”

As Bucky turned to sign in… he stopped in his tracks. His brain just stopped working.

Because you stood near the front door, hair pulled back messily, bundled in a thick sweater and scarf that looked nothing like your formal on-screen wardrobe. Your cheeks were flustered from the cold, sleeves pushed up as you were getting ready to help with the soup stall. You were laughing at something one of the coordinators said..

Sam noticed immediately.

“Oh,” he said, far too casually. “Would’cha look at that.”

Bucky’s heart slammed into his ribs.

“No,” he said quietly.

Sam leaned closer, grin already forming. “Is that—”

“No.”

“That’s the weather girl.”

“Sam.”

“That’s your weather girl.”

Bucky swallowed hard. “She’s not my anything—.”

Sam nudged him with his elbow. “Man, she’s even cuter in person!”

Bucky shot him a glare. “Do not make this weird.”

Sam’s grin only widened. “I’m not making it weird. You are making it weird by staring.”

“I’m fine,” Bucky muttered, pulling his beanie down lower. “We’re here to help.”

They were directed to different stations, mercifully, but not mercifully enough.

Sam was assigned to give away donated coats, and somehow, Bucky was assigned to the soup stall— the very same soup stall you were assigned to.

You approached with a box of cups, setting them down gently. “Hey,are you good to ladle, or do you want me to—”

You looked up. Your eyes flicked to his face, then squinted just a fraction. “You’re new around here,” you mentioned with a smile, before telling him your name in introduction.

Bucky’s mouth went dry. What was he supposed to say? I already know who you are? I watch you every morning? No fucking way.

“Uh…” he said intelligently.

Sam, passing behind them with a crate of gloves, slowed to a stop and watched.

Bucky didn’t look at him.

“I… nice to meet you. And I-I can—uh, ladle,” Bucky said, clearing his throat. “I’m… yeah. I’m good.”

You smiled at him, making his knees feel vaguely unreliable. “Great. Team soup, then.”

He nodded way too fast.

You both worked in silence at first. The line was steady, from families to elderly couples to people stamping snow from their boots, hands shaking as they wrapped them around warm cups. Bucky focused on the repeated motion: scoop, pour, slide the cup forward.

He kept his gaze down, keeping his hands hidden under the gloves as he continued to pretend not to know exactly who you were.

You, on the other hand, watched him with curiosity.

After a few minutes, you spoke again.

“You do this often?” you said lightly, handing a cup to a woman with a grateful smile.

Bucky shrugged. “Just… doing what needs doing.”

You glanced at his gloves and the way his shoulders stayed slightly hunched, like he was trying to fold inward.

Then you looked back at his face.

“You did a good job,” you said.

Bucky blinked. “With… soup?”

Your lips twitched into a sweet smile, head tilting.

“With the GRC,” you said quietly. “Things were… a mess. Still are, feels like”

The ladle froze mid-air.

Fuck. You… recognised him?

His heart skipped a beat as his mouth took off at a sprint.

“Oh,” he managed. “I—uh—”

You smiled again, gentler this time. You weren’t starstruck, nor invasive. You were just… sincere.

“You handled it with a lot of compassion,” you continued. “I remember watching the live coverage in the office.”

Bucky’s ears burned.

Sam, across the room, caught his eye and mouthed SHE KNOWS YOU.

Bucky did not look back.

“I was just… following Cap’s lead,” he said, because that was safer.

You studied him for a moment longer, then nodded. “Still. It mattered.”

Snow whipped past the windows outside. The line kept moving. The world kept going.

Inside, Bucky Barnes was quietly, internally losing his mind.

You handed him another stack of cups as he tried to focus very hard on the soup.

“Thanks,” he said, voice low.

“Anytime,” you replied with a chuckle.

Over the next few hours, he realised you were chatty in the most charming way.

It started small.

You commented on the soup temperature. Joked that the ladle was deceptively heavy. Mentioned that snowstorms always made communities unite, like shared misery unlocked manners. Bucky responded with short answers at first, and you didn’t seem to mind. You just adjusted, met him where he was, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Conversation was… easy. He didn’t feel like he was calculating every word, didn’t feel like he was performing Normal Guy Behavior™. You filled gaps naturally, let silences exist without making them awkward. When he spoke, you listened like what he said mattered.

Internally, Bucky was losing a war.

Because in a deeply fucked-up, self-preserving corner of his brain, he’d been hoping, praying really, thats you’d secretly be awful. That you’d be rude, or fake, or condescending.

Because if you sucked, he could move on. He could chalk this whole thing up to a stupid crush and go back to watching you from a safe, distant screen. Maybe even deflate this stupid crush instantly.

But no.

Nooooo.

Instead, you just had to be a sweetheart who laughed with volunteers, remembered regulars’ names, and casually mentioning—

“I’ve been helping out here for years,” you said, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. “Since college, on and off. Storms just make it busier.”

Years.

Of course.

Of course you had. Of course you’d been doing good long before he ever noticed you through a screen. Of course you weren’t just someone who cared on-camera. Of course you were and inconveniently wonderful.

Bucky stared at the soup again, and thought, Fantastic. She’s kind AND committed. Kill me.

You glanced at him sideways, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Just… uh—concentrating.”

You chuckled, perhaps sensing his nerves, and something in his chest gave way.

Then the coordinator’s voice cut through the room. “Alright, new volunteers just arrived! Time to rotate stations!”

You peeled your gloves off slowly, like you weren’t in any hurry to leave the moment. “Guess we’re done.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, immediately hating how disappointed he sounded.

You hesitated, then tilted your head at him, studying his face. “You know,” you said lightly, “you’re a lot easier to talk to than I thought a super-soldier would be.”

His heart did a stupid little backflip. “I… uh, thanks?”

You smiled, warmer now. Flirty in that way that didn’t demand anything but absolutely invited him in. “I mean it,” you said. “I’m glad we worked together.”

He nodded, hands curling slightly at his sides. Say something. Say anything.

“Hey, do you maybe want to…”

Oh God.

You looked back up at him as he swallowed hard. Do it. Don’t be a coward.

“...get coffee sometime?” He finished quickly. “If you want. Just, coffee, no foam. I mean—foam’s fine if you like it… sorry.”

Smooth. Real smooth.

For half a second, you just stared at him, then you smiled.

You didn’t look surprised. If anything, you looked pleased.

“I was hoping you’d ask,” you said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Bucky froze. “You were?”

“Mmhmm.” You reached into your coat pocket and pulled out your phone. “But I’m gonna make this easy on you.”

You scribbled your number on a scrap of paper from the counter and pressed it into his human palm.

“Text me,” you said, eyes meeting his. “And we’ll figure out when that date is.”

Date.

His brain short-circuited completely.

“I… okay,” he managed, nodding a little too fast. “Yeah. I can do that.”

You smiled, clearly endeared at how overwhelmed he looked. “I look forward to it, Bucky.”

—

Bucky stared at the scrap of paper like it might detonate.

Your number. It was real. Handwritten, and slightly smudged because his hands had been sweating like he was about to defuse a bomb instead of… text a woman.

He’d folded it once, unfolded it before folding again, tucking it carefully into his jacket pocket like it was fragile glass.

Sam, who just finished his part, noticed immediately.

He didn’t say anything at first. He asked if he wanted to go to a diner— which Bucky agreed to.

And during dinner, Sam just watched his best friend tap the table restlessly with his metal fingers as he held his phone in his human hand, unlocking and relocking the screen like that might summon courage through muscle memory alone.

Finally, Sam leaned back on the booth cushions, arms crossed. “You gonna tell me why you look like you’re about to jump out of a plane without a parachute?”

Bucky stopped tapping. “I’m fine.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “You’ve opened your phone twelve times and haven’t done anything.”

Bucky scowled and lied. “That’s not true.”

“Oh, my bad. Thirteen.”

Bucky let a deep breath out through his nose, before admitting quietly, “I got her number.”

Sam froze. “You what?”

“I got her number,” Bucky repeated, like saying it again might make it less terrifying. “She… she gave it to me.”

Sam’s face looked like it was stuck between joy, disbelief, and chaos. “Whoa, Buck—”

“Don’t,” Bucky snapped, pointing a finger at him. “Don’t yell.”

Sam chuckled, eyes wide. “Sorry.”

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck. “She told me to text her.”

Sam’s grin was immediate and unstoppable.

“You will not tell anyone,” Bucky said firmly.

Sam blinked. “Anyone?”

“Anyone,” Bucky repeated. “Not Joaquin. Not even your sister. Not anyone.”

Sam tilted his head. “C’mon man.”

Bucky hesitated, eyes dropping back to his phone. “I don’t wanna jinx it.”

Sam held up two fingers like an oath. “Secret’s safe. On my life.”

“Thank you.”

“Now,” Sam added immediately, leaning forward, “are you gonna text her, or are you gonna die staring at your lock screen?”

Bucky scowled. “I’m working up to it.”

Sam watched as Bucky finally opened the messages app, typed a few words… deleted them. Tried again. Deleted again.

“What the hell are you writing?” Sam asked.

“Something normal,” Bucky said. “Not weird.”

“Define weird.”

“Anything that sounds like I’ve been thinking about her for months.”

Sam snorted. “Good call.”

Bucky tried again.

Bucky: Hey, it’s Bucky from the soup kitchen today.

He stared at it. Read it. Overthought it. Finally, he showed Sam.

“Too boring?” he asked.

Sam shrugged. “It’s fine, man. Hit send.”

Bucky’s thumb hovered.

His chest felt tight. This was worse than jumping out of planes. Worse than fighting aliens. At least their rejection wouldn't hurt.

He hit send.

The phone was silent for exactly seven seconds before it buzzed.

Bucky’s heart nearly stopped as he opened it immediately.

You: Hey, Souper Soldier :) I was hoping you’d text!

His breath left him in a rush he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Sam watched his face and grinned. “She replied, didn’t she?”

Bucky didn’t even try to hide it. “Yeah.”

—

The texting started… cautiously.

At least on his end.

You: Made it home without slipping on ice 👍

Bucky stared at the screen for a full minute before replying.

Bucky: Yeah. Same. Still thawing out though. I packed some extra soup and it helped.

Three dots appeared.

You: Soup is powerful like that

You: So is coffee, apparently. You seemed very serious about yours.

He huffed, a smile tugging at his lips.

Bucky: I prefer just black coffee.

Bucky: It gets the job done.

Bucky: You?

You: Oh I’m a menace

You: milk, sugar, sometimes cinnamon if I’m feeling interesting

He shook his head, fond despite himself.

From there, it got… easy.

You sent him pictures of the ridiculous snowbanks still clogging the sidewalks. He sent back a blurry photo of his coffee mugs. You teased him for being dry over text; he admitted (after some coaxing) that he was better in person.

Then, two days in…

You: So what do you actually do when you’re not saving soup kitchens?

He stared at it, metal plates rippling on his vibranium arm.

Bucky: Bit of this, bit of that.

Bucky: Helping where I can.

You: Mysterious. I like it 😌

You: I’m a little less exciting. I work in broadcasting

He blinked. What am I supposed to say?

Typed.

Deleted.

Typed again.

Bucky: Oh.

Bucky: Really?

He could feel the universe judging him.

You: Yeah! Local news

You: Mostly mornings

His soul tried to leave his body.

Bucky: That’s cool.

Cool???

He knew. He knew. He should’ve just said something like Hey, funny story, I already know this.

But instead, like a coward, he kept digging.

You: Weather, specifically. Nothing glamorous

Bucky stared at the word weather like he was solving an impossible equation.

Bucky: That’s great. People need to know about weather.

Smooth. Incredible. Nailed it.

You didn’t seem to notice his nerves through the screen. Or if you did, you found it charming.

You: You’re sweet

You: want to get that coffee this weekend?

He said yes immediately.

—

The date was simple.

It was at a small café of his choosing. It had warm lighting, and it was quiet enough that he didn’t feel like the walls were closing in. You waved when you saw him, bundled in a coat and scarf, smiling like this wasn’t the most terrifying thing he’d done in years.

Conversation flowed like it had at the shelter, maybe even better.

You talked about early mornings, about learning to smile on camera even when you were exhausted, about how weather felt personal because it affected everyone. He listened, genuinely fascinated, occasionally tripping over the fact and deflecting over the fact that he’d watched you tell him it was gonna be chilly over the weekend yesterday morning.

Fuck, when he developed his silly little crush on you, he had never imagined you’d be sitting across from him, laughing into your coffee.

That was a lie. Maybe he’d imagined it once or twice, but he never actually thought he’d get to do it.

At one point, you caught him staring.

“What?” you asked, amused.

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “You’re just… easy to look at.”

You chuckled, cheeks warming. “You are too, you know.”

By the time you stood to leave, his nerves were back in full force. He walked you outside, cold air biting at his cheeks.

“Well,” you said, “I had a really good time.”

“Me too,” he said, earnest. “I’d… like to do this again. If you want.”

Instead of answering right away, you stepped closer. And before his brain could reboot, you leaned up and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

His entire system shut down.

“I’d love to go on a second date,” you said warmly.

Bucky nodded, stunned. “Okay. Yeah. Definitely.”

You smiled at him one last time before heading off down the sidewalk, leaving him frozen in place, hand hovering near his cheek like he needed proof it had actually happened.

Somewhere deep down, he knew he really, really needed to tell you the truth.

But right now, all he could think was…

Holy shit. She kissed me.

—

The second date was easier.

You met him at a bookstore-themed cocktail bar tucked between a laundromat and a bodega that smelled permanently like oranges. Bucky arrived ten minutes early and spent seven of them pretending to browse a shelf labeled Modern Memoirs while actually rehearsing how not to say something unhinged. When you walked in, he forgot every plan he’d made and just… smiled.

You talked for hours.

Not the careful, surface-level kind of talking either, but real conversation. You told him about growing up watching storms roll in from your bedroom window, how weather made you feel small in a good way. He told you about Brooklyn in the forties, about baseball games, about the war. You didn’t flinch when he mentioned nightmares. You didn’t pry. You just listened, nodding like it all made sense.

At some point, you reached across the table and nudged his metal fingers with yours.

“Can I?” you asked gently.

He swallowed. “Yeah. Please.”

You traced the vibranium seams like you were learning a part of him. Bucky’s heart skipped a beat, then settled. When you left, you hugged him, and he stood there afterward thinking, oh no. This is becoming a thing.

—

The third date was dinner.

Nothing fancy. It was a small place you liked near your apartment, all brick walls and low lights. You laughed more this time. He loosened up enough to tease you about your corny ‘souper soldier’ pun, and you teased back about him being emotionally attached to black coffee. Somewhere between dessert and the check, he realized he felt… normal. Like this was just his life now.

Walking you home was not something he planned on.

The night was cold but clear, streetlights glowing against leftover snow. You talked about weekend plans, a storm system moving in next week, until you stopped outside your building.

“Well,” you said, putting your weight slightly back on your heels. “I had a really good time.”

“Me too,” he said, too quickly. Then, because he’d promised himself he would be better than his fears, he added, “I was wondering if I could—” He stopped to take a grounding breath, “—kiss you?”

You smiled, eyes warm. “Yeah,” you said. “Of course.”

He leaned in carefully, like he was approaching a goddess. The kiss was gentle at first, then sure, your hand curling into his jacket as if you’d always known where it belonged. When you pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against yours, like he needed the contact to stay upright.

You laughed quietly. “You okay?”

He nodded, dazed. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m… yeah.”

You unlocked your door and turned back to him. “Text me when you get home?”

“Absolutely,” he said, already planning to text you the second he was out of sight.

You waved and slipped inside.

Bucky stood there for a full five seconds. Then his brain caught up as he realized three things in rapid succession:

You tasted faintly like coffee and cinnamon.

His heart was trying to escape his chest.

I know where she lives now????

He blinked, looking at the door, then at the building. He felt his soul try to exit his body in a spiral of delight and terror.

He walked home in a fog, lips still burning, heart doing laps in his chest. Somewhere between your block and his, he laughed out loud, startling a passerby.

This was good. This was really good.

It didn’t, however, change the fact that he was absolutely, completely screwed.

—

The fourth date started with him standing across the street from the local broadcasting studio at four-thirty in the afternoon, hands shoved into his coat pockets, teeth clenched like he was bracing for impact.

This was nothing. This was normal. People picked each other up from work all the time. Except, he kinda knew where you worked, like, eight months before you actually told him in a text. After all, he didn’t live too far from the Channel 7 Office. To his defense, before you actually met him, he never ever, even once, thought about trying to run into you there. That would be weird.

Still, it probably explained why his heart was pounding like he was about to jump out of a quinjet.

Then the doors opened, and you stepped out.

You were dressed down compared to your on-camera look, coat slung over your arm, hair loose, face relaxed in a way he’d never seen through a screen. When your eyes found him, your smile bloomed instantly.

“Hey,” you said.

His brain went blank.

“Hey,” he managed, voice rougher than intended.

You fell into step beside him easily, like this was already a habit. On the subway ride to the Guggenheim (your idea for a date), you talked about your day. You talked about early meetings, producers arguing over graphics, and how exhausting it could be to smile before the sun was even fully up. Bucky listened like it mattered. Like you mattered. Every once in a while, you glanced at him as you spoke, checking that he was really there. He was.

Inside the museum, the space opened up around you. Bucky stood beside you under the spiraling white curves, hands tucked into his coat pockets, head tilted back as he took it in. “Feels like I’m standing inside a thought,” he chuckled.

You laughed as you moved slowly through the exhibits. Sometimes your shoulder brushed his. Sometimes your fingers found his sleeve and stayed there. He didn’t flinch when crowds pressed in, but you noticed him leaning subtly toward you as art curved upward with the building, color and shape unfolding slowly. You walked close, shoulders brushing now and then, never pulling away.

“This one always makes me feel small,” you said, staring at a massive abstract piece. “But not in a bad way.”

Bucky nodded. “Yeah. Like… perspective.”

You glanced at him. “You get it.”

Your fingers slipped around his metal finger without thinking, resting there like it belonged. He froze for half a second before relaxing into it, metal plates humming faintly beneath your touch.

By the time you stepped back outside, dusk had crept in.

“Do you…” He hesitated, heart racing. “Do you want to come back to my place?”

You didn’t even have to think about it. “Sure.”

—

His apartment felt different the moment you crossed the threshold. You kicked off your shoes, shrugged out of your coat, looked around like you were mapping him through his space. He watched you like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening.

It didn't matter, anyway. You both barely made it past the hallway.

The second it felt private enough, you pulled Bucky’s lips to yours. This kiss was deeper, more urgent than ever before. His hands found your waist on instinct, pulling you closer as if distance had suddenly become unbearable. There was no hiding behind paper-thin pretenses anymore, not that Bucky ever tried to hide his intentions of why he was bringing you home.

“I just—” He pulled back a fraction, forehead resting against yours, breath uneven. “This is okay, right?”

Your smile was unmistakably sure. “Bucky… yes.”

That was it.

The kiss resumed, heavier now. Your back hit the wall as he pressed into you, then your hands reversed it without thinking, guiding him back until his shoulders met the cool surface instead. Your mouth traced along his chin, down your neck, making him inhale sharply.

You laughed breathlessly when he fumbled with your skirt zipper and the buttons of your blouse. “Hey,” you teased gently. “Still with me?”

“Barely,” he admitted hoarsely.

You helped him, and when his shirt came off, your hands explored him like you were curious, like you wanted to learn. You swallowed, cheeks already tinged with how much you were staring. “I… I have to admit something,” you started, biting your lip like it was the only thing keeping your words from spilling over.

Bucky raised an eyebrow, “Oh yeah?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to be too nervous. “At the museum earlier… I kind of wanted to push you up against the wall.”

He froze for a second. Eyes flicked to yours, just the faintest smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Really?”

You nodded, heat creeping up your neck. “Yeah. Nothing says art quite like… Bucky Barnes, displayed right next to a Kandinsky. But I didn’t, because… well, public space.”

Bucky’s smile became a shy grin. He pulled you closer, if it was even possible, peppering kisses on your lips. “I think I could’ve handled it,” he said confidently, surprising himself. “Even appreciated it.”

Your stomach flipped. “Bucky—” you whispered, half warning, half pleading.

“Or,” he added, tilting his head, thumb brushing along your side, “we could make tonight a private showing.”

You laughed, breathless and flustered, trying to play it cool but failing spectacularly. “I—uh… I might need a moment to… appreciate the view first,” you said, voice wobbling, teasing, but utterly incapable of hiding the heat in your chest.

Bucky’s grin widened, the kind that promised he knew exactly what he was doing. He was nervous, of course. But now he was motivated, and a motivated Bucky wasn’t something anyone should evertake for granted. He leaned in, forehead resting against yours, lips just brushing your ear. “I think I could make you forget all about appreciating the art.”

And that was it. You were undone.

After that, the bed was a blur. One moment you were pressing him up against the wall, thinking you were in control, the next he was guiding you down with reverent hands. When he landed on the mattress and helped line your waists together as you back to straddle him, the sound he made was wrecked enough to make you gain a bit of your poise back.

“Oh,” you said, almost teasing. “You okay?”

He laughed weakly. “I’m… yeah.”

You leaned down and kissed him again, and it was thorough and devastating. His hands settled at your hips, thumbs digging in like anchors. The world narrowed to the heat pooling down your core and his breath and the way your bodies fit together like they’d been working toward this for weeks.

Later, after riding each other’s high, you lay tangled together beneath the covers, skin warm and limbs heavy.

Bucky stared at the ceiling for a moment, then turned his head toward you.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

“Hey,” you answered, tracing idle patterns along his human arm.

His throat tightened, looking down. You were not just a person on a screen anymore. You were real. And perhaps, you never needed to know otherwise. “I’m really glad I met you.”

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “Me too.”

—

The next morning crept in too early.

Gray-blue light filtered through the curtains, city sounds still half-asleep, the clock on Bucky’s nightstand glowing 6:02 a.m. You stirred awake first, carefully, like you were navigating a minefield instead of a bed.

You slipped one leg out from under the covers, then the other, wincing when the floor felt colder than expected. You reached for your clothes as quietly as possible, gathering them up against your chest, already rehearsing how to disappear without waking him.

It didn’t work. He had super-soldier senses, after all.

“Hey,” Bucky muttered, voice still rough with sleep.

You turned slowly. He was on his side, hair a mess, eyes barely open but already focused on you like you were the most important thing in the room.

“Sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He pushed himself up on one elbow. “It’s okay. What time is it?”

“Early,” you said apologetically. You pulled on your blouse, smoothing it down. “I gotta run to work. I texted my coworker to see if I can borrow a blazer and shirt so I don’t have to go back to my place, but I… yeah. I need to go.” You hesitated, then smiled sheepishly. “I was gonna leave you a note.”

You leaned down and kissed him.

When you pulled back, he looked… happy, and awake now.

“I—” he cleared his throat, sitting up a little straighter. “I can drive you? If you want.”

You laughed, warm and fond. “Buck, it’s like three subway stops.”

“Oh,” he said. “Right. Yeah. That makes sense.”

You slipped your bag over your shoulder, then paused at the bedroom door. “Besides,” you added, teasing just a little, “I want you to tune in and watch.”

His heart tried to punch its way out of his chest. He absolutely could not say I do, every morning.

So instead he said, way too casual, “Uh. Okay. It’s… MetroView NY, right? Channel 7?”

You smiled, assuming he knew from picking you up yesterday. “Yeah. That one.”

Nailed it.Totally normal. Definitely not suspicious.

You reached for the door, then stopped when he spoke again.

“Hey… um,” he rubbed the back of his neck. “A couple of my friends are visiting the city tonight. They wanna check out this new dive bar. You… wanna join us?”

You turned back to him, nodding. “Yeah. Of course. Just text me the address and when.”

Relief washed over his face so visibly it made you smile. After what he did to you last night, you found it adorable that he was still kinda flustered.

As he sat straight up, you kissed him once more, quick but affectionate, and whispered, “I’ll see you tonight, then.”

—

Bucky was standing in the kitchen an hour later, coffee gone cold in his hand, shirt tugged on hastily after you left, brain replaying the exact sound of your laugh from the night before like it was on a loop he couldn’t shut off. The apartment smelled faintly like you, and it was doing absolutely nothing to help.

Right on cue, he turned the TV on.

And there you were.

You had bright studio lights on you, a polished smile, hair styled in a way that made it painfully clear you hadn’t been up all night… appreciating art. You greeted the audience like your legs weren’t still wobbly.

“Good morning,” you said cheerfully, standing in front of the weather map. “If you’re heading out early, you’ll want to bundle up, looks like the city’s still riding the weather out today.”

He choked on his coffee.

Riding the weather out. Jesus Christ, in all of his months of watching you on TV, he had never ever heard you say something like that. Especially not after you were on top him like a cowgirl last night.

But still, it could be a coincidence, right?

You clicked to the next graphic. “Yesterday’s storm cleared beautifully, though. Sometimes all it takes is a little pressure shift to make things fall into place.”

Bucky closed his eyes for half a second.

Pressure shift. It could be totally normal phrase. He was absolutely not thinking about you trailed your hands on his shoulders or the way you’d smiled at him afterward like you knew exactly what you’d done.

“And if you were out enjoying the arts last night, maybe wandering a museum,” you continued smoothly, “you might’ve noticed how the city feels a little less windy. That trend will continue over the weekend.”

He shifted his weight, heat creeping up his neck.

You gestured toward the screen again. “Today’s actually perfect for something low-key. A walk through the park, maybe. Or checking out a new dive bar while the roads stay clear.”

Bucky stared.

“And for those staying in,” you added, lips twitching just slightly, “it’s a good night for… private showings.”

He let out a strangled noise that might’ve been a laugh.

There was no way. No way that was accidental. The camera didn’t catch it, but he did, confirmed now by the quick little glint in your eye before you smiled wide again.

“Whatever you choose,” you finished, “it’s a good day to go out, or stay warm inside. Please plan accordingly, folks!”

Bucky actually laughed this time.

You signed off like nothing had happened, like you hadn’t just flirted with one specific super-soldier through an FCC-compliant forecast.

He stood there for a long moment, heartbeat loud in his ears, replaying flashes of last night, thinking about the way you’d climbed into his lap like you already knew exactly where you belonged.

His phone buzzed.

You: I kept it professional, but I figured you’d understand the subtext 😇

He huffed out a chuckle.

Bucky: I understood, sweetheart. Loud and clear.

The reply came almost instantly.

You: Good :)

You: Tonight’s forecast is still open 😉

He stared at the message, warmth spreading through his chest.

—

Later that night, you were at the dive bar a full half hour early, for no reason except for the fact that you had nothing else to do.

Your apartment had felt too still after you got home, so you’d just changed clothes, stared at yourself in the mirror longer than necessary, and eventually decided that sitting alone with your thoughts was a bad idea.

So here you were.

The bar was comfortably dim, the kind of place that smelled faintly like citrus cleaner and old wood, neon signs humming over shelves of bottles. It wasn’t crowded yet, just a couple of people nursing drinks like they had nowhere else to be.

You slid onto a stool at the bar and ordered a soda. It felt normal. No cameras, just producers in your ear. Just a denim jacket and jeans, a Tool t-shirt, and your hair down the way it never was on air.

You didn’t mind being early. It gave you time to settle.

You’d just unlocked your phone when someone sat on the stool beside you with an audible little gasp. “Oh my god.”

You glanced over, already smiling because… yeah. You knew that tone.

“You’re the weather girl.”

You laughed, and it sounded light. “I am, yeah.”

His face lit up immediately, like he’d just stumbled into a celebrity sighting he hadn’t expected to happen in a dive bar of all places. You never considered yourself a celebrity by any means, well… maybe a local one. “That’s wild. I mean, sorry. I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

“It’s okay,” you said, lifting your soda in a small toast. “Happens more than you’d think.”

He laughed, then tilted his head, squinting slightly. “You look… different.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Different how?”

“More real?” He waved a hand vaguely. “Less… map.”

You snorted. “Yeah, the green screen really does a lot of heavy lifting.”

That got a proper laugh out of him. He stuck out his hand. “I’m Joaquin. Nice to meet you.”

You shook it. “Nice to meet you too, Joaquin.”

He seemed genuinely sweet. He was friendly, a little excitable in a way that felt harmless. You chatted idly for a few minutes. About how weird it was being recognized in random places. About how this bar apparently had surprisingly good fries.

Then Joaquin shifted on his stool, suddenly looking like he was working up the nerve to say something.

“So,” he said, lowering his voice just a bit. “This is gonna sound kind of weird.”

You shrugged. “That’s usually how the best conversations start.”

He chuckled, then took a breath. “I have a friend coming in tonight who has… like. A huge crush on you.”

You blinked, then laughed softly. “Oh?”

“Massive,” he said, nodding seriously. “He watches you every morning. Has for… I don’t know. Almost a year, I think.”

You were used to people who knew you, sure, used to people finding comfort in routine, in familiar faces on their screens. There was something sweet about that kind of consistency, but your “fans” usually consist of little kids who wanted to work in broadcasting when they grew up.

“Is he… weird about it?” you asked with an eyebrow raised.

“No,” Joaquin said quickly. “Not at all, I promise. He just has a harmless crush on you. Any chance you’d maybe talk to him? He’d probably die before asking for a photo, but he’d definitely appreciate it.”

You considered it for about half a second.

“Sure,” you said easily. “I can say hi.”

Joaquin’s relief was immediate. “You’re a saint, man.”

He glanced toward the door just as it opened, letting in a rush of cold air and the crowd murmur of the street outside.

“Oh,” he said, pointing. “There he is.”

You followed his gesture.

Oh.

Bucky Barnes stepped into the bar; shoulders squared, leather acket pulled close, eyes scanning the room.

His gaze found Joaquin first.

Then it slid to you, sitting next to him.

The moment recognition hit, it was like watching a system crash in real time.

He froze, just for a beat, but it was enough for his shoulders to go rigid. His steps slowed, face going utterly blank in that way that screamed oh no even if he didn’t say a word.

Joaquin, completely oblivious to the internal apocalypse happening, grinned like he’d just pulled off the greatest surprise of his life.

“That’s him,” he said cheerfully.

You set your side down slowly, eyes never leaving Bucky as he stood there looking like the universe had personally betrayed him.

You smiled fondly, just a little bit confused. “Well,” you whispered, mostly to yourself, “this just got interesting.”

Joaquin didn’t seem to hear. He lifted his arm high, waving enthusiastically over the low din of the bar. “BUCKY!”

Bucky flinched.

Not subtly, either. It was a full-body, caught-off-guard flinch. His eyes darted once more to you before snapping back to Joaquin, as if maybe, maybe, if he didn’t look directly at you again, this would all turn out to be a misunderstanding.

It didn’t.

Joaquin waved again, bigger this time, and patted the empty stool on his other side. “C’mon, man!”

Bucky swallowed and forced his legs to move.

You watched him approach, taking in the way his shoulders were stiff. God, he looked handsome, and for a while you were distracted from the matter at hand.

You schooled your expression into polite curiosity as he reached the bar.

Joaquin beamed between the two of you. “Okay, Bucky, this is—” He gestured to you dramatically as he nudged his ribs “—well. You know who she is.”

You laughed lightly and turned toward Bucky, offering your hand like you hadn’t already memorized the exact shape of his body.

“Hi,” you said warmly. “Nice to meet you.”

Bucky short-circuited.

His brain screamed. His heart tried to exit his body. His internal monologue dissolved into white noise and regret.

Oh.

Oh no.

Oh absolutely not.

His stomach dropped so hard he was pretty sure it hit the floor.

You were acting perfectly casual, perfectly unbothered, like you’d never pressed him against the wall. Like he didn’t know exactly what you sounded like when he reached that sweet spot on your neck.

Then, you met his gaze and gave the smallest smile, mouthing: Just play along.

Bucky caught it.

And immediately started spiraling worse.

Play along.

Play along with what?

Pretending he didn’t already know how you took your coffee?

Pretending he hadnt gone on four fucking dates with you already?

He stared at your outstretched hand for half a second too long before taking it, his grip careful, respectful, like he was terrified of doing anything wrong.

“Hi,” he said, voice a little too rough. “I’m… uh. Bucky. Nice to meet you too.”

You smiled at him like this was the first time you’d ever seen him, like you hadn’t woken up in his bed that morning.

Perfect.

Joaquin glanced between you, clearly delighted. “See? I told you he was cool.”

You nodded. “He told me you’re a regular viewer.”

Bucky felt his soul leave his body. Fuck.

“I—I mean,” he rushed out, already spiraling, “yeah, but not like—” He stopped himself, swallowed hard. “I just… uh. Mornings. Routine. You’re very… informative.”

Informative.

Jesus Christ.

You tilted your head, amused. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Joaquin snorted. “Dude watches every morning,” he stage-whispered. “Once, he stayed at Sam’s for work, in Louisiana? He downloaded a VPN to get to a New York server to watch your daily weekday forecast on his phone.”

Bucky shot him a look of pure betrayal. “Joaquin—”

“What?” Joaquin said innocently. “It’s true.”

You laughed again, kind and easy, while Bucky was very very close to jst bolting out of the room.

Then Joaquin checked his phone. “Oh, by the way. Sam texted me. He’s gonna be a bit late.”

Bucky blinked. “What?”

“Yeah,” Joaquin said. “Some kinda thing came up.” He leaned back on his stool, completely at ease. “So! Guess it’s just us for a bit.”

You smiled at him again, and the weight in his chest eased just a fraction.

He shifted his weight, hands curling into his jacket sleeves.

But as he sat there, pretending this was the first time you’d ever met, Bucky couldn’t shake the thought looping endlessly through his head:

Please don’t think I’m a creep. Please don’t think I’m a creep. Please don’t—

Oh no.

She is definitely gonna think I’m a creep.

She’s gonna think I lied.

She’s gonna think I stalked her.

She’s gonna think I’m one of those guys who shows up to volunteer hoping to “run into” someone from TV.

He nodded anyway. “Y… yeah,” he said, forcing himself to breathe. “Cool. That’s… cool.”

You turned fully toward him now, resting your elbow lightly on the bar. “So,” you said conversationally, “Joaquin tells me you’re a big weather guy.”

Bucky’s ears burned.

“I—uh,” He laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just like… knowing what’s coming.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “That makes sense.”

Did it?

Did it really?

Or did you secretly think he was a freak who built his mornings around a woman on a screen and then go looking for her in real life to pretend to to—

Joaquin, entirely unaware of the existential crisis unfolding inches away from him, grinned. “See? He’s harmless.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, heart still racing.

You took a sip of your drink, then glanced at Bucky again, eyes dancing just a little. “So. You a regular here?”

Bucky blinked. She’s flirting. Or pretending to.Or both.

“Uh. No,” he said. “This… opened last week.”

“Mmm,” you hummed thoughtfully, as your knee brushed his under the bar.

Bucky stiffened, heartbeat skyrocketing, every memory of the past few weeks crashing into him all at once: coffee dates, stolen kisses, the way you’d laughed when he got flustered, the fact that you’d already seen him naked and were now acting like this was a meet-cute.

You leaned in slightly, just enough that only he could hear. “You’re doing great,” you whispered. “Relax.”

He nodded immediately.

You smiled, warm this time, and turned back to Joaquin like nothing had happened.

Bucky let out a shaky breath.

God help him.

If this was him playing along, he didn’t know how much longer his nervous system could survive it.

—

For the next thirty minutes, Joaquin, unfortunately, was having the time of his life.

He leaned back on his barstool like a man who believed that he was orchestrating and wingman-ing his good friend.

“So yeah,” Joaquin said casually, taking a sip of his drink, “Bucky doesn’t watch any other news channel.”

Bucky made a noise somewhere between a cough and a plea for mercy.

You tilted your head, resting your chin on your hand, eyes bright with interest. “Oh?”

Bucky tried to shoot him a warning look, but Joaquin missed it entirely.

“He knows which days you’re on,” Joaquin added. “If you’re off, he gets all grumpy. Pretends he doesn’t care, but—”

“That is not true,” Bucky cut in, face heating fast.

You smiled sweetly. “Really?”

Joaquin nodded enthusiastically. “Oh yeah. He’ll be like, ‘Huh. Must be a guest forecaster today.’ Meanwhile he’s chugging two cups of coffee.”

Bucky pressed his lips together and stared very hard at his glass.

You leaned in just a fraction, curiosity sharpening. “Two, huh?”

“Sometimes more,” Joaquin said, delighted. “Depends.”

Bucky groaned quietly. “Joaquin.”

“What?” Joaquin shrugged. “It’s endearing.”

You hummed, eyes flicking back to Bucky. “Is it?”

Bucky refused to meet your gaze. “I like… knowing what’s coming,” he said again. Weakly. Uselessly.

Joaquin snapped his fingers. “Oh! And the show. He calls it by the full name.”

Your brows lifted. “The full name?”

“Yeah,” Joaquin said. “Morning MetroView Weather Update.”

Bucky winced. “You don’t have to say it like that.”

“But that’s what it’s called,” Joaquin insisted. “You correct people when they get it wrong.”

You laughed softly. “Does he, now?”

Joaquin nodded. “One time Sam called it ‘the Channel Seven weather thing’ and Bucky was like—” He straightened, dropping his voice into a hilarious impression, “‘It’s Morning MetroView. It’s different.’”

Bucky buried his face in his hand.

You watched him with open fascination now. “Wow.”

“It’s not—” Bucky tried, then gave up, shoulders slumping. “I just… appreciate accuracy.”

Joaquin pointed at him. “See? Weather guy.”

You smiled, slow and curious. “Anything else he appreciates?”

“Oh!” Joaquin perked up. “The theme song.”

Bucky froze.

“…The theme song?” you echoed.

Joaquin nodded. “He hums it all the time.”

Bucky looked like he might actually pass away.

You stared at Joaquin, then back at Bucky. “You hum the theme song.”

“I do not,” Bucky said weakly.

Joaquin grinned. “You do. It drives me insane on missions sometimes. No offense.”

Your eyes lit up mischievously. “None taken.”

Bucky muttered, “Please stop talking,” as he pressed his forehead to the bar.

You stared at him for a beat, then chuckled. You didn’t laugh loudly or mockingly. Instead, it was a gentle, surprised laugh, like you’d stumbled onto a plot twist you hadn’t expected but appreciated.

“I just…,” you said. “Feel… professionally observed.”

Bucky peeked up at you, horrified. “I swear I wasn’t… I didn’t— I never. I mean, I wasn’t looking for you. I didn’t even think I’d ever meet you. I just—”

Joaquin checked his phone mid-rant. “Oh, hey. Sam just texted.”

Bucky looked up sharply. “What did he say?”

Joaquin stood, sliding off the stool. “He’s around the block. I’m gonna go meet him outside.”

Relief flooded Bucky’s face, right up until Joaquin pat him on the shoulder.

“You two keep talking,” Joaquin said brightly, then leaned in and winked at Bucky. “I’ll give you space.”

Bucky stared at his retreating back in horror.

You turned back toward him, smile still in place. You said nothing, but your eyes were very, very curious.

Bucky’s silence lasted approximately forty seconds after Joaquin disappeared before absolutely losing the plot.

“I just wanna say,” he started, too fast, hands already coming up like he was surrendering, “I’m not a creep. I swear to God. I didn’t… this wasn’t like a thing I planned or anything. I wasn’t tracking you or showing up places on purpose or—”

You blinked, startled, “Bucky…”

“I know how it sounds,” he rushed on, words tumbling over each other until it blended together now. “Guy watches someone on TV, knows the schedule, hums the theme song…. okay, that part sounds bad when you say it out loud! But it was just routine. It helped me feel normal. And I didn’t know you. I didn’t think I knew you. I never thought you owed me anything, or that you even knew I existed…”

He dragged a hand through his hair, looking up at the bar heavens as though any kind of divine force could save him.

“I swear I didn’t go to that soup kitchen because of you,” he added, panic in his voice. “That was real. You were just… there. And then you were nice, and kind, and… fuck, I just—please don’t think I’m some creep who built a fantasy in his head.”

You watched him unravel for a few seconds longer before closing the distance before he could spiral any further.

You… kissed him.

It was intentional. You were enough that he could feel the warmth of you, smell your perfume, register the way your hand slid lightly on the front of his chest like you were anchoring yourself there.

He froze for half a second. Then he melted.

When you pulled back, his breathing was uneven, eyes blown wide like he’d just been rebooted.

“I don’t think you’re a creep,” you said, lips still close enough that your words brushed his mouth.

He swallowed hard. “…You don’t?” he asked quietly, almost afraid to hear the answer.

You laughed, thumb tracing the seam of his jacket. “Can I tell you a secret?”

He nodded immediately. Anything to take the pressure off him. “Yeah. Please.”

Your smile turned a little sheepish. “I might’ve had a teeny tiny crush on you, too, way before I first met you.”

His eyebrows shot up. “No way.”

“Way,” you said. “I watched your press conferences all the time.” You rolled your eyes at yourself. “I used to get jealous of my on-field coworkers who got to interview you. I’d be in the studio like, ‘Cool, I’m pointing at a screen while you’re standing five feet away from Bucky Barnes.’”

He let out a stunned laugh. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not,” you said, amused. “Guess that’s what I get for pursuing meteorology.” You hesitated, before adding, “My parents still have Howling Commandos trading cards in the attic. I found them one summer when I was home from college and absolutely lost my mind.”

He stared at you. “You can’t be serious.”

“Dead serious,” you said. “I thought I had a harmless crush, too. You are… a super soldier, y’know? Avengers-adjacent. No way you’d ever look my way.”

You met his eyes, smile turning shy.

“Well,” you continued, “until… you did.”

Bucky let out a disbelieving laugh. “That’s… that’s— wow.”

You smiled. “So.” You nudged his knee lightly with yours. “We’re even.”

Bucky laughed, nose crinkling adorably, “I guess so.”

You leaned in, voice low and teasing now. “We’re really just different sides of the same coin.”

He chuckled, tension finally breaking, shoulders relaxing as his hand slid to your waist like it had always meant to be there.

“You really don’t mind?” he asked, just to be sure.

You smiled, fingers curling into his jacket. “Bucky, you weren’t a creep about it. It’s not like you stalked or harassed me,” you reassured, “and I think… I would very much mind if you stop.”

You kissed him again.

This one was slower, your fingers sliding up into his hair, his human hand firm at your waist like an anchor. Bucky sighed into it helplessly as the bar noise faded into a dull hum. If anyone was watching, neither of you noticed. You were too distracted with each other, loving feeling the smile on his face when you tugged him closer, loving the way he followed your lead.

—

“Dude,” Joaquin said excitedly as he and Sam rounded the corner back toward the bar. “I’m telling you, you are not prepared for this.”

Sam raised a brow. “You say that a lot.”

“No, this is different,” Joaquin insisted. “We saw the weather girl. Y’know, the one Bucky watches.”

Sam stopped short, a grin spread across his face. “Oh. That weather girl.”

“Yes!” Joaquin said. “And Bucky’s talking to her right now.”

Sam chuckled under his breath. “Yeah, that tracks.”

They pushed the door open.

And there you were.

Bucky had your side leaning gently against the bar now, one hand braced beside you, the other warm and familiar at your hip. You were smiling into the kiss like you already knew something the rest of the room didn’t. Bucky looked… relaxed. He looked in a way Joaquin had literally never seen before.

“Oh damn,” Joaquin froze mid-step. “That was quick.”

Sam burst out laughing, slapping Joaquin on the shoulder. “Quick? Man, no.”

He nodded toward the two of you, still very much wrapped up in each other, completely unbothered by your audience.

“They met a couple months ago,” Sam added casually.

Joaquin turned around. “What.”

“There was a blizzard,” Sam said. “Power outages everywhere. Bucky and I volunteered at one of the shelters. She showed up to help, too.”

Joaquin stared at him, almost betrayed. “You knew this?”

Sam shrugged, still smiling. “Didn’t know it’d turn into that, but yeah.”

Joaquin looked back at the bar. He studied the way Bucky’s forehead rested against yours now, kissing your nose adorably.

“Oh,” Joaquin’s eyes widened. “That’s why he was shitting himself.”

Sam snorted. “Yep.”

“He didn’t tell her,” Joaquin whispered, horrified and delighted all at once.