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Summary: You take your nephew to a Bucky Barnes and Sam Wilson Q&A event. The mischievous 8-year-old asks if he can get in line to ask a question. Against your better judgement you agree and let him go up by himself.
Word Count: 626
Masterlist: One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven
A/N: I had no intention to write anything on this account but here we are. Excuse the mess.
A young boy - 8 years old, dark hair and eyes full of mischief - walks up to the microphone.
"Hi, I have a question for Bucky..." He asks shyly.
The moderator nods, "What's your question for him, little man?"
The boy looks over at the seats nearby behind him and smirks, turning back to the stage with some more confidence this time.
"Will you marry my Aunt?"
The crowd let's out collective gasps, giggles, and awws. There's some cheering and a loud "OW OWWWW."
You inhale quickly and choke on your own air supply, trying to compose yourself. "BENJAMIN!!!"
You're horrified and shrink down in your seat while pulling your hood up over your head for added cover.
While you contemplate the fastest way to snatch the little traitor and get out of there as swiftly as possible you hear Sam's loud laugh echo through the room.
"I assume that was your Aunt and you're Benjamin?" Bucky asks while smirking.
Tiny traitor nods while grinning ear to ear. "I'm Benji, Auntie's name is Y/n and she thinks you're sooo handsome," he exaggerates with an eye roll, "and she's super fun and pretty and you'd be the coolest unc--"
Exit plan secured you jump out of your seat and rush over to cover his mouth and pull him back from the mic. Your hood still up and head ducked down.
"You said you were asking about the mechanics of his arm, you tiny little punk," you mutter at him but the microphone still picks up what you said.
While you have him secured in a headlock you quickly speak into the mic, avoiding all eye contact. "I apologize, I've never met this child before... I'm going to return him to the proper authorities immediately."
Picking your nephew up as quickly as you can, you toss him over your shoulder. His fit of giggles exploding while he tries yelling out again, "But he hasn't answered yet!"
"He's free later tonight, Aunt Y/n!" Sam shouts while you retreat to the back of the conference room towards the exit. "Your future family seems nice," he jokes while nudging Bucky's arm.
Benji tries to shout back across the room, "SHE IS FREE TOO!! EVERY NIGHT!!"
You shove the exit door open, "You're so dead. On my pick up days for school I will be blasting every embarrassing song I can find with the windows down. I'm going to start saving now and I will be buying every ad space available in your future yearbooks and I will be plastering them with your baby photos. And not the cute ones." Like this kid ever took a photo that wasn't cute.
***
The two of you walk around a food truck area set up outside the conference space. Benji is happily eating a pretzel you only bought so your sister wouldn't kill you for neglecting her child. You grab a seat at a small table to people-watch while he finishes up his undeserved treat.
You let your hood down, setting your vibrant and wild hair free. The color is easy to pick out in a crowd.
Benji is explaining in great detail the plot to a video game he has been playing with his friends and how one level keeps tripping them up.
The chair next to you slides back, "Is this seat open?" A deep voice asks.
Benji grins, "Yes!"
You already know who it is, but you're still startled when you look over and see none other than Bucky Barnes sitting with you and the small trouble matchmaker.
"So... is the potential cool Uncle position still available?" He smirks, hand on his chin looking over at both of you.
This little punk might be getting free pretzels and ice cream for life.
A.N: Thank you so much for your wonderful support my loves🩷 I hope you like this chapter as well, we're slowly approaching the end of these series! 🥰 Please let me know what you think about the chapter, thank you! 🩷
Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Female!Reader
Summary: Change can be scary.
Warnings: Explicit language, mentions of sex, MDNI.
Word Count: 3k
Series Masterlist
A career crisis, especially working in a high-paced job, was not unheard of.
But as usual, politics took it to a whole different level.
You tapped your foot, stole a look at your phone screen, then put it down with an impatient sigh. You still had no idea whether the bill passed or not, so your friends had taken you out for coffee to distract you from the stress.
You were hoping the bill would have more success than them.
“So let me get this straight, you’re going to leave Congress, quit politics, and then what? Move to the countryside and go frolicking?”
You took a sip of your coffee and shook your head.
“I mean I’m gonna leave Congress for sure,” you said while Kelsey and Caleb exchanged glances. “The politics part I’m still deciding.”
“If you don’t quit, you’ll go local?”
You nodded, then scoffed a laugh.
“Bucky thinks I should run for office, have I told you guys that?”
Unlike what you were expecting, that didn’t coax laughter out of them, instead, Kelsey shrugged her shoulders while Caleb sipped his coffee as if waiting for you to continue. You tilted your head.
“…Which is a terrible idea,” you told them and they both made a noise of disagreement.
“I’d help you,” Caleb said and Kelsey nodded.
“I keep telling you, we need more hot politicians and if Bucky is quitting, the least you can do is fill in that gap.”
“I appreciate that,” you said. “But I can’t run.”
“Why not?”
“Many reasons!” you defended yourself. “I’d be a terrible politician.”
“You’d be an amazing politician.”
“I have videos of me dancing on top of tables on our nights out,” you told him. “Bucky’s election night, Lucas’s birthday…”
Caleb raised his brows.
“I made the public love the fucking Winter Soldier,” he told you. “The legendary assassin who killed JFK. Killed the Starks. Killed a bunch of people for decades, and he won in a landslide. Do you seriously think there’s anything I can’t spin?”
“I’m dating my boss.”
“You mean the boss you kept a perfectly professional relationship with until he quit?” Caleb asked. “I already wrote your love story, it’s on my laptop.”
“You what?”
“Oh I’ve read it,” Kelsey said. “Riveting stuff.”
“Thank you!”
You rolled your eyes, ripping the coffee sleeve on the table to pieces. “I can’t believe you.”
“Any other excuse you’d like to throw my way?”
“Yeah,” you said. “My father. People would know whose daughter I am if I ever ran for any office.”
Caleb shot you a look and cleared his throat.
“Black sheep of the family,” he said dramatically, motioning at you. “Standing up for what’s right. Didn’t take a dime from her father because of her principles.”
“Videos of me being snappy at people.”
“One of which was a reporter who was giving false information to the public,” he said. “More proof that you are a defender of the truth.”
“I snapped at Frank too. My colleague.”
“Who was trying to pull rank on an innocent sweet intern.” Caleb grinned. “Woman of the people.”
“Bucky does have a point in saying if he ever kills people in public, he will turn to you to spin it,” Kelsey said and Caleb shrugged.
“Bucky did kill people in public, and I did spin it,” he said. “I just had to be born first.”
You let out a laugh, then took a sip of your coffee.
“So wait, you guys want to go back to New York too?”
“Yeah I mean, I like DC and everything, but I’m beginning to miss it there,” Caleb said. “Kels?”
“Oh I’ll definitely go back to New York the moment Bucky’s whole thing is finished here.”
“Would it have anything to do with Joaquin?”
She wiggled her brows. “Nah, just job opportunities.”
“We’re literally in the capital, not in some small town.”
“And half of the Congress wants you as their assistant.”
“I’m not dropping Bucky,” Kelsey said. “At least on his first term, and since you’re saying he won’t run again…”
“Nope.”
“Then we’re all going to New York I guess,” she said. “Hey, can Joaquin live with us?”
“If he buys us a couch, yes.”
“Maybe it’s a good thing we never got a couch,” you muttered. “See? It’d just get in the way on our way back.”
“Props to us on our foresight.” Caleb touched his paper cup to yours, and you heaved a sigh, leaning back to slip a little in your seat.
“At least all the places I emailed got back to me first thing in the morning,” you said. “I’m surprised, I used to wait for like weeks.”
“That was before you made a name for yourself,” Caleb said. “I doubt you’ll have to wait anymore. And you’ll stay at Bucky’s place until we all get back?”
“Mm hm.”
“How very mistress of you.”
Your jaw dropped. “Caleb!”
“What? You’ll stay in his spare place, that used to be how the arrangements went, no?”
You threw a piece of the coffee sleeve at him. “You’re a terrible person.”
“And when you quit and go to New York,” Kelsey said as if she couldn’t hear you two bickering. “You guys can go public the minute Bucky’s term is finished?”
“Yup. Only like a year.”
“No wonder he’s so on board,” Caleb muttered. “But, and I’m asking for my own sanity, do we know if Bucky can handle politics without you?”
“People elected him, not me,” you reminded him and Kelsey scoffed.
“People elected him because of how fuckable he is and because of you directing him every step of the way in the background,” she said. “He wants to help people, yes, but politics is a whole different beast, you know that.”
You paused for a moment, then shook your head.
“He’ll be fine,” you said. “Besides, once this bill passes, all the attention will be on De Fontaine’s impeachment, it’s not like Bucky will be in the spotlight. The hearings start next week.”
“You’ll still be here next week, right?”
“Oh for sure,” you said. “We’re finishing Gray’s clean energy bill next week as well, and I need to see it through. Employment or not, I’m here until the end of the month.”
“I have half the mind to follow you there because I know how Bucky is gonna be once you move—” Caleb started but was cut off by your gasp when your eyes fell on your phone screen.
It had passed.
The veteran bill had passed.
“Oh my God!” you exclaimed, jumping on your feet as you turned the phone to them. “Oh my God, the bill!”
“See, told you it’d pass,” Kelsey said and you let out a laugh, your heart slamming against your ribcage.
“I—wow,” you managed to say. “I uh…I’m gonna go find Bucky.”
“Don’t forget to lock the door,” Caleb muttered under his breath and Kelsey elbowed him.
“Caleb.”
“Victory sex is a thing!” he argued as you grabbed your purse, then rushed out of the café to make your way to the marble stairs leading up to the Capitol. You went through the security, then ran upstairs to get to the hallway leading to Bucky’s office.
He was talking to Congressman Riley at the door when you reached there. His eyes found you over his shoulder, gleaming with mischief as he watched you approach him.
“Hi Mr. Barnes,” you said and the corners of his mouth twitched.
“Hi Birdie,” he said. “I was just about to call you, actually. Do you have a moment? I need to get your opinion on something.”
“Sure!” you chirped and he turned to Congressman Riley.
“Talk to you later?”
“Absolutely,” Riley said. “Good job, Barnes.”
“Thanks,” he said and passed by Kelsey’s desk, with you following him suit, and as soon as he closed the door behind you, he all but pounced on you. Your back hit the door, his hand shooting up to cover the back of your head to protect it from slamming against the hard wood. A giggle climbed your throat before he crashed his lips to yours, pressing your body against his.
You could feel yourself melt into the kiss, nearly lightheaded as you forced yourself to pull back a little.
“You did it!” You beamed at him and he chuckled, pecking you on the lips.
“We did it, darling.”
“It passed!”
“It did.”
“And it’ll—it’ll change lives!” you said, excitement laced in your tone as you bounced on the balls of your feet, then walked past him to pace in the office. “Like, not just veterans, but their families too! With healthcare and therapy and actual help, not those crumbs the other bill was trying to give them.”
A fond smile curled his lips as he crossed his arms, leaning back to the door. “Mm hm.”
“Like, we actually helped people!”
“I know.”
“God, I love politics!” you said with a laugh, then shut your eyes, grimacing before opening them. “I mean—uh, I—”
“It’s okay to love it,” he said, still smiling. “And I know you love it. You never have to hide anything from me, you do realize that?”
You heaved a sigh, then shrugged your shoulders.
“I know,” you muttered. “I just don’t want to think about the fact that I like it a little too much because of the possibility of me joining the dark side.”
“Sweetheart…”
“But what about you?” you asked, your eyes snapping up to his. “We won.”
“We did.”
“And are you—are you happy?”
He raised his brows and let out a chuckle. “Don’t I look happy?”
“No I mean…” you trailed off and licked your lips. “I know that you don’t like politics anymore because it’s moving too slow, and I know you’re not going to run again but there’s still some time until your term is finished, and in the meantime, until that, I want you to be happy.” You paused, your brows pinched together in worry. “It’s really really important for me, so…Are you happy?”
The look in his eyes softened and he heaved a sigh, then held out his hand for you. “Come here.”
You eyed him, lingering in your spot. “Why?”
“Can’t a guy want to hold his girl?” he asked back in a way too innocent manner which had to be your first sign that he was planning something, and the second you took a step closer to him to place your hand in his, you found your back pressed against the door with him lifting you up so that you could wrap your legs around his waist. A squeal escaped you before he kissed you, and you forced yourself to pull back again.
“Bucky!”
He buried his face to the crook of your neck. “Hm?”
“There are people outside!”
“Yeah, and there’s a door between us and them.”
“Super soldier observation skills—” You managed to say between kisses, that pleasant haze of desire taking over your mind despite you trying your hardest to focus. “We—we can’t, not here!”
“Right here,” he replied, carrying you to the couch across from his desk and you let out a giggle as he put you down, his body covering yours in a second. You wrapped your arms around his neck, your heart slamming against your chest as he pushed the skirt of your dress higher, drawing a sigh out of you before you looked up at him, nibbling on your lip.
“I’m going to kill you if we get caught.”
“Great, I’ll die doing what I love,” he said with a mischievous smirk. “You.”
You gasped and smacked his arm, making him let out a laugh before he leaned down to pull you into a kiss.
*
Thankfully, you hadn’t gotten caught, and you could cross sex in the office before you quit off your bucket list.
One of the places you had emailed had asked you for an online interview this evening, so you had decided to take it at Bucky’s place, in his study. It took a little over half an hour and at the end of it, you were told that they’d love to have you in the team, and that you could start any time you wanted if you decided to choose them among other options, they only asked that you let them know by the end of the week.
You let out a breath and closed the laptop lid shut, then made your way out of the study to go into the kitchen.
“How did it go?” Bucky asked from the living room, muting the TV and you tried to smile.
“It was good,” you said. “They um…they want me to let them know by the end of the week.”
“That’s great.”
“Uh huh.” The familiar anxiety was swirling in your mind, and you made yourself busy with taking out the jar of peanut butter and bread from the cabinet before you grabbed a knife and started spreading a generous amount pf peanut butter on a slice of bread. You were so lost in your own thoughts that you didn’t even realize Bucky walking up to you before you felt him wrap his arms around your waist from behind, pressing a kiss on your temple.
“Hey,” he said. “Everything okay?”
You swallowed thickly, and nodded.
“Yeah! Yeah I’m fine. I’m great. I’m fine.”
He hummed. “Say it one more time and I’ll believe it.”
You took a huge bite of your slice, then heaved a sigh and put the rest of it on the plate before turning around in his arms to look up at him. He cupped your cheek, his thumb tracing your cheekbone gently.
“What’s wrong?”
“I…” Even admitting it was enough to flip your stomach. “I’m scared, I think.”
He frowned. “Of what, sweetheart?”
“I know that I don’t want to be in Congress anymore,” you told him. “Like, at least until I know for sure that I won’t be…like my dad, but I worked so so hard for it. What if—what if in the future I look back to this moment and realize this was the biggest mistake of my life?”
A soft smile pulled at his lips. “This is not the biggest mistake of your life. This is not even a mistake.”
“It’s not, right?”
“Nope,” he said. “Not even close. I think it’s gonna lead you to a better path, actually, no matter how intimidating it feels right now.”
You buried your face into his rock hard chest, letting out a whine as he nuzzled into your hair, his hand cradling the back of your head.
“Besides,” he said. “Any time you feel like you miss working in that slow functioning madhouse, you can always go back.”
“Yeah, in a year,” you muttered into your chest. “Then you won’t run though. What if I decide to go back in like two years?”
Bucky let out a chuckle.
“Remind me again, how many people in Congress have been trying to steal you from me?”
“We don’t know if they’ll feel the same after I quit.”
“They will,” he said. “That road will still be open if you ever decide to go back. You’re not burning any bridges.”
There was a small tingling on the bridge of your nose, a tell-tale sign of the tears on their way, and of course in a couple of seconds you felt your eyes burn, then lifted your head to look up at him.
“And us?”
Bucky gave you a quizzical glance. “Hm?”
“Things will be okay when I go back to New York?”
“Why wouldn’t they be okay?”
You bit on your lip, taking a step back to rub your eyes while Bucky kept his confused gaze on you.
“It’s just…” you trailed off. “I’ll be in New York, right? And you’ll be here.”
“I’ll drive there every night, I told you that.”
“No, that’s not what I’m—” You stopped yourself and took a deep breath. “You’re sure everything is okay between us?”
“Yeah?” he said like a question. “Birdie, I don’t think I follow.”
You threw your hands up in the air before you dropped them and leaned back to the kitchen island, slouching a little.
“You’re not planning on changing your mind about stuff being okay?”
“Where is this coming from?”
“It’s just—I’d like to know beforehand if you’re gonna change your mind or something,” you said. “Max gave me an ultimatum about moving out of the city the night of the election, and granted he was an asshole but, like, you know…”
A look of realization dawned on his face.
“Oh that’s what this is about,” he murmured more to himself and you shrugged your shoulders.
“Because like, for example if you woke up tomorrow and decided—”
“To be a prick?”
“No,” you said with a huff of laughter. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m thinking, I just know that I’m worried.”
A fond smile twitched his lips as he stepped closer to you.
“Do you think things will change on your end when you move out of the city?”
You rolled your eyes at the ridiculous question. “Obviously not, Bucky. I’ll be in love with you no matter what, but—”
“Then why do you think that might change on my end?”
You shrugged again with a pout, then tapped your temple.
“The voice in my head, I guess.”
“It’s back, huh?” he asked softly, and you clicked your tongue.
“Echoes, mostly.”
He let out a hum, his hand cradling your cheek so that you could look up at him.
“I need you to hear me out, okay?” he asked, his voice low as if he was trying not to scare you off and you nodded. “First of all, I’m not Max.”
“Obviously, I mean the sex part alone—sorry.” You stopped yourself even though it was obvious he found it endearing from the glint in his eyes. “I make bad jokes when I’m nervous, it’s a habit.”
“I’d take that as a compliment but let’s be honest, it’s not like that idiot set up a high standard.”
“It is a compliment!” you protested and he chuckled.
“Second of all,” he said. “It doesn’t matter where you are or what you do, alright? As long as you want to be with me, anything else life throws at us doesn’t matter.”
Your eyes started burning again. “Promise?”
“Promise,” he said. “They’ll have to pry you out of my cold dead hands, because I’m not letting you go.”
A tear escaped your eye and you sniffled. “Okay.”
“And everything is gonna work out.” He wiped the tear under your eye with his thumb before pressing a kiss on top of your head, and you hugged him tight, resting your forehead on his chest again. “I get that it’s intimidating, but it’s gonna be okay.”
You nodded your head.
“Also, if you decide you don’t want anything to do with politics, you and I move to Wakanda, have a farm there, and live happily ever after.”
You couldn’t even tell whether it was a sob or a laugh that ripped itself from your throat.
“I’m serious, I did it for a while,” he teased you. “With sheep and everything. And hey, there are foxes too.”
That made you look up at him, still sniffling. “There are foxes there?”
“I don’t know if I should be offended that the fox part is what sold the idea to you, but…” He let out a laugh when you pushed at his arm.
“I want a fox!” you defended yourself, wiping your eyes furiously. “Did you see one from up close?”
“Mm hm.”
“Did you pet it?”
“Nope.”
“How could you not pet it?!”
“Because it’s a fox,” he said. “See? Career plan one hundred; we move to Wakanda, and you take care of foxes there. You’ll be fine.”
You couldn’t help but giggle, then stood on your tiptoes to kiss him.
“Thanks,” you murmured and he smiled, then stole another kiss from you.
“Anytime, beautiful.”
You let out a breath, then nodded to yourself.
“Okay,” you murmured. “If politics doesn’t pan out, I’m gonna adopt foxes and live happily ever after. That sounds good.”
A.N: Thank you so much for your wonderful support my loves🩷 I hope you like this chapter as well! 🥰 Please let me know what you think! 🩷
Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Female!Reader
Summary: Tension is bound to explode eventually.
Warnings: Explicit language, adult themes, drinking, mentions of getting high with edibles, partying, angst, MDNI.
Word Count: 3.8k
Series Masterlist
Okay, maybe, just maybe, trying to solve the very obvious –glaring even— issue in your secret relationship with sex instead of actually talking it out was not exactly a good thing.
You didn’t like that someone else was flirting with him, he didn’t like that you were going to the birthday party of the guy who had been flirting with you for a while, and yet, the solution you had found to address the problem was less verbal and more…
Physical.
“Quick question, are we getting drunk tonight?”
You put your lip gloss down and fixed your hair, your eyes finding Kelsey’s in the mirror while Caleb walked into the bathroom, then jumped to sit on the sink.
“You guys can get drunk,” you told them. “I’m not gonna.”
Kelsey hummed. “Because of Bucky?”
“I just don’t want to get drunk with a bunch of people from work.”
“But also because of Bucky.” Caleb grinned. “I still cannot believe you’re sleeping with my boss.”
“I mean if it makes you feel any better, I’m also sleeping with my boss.”
Kelsey wiggled her brows. “And you keep saying you guys don’t do roleplay.”
“We don’t!” you exclaimed and paused. “Well we—we haven’t. Yet.”
“What would Bucky be into?” Caleb mused and snapped his fingers. “Oh! Soldier and naughty nurse?”
“Caleb, the man has trauma,” you deadpanned. “In case you forgot, he got captured by HYDRA when he was a soldier and was experimented on for decades. Something tells me anything concerning soldiers or nurses is not his idea of roleplay.”
“Boss and secretary it is,” Kelsey murmured and you thought for a moment.
“Like secretaries now or like back then?”
“What does it matter?”
“I’d need to learn the lingo from the 40s—” you started but was cut off when your phone started vibrating on the counter. You grabbed it and stepped out of the bathroom, taking your phone to your ear.
“Hi Buck!” you said breathlessly. “Are we still on for after the club?”
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Yeah, there’s just a small problem.”
“What?”
“You remember how we said we trust each other?”
You pulled your brows together. “Yeah?”
“Vivien just called me.”
You stopped dead in your tracks in the middle of the living room, your stomach doing a painful flip as you tapped your finger on the back of your phone to distract yourself.
“…Oh?”
“She uh, apparently one of the lobbyists has been pressuring her a lot about the bill and she just got this text and long story short, she needs help. She was pretty spooked so she asked if I could go get her from the Capitol.”
You blinked a couple of times. “Sorry, what?”
“If she is in danger, I need to help.”
Ah.
Of course.
Of course that would jumpstart Bucky’s unstoppable urge to help anyone and everyone.
“I just wanted to let you know, in case—” he paused for a second. “I just figured you should know.”
You dragged the tip of your tongue over your bottom lip, trying to control the anger bubbling in your stomach.
“She wants you to go get her from the Capitol?” you asked. “Capitol as in swarming with security 24/7 Capitol?”
“Sweetheart.”
“On a Saturday night?”
“I get that it sounds off.”
“Do you?” The question came out harsher than you meant and he let out a breath.
“I don’t think she’s lying,” he told you. “And either way if she’s in trouble, I need to help. I’ll just take her to her place to make sure she’s safe, that’s it.”
Fucking—
Alright.
Alright, you had to stay calm.
“Birdie?”
“I’m here,” you managed to say, closing your eyes to take a deep breath before you opened them again. “I um…sure. I appreciate the heads up and I mean, you can’t not help, I suppose.”
You could, but you won’t.
“You okay?”
You gritted your teeth before you forced yourself to smile.
“Sure!” you exclaimed, your voice way too high pitched. “Uh huh. Just—”
“Birdie, the Uber is here!” Kelsey called out from the door and you pinched the bridge of your nose.
“Gotta go,” you mumbled. “Just be careful, please?”
And don’t let her flirt with you.
You hung up and stomped on your foot, a groan leaving your lips.
“Hey, everything okay?” Caleb asked and you gritted your teeth, then turned around.
“I’ll tell you guys on the way,” you said, walking to the door. “Let’s go.”
*
D.C. wasn’t New York, but the clubs weren’t half bad.
Though you were annoyed beyond words and couldn’t stop checking your phone, you knew you had to play it cool in front of other people. You had been holding the same drink for the last hour, taking little sips to take your time, and you had turned down the edible that one of Lucas’s friends brought so it was safe to say that you were the soberest person at the entire party.
And the grumpiest.
“You okay, Birdie?” Caleb asked and you tried to smile.
“Mm hm.”
“No you’re not,” Kelsey said, grabbing the cocktail glass from you to put another one into your hand. “And it’s okay if you’re pissed off.”
“I’m not pissed off.”
“Your boyfriend is playing the knight in shining armor for Miss Hot Shot Congresswoman,” Kelsey said while you heaved a sigh. “You’re allowed to be pissed off.”
“I trust him,” you forced yourself to say, keeping your eyes on the dancefloor. “Just like he trusts me. We’re both adults, so…”
“Doesn’t mean you have to like it,” Caleb said. “And bottoms up, come on.”
You took a huge sip of your drink, checking your phone again before you took a deep breath.
“I’m gonna get some fresh air.”
“Want us to come with you?”
You shook your head fervently. “I’ll be right back, you guys have fun. Go dance or something!”
“I’m dragging you to the dancefloor when you come back!” Caleb called out as you walked away from them to make your way out of the club. Fresh air hit your burning face, making you heave a sigh and lean back to the wall before you went to sit on the bench across the road.
It was fine.
You trusted him. Even if Vivien flirted with him, you knew very well that Bucky wouldn’t return those advances, not in a million years.
It didn’t mean you appreciated him being on her speed dial for some reason.
“You look tortured,” Lucas’s voice pulled you out of your thoughts and your head whipped around as he flung himself next to you. “What’s up, Hurricane?”
“What are you doing here, birthday boy?” you asked back with a smile and he shrugged his shoulders.
“Just making sure you’re okay.”
“Well, I’m not as drunk as you.” You grinned. “Or high.”
“Eh, barely.”
“How many fingers am I holding?” you asked, holding up two fingers and he squinted his eyes.
“Four.”
You scoffed a laugh. “Why do I feel like we’re gonna have to carry you home?”
He waved a hand in the air. “I’m fine,” he said and jerked his thumb back in the direction of the club. “Some of my friends in there are crushing on you.”
You pulled your brows together. “What?”
“Mm hm. Josh has been asking me about you.”
“I don’t even know which one is Josh.”
He clicked his tongue. “I’ll just tell him you’re not interested.”
“Much obliged,” you said, leaning back to look up at the sky, but he kept his eyes on you, making you turn to him after a couple of seconds. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said quickly. “Nothing, it’s just…you look—you’re very pretty.”
Shit. Shit.
Abort fucking mission.
“And you, my friend, are very drunk,” you told him, your heartbeat speeding up. “Come on, let’s go inside.”
“But—”
“Inside,” you cut him off and jumped on your feet to pull him by the arm. “People are going to wonder where the birthday boy is, and I can’t have them blame me.”
“They’re not gonna do that!” he insisted as you both walked into the club but unlike before, a lot of people from the Capitol were in the lounge instead of the dancefloor, all of them looking at their phones and joking around.
“Birdie!” Kelsey rushed to you. “Hey, do you mind coming to the bathroom with me?”
“Told you—I fucking told you man!” One of Lucas’s coworkers slapped another guy’s arm. “You owe me ten bucks.”
“What’s going on?” you asked Kelsey while Lucas made his way to his friends and Caleb approached you.
“Okay, whatever you’re feeling, trust me I feel worse,” he muttered, making your frown deepen.
“What?” you asked him and he exchanged glances with Kelsey before he handed you his phone with a sigh.
It was one of the gossip accounts, with Bucky and Vivien’s picture in front of what you assumed to be her place. If it were anyone else it could’ve been a normal picture; they weren’t even standing close but of course to anyone who read the caption, it was anything but friendly.
Fuck. This. Shit.
“The prom king and queen of the Capitol, Jesus Christ,” Lucas commented while you gawked at the screen, barely paying attention to the chatter.
“Don’t you guys hate it when pretty people date pretty people?”
“I was gonna call them JFK and Jackie but then I remembered he fucking offed the guy—”
“Who’s a power couple in politics?”
“Dude, you work in politics!”
You gritted your teeth, trying your hardest to keep your expression under control before you grabbed Kelsey’s drink to down it, then approached the table.
“Hey, is there any left of those gummies?”
Josh scrambled to take out the small pack from his pocket and you offered him a smile, then popped a gummy in your mouth and downed the rest of Kelsey’s drink.
“Uh oh,” Caleb muttered. “You know what? I’m gonna call Buck to um—” He looked around to see Lucas’s team listening to him. “To ask him what he wants to do with PR.”
“Birdie?” Kelsey said and you turned to her while Caleb took his phone to his ear and stepped outside.
“Hm?”
“You okay honey? I thought we were doing sober night tonight.”
“Oh I’m great!” you exclaimed and pointed at the bar. “I’m gonna go get another drink, want anything?”
*
Jesus Christ, you were drunk.
And high.
And trying to climb Bucky’s fence.
So all those three things combined made it even harder to be subtle. Maybe you should’ve climbed more trees when you were a child instead of your father making you study philosophy and world history as well as politics.
You could recite the whole text of Machiavelli’s Prince when you were 8, but you couldn’t spend more than an hour in the nature.
“Fuck—just—” You held onto the top of the fence while trying to get the cuff of your jeans from where it was stuck. “Get the fuck—”
“Baby, what are you doing?” Bucky’s voice made your head whip around and you gawked at him, a smile lighting up your face.
“Bucky! Hi!”
“Just…” He ran a hand over his face as he made his way to you. “Don’t mov—”
Before he could finish his sentence, you slipped off the fence and Bucky lunged to catch you mid-air. You let out a giggle.
“Great reflexes Sergeant,” you teased him as he gently put you down.
“I need to get a door here,” he mumbled while you batted your lashes at him.
“You’re so pretty.”
“Are you drunk?”
“Um—no,” you said but your swaying made it less convincing than you meant it to. He heaved a sigh and helped you into the house, and you gasped when you saw Alpine rushing to the hallway.
“Alpine!” you exclaimed, your voice high pitched enough to break a glass if you were an opera singer. Bucky winced for a moment, opening his mouth a little and rubbing the spot near his ear as if he was trying to get rid of the ringing while you ran to Alpine to pick her up.
“Hi my beautiful cute precious little princess!” you squealed, pressing kisses on her little head. “Do you know how cute you are? Do you?”
“Mrow?”
“Do you want a princess costume?” you asked her. “I’m gonna get you a princess costume, and then—then like, a mermaid costume because I saw one on the internet—why do you not have your own social media? We should get Caleb look into that!”
“Birdie, sweetheart…”
Alpine held onto your top as if she was bowing to the inevitable while you buried your face into her fur.
“Your father is terrible with social media, but we need to get you your own page and stuff, that’d be fun!”
Bucky came to take Alpine from you and put her down, making you pout.
“Do you think…what do you think Alpine thinks about me?” you asked him while he pulled you under the light, holding your chin between his thumb and pointer to lift your head.
“Darling, look up for me.”
You winced. “Too bright.”
“You didn’t hit your head before I caught you?” he asked and you shook your head. “You sure?”
“Uh huh.”
“What did you drink?”
“Just a couple of cocktails,” you said and giggled. “And a gummy!”
“Candy doesn’t make you drunk, Birdie.”
“No like, it was an edible.”
Bucky raised his brows. “So you’re drunk and high?”
“Barely drunk and barely high.” You waved a hand in the air and he shook his head slightly, pursing his lips.
“Great.”
You made a face when nausea hit you again. “I threw up twice before coming here but if I do throw up, promise me you’re gonna stay outside the bathroom.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s gross and you’re gonna get grossed out and then you’re never gonna want to fuck me again—where are we going?”
“You are going to bed and I’m getting you a glass of water,” he said as he led you to the bedroom and helped you into the bed. You frowned at the ceiling.
“Your ceiling is spinning.”
“That’s just you, Birdie.”
“Can you ask Alpine what she thinks of me?” you mumbled into the pillow and he bit back a smile.
“Mm hm. Wait here, I’ll bring you some water.”
“Mkay,” you murmured, pulling the pillow to yourself as he left the room, and took a deep breath to inhale his cologne on the pillow before you closed your eyes, sleep creeping up on you.
*
You had no idea how much you slept, but when you woke up your head was pounding, you were groggy and tired and in a terrible, terrible mood. A groan left your lips and you tried to get enough saliva in your mouth to swallow, making a face. Bucky, who was probably in the living room now, had made you drink water last night but apparently that wasn’t enough to get rid of your double hangover, so you forced yourself to get out of the bed and stumbled your way to his bathroom, grimacing at your reflection.
You looked like a total mess.
It took you some time to make yourself look presentable but by the time you left the bathroom, you looked considerably better so you made your way to the kitchen where Bucky was talking on the phone.
“No, that’s not what—it’s just a gossip account, I don’t even know why those things exist in the first place!”
Ah.
He looked over his shoulder when he heard you and licked his lips.
“I’ll call you later man,” he muttered and hung up to put the phone on the kitchen island, making you shift in your spot.
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
Right.
Okay then, not only were you in a terrible mood, but also things were going to be very tense and weird.
You jerked your head at the phone, trying to play it cool. “Sam?”
“Yeah,” he said after a beat. “He…he saw that stupid post.”
You nibbled on your lip and offered him a weak smile. “Ah.”
“I made coffee if you want?” He motioned at the coffee machine and you sat down on the stool.
“I’d like a cup, thanks.”
He filled you a cup and put it in front of you, and you held the cup between your hands, the warmth seeping to your palms. You tapped your fingernails on the ceramic, both of you in complete silence as if—
As if you were waiting for the storm but neither of you wanted to be the one to start it.
But Bucky did, after a full minute of complete quiet.
“How was your night?”
As subtle as a brick through window, that one.
“It was good,” you muttered. “Yours?”
“Good.”
The pounding in your head was getting even worse and you ran a hand over your face before you took a sip.
“I didn’t know I’m not gonna get drunk meant I’m gonna get high.”
You could swear you could hear the electricity crackling in the kitchen, but you forced yourself to focus and put the mug down, shrugging your shoulders.
“Someone brought gummies,” you said. “It was a party.”
Bucky blinked a couple of times.
“Wait, someone? Not even someone you know?” he asked. “You took an edible from someone you don’t know?”
“Not a stranger, he’s Lucas’s friend.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath as if he was reminding himself to keep it together.
“Birdie, I’m really trying here,” he said, his voice calm as your head shot up. “I thought we agreed—”
“You’re—” you cut him off, gawking at him. “You’re trying?”
Calm down.
Calm the fuck down.
You’re hangover, and you’re angry at the situation, not him.
Bucky paused for a moment like he was taken aback by your reaction and a curt laugh escaped your mouth before you clenched your teeth, pushed the stool back and stood up.
“You know what, it was um…” Your voice was shaking with how badly you were trying to stay calm and collected. “It was a mistake to come here, I’m just gonna go.”
“What?” Bucky asked, confusion pinching his brows. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m hangover, we’re both angry and this is a bad idea, so I should just—”
“I’m not angry.”
“Cut the bullshit Bucky, you’re furious,” you snapped and he huffed out a bitter laugh, his eyes sharpening as he ran a hand over his jaw.
“Well I’m not very thrilled that my girlfriend got drunk and high at a club now that you mention it.”
“No?” you taunted him. “You rushed off to save the damsel in distress and got photographed doing so, do I look thrilled from where you’re standing?”
“For the millionth time, it’s just some gossip page!” he snapped. “Who cares?”
“I care when my boyfriend drops everything to go pick up the woman who, I quote, wants to wine and dine him.”
“She could’ve been in danger! What was I supposed to do, say no?”
“There are like one thousand security guards in that place, yes you were supposed to say no!”
“Like you said no to that party?” he asked back coldly. “Does that prick even know you’re in a relationship?”
“Bucky, you know I can’t!”
“You don’t have to tell him it’s me,” he insisted. “Did you even imply that you’re not single or is he still hoping—”
“Why are you acting like keeping this a secret is my choice?”
He gave you an incredulous look, a dry chuckle spilling from his mouth. “I mean it sure as hell is not my choice.”
“You think this is easy for me?” you asked. “You think it’s fun pretending like everything is fine when she’s flirting with you in front of me, when the whole Capitol was giggling about how much of a power couple you two made last night, when—” You pointed at the door, your voice rising with each word, “When my own fucking mother was talking about just how good you looked together, you think I’m having fun?”
“She what?”
“And hey, you get to treat Lucas like shit,” you said with a hysterical burst of laugh. “Which is fine, do whatever you want, but do you know what would happen if I pulled half of the shit you pulled in public? Two options; I get branded as the unprofessional naïve idiot who has a schoolgirl crush on you, or I’m fucking my way to the top. Do you realize how humiliating it is?”
“I—”
“So my only option when she is flirting with you is to stand there like a—like a goddamn office ornament, like an accessory, which by the way, brings back the memories—” Your voice cracked and you huffed out a laugh, blinking back the tears. “And you’re fucking trying?”
A look of realization dawned on his face. “Birdie…”
“I fucked up, got high and drunk.” You shrugged your shoulders. “Caleb and Kels were there, nothing could ever happen and you know that very well. But don’t fucking pretend like we’re on equal ground here because ever since I met you, I have been listening to the whole country telling me about how good of a couple you make with other women, and although the names of those women keep changing, one thing stays the same; it’s never my name. How’s that for trying?”
A silence fell upon the room and you sniffled, then wiped at your eyes with more force than necessary.
“I can’t, I…” You trailed off, your head still pounding and before you’d had the chance to stop yourself, the words had already left your lips. “I think we need some time.”
That made his head whip up, pure panic flashing in his eyes.
“Wha—Birdie, no.” He shook his head frantically and took a step towards you, his throat bobbing. “No no no, let’s—baby, let’s talk about it, okay?”
“We don’t talk about it though,” you told him with a bitter smile. “Not really. We just fuck it out of our system until the same problem arises, and it keeps happening, and we keep not addressing it.”
His breathing was fast but he kept completely quiet as if you could disappear from his reach at the wrong word, his gaze locked on you as you licked your lips.
“We’ve bent it as far as it goes, Buck,” you rasped out. “Any more and it’ll break.”
He pulled back a little, his eyes growing distant as he pulled his gaze off of you like he was still processing what was happening. It felt like someone was twisting a knife in your chest and you knew just how you were going to start sobbing if you stayed there a moment longer so you took a step, a hysterical laugh climbing your throat.
“I can’t even use the fucking front door…” you muttered and walked out of the kitchen, leaving him there frozen as you passed the hallway, and slammed the backdoor shut behind you.
A.N: Thank you so much for your wonderful support my loves🩷 I hope you like this chapter as well! 🥰 Please let me know what you think! 🩷
Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Female!Reader
Summary: Secret relationships come with possessiveness.
Warnings: Explicit language, adult themes, MDNI.
Word Count: 5.1k
Series Masterlist
You should’ve known Sam would be proven right about secret relationships being difficult sooner than later but in your defense, you were too distracted to even think about that.
Or too lovesick.
Either or.
“I’m begging you to pick a couch.”
You slurped on your milkshake, your eyes darting over your phone screen before you stole a look in the direction of the open kitchen, then slipped a little on Bucky’s couch to make yourself comfortable.
“Hm?”
“Couch.”
“I told you,” you murmured while you typed your reply to an email, “a couch is a huge commitment.”
“It’s a piece of furniture,” Bucky insisted. “Arguably the most important one for your comfort in the living room.”
“We have pillows in the living room.” You put your phone down when he turned to grab the brown takeout bag from the kitchen island, and you shot him an overly innocent smile. “They’re comfy.”
“I’ll buy you the couch, just tell me what kind.”
“Also no.”
“Great, then I’ll ask Caleb and—stop working.”
Your head shot up and you frowned at his back while he poured the fries from the bag into a plate, not even looking at you.
“Do you have eyes on the back of your head?”
“You’re very obvious,” he corrected you and walked past the kitchen island to fling himself on the couch, then put the plates on the small table and held out his hand. You pouted your lips, huffing out a breath.
“Just one email!”
“Nope, because just one email will turn into a whole meeting via emails.” He curled his fingers, motioning for your phone. “Come on. We said we’d separate work and this.”
You groaned and handed him the phone.
“Thank you,” he said, putting it on the table as well and his eyes widened when you grabbed a fry to dip it into your milkshake. “Birdie, what…?”
You grinned. “Hold on, you haven’t tried this before?”
“I doubt anyone has,” he stated while you popped the fry in your mouth.
“You should try it.”
“That looks disgusting.”
“It’s delicious!” You dipped another fry and held it up for him. “Try it!”
“I’ll take your word for it.” He took a bite of his own food and you shrugged your shoulders.
“Your loss, Barnes,” you muttered as you snuggled closer to him and he wrapped his arm around you, pulling you to his chest. A smile pulled at your lips while you chewed on the fry, then tucked your legs under you and turned the TV on.
“I still cannot believe you don’t have any subscriptions.” You changed the channels. “I mean honestly—”
You stopped talking when you came across a news channel that was livestreaming Valentina Allegra De Fontaine’s press release about some CIA mission. You tilted your head when you saw Mel at the corner of the frame and pointed at the screen with the remote.
“She’s nice,” you commented and Bucky shot you a quizzical glance.
“De Fontaine?”
“No, Mel,” you said. “Her assistant. I met her at the ball, she gave me mints because I was puking my guts out.”
He gave your arm an assuring squeeze. “She sounds nice.”
“I haven’t met De Fontaine though.”
“I have,” Bucky muttered and you raised your brows.
“And the verdict?”
“I don’t trust her,” he said. “She’s hiding something.”
“I’d say the head of the CIA is known to hide things.”
“Not because of the CIA,” he said. “Gary thinks she’s corrupt.”
You blinked a couple of times. “Oh she definitely—hold on, Congressman Gary? He said that?”
“Mm hm. Elkins too.”
You sat up straight to see him better. “Elkins? As in, Congresswoman for decades Elkins?”
“Yeah.”
“Did they say corrupt how?”
“Shadow ops.”
You let out a whistle and stole a look at the screen again. “Oh, that means she’s in trouble.”
“This counts as you working—”
“Do they have documentation to prove she’s corrupt?” you cut him off and he shook his head.
“Not yet, but they’re on it,” he said. “And to repeat, we said we’d leave work at work—”
“And I told you I can’t just quit cold turkey.” You brushed him off and grabbed your phone. “Just give me one sec—yeah, there we go. This makes perfect sense.”
“What?”
You turned the screen so that he could see it better.
“My mom and dad used to throw these Christmas parties,” you said. “At first it was about entertainment for my mom, then it became a meddling opportunity for the corrupt and rich thanks to my dad. He kept the tradition even after the blip, with my mom gone—”
“Wait, you haven’t told me that,” he interrupted you. “She was snapped?”
“Mm hm.” You offered him a small smile. “I’m telling you, if it were my dad instead of my mom, politics would’ve been in a much better condition right now. I mean don’t get me wrong, my dad has always been corrupt but when my mom was out of the picture, there was nothing holding him back. He put all his attention on his work and…voila. He has the majority of political people in his pocket.”
“Were you okay?”
You scrunched up your nose. “It was hard at first,” you admitted. “It’s fine now— but look who’s in the picture. This is after Blip.”
Bucky frowned at the screen. “You’re saying your father has something on her?”
“I’m saying you don’t just get invited to these parties unless you work with or for my father. She is smart and ambitious, so my guess is they did work together at one point or another. Has to be something off the books because now that I think about it, my father’s assistant said something about her visiting my dad’s vacation house one time when she called me to ask whether I’d be visiting in the holidays.”
“And this picture is while your mother was gone?”
“Mm hm.”
“Any chance that whole work thing evolved into something else?”
“Oh, no way.” You shook your head. “Listen, my father is evil as fuck, he technically falls under the definition of a war criminal with the bills and the people he has funded and he manipulates anyone and everyone, but if there is one thing that I can be sure of is that he genuinely loves my mom. Even during the blip, he didn’t look at another woman twice.”
“You’re that sure of it?”
“That’s his one redeeming quality, believe it or not,” you murmured and tapped on the screen. “It’s work related. The only question is, whether he has something on her or whether they’re working together.”
Bucky looked to be deep in thought.
“Do you think Gary or Elkins could use your father to—”
“Impossible,” you said with a chuckle. “Nope.”
“Even if he gets affected when it comes out she’s corrupt?”
“My father doesn’t get affected by anything, in any possible scenario. He has too much power, the system is not gonna work against him.” You shrugged your shoulders. “Trust me, it took me some time to deal with that fact but…”
When he saw the expression on your face, he gave you a small smile and gently pulled the phone out of your hand.
“Still counts as working,” he said as if giving you a secret, coaxing a laugh out of you. “Change the channel.”
You narrowed your eyes at him, and changed the channel.
“Okay, we have…horror movie, news channel, rom com, Sinatra documentary—oh my God, I totally forgot!” You jumped on your feet, making him pull his brows together.
“What is happening?”
“You distracted me with sex when I first got here so I forgot—I have something for you!” you called out as you rushed to the hallway to find the large tote bag you had more or less thrown on the floor the moment Bucky had pulled you into a kiss, then made your way back into the living room to stand in front of Bucky with a huge grin. Bucky looked entertained already as he gave a look at the tote bag you were hugging to your chest, his lips curling into a smile.
“What’s that?” he asked as he got up from the couch and you took a deep breath.
“So,” you said, rocking on the balls of your feet. “You remember how you were trying to make me feel better after that attack back in New York, and we discovered we both listen to Billie Holliday? And Ella Fitzgerald?”
“Of course I remember.”
“And I was thinking, dating stuff changes in time, right? For example, back in 80s people used to make mixed cassette tapes, and then it turned into CDs, nowadays we just make playlists but you’re not overly fond of digital stuff.”
He nodded his head and you gave him a bright smile, then pulled out the cardboard sleeve out of the tote bag.
“So I got you a mixed vinyl!”
His jaw dropped as he took the cardboard sleeve from you, then pulled out the vinyl carefully as if it was made of precious glass, letting out a breath.
“How—?”
“To be honest, I didn’t even know they could do that,” you admitted. “But apparently they can, I found this vintage record store which led me to another record store and the guy was very helpful so um, there you go! It’s like a playlist but you can play it on your phonogram.”
The light in his eyes was soft as he looked down at you. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah!” you said. “Consider it our relationship playlist or something.”
He let out a small chuckle before pulling you into a kiss and you felt yourself melt into him, wrapping your arms around his neck.
“Darling, I don’t know what to say,” he murmured, his hand cradling the back of your head. “Thank you.”
A giggle climbed your throat. “I’m glad you like it.”
“But I didn’t…” he trailed off, frowning slightly like he was angry at himself. “I didn’t get you anything—”
“Debatable, I got multiple orgasms earlier today thanks to you.” You held both hands in front of you with your palms facing down, lifting one higher than the other as if you were weighing two options. “Vinyl vs orgasms, obviously orgasms.”
A smirk twitched his mouth. “Very romantic.”
“Right?” you mused as you pulled him down to kiss him again. “I’m nothing if not romantic.”
*
You were way too focused on reading and editing the packet on your laptop screen that you didn’t even realize your name being called until Kelsey threw a pen at your desk, making your head snap up before you took out your earphones.
“Hm?”
“I can hear your music from here.” Caleb called out from his desk and you wiggled your brows.
“I have great taste in music, thank you very much. Kels?”
“Our little deer needs to ask you something.” Kelsey pointed at Brian who rushed to you with files in his arms.
“Ma’am, sorry to disturb you,” he said breathlessly, trying to shuffle through the pages without dropping the files. “Um, I was wondering—”
“Sit down,” you said with a small smile and pulled a seat next to you. “And calm down, and breathe. What’s going on?”
He sat down and put the files on your desk, then grabbed a file to open it.
“Um, I was wondering if Congresswoman Gray’s team might have missed something?”
You pulled your brows together.
“Lucas usually doesn’t miss stuff but there’s a first time for everything,” you muttered as you took it from him. “What’s the problem?”
“This article right here,” he said, pointing at the page. “This is for the taxes, we have the PTC but there’s supposed to be a cross reference with ITC, investment—”
“Investment tax credit,” you finished his sentence for him and shuffled through the pages. “No yeah, you’re right. I think this is the—ah, there we go.” You clicked your tongue when you checked the first page. “This is the draft from last week, they edited it two days ago, they must’ve given you the wrong one.”
He nodded his head fervently. “It was very crowded there, maybe they got confused.”
“Want me to email them?”
“Would you?” Brian asked, his eyes widening. “I’d appreciate it ma’am, thank you so much.”
“Don’t worry about it,” you said. “Good catch though! You’re very thorough, anyone else would’ve missed it.”
He gave you a proud smile and Kelsey let out an ‘aw’.
“He’s too cute,” she said. “Brian honey, have you eaten today?”
“Not yet ma’am but I’ve had four cups of coffee.”
Your head whipped around.
“Whoa, what?” you asked. “Brian, that’s not healthy.”
Caleb gave you a look. “I’ve literally seen you consume four energy drinks on top of multiple cups of coffee, and now you’re judging him?”
“That’s different,” you defended yourself. “He’s nineteen, and he’s under my responsibility.”
“Our responsibility,” Kelsey corrected you and pointed at Brian. “Birdie is right, go get some food from the cafeteria.”
“But I have to finish—”
“That can wait until after you eat.” You pushed the files out of his reach. “Go. I’ll email Lucas in the meantime.”
Brian thought for a moment, pursing his lips before he stood up.
“I’ll be quick,” he said and rushed out of the office while you shook your head, turning back to your screen.
You had only read half a page when click of heels came closer before someone stepped into the office.
“Hi, I had an appointment with Barnes?”
You had heard the voice on TV and even in the hallways a couple of times, so even before you turned your head, you knew who it was. Congresswoman Garson was already making waves in the Capitol—and in the world of politics, for that matter. She was incredibly smart, her district adored her and had made sure she won in a landslide, she was already accomplished even though it was only her second term in the Congress, and press loved her.
And she was very pretty.
She gave you a polite smile which you returned while Kelsey jumped on her feet.
“This way, Congresswoman Garson,” she said as she led her to Bucky’s door, then knocked on it and opened it. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Bucky standing up as she stepped in, then Kelsey closed the door while Caleb scooted his chair closer to you.
“Who’s that?”
“Vivien Garson,” you said. “She’s gonna be the next big name in politics.”
“Really?”
“Mm hm.”
“I like that we’re getting more and more attractive politicians, to be honest,” he said. “Bucky, her…This is how change starts.”
“She was here before Bucky,” you said with a grin. “But I get the idea.”
Caleb leaned back in his chair to make himself comfortable, focusing his attention on his phone and you turned to your screen again so that you could send Lucas a quick email before getting back to work.
By the time Vivien’s meeting with Bucky was over, Brian was back and the whole office was working on their own thing so it was pretty quiet for once. You didn’t put your earphones in just in case Brian had any other questions, so when Bucky’s door opened, you were in the middle of adding some footnotes to the page you were on so that Bucky could take a look at them later on.
“I have to admit, I did not think you would drive such a hard bargain,” Vivien stated as Bucky walked her to the door. “Murray forgot to mention that.”
“Left it out, you mean,” Bucky joked while she turned around to give him a small smile.
“Mm hm,” she said. “I’m gonna be honest, when Murray said we should bring you aboard with this bill, I thought he was being himself—you know, nostalgic veteran who bonds with other nostalgic veterans.”
Bucky shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not exactly nostalgic.”
Vivien tilted her head.
“Look me in the eye and tell me he didn’t start with a story from his time in the military in your first conversation.”
“He made me start with a story,” Bucky pointed out, making her smile widen. “Made is the keyword here.”
“Figures,” she said with a sigh. “Well Barnes, I’m afraid I’ll have to take you out for lunch now. When are you free?”
Oh.
Alright.
Both Caleb and Kelsey turned to gawk at you in sync, along with Bucky who stole a look at you but you forced yourself to keep your gaze on the screen as you paused only for a moment before you continued typing.
You were not going to react. This was your workplace, you could not risk any whispers or gossip, not to mention—
Going to lunch with others wasn’t exactly unheard from in the Capitol. They were probably going to work on the bill together with Congressman Murray, it was professional.
Just like you were professional.
Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Bucky swallowing thickly before he cleared his throat, motioning at Kelsey.
“I’m full the whole week or—or even longer, right Kelsey?”
“Yep!” Kelsey said without a beat. “Even during lunch, Mr. Barnes. Your schedule is packed.”
Vivien hummed, a mischievous grin pulling at her lips.
“Ah,” she said. “Well then, wine and dine it is.”
Nope.
Nope, that was not professional, not even a little but—
But you had to keep your anger in check, even though it felt like you were trying to control a goddamn wildfire.
“My assistant will contact yours,” she said silkily and walked out of the office, leaving everyone quite dumbfounded. You could see Tim and Lisa whispering in the corner while Caleb hissed in a breath and mouthed something to Kelsey who pursed her lips. Bucky ran his hand through his hair and cleared his throat.
“Birdie, do you—uh, do you have a moment?”
You looked up at him, willing yourself to keep a calm expression.
“Sure,” you said and pushed your chair back to follow him to the office, repeating in your head over and over again to stay calm and collected.
This was work.
You had to be professional.
Not to mention, Sam had already told you. It was expected; no one knew you and Bucky were dating, so of course people were going to flirt with him.
Case and point, the hot and smart congresswoman.
Anger was burning your throat but you bit inside your cheek to focus while Bucky closed the door behind him and walked to you.
“I’m not going on dinner,” he said breathlessly like it was crucial that you knew that. “Or—or lunch.”
Keep. Your. Shit. Together.
You nodded your head. “Okay.”
“With her, I mean,” he added, motioning at the door. “No way.”
“Alright.”
“I mean I thought I was being friendly when I joked about Murray—you asked me to make friends with other people here and I figured— I didn’t think she’d think I was interested in uh, in going on dinner with her. Or see her outside. Out of the Capitol, I mean.”
Calm down.
You’re at work, calm the fuck down.
“Okay.”
“Are we okay?” he asked and you nodded your head again.
“Sure.”
If you didn’t know any better, you would’ve thought the infamous Winter Soldier, the man who could stand decades of torture, the legend who was built to never crack under any kind of pressure, was nervous.
“See, I want to believe you but just yesterday you gave me a spontaneous tirade about how milkshake is better than ice cream, so one word answers aren’t exactly convincing.”
You took a deep breath, crossing your arms just so that you could do something with your hands.
“We’re okay.”
“I wasn’t flirting with her or anything—do you want to be in the room in the next meeting?” he asked. “We can arrange that.”
That managed to twitch your lips into a smile despite you trying to stop it, and you shook your head.
“That’s not necessary.”
“Are you sure?” he insisted. “I mean, are you—are you upset?”
I’m fucking furious, thanks for asking.
You nibbled on your lip, your stomach still churning in anger but you managed to shake your head.
“No,” you said. “No, I trust you.”
“…Do you?”
You arched a brow. “Shouldn’t I?”
“No—no, you should!” he said in a rush. “You should, but I’d understand it if that pissed you off.”
“It didn’t piss me off.” You lied through your teeth and offered him a forced smile. “It happens, as long as you don’t flirt back, we’re fine.”
He shook his head fervently. “I would never.”
“Good.” You gestured at him. “Glad we cleared that out—”
You were cut off when Kelsey knocked on the door and opened it to peek her head in.
“Mr Barnes,” she said loudly so that the rest of the people outside could hear. “Your eleven o’clock is here.”
Bucky looked at you as if asking for your permission and you gave him a curt nod, then took a step back.
“I’ll talk to you later,” you said and walked out of the office, anger still pulsing in your temples.
*
Funny thing about anger was that the more you tried to repress it, the more powerful it got. For the whole day you tried to focus on anything else, but it kept burning your insides, making your jaw ache from how hard you were clenching it.
You needed to go home before you exploded on someone who didn’t deserve it and appear unprofessional.
Maybe a hot shower and snacks would help.
“Birdie?”
“Hm?”
“You’ve been glaring at the screen for the last hour.” Caleb said and you shrugged your shoulders, still keeping your eyes on the screen.
“I’m reading.”
“No you’re not,” Kelsey pointed out. “Hey, should we go drinking tonight?”
“Oh that sounds like a good plan!” Caleb said as Bucky’s door opened and he stepped out. “Bucky! Do you want to join us?”
“Join what?” he asked, coming to lean back on your desk and offering you a small smile that you returned. “Where are we going?”
“To the pub.”
He pulled his brows together and looked around the office before lowering his voice.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“We’ll be there too,” Caleb muttered. “It’ll look like a team thing.”
“You want to go?” Bucky asked you and you shrugged your shoulders again.
“Why not? I could use a drink.”
“I didn’t like the cocktails at that place we went to the other day,” Kelsey said while Brian walked into the office. “We’re going somewhere else.”
“Ma’am?” Brian said, making you turn to him. “I was wondering, do I write any report or something if I’m here overtime?”
You frowned slightly. “You don’t have to stay overtime, Brian. We’re leaving at the usual hour.”
“Um—yeah but Congressman Murray’s team is pulling an all-nighter tonight and they said I should stay to bring them coffee and stuff.”
You blinked a couple of times. “…Say what now?”
“When I dropped off the files you asked me to—”
“You’re not working overtime to bring anyone coffee, Brian,” Bucky said and Brian shook his head.
“Oh I really don’t mind, Mr. Barnes!”
“It doesn’t matter if you mind it or not, buddy,” Bucky said gently like he was trying to assure him. “You can’t let people push you around like that, okay?”
“But they said interns—”
“Who?” you cut him off, your voice low with fury and Brian looked over his shoulder as if he wanted to check the hallway, then turned to you again.
“Frank,” he said. “He’s a little intimidating but I think he means well.”
You let out a dry laugh, then shook your head and got up from your chair, making Bucky frown.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m gonna teach Frank some manners,” you said through your teeth as you snatched your phone off your desk and strode to the door. “And you can’t get involved.”
For the record, you knew half of this anger was because of what had happened earlier with Bucky and Vivien. This was just a way to channel it, but it didn’t mean people could just push your intern around; your internship had been terrible, and you weren’t going to let the same thing happen to Brian, he was way too sweet for that.
You walked down the hallway, your heels clicking on the marble floor and you took a deep breath when you reached Murray’s team’s office. Regardless of how angry you were, you had to remember that you were still at work so no matter how much you wanted to yell at someone, you couldn’t.
That was just unprofessional.
You stepped into the office to find the whole team there, Frank laughing at someone’s joke behind his desk and you licked your lips, then cleared your throat.
“Frank.”
He turned his head.
“Well well, if this isn’t the Hurricane on Heels,” he joked as he stood up. “How can I help you?”
“You can help me by not giving my intern bullshit orders,” you told him and he grinned, his eyes locked in yours.
“He’s an intern,” he reminded you. “Interns have to do whatever we say, that’s what they’re here for.”
“He’s my intern, and that’s not what he’s here for.”
“So he tattled to his mommy, is that it?”
Keep your anger in check.
Keep your fucking anger in check, there are people here.
“I don’t have the time or the crayons to explain this to you,” you said, “so I’m gonna, you know, speak very slowly in a way that you’ll understand.”
Some people in Frank’s team stifled their laughs.
“My intern is here for me to give him work,” you said as if you were talking to a toddler and motioned at him. “He doesn’t work for you, and he isn’t your butler. Okay?”
Frank pursed his lips and glared at the people watching you, then turned to you and held up his hands.
“Sure. Whatever.”
“Great,” you said and turned around but before you stepped out, you heard his murmur under his breath.
“Fucking bitch.”
Ah.
Alright then, today’s lottery winner.
Anger shot through your system so fast that it made you almost lightheaded, your jaw tightening as you took a deep breath, a deranged smile pulling at your lips before you turned around to look at him, the whole office falling into silence.
“What did you just say to me?” you asked calmly and Frank paused only for a moment before he shrugged his shoulders.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“No?” you asked. “You don’t have the guts to repeat it?”
He blinked a couple of times, shifting his weight.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Right,” you said and stepped closer. “Frank, I need you to use all those three brain cells that you possess and at least try to listen to me, alright? I know that mommy told you you’re his special special boy, and daddy had to pull a lot of strings just so that his lazy asshole of a son could cosplay a functional member of the society in the Congress, but I don’t have humor you.”
He stole a look around the room and cleared his throat. “Maybe we should step out.”
“No, this is happening right here,” you growled, coming closer to him. “I don’t know why you are under this impression that you can order someone in my own team to do anything for you, but let me get this very clear, you do not have the position to pretend you can order people around. No one in my office including my intern is going to be taking orders from a guy who is the living, breathing proof that we’re in the golden age of dumbassery.”
“I—”
“No no, you know what you are, Frank? You are the personification of a linen condom back in ancient Egyptian times,” you cut him off. “You’re not useful even if you somehow convinced people otherwise, your results are less than satisfactory, and there are so many better alternatives coming to replace you.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you could see multiple people recording you two, but you paid them no mind as you glared daggers at Frank who looked like he was at a loss for words.
“What is your function here?” you asked him. “Seriously, what is it? You can’t write a fucking draft to save your life, you can’t come up with any good ideas, I had to spend hours to correct that fucking abomination you call a report, why do you think you’re here? Because trust me, Murray will see your report—unedited, by the way— and mine in the next meeting he has with my boss, and I’ll make sure to point out every single mistake that you’ve made.”
You pressed your palms on the desk to lean in as Frank sat down—more like fell down— on his chair, staring at you.
“Do you think he’ll be as forgiving?” You tut-tutted. “The man used to be in the military, something tells me he doesn’t have much room for inadequacy.”
His eyes widened and he shook his head. “There’s no need for that.”
“I decide if there’s any need for that—”
“Murray doesn't need to—”
Before you knew it, your father was speaking through your mouth, your voice rising. “Do not interrupt me when I’m talking!”
Frank sat up straighter as if you pricked him with a needle and stopped talking immediately.
“So,” you said, your voice calmer. “I’ll ask again. What the fuck did you just say to me?”
The whole office was quiet as Frank swallowed thickly, opening his mouth and closing it again when no sound came out, then he took a trembling breath.
“…I’m sorry.”
You raised your brows and gave him a small smile.
“There,” you said. “Was it so hard?”
You pushed yourself off the desk and heaved a sigh while Frank looked like he was ready to curl up into himself to disappear, and whispers filled the office as you took a step back.
“Anyone else who thinks interns are here for you guys to use them as your punching bags?” you asked the rest of the office and some of them shook their heads fervently while the others murmured ‘no’ under their breaths.
“Good,” you said and nodded at Frank. “Glad we cleared that out. Feel free to contact me if you have any questions about my edits on the report.”
With that, you turned around and walked out of the office, the sound of your heels echoing in the hallway.
previous chapter (twelve). series masterlist. the playlist.
chapter summary - all you need right now is space and time. shame the universe has other plans.
pairing - dads bestfriend!bucky x female reader - soulmate au
warnings - cursing. angst. allusions to a sort of panic attack/anxiety.
word count - 5k
authors note - tell a friend to tell a friend… she’s back!! hi babies. I can only apologise for the unplanned long absence - there’s a few reasons and they’re all boring. but I am so happy to be back here bringing you another chapter of honey and her honey. thank you to everyone that’s stuck with me and stuck with this series. I love you all <3
masterlist. inbox.
You wake to the smell of breakfast and the sound of someone breathing steadily into your ear.
Lacie’s wrapped around you like a koala bear, legs and arms circling you like she’s afraid you’ll roll out of bed. She’s always been a clingy sleeper, ever since she was a child. As a kid, you’d open your eyes to see her hand clasping yours so tightly, you were surprised she didn’t break any bones. You’d simply smile and drift back off to your dreams, happily content that she was always seeking you out, even subconsciously.
“That smells so fucking good.”
It’s murmured into the bare skin of your shoulder, making both of you laugh. The sound of your shared amusement is slow and syrupy, both of your voices coated with sleep.
“Morning,” you whisper, leaning in to rest your head on top of Lacie’s. “How did you sleep?”
“Like a baby,” she murmurs back, trying to keep the volume low so as not to disturb the peace. “This bed is so comfortable. Always has been.”
“I miss it now I have my own place. My new bed is okay, but nothing compares to this one.”
“Maybe it’s all the memories it holds. Makes it softer.”
You chuckle, shaking your head gently.
“Oh, yeah. That’ll be what it is.”
“Knew it.”
She stretches like a cat next to you while you rub the tiredness from your eyes, both of you adjusting to the morning light.
“What time is it?”
“Ten thirty.”
“I definitely thought you were about to say two in the afternoon or something,” she chuckles. “Also thought I’d be hungover as hell when I woke up.”
“Maybe it was the tea that we drank before bed. Or all the crying. Counterbalanced the alcohol.”
She snorts, squeezing you tightly as she remembers your conversation from last night.
“For sure. There’ll be science behind that.”
“Oh, yeah. Definitely.”
You’re both shaking with laughter when there’s a knock on the door, both of you sitting up in bed.
“Come in!”
“Good morning my girls,” your Mom half sings as she walks in and opens the curtains to let the day in.
The melody of her voice, the words she’s saying, her waking the two of you up after going to bed too late at a sleepover… it’s like being twelve again.
“There’s breakfast on the table, thought you might be hungry after your exciting night last night. You know, drinking tea on the porch at one in the morning, all that crazy stuff you got up to.”
She can’t help but chuckle to herself as both of you do the same, amused by the familiarity of it all.
“There’s pancakes, fruit, toast and cereal. And pineapple juice for you, Lacie.”
“My favourite,” she coos. “You remembered.”
“Won’t ever forget it,” your Mom responds, pinching your best friend’s cheek like she did when you were first graders. “Now come and eat before it goes cold.”
✵ ✵ · ✵ * · ✵
Breakfast is divine - which is absolutely no surprise to anyone.
“You wanna stick around here today, Lace?”
“Wish I could. I’ve got a couple of afternoon clients, but the first isn’t until one thirty, thankfully.”
“You sure you can’t stay?” you ask, hating how your voice makes you sound like you’re six years old again.
“Sorry babe. But you know where I am if you need me. Pop by the salon anytime, okay? I could use an assistant.”
You laugh, both of you knowing you’d most likely be terrible at that job role.
“Thanks for being here last night,” you say as you grab her hand atop the table. “I needed it.”
“So did I,” she replies as she squeezes your fingers. “More than I even realised.”
“You girls want to join me today?”
Your Mom pokes her head around the door frame, looking at you both with a gentle smile.
“I can’t, but thanks for the offer, Lori. I’ve got clients later. But she will,” Lacie nudges you with her foot probably a bit harder than intended, giggling as she does it.
“I will, Mama.”
“Okay sweet girls. Have a good day at work, Lacie. Don’t be a stranger, alright? We’ve missed you around here.”
“I’ve missed you guys too. You’ll regret saying that - I’m about to be here twenty four seven.”
Your Mom chuckles as she leaves, the sound of it clinking off the glasses of pineapple juice that you’re both still drinking.
“Seriously babe. You need anything, just ask. I’ll be here, no matter what.”
“Thank you. You’re the best, and I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You never have to know.”
Lacie leaves in a cloud of expensive perfume and vanilla scented body butter, off to go make peoples hair related dreams come true all day.
“I’ve got some errands to run,” your Mom says as you’re standing at the front door, waving to your best friend as she walks down the street. “Be my passenger? I’ll pay you in coffee.”
“Let’s do it.”
✵ ✵ · ✵ * · ✵
All five of your senses are catered for as you walk around the market, soaking in all of the sensations. There’s mothers pushing their babies in strollers, elderly couples strolling leisurely, children running around buzzing with excitement. It’s alive, with sounds and smells and new sights wherever you turn.
The sun beats down, cooled slightly by the gentle breeze that whips around between the stalls. It’s a glorious day, not a cloud in the sky. It’s making you feel hopeful, more joyous than yesterday.
“Sweetheart, will you grab me some fruit from the guy in the corner while I get some bread? Pick whatever looks good.”
“Sure Mama.”
You part in different directions, making the journey towards the most colourful stand at the market. The fruits are vibrant tones of pink and orange and yellow, bright and fresh and completely irresistible.
“What do you have that’s in season?” you ask the guy behind the boxes, a redhead probably about the same age as you are.
He’s objectively handsome - freckles, cheeky smile, tall and muscular. He looks at you for a moment before holding out a peach.
“Right now is the peak time for peaches. I promise these will be the best ones you’ve ever had in your life.”
“In my entire life?” you question, hint of mischief in your voice.
“Want me to prove it?”
“Go ahead.”
He picks up a knife and carefully cuts around the pit, before tearing into the peach and handing one half to you.
“You’re not ready for it,” he teases.
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
You bite into it, juice running readily down your wrist as you do. And as much as you hate to admit it - it’s divine.
“Say it.”
“Hmm?”
“Tell me it’s the best peach you’ve ever had.”
“Well then I’d be lying.”
His face falls for a fraction of a second before he regains his confidence like nothing ever happened.
“Confess. Come on.”
“Fine, fine. It’s the best peach I’ve ever had. In my entire life.”
“I knew it!” he grins, satisfied. “Knew a pretty girl like you wouldn’t lie to me.”
“I thought about it.”
“Oh, I know.”
He stares at you for a moment too long, taking in your features with his green eyes.
“Do you have a soulmate, peach?”
You’re processing the new nickname for a second when your Mom appears behind you, answering the question.
“Yes, she does. A complicated one.”
“Ah,” he laughs. “The best kind, no?”
“Depends on the day,” you smile, shaking your head. “Mama, we have to buy a dozen of these peaches. They’ll be the best you’ve ever had.”
The man winks at you before throwing some into a paper bag for you, along with raspberries, strawberries and oranges at your request.
“Thank you for these,” you say as you’re paying.
“Anytime. See you around, peach!”
“Oh he likes you,” your Mom all but sings as you both walk away. “You’re Tethered and you’re still attracting all the boys.”
“One guy at the fruit stall, not all the boys.”
“Sure, sweetheart. Sure.”
Your Mom hasn’t talked about your Tethering before. Neither of your parents have. It hasn’t been spoken about since that day your Dad was in the hospital. She’s mentioning it so easily, so casually, anyone would think that you’d all had a comprehensive conversation about it.
“Coffee now?” she asks, breaking you out of your thoughts.
“How about matcha? For a change?”
“Ooo, yes! I’ve heard that place on the corner does all different flavours. Clara at work had a blueberry one the other day.”
“Think I might stick to vanilla. You’re more adventurous than me.”
“Always have been,” she winks, bashing into you with her shoulder cheekily.
You can’t argue with that.
✵ ✵ · ✵ * · ✵
The coffee shop has a beautiful deck with an ocean view out back, perfect for sitting and gossiping with your Mom in the sunshine. The two of you catch up like no time has passed, patching over the disconnect that has crept into your relationship recently. You both know it’s no one’s fault - life just gets in the way sometimes.
There’s a pause in conversation, and you decide it’s now or never to ask the question that’s been on your mind for a while.
“Mama?”
“Sweetheart?”
“Why haven’t you guys tried to talk to me about the whole soulmate situation sooner?”
She thinks for a moment, carefully considering what she wants to say.
“Did you want us to?”
“No. Yes. Maybe? Honestly, I don’t know. But the three of us have always talked about everything, and now all of a sudden we’re silent when it comes to anything to do with my Tethering. It’s just unusual is all.”
“When your Dad and I first figured it out, I wanted to speak to you straight away. I thought we’d tackle the topic immediately, right? I think maybe I was a little upset that you hadn’t mentioned it - it’s such a huge milestone, arguably the biggest one in your entire life. And then Jack slowed me down, and helped me think a little more rationally.”
“He’s good at that,” you whisper.
“The best,” she smiles. “He figured that there must have been a reason that you didn’t say anything to us - that you were probably working things out for yourselves. So we kept quiet. It’s not that I didn’t want to talk to you, it’s that we felt like it was best that we didn’t until you were ready.”
“So you weren’t just… ignoring the problem until it went away?”
“There’s no problem in my eyes, sweet girl. Just two people going through something they’ve never experienced before.”
You take a deep breath, willing the weight you’ve been carrying around to be lifted from your shoulders.
“I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you sooner,” you murmur. “It’s not because I didn’t want to.”
“I know, baby. I know.”
She grabs your hand across the table, just like Lacie did this morning. How lucky you feel to be surrounded by such gentle, golden hearted women. What a gift.
“Can I ask you a question, sweetheart?”
You nod, urging her to go ahead.
“Did something happen? The last couple of days, you’ve seemed a little… down. And Bucky hasn’t been around, and it all feels… unusual? Like something’s changed, maybe.”
It feels like she can see into your soul when she looks at you, staring right through any kind of facade you try to put up. You’re begging yourself not to start crying again, sick of the sensation of tears falling down your face.
“We, uh - it’s a long story and it’s complicated but uh… where to begin-”
“Hey, you’re okay. If you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t have to. If you’re not ready, then-”
“It’s not that I’m not ready, it’s that I don’t even know where to start. I’m so confused about everything and I don’t even know how to even begin to put it into words that are somewhat comprehensible and I just… I don’t even know.”
The birds chirp above your heads, a million and one conversations happening around you on the deck as the two of you exist in your own little bubble for the moment.
“Give me the facts. Just the bare basics of it.”
“I don’t know if I know him, Mama.”
“Hmm?”
She looks completely puzzled, but she’s trying to stay focused on getting some cohesive answers out of you.
“There’s so much I don’t know about him. It hit me all at once the other day, and now I just… don’t know where we stand.”
She thinks for a second, measured and careful.
“What do you feel like you don’t know?”
“So many things. He never told me he had a sister, and then you and Dad mentioned her and-”
“Oh honey, I’m sorry. If I’d known you didn’t know-”
“No no, it’s fine. You didn’t do anything wrong, I promise. That was just the catalyst to me realising that I think we might have done this whole thing in the completely wrong order.”
“You know, there isn’t necessarily a right order.”
“I know that, but still. We’re all twisted and backwards now. Feels like we’re facing in the wrong direction.”
Your Mom rubs circles into the back of your hand with her thumb, keeping you grounded.
“You’re allowed to have a honeymoon phase, you know. Most soulmates have them. Some last longer than others, yes, but they’re not unusual. You’re wrapped up in your little bubble of love and excitement and sometimes confusion - it’s hard to see outside of that.”
“But surely there’s a difference between a honeymoon phase and obliviousness.”
She exhales her deep breath, sighing as she does it.
“You’re right.”
“I am?”
“Yes. You often are. Trust yourself more.”
“I do, I just… This is the one area of my life where I really do feel completely clueless.”
“And you hate it.”
“And I hate it.”
You take a long sip of your drink, looking out over the ocean and letting the repetition of the waves crashing against the rocks calm your racing heart.
“You wanna know what I think the solution is?”
“Tell me, Mama.”
“I think you need to go right back to the beginning, and work on everything you skipped over. Date each other again. You’ve gone too deep too fast and now you’re struggling to swim. So take yourselves back to the shallow end, put your floaties on, and start afresh. Not completely afresh obviously, but as much as you possibly can.”
“I like your water metaphors. Very fitting.”
She laughs all silvery and melodic as she kicks your foot under the table in retaliation.
“You know what I mean,” she teases.
“I do.”
“Good. The two of you need to get to know each other again - this time without worrying about getting caught or keeping the entire thing a secret. You can just be, now. Be completely as you are. No pressure, no worrying. Just you and your soulmate.”
You digest every single one of her words, knowing instantly that she’s right. There may not be a magic solution to your situation, but she’s found one that’s damn close.
“I like that idea,” you say eventually. “And if we both go into it with open hearts, promising to be completely honest, then we can’t go wrong, right?”
“Exactly. It’s all about keeping open hearts and minds. Both of you.”
“I’ll talk to him about it later. Or maybe tomorrow. Whenever I’m ready.”
“There’s no rush, sweet girl. Take your time.”
You inhale a lungful of the salty seaside air and take a moment to breathe. You’re going to be just fine. Both of you.
Your Mom stands up suddenly, grabbing her bag as she does it.
“I’m in the mood to wander around that street full of little boutiques around the corner. They all have new window displays in and you know I can’t resist.”
“Then let’s do it,” you encourage as you trail after her, almost running to keep up. “Retail therapy might be just what I need.”
“That’s the spirit!” she laughs as she grabs your hand to pull you along. “You are your mother’s daughter.”
“Always,” you grin. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
✵ ✵ · ✵ * · ✵
Your Mom manages to distract you for the rest of the afternoon with hours of shopping and leisurely browsing, neither of you in a rush to be anywhere. It’s exactly what you needed - rare, precious time with your favourite woman in the world. Just the two of you.
It’s when you’re sitting in your apartment later on that evening that you realise the days activities haven’t cured your sadness - only masked it temporarily.
Suddenly, the walls feel like they’re too close, the colours surrounding you too vibrant, the lights too bright. You take a deep breath and dig your fingers into the couch cushion, willing yourself to stay grounded. There’s a ball of anxiety in your chest, swirling around and slamming itself into your ribcage, your heart thrumming nervously underneath it, fighting to be heard.
You need to get out.
You need air. You need the wind whipping across your face, you need the sea salt on your lips, you need the birds squawking above your head.
You shove your feet into some shoes and grab a hoodie, throwing it on and grabbing your keys simultaneously. Practically sprinting down the stairs, you push the front door open with far more force than necessary, striding down the sidewalk with more momentum than you thought you could muster. Your legs are carrying you where they know you need to go - even if your mind can’t comprehend where that may be.
You turn the corner, and feel the sidewalk change to sand beneath you.
Inhaling deeply, you revel in the ocean breeze rattling through your bones and the chill it brings. It’s a welcome feeling. You’re right where you need to be.
You realise that you can’t even remember the journey to get here. It’s as if the Universe grabbed your hand and pulled, dragging you exactly where it wanted you to be. You venture onto the beach, heading towards the cove that’s tucked away, sinking familiarly with every step.
You turn your head, and realise suddenly why the Universe wanted you to be right here, right now.
Sitting on the sand, knees tucked into his body, barefoot and windswept.
Bucky.
He feels your presence before he sees you, even from across the beach. His head whips around to find you perfectly on the first try, eyes locked on you standing too far away for his liking. But he doesn’t move. He wants you to determine this interaction. If you walk away, still asking for space, he’ll give it to you. If you run into his arms and never let him go, he’ll hold onto you. It’s your choice. Not his.
“Hi,” you whisper, sound stolen by the wind. He hears it clear as day.
“Hi, honey girl.”
You’re a hundred feet apart and speaking in hushed tones as if you’re right next to each other, the Universe doing all the heavy lifting in your communication.
“Can I join you?”
“Always,” he says without hesitating. “You don’t ever have to ask.”
You make your way over slowly, trepidation weighing down every step. You’re not scared to see him. You’re scared of what you’re going to feel. You’re scared your heart will betray you and you’ll crumble into him, that you’ll let him kiss you stupid like nothing ever happened.
Sitting on the sand a few feet away, you try not to get lost in the deep, sky blue pools of his eyes that are watching every single minuscule movement you make. You get comfortable, tucking your knees into your chest and holding onto them for stability. Mirroring each other absentmindedly, as always.
Both of you sit and listen to the repetitive crash of the ocean waves against the shore, soothing and grounding. It’s been the soundtrack to so many of your milestones, so many of your important moments.
Bucky’s the first to break the silence. You’re not entirely sure what to say.
“How’d you know I was here?”
“I didn’t. I got a little overwhelmed in my apartment and decided I needed to take a walk. Ended up here.”
“The damn Universe.”
“Yeah. Damn her.”
There’s an inkling of a smile threatening to break across his face, but he tampers it down, stoic again in an instant.
“Are you okay?”
You take a deep breath, considering your answer carefully.
“No. But I will be. Time heals all wounds, right?”
“Is that what this is? A wound?”
“I don’t know,” you exhale. “It feels like one.”
“And I caused it.”
“Not necessarily. We have joint responsibility here. I just…”
You’re trying to find the right words to explain yourself without making the rift in between you worse. You realise quickly that you need to be entirely honest - and if the distance gets wider, then that’s a necessary pain.
“You’ve upset me, Buck. And I can’t sit here and lie and pretend you haven’t.”
“I don’t want you to lie to me. I never do. No matter how bad you think it is, or how much you think it’ll hurt me.”
You nod, half in agreement and half to stop yourself from bursting into tears.
“I’ve spent the last few days debating everything,” you say with a shake in your voice. “I want you to know that no matter what… it’s always going to be you, Buck. You are my soulmate for a reason. I love you with every single fibre of my being.”
“I love you so much,” he chokes out, eyes welling up with emotion. “I wouldn’t want to be Tethered to any other person in this entire world. Only you.”
You nod again, chewing on your lip to try and keep yourself together. You feel like you’re falling apart at the seams, held together only by the clothes on your body.
Taking another breath as deep into your lungs as you can, you exhale it shakily before hugging your legs as tightly as you can.
“I think I need to take a step back from this.”
The words leave your mouth before you can stop them, but you know that they’ve come from your heart. You mean it - but that doesn’t lessen the hurting.
“From us,” you continue. “You are the only person I will ever want. You are my entire life, James Buchanan Barnes. That is exactly the point. We will be together for the rest of our lives - and I cannot wait for that. That guarantee of us, forever, means that we don’t have to rush. We can take our time. And right now, I really need to take my time.”
He nods, encouraging you to continue. There are tears silently falling down his face, and you can feel the sadness and the longing rolling off of him in waves. You want to squeeze him as tightly as you can and never let go, but you know you have to stand your ground here.
“I need space, Buck. Space and time. I’m just completely overwhelmed. I need to get my priorities in check, too. I need to start really putting focus into the bakery franchise to make it the best it can be. Stella asked me if I was alright when we were on the phone a few days ago, and it made me realise that if she can tell - from the other side of the country, and just by my voice - that somethings wrong, then I need to just… take a breath.”
“I’m sorry you’re feeling overwhelmed,” he says, voice cracking with the emotion of it all. “I know that a Tethering can be all consuming and intense on the best of days. And I think that I was aware that it was a lot for you, and so I tried to keep everything as chilled and low pressure as possible - which in turn, has come back to bite me.”
“Is… that what happened here? Why we seemed to have gone from zero to a hundred really fast, but I somehow feel like I don’t know you at the same time?”
“I think so. I’ve been giving it a lot of thought these past few days, after that morning on the boat. I hated seeing you upset and I hated that I couldn’t fix it there and then.”
You give in to your instincts and reach for his hand, intertwining your fingers and resting them on the sand in between you.
“I know,” you whisper. “I could feel it in my chest. All the sadness and regret and confusion.”
“I could feel it too - the betrayal and the upset and the anger that you were feeling.”
“I wasn’t angry at you, Buck-”
“You were, honey. And that’s okay. You were allowed to be angry at me. You are allowed to be angry at me.”
You nod gently - the slightest of movements, almost imperceptible to anyone but your soulmate.
“I think I was so worried about it all being too much for you that I started holding stuff back. Not in a bad way, but just so that I didn’t overwhelm you. Stories from my childhood and about my mother and sister aren’t exactly light entertainment most of the time. We were figuring stuff out, and I didn’t want it to get too heavy. I didn’t withhold anything on purpose, sweet girl. I promise. It just happened. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
“That’s not the point,” you find yourself saying. “I don’t want to sit here and quiz you about your family tree and growing up in New York, Buck. It’s supposed to come up naturally, not because I’ve asked you twenty questions at once.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry,” you say at the same time. “I didn’t mean to snap. I think I’m still a little angry. Which I shouldn’t be, because you’ve explained yourself.”
“You’re allowed to feel what you feel.”
You hum, squeezing his fingers in between yours. You’re not sure who you’re trying to comfort, yourself or your soulmate.
The wind picks up, as if she’s telling you that it’s time to go home. You shiver, the icy ocean breeze whipping around you and settling into your bones.
“Come on, it’s getting dark.”
Bucky rises and pulls you with him, brushing the sand off your pants for you in gentle sweeping motions. He does it without thinking, so accustomed to the little gestures.
“Can I walk you home?”
You should say no, tell him that the space begins now and that you can’t automatically fall back into old routines. Instead, you say,
“Please.”
He hasn’t let go of your hand yet, very aware that he doesn’t know when the next time he’ll get to hold it is.
✵ ✵ · ✵ * · ✵
No one speaks the entire way home.
Neither of you mention that you can both feel the big blue waves of sadness coursing through your chests, unsure if it’s coming from yourself or the other person.
Neither of you mention that Bucky walks you the long way, adding a good twenty extra minutes to your journey.
Neither of you mention that when he hugs you goodbye, he holds you so tight that you can’t breathe for a second.
You’re not sure why, but this feels like the end of something.
Bucky feels it too.
as always - if you enjoyed, please reblog!! reblogs are like gold dust, and are genuinely the only way to circulate your favourite fics - which therefore produces more !! <3
What does the Fourth of July look like for Miss Abby? Is it a big party at the compound or a small gathering does Steve bring Miss Grace?
Thank you for asking! Uncle Steve's birthday is on the 4th of July, so Abby was more excited about that. She thought the fireworks were for Uncle Steve to begin with. 🤭
The elevator chimes and the doors swing open to Tony Stark's residence at the very top of the Tower. You and Abby come out singing and clapping, followed by a grinning Bucky. "Happy bertday! Happy bertday! Happy! Happy! Bertday-to-yous!" All eyes turn to you both, Abby walks in looking for her Uncle. Its the 4th of July, Uncle Steve's birthday. He does not get the sad old traditional song. Abby discovered the Stevie Wonder version and liked that a whole lot more.
Steve and Grace went out for a nice dinner to celebrate Steve's birthday but returned to the tower for ice cream, cake, and to see the fireworks.
Upon seeing her Uncle Steve, Abby screams and runs over to him and does another chorus of Happy Birthday accompanied by toddler choreography.
Steve and Grace clap along and laugh during Abby's performance. At the end she curtseys and throws her arms around Steve. "Happy Bertday, Uncle Steve! I wuv you!"
"I love you, too, Abs! Thank you!"
"You wants to sees your present? I told Mama and Papa you needs it."
"Uh...sure," Steve's a little confused. What could he possibly NEED?
Abby hops up and down and runs to Bucky. "Papa!? It's weady?"
Bucky gives Steve a mischievous smile, "Sure Abigail. Let's go." Bucky takes her hand in his and they leave the room.
After a couple minutes, a small round robot rolls into the room, "Uncle Steeevvee!" It crashes into Tony's shoe, "Sowwy, Mr. Stark! Beep! Beep!" Backing up, the little robot tries to make it's way to Steve. Everyone hears mumbling.
"Papa, you dwive cwooked."
"I got it."
"Lemme dwive it."
"I said I got it."
Bucky's able to maneuver it to Steve, raising the camera to look up at him, they hear Abby cackle. "I sees you! 'Prise Uncle Steve!"
"What...what is this?" Steve picks it up to examine it.
"Whoa, you makes me dizzy," Abby giggles. "It Abby-bot! Put me downs."
Abby-bot zooms around the room, crashing into Sam, "I caught you, Samuel!" Abby-bot zooms away before he got a chance to kick it.
The real Abby runs into the room throwing herself at Steve. "Do you wike it?"
"That so cool, sweetheart. Thank you!"
"So when I miss you, I can find you and say hi."
"Aw, Abs." Steve hugs his niece close.
Pulling back to squish his cheeks with her hands, "Yous so olds man now, I get scared if i no sees you." Abby innocently smiles up at him.
summary — sometimes there aren’t words needed to bring a smile onto someone’s face.
warnings — bit talking about disability. so much fluff.
wordcount — 2.710 words
authors note — thanks to @wildflowersandvibranium for helping me decide the gender for peanut. shoutout to @soelstress and @elixirfromthestars for brainstorming. shoutout also to @thevillainswhore my love for proofreading.❤️❤️
series masterlist
With a soft smile on your lips you watch your son running off to the next aisle with his favorite noodles. He’s bouncing up and down in excitement, giggling happily as he runs through the store. His head swipes to all sides, taking in all the stuff surrounding him while his short hair flies with each of his movements into another direction.
He's the sweetest bundle of energy, always happy and excited. And he’s your everything.
Since his dad and you had broken up when he was still a baby, you have been living alone with him. There never was a reason to date anyone, to give him a new dad because there wasn’t a man who would have fit with you and Peanut.
And though Peanut is such a sweet and loving boy, trying to fit in with other kids his age, he doesn't. Not always, at least. You can try your hardest to make him feel like everyone else. To feel normal. But some days, he doesn’t. Some days are still hard for him to be included in other kids' games.
But even on these days, he’s stronger than most grown ups are. More rational than adults. Some days, when the kids laugh, when they push him away, he comes to you and asks if you could go somewhere else instead.
The library. The shop. Home for some games. Whatever it is, he never stops smiling. Not even when he’s hurt. He just smiles and tells you that he only needs some of his favorite chocolate and screen time, then he’s feeling better again.
Cheeky little bundle of energy.
He knows damn well how to wrap you around his finger. But who wouldn’t do what he’s asking for when he’s such a sweet little boy with an even more adorable puppy dog expression and the sweetest smile.
With a slight shake of your head, you try to refocus your thoughts back to the shopping trip instead of getting lost in your thoughts.
Your eyes drift down to the grocery list in your hand, looking over it before you shove the cart further through the aisle.
With his gaze down toward the ground, Bucky walks through the small shop. His thoughts are racing just like always, but the quietness of the small corner shop makes it easy to not get overwhelmed too fast.
Hating shopping would be an understatement. Bucky doesn’t just hate it, he would skip it if it wasn't for the groceries he needs.
Especially when Sam had to take the last noodles when he visited Bucky the other day. He didn’t even let Bucky know that his noodles were empty so he could get more.
So when he wanted to make a fast lunch earlier, Bucky was surprised by nothing less but an empty package of his favorite noodles. Only some crumbs and a smiley grinning back at him for the bottom of the package.
Sam can be such an annoying idiot. Even drawing a smiley into the carton instead of letting him know or write a note that his noodles are empty.
Bucky notices the small boy in front of his favorite noodles, his small hands reaching out to try and reach the upper shelf — to no avail. Not even when he’s standing on his tiptoes, his hands wiggling in the air as if he tries to move them through mind control.
The package doesn’t move. The boy doesn’t get a grasp on the package of the noodles.
Then he jumps. Slightly. But his fingers only graze the package, not being able to wrap his fingers around it, still.
Somehow, Bucky finds himself smiling. Just the slightest bit. But it’s there, the tiny curve of his lips upward as he watches the boy in slight amusement. Bucky’s eyes crinkle at the corners the more he keeps watching the small kid trying so hard to reach a package of noodles.
Then he looks around. No one's nearby. No parent. No siblings. It’s just the boy and his mission to get some noodles.
Bucky narrows his eyes, approaching the boy slowly. His focus is completely on the child as he tries to create louder steps than he usually does so he won’t scare the boy.
The brunette is used to walking quietly. Due to his time as the winter soldier, he’s used to moving like he wasn’t even there. And some of these habits he has until this day.
“Hi,” Bucky says, his voice quieter than usual as to not startle the boy. “Do you need some help?”
No reaction. It’s like the boy doesn’t even acknowledge him.
Bucky frowns.
Maybe he got taught to not talk to strangers. But then the boy would at least glance at him maybe. But he doesn’t. Not even a side glance. Not even a slight reaction in his body language.
“Hi?” He tries again. And still no reaction from the kid.
With a soft sigh and slow movements, Bucky lifts his arm. The whirring of the metal cutting through the silence when the plates of his arm shift slightly.
The boy flinches when Bucky's arm appears in his sight of view. His small frame shrinks and moves backward as his head shoots toward Bucky.
Wide, blue eyes look back at Bucky. Some of the boy’s curly strands fall into his face as he stares at Bucky, finally acknowledging the man who’s standing closely next to him.
Fear. Surprise. And then something Bucky can’t quite put a finger on written all over the boy's face.
Maybe gratefulness for the attempt to help him to reach the noodles? Or uncertainty because he doesn’t know how to handle the broad man next to him? Or nervousness because he might not like strangers suddenly approaching him.
Bucky isnt sure.
“Sorry, buddy. Didn’t mean to scare you,” Bucky says, noticing the narrowed eyes of the boy.
Like he tries to understand but doesn’t actually understand what Bucky says.
“Speak another language?” Bucky asks, almost face palming himself when he notices the even more confused look on the boy's face.
Of course. If he doesn't understand English, he won’t understand the question either.
No reaction except a confused, wide eyed look. But it’s not as fearful anymore. Still confused, but also kind of soft.
Bucky sighs once more. Another approach? Or should he just give the noodles to the boy, take a packege himself and leave?
But then he notices it. The barely there moment of the boy's small fingers, twitching at his sides like he’s trying to stop himself from lifting his arms and showing Bucky something.
He could have missed it. But he didn’t. Bucky nods, the corners of his lips being tugged upward slightly as a small smile forms on his face.
Bucky places the noodles back on the shelf. Then, he kneels down, lifting both of his gloved hands in front of his chest.
‘You can’t understand me?’ Bucky signs, keeping the movements of his thick fingers slow and clear for the boy to take in all the moves.
He shakes his head. Still not moving his fingers except another twitch of them at his sides.
‘I’m Bucky. Do you want to tell me your name?’ Bucky keeps a soft smile on his lips, his blue eyes just as soft and inviting as he waits for the boy to respond.
The boy hesitates once more. Watching Bucky intensely. His face. His hands. Then back at his face.
Slowly. Very slowly he lifts his hands too.
‘My mama calls me Peanut.’ He signs back, a soft smile forming while he still looks nervously at Bucky.
His fingers are shaking slightly, excitement and uncertainty mixing together.
‘I love peanuts. Some of my favorite snacks.’ Bucky chuckles softly when he notices the way Peanut's eyes light up and the smile on his face becomes a really cheeky grin. Beautiful and warm like the raising sun during a summer morning. ‘Do you like peanuts?’
Peanut nods, his whole body relaxing the more he watches Bucky sign for him. And with him.
‘Mama!’ Peanut signs, making Bucky tilt his head in confusion. His blue eyes glistening with a hint of amusement. ‘He can sign. And he loves peanuts, too!’
Only then, Bucky notices that behind him must be the boy's mother. He turns around, greeted by a beautiful and soft smile — similar to the one he previously saw on the boy's face. The same soft features. The same beauty he had seen seconds ago when he looked at Peanut’s face.
A warm, almost inaudible, laugh fills his ears when you take in the excitement on Peanut’s face. A smile you adore so much but one that’s also so rare, because no matter how happy and laughing he is, this exact smile is hard to come by.
As rare as people signing with him. As rare as people understanding him without needing you to translate for them or him.
“Sorry, he just wanted to get some of his favorite noodles and I try to include him as best as I can,” you mumble, looking apologetic at Bucky.
“No worries, he couldn't reach them. Looks like they put them higher on the shelf,” Bucky says, surprised by the light tone he's using.
Usually he’s all gruff and grumpy. But with the two of you, it just feels different. It doesn’t have to be just short replies. No — with you, he feels like he can speak his mind.
“Didn’t mean to scare him, though. Thought he was just taught not to talk to strangers. Tried with Romanian,” Bucky laughs softly when he thinks back to his attempt to use another language so Peanut could understand him. “But it’s nice to talk to him.”
Bucky turns back to Peanut, still kneeling at eye level with the boy. His lips twitch upward as he holds his hand out for the boy to take.
‘Was nice to meet you, Peanut.’
The boy giggles before he runs off toward you. Peanut is bouncing like a bundle of energy, his tiny arms wrapping around your legs as he tries to sign at the same time.
You shush him slightly, signing that he should calm down a bit when he signs so you can understand him.
Bucky watches the scene unfold for a moment before he gets off the ground. Grasping the package of noodles, he puts them down in your cart with a warm smile.
“Thank you,” you mutter, hands moving to Peanut's back, stroking up and down the boy's small shoulders and back in a soothing manner.
‘Mama, he’s so nice. He gave me the noodles, can we eat with him?’
Bucky chuckles, quiet and low. He hasn’t felt this way in ages. So welcome. So liked. And here he is, adored by a little boy just because he gave him the noodles and knows sign language.
Both of you watch Peanut sighing fast and unclear. Bucky still understands him, though. So do you.
‘I’m not sure if he wants to, Pea. He’s nice but some other people in stores are nice too, and we can’t invite them all for lunch.’ You sign back, smiling as you try to make him understand the situation.
‘But he can sign language, mama!’ Peanut pouts, his eyes widening until that not ignore-able puppy expression is plastered all over his soft face.
You sigh softly, running your fingers through his soft hair before you look at Bucky once more.
He's handsome. So damn handsome with those beautiful ocean blue eyes looking with yours, a slight smile on his lips as he watches your uncertain expression.
“I’m sorry, he's just really excited when someone understands him. Not many do, so mostly I have to translate. And some of the kids on the playground… they ignore him because he can’t hear them,” you say, your voice sounding sad, matching the way you look down at your son with a thin, sad smile. “So, he’s excited when someone can understand him without any help.”
“I know how it feels. Not on the playground, though. But when people doesn't like to be around you or treat you diffrent — poorly — when they notice your disability,” Bucky shrugs slightly.
But there’s a hint of pain deep in the ocean blue of his eyes. A pain that shadows the light blue for a moment.
“It was nice meeting you two, though,” Bucky says, the pain replaced by a softness once more when he smirks at you.
“Thank you, uhm, for the noodles,” you mutter, running your fingers once more through Peanut's hair while he keeps bouncing up and down.
“No worries,” Bucky laughs, making your heart beat faster.
His eyes drop to Peanut again. He takes in the excitement and joy of the bundle of energy.
‘And you, Peanut, never let anyone change you. You’re perfect as you are.’ He signs, noticing how Peanut slows his bouncing to take in Bucky’s hand movements. ‘I’ve got a disability too, and it makes me shut out people. But my friends, even the annoying one, they love me as I am.’
Peanut nods, smiling at Bucky before his eyes drift to the noodles Bucky just grabbed.
Noodles in dinosaur form. Just the exact same Peanut himself loves, his favorite noddles.
‘You got a kid too?’
‘No, I just like these.’ Bucky chuckles, making your heart flutter once more.
Bucky looks so big and rough. And yet, he’s so warm and soft. It's almost like there’s a thick wall around him. One that Peanut beat down with just his being, with his sweetness and love that breaks down the hard wall.
You tap Peanut’s shoulder softly, trying to get his attention back. His head shoots up, his eyes almost pleading once more and you know exactly what he wants.
Invite him. Invite a stranger for dinner. Because he knows sign language. Because he’s got a disability too. Because he doesn't laugh. He doesn't judge.
Bucky’s so much more than a stranger. He’s like Peanut. In some way.
You shake your head slightly. ‘He has plans himself, Pea.”
Peanut nods. Reluctantly. Disappointed. Maybe even sad. But he nods.
“Thank you,—” you narrow your eyes, he didn’t tell you his name. You didn’t ask.
“Bucky.”
“Thank you, Bucky,” you mutter.
He cracks a smile. His heart almost bursts in his chest when he watches you and Peanut, when he looks into your face and sees that beautiful smile.
He hates to feel that way. He hates that two strangers crack through his thick wall built around him because of years of hurt.
And you’re just walking by, smiling. And suddenly the wall breaks, leaves nothing behind like there was never a protection built around his heart.
“You’re welcome. He’s a good boy,” Bucky nods, grasping his noodles tighter before he turns around. And leaves you with Peanut standing in the aisle.
For some reason — not an explainable reason — your heart feels heavy when you watch the broad, beautiful man walk away. Bucky has that mystic surrounding him. Something that pulls you toward him. And you feel that tug to get closer to him. Harsh and unyielding.
‘Mama, why don’t you invite Bucky?’
‘Because we can't invite strangers, baby. We don't know him.’ You try to explain to your son as best as you can. It doesn't bring the lightness and the happiness back onto his face.
He’s too young to understand the full situation. Or maybe he isn’t, but he’s too naive to see possible danger when he’s excited.
Or maybe it’s the walls around your heart that stop you from taking that step. To protect you and Peanut from being disappointed when Bucky wouldn’t be interested.
Bucky might be nice. But he can be nice just to hand over a package of noodles. It doesn’t have to mean anything.
‘I like him. Bucky is my friend, mama.’
You smile, nodding as you pick up your son and sit him into the cart.
Yes, Bucky is Peanut's friend. Of course he is. And you won’t try to convince him otherwise.
‘Can we get some peanuts?’
You smirk knowingly, pushing the cart through the aisle to get some peanuts for your Peanut.
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Summary: Bucky comes home late from a storm with groceries, a guilt complex, and a kitten in his jacket.
MCU Timeline Placement: Thunderbolts*
Master List: Find my other stuff here!
Warnings: soft!bucky, domestic slice of life, i think this is the first thing i've written with really no warnings...?
Word Count: 3.8k
Author’s Note: wrote this during a two-night insomnia spiral after the angst of last week’s fic and now i’m emotionally compromised over bucky barnes giving a stray kitten a bath. this is my take on alpine's origin story and now i desperately wish i wasn't allergic to cats. please enjoy responsibly!
It had started, as many things did with Bucky, at the wrong time.
He’d been a congressional candidate when you’d first met him. Not a suit-and-tie politician yet, not exactly, but something adjacent.
Clean-cut. Presentable. Quiet when it counted. He wasn’t running as a party puppet or some legacy hopeful. He was running because he wanted something better, because after years of being used for violence, he was finally trying to serve without it.
The country didn’t know what to make of that. He didn’t smile much in public, but he didn’t glower anymore either. He was rebuilding, piece by piece, one press conference at a time.
You had been the one running comms on your agency’s side, doing speechwriting and strategic messaging for a firm that helped the government communicate with actual humans, which often meant explaining terrifying alien technology to people who still got nervous around smart TVs.
You still remembered when Bucky Barnes had landed in your inbox like a bureaucratic migraine. You were told he was your assigned contact for anything Avengers/Hydra/SHIELD-adjacent while his campaign navigated upcoming Senate hearings and public appearances.
He’d been late to your first meeting. Showed up in a worn black jacket, coffee in one hand, and no smile in sight. You’d been annoyed, mostly because he didn’t seem to care that you were annoyed.
But over the next six months, something shifted. He started responding to emails with punctuation. He stopped dodging your questions in hearings. And the first time he made you laugh, it had been so unexpected that you’d spit La Croix across the table.
You never did have a proper first date. You just kept working late in the same office, kept ordering the same takeout on Thursday nights, kept bickering about phrasing until he finally kissed you outside your building, rain streaking down his face and a bag of leftover Thai still tucked under his arm.
That had been nearly three years ago.
Now, you lived together in a third-floor walkup with squeaky floors and a permanently crooked light fixture in the hallway. The apartment was quiet, mostly. Except for when Bucky was home and decided to reorganize the cabinets, or practice with a blade in the living room, or randomly pull you into a dance while your hands were still wet from dishes.
You still worked in communications, mostly from home these days. Bucky had gone back to fieldwork. The new Avengers weren’t really official, not yet and certainly not the way they’d once been, but the world hadn’t stopped needing saving.
He came home when he could. He was different, then. Still quieter than most people, but warmer too.
He made you tea when you didn’t ask. He always remembered what side of the bed was yours, even after being gone for months. His bag never hit the floor before he kissed you hello. He restocked your favorite snacks without saying a word, picked up your prescriptions before you realized they were low. He did laundry without fanfare, folded your sweaters the way you liked, always left the bathroom light on when you were working late.
It wasn’t often he was home for more than five days in a row. But, he was home now. For two weeks. A rare gap in the chaos. He’d been home three days already, half-settled into his old routines, half-restless in a way he didn’t know how to sit still with.
You’d let him be. Gave him space in the mornings, let him sneak off to the corner bodega for his favorite cinnamon rolls, let him pretend he wasn’t tracking every single news alert like it was a countdown clock to his next departure.
He’d gone out earlier that afternoon. Said something vague about errands. A few groceries. Picking up that sharpening oil he liked for his knives. He’d kissed you on the top of the head, muttered something about not needing to be long.
You were still barefoot in the kitchen when the storm started. Rain hit the windows like fists. Thunder cracked hard enough to make your cabinet doors tremble, and somewhere down the hallway, a neighbor’s dog had been barking for fifteen minutes straight.
You weren’t the worrying type. Couldn’t be, really, not when you knew that Bucky was a literal super soldier, and now an Avenger. He was trained for danger. Built for it. He could break a man’s ribs with one hand and still carry groceries in the other. He was good. He was solid. He always came back.
You’d texted him twice, but neither got a reply. You told yourself it was fine. Probably bad reception, maybe he was on the subway. It wasn’t like him to go dark. But it also wasn’t like him to be reckless.
You didn’t check your phone again, even though it buzzed once with useless notifications.
You hadn’t even realized you were staring at the door until it opened.
It wasn’t the slam of it that startled you, it was the cold. A sharp rush of wind and water swept in like a wave, and then came Bucky.
The jacket he wore was soaked straight through, water dripping from the hem like he’d walked through a waterfall. His hair clung to his cheek and temple, strands matted flat. He kicked the door shut behind him with the heel of his boot and didn’t speak for a moment, just stood there, staring at you, a breath snagged somewhere behind his ribs.
“Jesus,” you said, stepping forward instinctively, “you look like you got hit by the storm itself.”
“I did,” he muttered, but there was a tilt to his voice, something softer than sarcasm. “Got caught downtown. You know how it is.”
He moved slowly, peeling the coat off his shoulders. Not like he was in pain, just tired. Or maybe cautious.
You reached for one of the grocery bags slung around his wrist. “You were gone forever. I was about to call Yelena and make sure you didn’t get kidnapped again.”
“I tried to text,” Bucky said, and you looked up just in time to catch the way his mouth twitched, barely restrained. “Signal got bad near Midtown. Couldn’t get out until the rain let up.”
You arched a brow. “That was an hour ago.”
“…I took a detour.”
You froze at the same time he did. That shift in the air, like both of you knew he wasn’t just stalling for time. You had known Bucky long enough to know when he was being suspicious.
Your eyes dropped. The coat he’d just taken off and was holding in his arms… moved.
Just a twitch. Barely visible. But there, nestled inside the inner lining near the shoulder, something squirmed. And then came the unmistakable sound: a small, high-pitched mewl.
Your heart stuttered.
“James Buchanan Barnes,” you said slowly, eyebrows lifting as you took a step closer. “What is that?”
Bucky’s hand came up like he was caught red-handed, which, to be fair, he absolutely was. His hair was still dripping, shirt sticking to his chest, and his left arm was tense where he held it slightly away from the jacket bundle at his chest. Not like he was trying to hide it. More like he was trying to soothe whatever small thing it held.
“Okay,” he said carefully, “before you yell at me—”
“I’m not gonna yell,” you cut in, hovering close now, trying to peer past the flap of the jacket as whatever tiny thing inside made another sound. “I just—what the hell is that?”
Bucky sighed and shuffled his jacket carefully, letting the soaked fabric fall open just enough for a flash of white to appear. Small, trembling, with wide, cautious eyes and the kind of dirty fluff that suggested the animal hadn’t known comfort a day in her life.
It was a kitten. Nestled against the lining of Bucky’s jacket, curled in the crook of his metal arm, tiny paws still damp and clinging to the edge of his shirt like she’d decided she wasn’t letting go any time soon.
Bucky exhaled like a man surrendering a classified document. “She was in the alley behind the store,” he said, softer now. “Hiding under a pallet. Nearly got flattened by a truck trying to follow me. I wasn’t just gonna leave her.”
Your lips parted, eyes flicking between him and the kitten curled in his jacket. “And you… put her in your coat?”
“It was raining,” he said, as if that explained everything. “She was cold. Alone. Crying. And soaked. I didn’t have a choice.”
You blinked, slowly, like you still couldn’t quite wrap your head around it. He’d never exactly been a cat person. Sure, he loved animals. Bucky talked to horses like they were old war buddies, made friends with every stray dog in a five-block radius, but he’d always side-eyed cats like they were planning something.
You weren’t sure what surprised you more: the fact that he’d stopped, or the fact that he’d carried her home like she was already his.
“So you smuggled a stray kitten home?”
“She’s tiny,” he said, more defensive than he probably meant to sound. “And you said last month we should think about adopting something. For company. While I’m gone.”
You frowned instinctively. There it was again, that guilt. That tug behind his words. You’d said it offhandedly one night, curled up on the couch with your legs in his lap and a blanket half-forgotten on the floor, some old documentary flickering across the screen.
You didn’t mean it like a dig. But Bucky had a habit of hearing everything like it was his responsibility to fix. Like if he wasn’t home, he should find a way to leave part of himself behind.
You let out a breath, not quite a laugh, but a chuckle nonetheless. “So you found a kitten and immediately decided she was our problem.”
You looked at him, really looked, and it hit you just how soaked he was. The fabric clung to him in dark, heavy folds. There was rain on his lashes. Mud on his boots. But there was also something else. Something flickering at the edge of his expression, just behind the gruffness and the self-deprecation. A kind of tenderness he never quite knew what to do with, especially when it came this fast and this unscripted.
You stepped closer. “You didn’t even get her a carrier?”
“I—” He scratched the back of his neck. “I panicked. She was shivering and I didn’t want to waste time. I figured—look, I’ll go out tomorrow, get the proper stuff. Litter box. Toys. Whatever else cats need. But for now, I thought maybe…”
The kitten mewed again, pushing her head against the inner lining of his coat. Her ears were too big for her head. She looked ridiculous. Her eyes were clear and alert, blinking up at you like she already knew the hierarchy of this home and was happy to sit right at the top of it.
You felt something soft curl in your chest and gave in with a quiet sigh.
You didn’t realize you’d started smiling until Bucky looked up at you again, half-defensive and wholly hopeful, like he wasn’t sure yet if this was going to land him in trouble or in your good graces.
His damp hair had started to curl more at the ends, stuck in a way that was almost boyish. Rainwater was still dripping off the tip of his nose, and there he stood—James Buchanan Barnes, once the most dangerous man in half the world—cradling a half-starved kitten in his jacket like it was a fragile secret.
You exhaled, relenting, as if you even really needed any more convincing. “She’s disgusting,” you muttered, brushing a knuckle gently beneath the kitten’s chin. “And she’s adorable.”
Bucky’s shoulders dropped the tiniest bit. “You’re not mad?”
“You’re lucky she’s cute.”
“I’ll take it,” he said, then jerked his chin toward the bathroom. “I was gonna get her cleaned up. She’s shivering.”
“Use the lavender soap,” you called as he turned toward the hall, his boots squelching softly with every step. “It’s gentle.”
“Which one’s that?”
“The one without a giant label that says ‘for men.’”
A low huff of laughter trailed behind him.
You stood there for a moment longer, watching the spot where he’d been. Then you glanced at the bags he’d dropped just inside the kitchen, one already sagging slightly and the bottom beginning to tear.
Of course he hadn’t brought an umbrella. Of course the eggs somehow made it back uncracked while your boyfriend was carrying contraband in his coat. Of course this was how a quiet Tuesday night turned into something else entirely.
You moved on instinct, unpacking the groceries like muscle memory. Cinnamon rolls from the bodega, two packs. The kind he liked, not the kind you usually got on sale. A small bottle of that weird sharpening oil he only ever found in specialty stores. A tiny rosemary plant that hadn’t been on any list, wrapped in paper and tied with twine.
The rest was practical: milk, bread, frozen dumplings, a few snacks you hadn’t asked for but would absolutely eat in bed later tonight.
You were halfway through stacking the pantry shelf when the sound of water came from the bathroom, first the faucet, and then continuous muffled yowls.
“Jesus,” Bucky muttered faintly through the wall. “You’ve got lungs, sweetheart.”
You smirked and shook your head, sliding the last box of cereal into place.
When you crossed the apartment again, the bathroom door had been left slightly ajar, steam curling through the crack like mist. You paused just outside, lifting your hand to knock, but didn’t. What you saw through the sliver of space made your breath catch instead.
Bucky was kneeling on the bath mat, shirtless now, a faded towel slung low on his hips, damp fabric clinging to the line of his back. His left arm—sleek, silver, curved with quiet strength—was cradling the kitten against his bare chest while the other hand gently dabbed a washcloth behind her ears.
The water had already been turned off. There was a shallow bowl beside him, half-full and tinted gray with grime. But the kitten looked cleaner now, still scruffy, still damp, but already blinking slower, her body lax in his hold.
A deep, shaky purr vibrated through her small frame, and Bucky was murmuring something low under his breath. Words meant only for her, quiet and steady, like she was the only one in the world who needed convincing that she was safe now.
Your fingers curled around the doorframe.
He didn’t notice you at first. He was too focused on the kitten’s tiny paws, the way her fur clumped together, the sharp angle of her ribs. He moved like he was afraid of hurting her, even though he could probably crush her without trying.
That was the thing about Bucky, he was always gentler than people gave him credit for. Not because he was soft, but because he remembered what it meant to be handled like a weapon. Because he’d spent years trying to teach his hands how not to break everything they touched.
You knocked softly. “Hey.”
He glanced up, eyes going a little wide like he hadn’t expected you so soon. “She’s a drama queen,” he said, shifting to show you the towel-bundled creature in his arms. “Screamed the whole time like I was trying to drown her. But she’s clean now.”
Bucky leaned back on his heels, bare skin still damp, hair curling from the steam, rain forgotten now in the warmth of the bathroom. He looked exhausted. And content. And something softer than either.
“C’mon,” you whispered. “She can nap on the couch. I’ll dry your hair.”
He didn’t argue. Just stood, slow and sure, the kitten swaddled in the towel against his chest like she belonged there.
You settled on the couch twenty minutes later, the storm still murmuring outside like it had nowhere better to be. The kitten had been dried, fed (thank god for emergency sardines), and was now passed out on Bucky’s chest, her whole body rising and falling with each breath he took. She hadn’t budged since he sat down. His hand moved in slow, unconscious patterns across her back, while his other arm stretched behind you on the cushions.
You’d towel-dried his hair, ruffling through it until it stopped sticking up. He hadn’t said a word, but the way his eyes fluttered shut when you massaged the back of his neck said enough.
Now, you were tucked under the same throw blanket, your knees brushing his, one of his thumbs lazily tracing circles over your ankle where it rested across his lap.
He looked tired. But not the bone-deep, haunted kind of tired he sometimes carried back from missions. This was different. This was the good kind. The kind you only earned after long days and full hearts. The kind that didn’t sting.
“You’re ridiculous,” you murmured, half against his shoulder.
“Why?”
“You just... you go out for groceries and come back with a cat.”
He didn’t answer right away. His head tilted slightly, his gaze still fixed on the kitten. The light caught on the curve of his jaw, on the slight twitch of muscle there, like he was chewing something over, trying to decide how much to say.
When he spoke, it was quieter than before. “I kept thinking about what you said. About how it gets quiet when I’m gone.”
You shifted at that. Not because you were uncomfortable, but because you weren’t sure what to do with the way your chest ached.
“I know I can’t always be here,” he continued. “Not with the way things are. I’m not gonna pretend I’ve got control over any of that.” His thumb rubbed a slow circle over the kitten’s back, so gentle it was barely a movement. “But I hate the thought of you being here by yourself. Coming home to silence. Sleeping alone.”
Your hand settled on his ribs, fingers brushing over the edge of his T-shirt, grounding yourself in the rise and fall of him.
“And then I saw her,” he went on. “So small. Scared. Cold. And I thought—if she was here, maybe it wouldn’t feel so… empty.”
You opened your mouth to speak, but he kept going, voice soft and steady now, like he needed to finish this before it slipped out of reach.
“I know she’s not me. And I know she won’t fix anything. But maybe she could be something warm that curls up next to you when I can’t. Maybe she could remind you that someone’s still coming back. That I’m still coming back.”
He looked at you then, really looked. And it hit you—not for the first time, but hard nonetheless—how deeply he felt everything. How much it cost him to admit it.
Your voice was quieter now, too. “She’s not a replacement, Buck.”
“I know,” he said immediately. “God, I know. I didn’t mean it like that. I just…” He swallowed hard. “I’ve had so many years where everything I left behind got taken or lost or buried. And I don’t want that for you. I want you to have things that stay. Even when I can’t.”
You blinked, once. Then again. Something pressed up against your ribs, sharp and aching and whole.
“That’s the sappiest thing you’ve ever said to me,” you managed, your voice breaking right where it caught.
He exhaled, the tiniest smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation.”
You leaned up and kissed the edge of his jaw, slow and lingering. “You cried over a cat commercial last week.”
“It was well done,” he argued, muffled against your hair. “And the music was manipulative.”
You felt him laugh beneath you, low and warm, the kind of laugh that only came when he let himself sink fully into the now. His arms folded around you a moment later, carefully avoiding the kitten between you, like he’d found the exact shape of this moment and didn’t want to let go.
You smiled. Pressed your nose to his neck. “I love you.”
“I know.”
You bit his shoulder.
He laughed under his breath, then turned just enough to press a kiss to your hairline. His voice softened to something that almost wasn’t there. “I love you too.”
The kitten sneezed in her sleep. You both paused.
“Bless you,” Bucky whispered, like the smallest things deserved reverence.
Your fingers traced idle shapes across his forearm where it rested behind your back. The kitten shifted in her sleep, let out the softest little sigh, and curled deeper into the towel that had become her makeshift cradle.
“What do you want to name her?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.
He blinked slowly, eyes still on her, then turned just slightly to glance at you. “She’s yours,” he said simply, like it wasn’t even a question.
You tilted your head, brushing your nose gently along his jaw. “I think she already picked her person.”
He gave a small huff of agreement, his mouth tugging to one side, sheepish and slow. He didn’t argue.
You looked down at the tiny, warm ball of fur curled over the dip of his sternum. She had one ear flicked back, twitching every so often like she was dreaming. Maybe of damp alleys. Maybe of blankets. Maybe of safety.
“Lucky?” he offered quietly. “Because she didn’t get flattened?”
You made a face against his collarbone. “She’s not a lottery ticket.”
He huffed. “Okay. Uh. Snowball?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Marshmallow.”
You snorted. “She’s not a snack cake, Bucky.”
“Fine,” he muttered, but his lips were twitching. He glanced down again, brow furrowed just slightly, like he was squinting at her soul. “She’s white. She’s fast. She’s stubborn. Climbed up my chest like a mountain. What about… Alpine?”
You turned your head, blinking up at him.
The word hung in the air a second longer than the others had. Like it settled there, quietly, before sinking into the space between you.
“…Alpine,” you repeated.
He glanced down. “Too dramatic?”
“No,” you said slowly, like you were trying the shape of it in your mouth. “It’s perfect.”
Bucky smiled. Not a grin, not a smirk. Just that rare, honest smile that came when he wasn’t trying to hold anything back.
“Hi, Alpine,” he said softly, like it was a secret meant just for her. “Welcome home.”
And somehow, in the middle of a Tuesday night, with a kitten snoring on his chest, your legs tangled beneath a hand-stitched quilt, and the storm starting to roll away into the distance, it all made perfect, quiet sense.
Home didn’t ask to be planned.
Sometimes it just walked through the door in a soaked jacket, trembling and wild, and curled up in the space between two people who’d been building it without even knowing.
no more taglists! tumblr’s @ limit said no 💔 follow @cheekybarnesupdates + turn on notifs for all fic drops!
Summary : Bucky falls in love with a struggling journalist, but neither of them were ready for a relationship… until now.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x Journalist!reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Friends with benefits to Lovers. Suggestive content. Cursing. Little bit of angst, Hurt/Comfort, domestic!Bucky, TFATWS-Bucky Congressman!Bucky, bit of fluff!!!!
Word count : 16.8k
Note : This story starts around TFATWS and ends right before Thunderbolts. Enjoy!
The bookstore was quiet now. Most of the book club people had filtered out after an hour or so offering their usual waves and lukewarm opinions on the week’s pick. Tonight, it was The Bell Jar. Heavy, emotional, a little too on-the-nose for your current mental state. You stayed behind, your pen hovering over the last page as you pretended to reread a passage you’ve memorised three times already. In reality, you’re avoiding the blinking cursor on the empty Word document waiting on your laptop at home. Another missed pitch. Another editor ‘passing for now.’
“You’re not a fan,” said a voice from across the room.
You looked up to see James Buchanan Barnes, leaning against the doorframe like he’d been watching you for longer than you’re comfortable admitting. The sleeves of his hoodie were pushed up just enough to reveal a hint of metal. You already knew it’s vibranium— you already knew a lot of things about him, but it was different seeing it up close, like it doesn’t belong to a man who once jumped out of planes and shattered skulls with his bare hands. “Not a fan of what?” you asked, raising a brow.
“The book.” He pushed off the doorframe. “You’ve been stuck on the same page for ten minutes. You look like you’re trying to pick a fight with Sylvia Plath.”
You snorted. “Maybe I am.”
He smirked, folding his arms. “She’d probably win.”
“She’d definitely win,” you say with a grin, snapping the book closed and tossing it on the table. “Depressed girls with typewriters are dangerous.”
You’d know, you were one. Still, Bucky watched you like he’s trying to see what parts of you are real, and what you’re faking.
You held his stare, refusing to shrink under it, and told him your name, because you might as well right?
He nodded. “I’m Bucky.”
You smiled faintly. “I know.”
His eyes narrowed for a second—but it wasn’t hostile. You shoved your stuff into your bag. “I don’t mean like that. It’s just—” You shrugged. “I’m a journalist. Or I try to be. Comes with, you know… obsessively knowing things.”
He tilted his head, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. “You do profiles?”
“Sometimes.” You hesitated. “Lately it’s more… copywriting for blogs that publish people’s hot takes on ethical non-monogamy and pistachio milk brands.”
That made him smile. Not much— just a brief lift at the corner of his mouth, but it counted, right?
“So,” he said, “what’s a smartass doing in a book club like this?”
You grinned. “Research.”
“For?”
“Human behavior,” you said casually. “Actually, you’d be a good topic to write about. You’d make a great tragic anti-hero. Real brooding appeal. It’d get clicks.”
He stepped closer now, helping you up from your seat. “You always this charming?”
“Only when I’m avoiding work.”
“How’s that going?”
“I’m still here, aren’t I?”
Silence stretched for a second too long. Then, he asked, “Are you free?”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
He scratched the back of his neck. “There’s a bar a few blocks over. Good whiskey, if that’s your thing. Got crappy lighting”
You stared at him, at the scars barely hidden beneath his collar. The twitch in his jaw when you looked too long. You felt the heat building behind your chest—not quite attraction, not yet. But the potential to.
“Alright,” you said. “But I’m warning you—I flirt when I drink.”
He opened the door for you without breaking eye contact. “Guess I’ll take my chances.”
—
He did say the lighting was gonna be crappy, but the bar was still darker than you expected. It had its charm, though, with brick walls and the kind of jazz playing in the background that made everything feel like it was happening in sepia. The bartender didn’t blink twice when Bucky walked in, which probably meant this wasn’t a new spot for him. He slid onto a stool, and you followed without thinking.
“Two whiskeys,” he said to the bartender, glancing at you, and you nodded.
“You come here often?” you said with a smirk, knowing full well how cliché it sounded, but you needed something to break the silence.
He snorted. “That’s my line.”
“I don’t believe you’ve ever used a line in your life.”
His eyes sparkled, then chuckled. “Not since 1943.”
You leaned your elbow on the bar. “What was it? ‘Say, doll, wanna share a malt and talk about the war effort?’”
“Close.” He gave you a dry but amused look. “Steve was shy when it came to girls, so I had to do the heavy lifting for the both of us.”
The drinks arrived. He slid one toward you.
You took a sip. “You’re better at this than you think, you know.”
He raised an eyebrow. “At what?”
“Conversation,” you said, tapping the rim of your glass. “Making people feel like they’re not talking into a void.”
He looked like he wanted to argue, but didn’t.
Instead, he asked, “What about you? You’re not shy, but you haven’t really said much about yourself.”
That made your lips twitch. “You think I’m not shy?”
“I think,” he said carefully, “you talk a lot to keep people from looking too close.”
You blinked. Not because he was wrong—he wasn’t—but because he’d hit the nail so cleanly after only one meeting, you almost spilled your drink.
“Jesus,” you muttered, leaning back, “You sound like my mother.”
He smiled, just a little. “Didn’t mean it in a bad way.”
“I know.” You swirled the whiskey in your glass, staring down into the amber. “I just… don’t usually have people say that out loud. Most guys I meet don’t exactly want to know the why behind my sarcasm.”
“I do.”
“Well…” you shrugged. You probably shouldn’t trauma dump to a famous stranger, but you needed an outlet to talk to, so… might as well, right? “I’m a mess. I haven’t written a good piece in weeks. I’m broke, chronically tired, and emotionally constipated.”
“That supposed to scare me off?”
“Most people run from the second I talk or feel too much.”
“Most people,” he said, tilting his head, “aren’t me.”
You laughed under your breath, remembering his full name from an article you read a couple months ago. “Okay, James.”
He stiffened slightly. Not in anger, but the name hit a bruise.
“Sorry.” you corrected, “Bucky.”
“No, it’s fine,” he said. “Just weird, hearing it like that again from someone that isn’t my therapist or a supervillain. Feels… old.”
“Everything about you feels old,” you teased, nudging his boot with yours beneath the bar.
He laughed, and the conversation was easy from there.
You finished your drinks. You didn’t touch each other again, not yet, but your legs stayed close. You noticed the way his fingers drummed nervously on the edge of the bar and how he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching.
And when you both stood to leave, he walked you home.
—
Last night wasn’t a date. You told yourself that. Told your friends that. Told your reflection in the mirror that.
But then, you keep meeting between book club.
You ran into him outside your favourite grocery store four days later. You’d think the chances of Bucky Barnes needing kale and almond milk on a Tuesday afternoon were close to zero, but here you were.
Then you bumped into him again at the park. You were nursing a coffee and your latest rejection email on a bench. He was walking alone without a destination and no headphones on— like he didn’t know what to do with himself if he stopped moving too long. He sat down beside you, and that conversation lasted an hour and a half.
And it happened again. At a cafe. And again. At the library. And Again. At the dentist’s office.
The sixth time, you exchanged numbers.
Then, you started texting. It was never anything dramatic. It was just… links to articles, quotes from books. “This reminded me of you” with no context— and it was a photo of the sky when it turned gold at sunset.
He started sitting next to you at book club after that.
He never said anything about it, never made a show of it— but every week, he claimed the chair to your left like it had always been his. Sometimes his thigh brushed yours. Sometimes your knees bumped and neither of you apologised.
Sometimes, you didn’t take notes at all. You just listened to the way he spoke when he actually cared about a character, or how his muscles tightened when someone made a flippant comment about trauma they didn’t understand.
Because of Bucky, book club became the highlight of your week (even if you did get bored sometimes and developed a whole cipher system with Bucky while everyone else was talking about Jane Eyre).
Then… he missed a session.
No text. No warning. He just didn’t show.
You told yourself it didn’t matter. It wasn’t like he owed you anything.
But your phone stayed within arm’s reach that night. And the night after.
And when the text finally came—after three days and too many imagined worst-case scenarios—you almost dropped your phone reading it.
sorry i missed book club
things got messy and didn’t want to drag you into it
You typed a reply quickly.
Are you okay? Where are you?
He got back to you immediately.
safe now
can I see you?
You tilted your head, considering your answer.
Yeah
Where were you thinking? Bar?
Bucky didn’t respond after that.
—
You didn’t expect the knock.
You’d half expected him to disappear for good. Or to text you some vague “something came up” text that meant he was in mortal danger.
But thirty minutes after you last texted him, at 1:14 a.m., there he was— knocking against your window like he wasn’t standing four stories up on a Brooklyn fire escape.
You blinked and pushed the window open. “You’re insane.”
He gave a crooked shrug. “You said I could see you.”
He climbed in, but only halfway, just to glance around your apartment. His eyes landed on your laptop—open, half a draft blinking on the screen—and then on the half-eaten bag of trail mix on your desk.
“This is sad,” he teased.
“Don’t judge me. It’s freelance life.”
You stepped aside, but instead of going in, he sat down on the ledge of your fire escape again, like he’d done it a hundred times before. You sighed and ducked out the window to sit beside him.
Neither of you spoke right away.
You just sat shoulder to shoulder in the dark. It was cooler than it had been last week, and you noticed the way he rolled his shoulder like something was still sore.
“You okay?” you asked after a minute.
“No.”
You nodded. “Wanna talk about it?”
He was quiet for a moment. Then— “I saw that article you wrote. The one about the Flag Smashers.”
You braced yourself.
“You said they had a point.”
You swallowed. “Yeah?”
“Well,” he let out a deep breath, “I kind of missed book club because we’re going after them.”
You froze. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” His metal fists curled. “I mean—we’re not hunting them down like animals. Sam and I… we were trying to stop it from getting worse, from doing something they’d regret. It’s just—” he shook his head—“messy.”
You nodded slowly. “I get it.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah,” you said softly. “I wasn’t defending what they did. But they’re angry. Displaced. It’s hard not to look at what the world’s become and think, God, someone has to break something to make people listen.”
He looked down. “That’s probably what Karli would say.”
“Yeah,” you breathed. “That’s what scared me.”
Bucky leaned against you, and you carefully put your head on your shoulders. He exhaled through his nose. “It’s not like I think she’s wrong. Just… I’ve done things I can’t take back. I know where that path ends.”
You scooted just a bit closer. He sounded like the weight of the world was draped over his shoulders like an old coat he couldn’t take off.
“I didn’t mean to dump all that,” he said, voice rough.
“Don’t worry about it.”
There was another bout of silence, and for a while, you basked in him
Then you turned to him, narrowing your eyes. “You’re tense as hell.”
He glanced at you. “What?”
“You’ve been rolling that shoulder for ten minutes.”
“I’m fine.”
You reached over before he could finish protesting, your hand finding the spot near his collarbone. He flinched— but didn’t stop you.
“Relax,” you whispered, fingers pressing gently into the muscle. “Jesus, it’s like a steel cable.”
He made a sound that was almost a laugh, almost a groan—and tilted his head just enough to give you better access.
“You keep this up,” he muttered, “and I’m going to start thinking you’re trying to seduce me.”
You smiled without looking at him. “If I was trying to seduce you, James, you’d already be in my bed.”
He let out a real laugh at that, but then he stopped abruptly.
You could feel the moment shift—like heat rising under a volcano.
His voice was quieter when he said it. “You ever think about it?”
Your fingers paused. “Think about what?”
“This.” He glanced at you. “Us. Kind of… doing something about the tension.”
Your hand slipped away from his shoulder carefully. “You mean sex?”
He met your gaze without flinching. “Yeah.”
Your breath caught, but you didn’t move. “Yeah,” you said, just above a whisper. “Of course I have.”
He looked at you. “And?”
“And I think we’re both a mess.”
He didn’t argue.
“You told me you missed your court-mandated therapy two weeks ago,” you spelled it out for him gently. “I’m averaging three articles a month. Four if I get lucky. I’m emotionally exhausted, financially unstable, and one wrong email away from moving back in with my family.”
He smiled, a little crooked and a little sad. “You think I don’t know I’m a mess?”
“No,” you shook your head, “I think you do. That’s the problem.”
You placed a hand on his metal arm and met his gaze. “Neither of us is in the headspace for a relationship.”
His teeth clenched, but he didn’t look away. “But,” he said, his voice lower now, almost thoughtful, “One way or another… we should do something.”
Your heartbeat ticked up. “You’re serious?”
“I think about you all the damn time,” he said simply. “I think about how you talk. How you laugh. How you look when you get pissed off in book club and start flipping through your notes.”
“We’re not stable,” you reminded before he could spiral, even though you wanted to say you loved staring into his eyes and finding the ocean, even though you wanted to let him know you found him to be the only person you could breathe around. “We’re not dating material. We’re barely friend material.”
“I know,” he said quietly.
And you knew he did.
You knew because he carried every broken piece of himself like it was still dangerous. You knew because you did the same.
“So what then?” you asked. “What are we even talking about?”
He met your eyes. “Just sex.”
Your breath caught.
“I’m serious,” he said. “No pretending it’s anything else. No promises.”
You tilted your head. “And you think that’s gonna be enough?”
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I know I feel like I’m losing my mind half the week. And when I’m around you, I don’t.”
You swallowed hard. “Bucky—”
“I don’t mean it like some sappy shit,” he corrected himself. “I just mean — you’re easy to be around. You get it. The mess. The anger. The bad sleep. You don’t try to fix me.”
You were quiet.
“And when you touch me,” he added, “I feel like I’m still human.”
That nearly knocked the breath out of you.
You shouldn’t say things like that, you thought, because I’m already halfway in love with you.
You didn’t say it, though.
Instead you said, “Okay.”
His brow lifted. “Okay?”
“Sex,” you said. “Just sex. When we’re both clear-headed and want it.”
His voice shifted—playful now, “Do we want it now?”
You looked at him, at the way the moonlight caught the angles of his face, the tension still hanging on his frame like armour, His eyes were warm, but his mind was probably still spinning.
You gave him a faint smile, “You’re not clear-headed right now.”
He glanced down at where your hand still rested on his, fingers splayed.
“No emotional triage sex,” you said again, quieter this time. “Remember?”
He caught your wrist — not hard, just enough to keep it with his hand for a second longer. His touch was careful, and it made your throat tighten. “Fine,” he murmured. “Then I’ll sit out here until I’m calm.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You’ll freeze.”
He smirked. “Worth it.”
“You’re such a guy.” You stood, brushing your hands off on your pajama pants. “I’ll be on the couch. Try not to catch hypothermia out here, old man.”
He gave you a mock glare as you slipped back through the window, leaving it cracked open behind you.
—
Twenty minutes passed.
You weren’t sure why you kept checking the clock. You’d pulled an old blanket over yourself, curled sideways on the couch having finished an article, one eye half-watching the blinking cursor on your laptop screen across the room. But your thoughts were back on the fire escape. On him.
You were about to get up—maybe to check, maybe to call him an idiot again—when you heard the scrape of boots on your floor. You looked up.
There he was, hoodie unzipped now, hair a little messy from the night air.
He didn’t say anything. He just walked across the room, took off his shoes and sat beside you.
Then slowly — like checking for permission — he slid down, tucked his arm under your head, and pulled you in. His body curled behind yours, as he rested his cheek just barely against the back of your shoulder.
You didn’t move. You just let yourself be held.
And after a while, when your breathing slowed and your thoughts finally stopped chasing themselves — you felt his fingers slip gently over yours, and his thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles.
So… no sex. But just comfort. Just him. You weren’t complaining at all.
—
A week later, he was late to book club. Which was no surprise for Bucky Barnes — but this time, you knew why.
He had just stepped off a plane from Riga hours earlier. Still, he made it — slipping into book club quietly, just past the first half hour, with a henley beneath his jacket and baseball cap shadowing his face.
You caught his eye as he dropped into the seat beside you.
“Just got off the plane,” he whispered, breath warm in your ear, “didn’t want to miss it.”
You blinked, heart skipping a beat. “You flew all the way back for this?”
“No,” he said, a teasing edge under the weariness. “I flew back for you.”
You swallowed, heat blooming behind your cheeks.
The rest of the night blurred into a haze. Words floated like smoke; their meaning lost beneath the thumping of your heartbeat. His knee brushed yours beneath — annoyingly impossible to ignore.
When the last page was turned, the group dispersed, and the chairs scraped across the floor, you stood to face him. “You walking me home?”
His tired smile was all the answer you needed. “Always.”
—
The walk was silent. Not the awkward kind, but the charged kind that hummed under your skin and made every footstep feel like it echoed louder than it should. The streetlights overhead cast golden pools on the sidewalk, and every few steps, his arm would brush yours — too casual to be deliberate, too frequent to be accidental. You’d forgotten to bring a jacket, but you barely felt the chill.
“So,” you finally said, your voice quieter than usual. “Riga, huh?”
“Another mission.” Bucky huffed out a tired laugh. “Got back less than three hours ago.”
“And still came to book club to and I quote,” you teased, “‘See me?’”
His shoulder bumped yours. “Yeah.”
You looked over, and the half-smile on his face wasn’t teasing. It was tired, yes, and a little crooked, but sincere.
“I’m glad you came,” you said before you could stop yourself. You didn’t dress it up or tuck it behind a joke.
He didn’t look away. “Me too.”
You reached your building and stopped at the stoop, one hand gripping the railing absently. The city moved quietly behind you—- the hum of traffic a street over, the flicker of a neon sign across the way. His shadow pooled across yours. You turned toward him. “Do you want to—” You hesitated. You hadn’t planned to say it. It wasn’t a line. “Come in?”
There it was again — that flicker of surprise in his eyes.
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took one step closer. You could smell the faint warmth of his skin, the soap still clinging to him. His voice dropped. “Yeah.”
You moved up the stairs ahead of him, heart hammering like it was trying to make itself known through your ribcage. You unlocked the door and stepped inside. He followed without a word.
You didn’t bother turning on the lights. The spill of the city through the windows was enough. Your apartment was small, familiar.
You slipped off your shoes slowly, suddenly hyperaware of every motion, especially of his eyes on you.
When you straightened, he was still by the door. Hands in the pockets of his hoodie, watching you.
Neither of you moved.
“Do you want a drink?” you asked, quieter than you meant.
“No.”
You swallowed.
He took a step toward you, and you didn’t back away.
When he was close enough that you could feel his breath, you tilted your head up, eyes locking with his. There was something in his eyes that made your stomach twist — like he’d already imagined this moment a hundred times, and now he was here, he didn’t want to rush it.
“I’ve been thinking about last week,” he said, voice low and hoarse. “But I didn’t want to— I didn’t know if you still want…”
Your hands were already sliding up his chest, curling in the fabric of his shirt. “You’re thinking too much, Barnes.”
And then you kissed him.
Not shy, but slow at first — mouths brushing, — but then he groaned low in his throat, and kissed you back with years of tension behind it. His hands slid into your hair, fingers tightening and tugging gently. You gasped against his mouth, and his tongue slid against yours.
You clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded, his metal arm anchoring you to reality.
He broke away first, barely — his forehead pressed against yours, breathing heavy.
His mouth was still hovering over yours, breath warm and ragged, the sweat between you thick enough to drown in.
“That what you wanted?” he murmured, voice dark.
You swallowed, fingers still twisted in his henley. “It’s a good start.”
The corner of his mouth twitched and then you kissed him again, harder this time.
There was no slow build now. His hands were everywhere — under your shirt, gripping your waist like he’d die if he let go. He tasted like salt and jet lag and something distinctly him, and you couldn’t get enough.
You turned and walked backward, tugging him with you, fingers sliding under his shirt, greedy and fast. He followed wordlessly, eyes locked on yours, hunger darkening his gaze.
Your knees hit the back of the couch, and you pulled him down with you. The couch creaked beneath the sudden, tangled rush of limbs, but you didn’t stop, didn’t care. You reached for the hem of his shirt, yanking it over his head in one fluid motion. His chest was scarred and beautiful, warm skin over muscle you wanted to memorise with your hands, your mouth. His dog tags clinked between you.
He leaned down again, his mouth brushing your jaw, your throat, your collarbone like he was searching for answers in your skin. Your back arched, offering more, needing more.
“Fuck,” he groaned into your neck. “You don’t know what you do to me.”
“I think I do,” you whispered, dragging your nails lightly down his back. He shivered. His hips bucked forward against yours, and you loved the way he wasn’t holding back anymore.
Your shirt was gone next. Then the rest — clothes shed like molted skin, until there was nothing left between you but barely-touched want.
He looked at you for one breathless second — long enough for you to see it, just a flicker of awe, maybe even fear. Then his mouth was on yours again, and he was moving — slow at first, then deeper. You gasped into his mouth, body arching into him. “Bucky—”
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Just let go.”
So you did.
You moved together in a rhythm that was messy and perfect, frantic and slow, too much and not enough. Every sound you made — a gasp or a moan, his name on your lips — made him lose control a little more.
He cursed into your shoulder when you clenched around him, when your nails scraped his back, when your hips lifted to meet every thrust like you’d been waiting your whole life for this.
Your fingers threaded into his hair. And then — the moment hit, like fire swallowing oxygen. You shattered under him, his name a broken cry on your lips, and he followed right after, groaning into your neck as his body locked against yours.
For a long time, he had his hand in your hair, your leg still curled around his hip, both of you coming down with aftershock.
Then, you said it. The thing you’d both been hiding behind. “It’s just sex, right?”
You didn’t know if you meant it. Your voice was casual, but your heart was anything but. You didn’t look at him.
He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned up on one elbow, brushed some hair out of your eyes, and looked like he could see straight through the lie.
Then he smiled — that crooked Barnes smile that you never quite understood but adored anyway. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
—
It became a thing, because of course it did.
Every Thursday night — after book club, after someone gave a half-hearted review of whatever novel they'd half-read — Bucky would walk you home, or he’d invite you over to his, no matter how tired he was. No matter if Sam had him chasing leads across borders the day before. No matter if you’d argued in the middle of a group discussion over whether the protagonist was morally gray or just an asshole.
By the time you got to the door, it was already understood. You’d leave it cracked open behind you as you kicked off your shoes.
Some nights, you didn’t even speak. He’d press a kiss to the back of your neck while you stood by the kitchen counter. You’d melt before the water even hit your lips. Then the glasses would be forgotten.
Clothes disappeared between rooms. Sometimes in the hallway, sometimes the couch, occasionally — recklessly — the window. His hands on your thighs, your mouth on his shoulder, your fingers threading through his hair. Again and again.
It wasn’t gentle, not always. Not at first.
Some weeks, after missions, his hands would grip you a little harder. You knew what to do. You’d pull him onto you and let him use you until the tremors stopped. No emotional triage sex be damned.
You never asked what he’d seen. He never asked why you were typing furiously into 3 a.m. drafts you never submitted.
Other times, it was quiet. Like that fourth week — when you had cramps, and he still came by, and you told him “I’m not in the mood” and he said, “I didn’t come for sex,” and then climbed into bed with you fully clothed and let you curl into him like a furnace, letting the pain bleed out of your spine. He didn’t leave that night.
Some Thursdays, you’d talk. Bodies tangled under sheets, your leg thrown across his thigh while you shared wine straight from the bottle. He asked you what you liked to read outside of the club. You asked if he ever watched the Voltron cartoons.
Once, you kissed him before he touched you — and it felt dangerously close to strings. He pretended not to notice. Later, as you straddled him on the couch, riding him with desperation, he gasped your name like it meant more than your body.
You pretended not to hear that, either.
It was just sex. Except it wasn’t.
He started keeping a toothbrush in your bathroom. You started texting him about non-sex things. Groceries. Headlines. Memes.
He never stayed past Friday morning. You never asked him to. But every Thursday night, he came back. Like clockwork.
—
This week, he texted you a few hours before book club.
can’t make it tonight. something came up. raincheck?
You stared at the message longer than you should have.
No explanation. No voice note. No dumb emoji that he didn’t know how to use. You didn’t respond right away.
You had news — big news — the kind you’d imagined telling him face-to-face, maybe over takeout on your couch, legs tangled under the blanket he claimed was too small for him.
You… got a job offer six days ago. You accepted it five days ago. And this time, it wasn't an underpaid freelance gig or an op-ed that paid in exposure.
You’d landed an offer from The District Post, a rising political publication based in D.C., one of the few that still let its journalists write with teeth. You hadn’t told him you’d even applied.
You were supposed to move next week.
And now, he wouldn’t even be here tonight, and you didn’t know if he’d have the time to see you before then.
Still, you typed out your reply.
Okay. Be safe.
That night, you skipped book club. You couldn’t sit in that room tonight, not with his usual empty chair beside you.
Instead, you poured a glass of cheap wine and tried to write — something about your neighborhood, a think piece you were rushing out before the move. But you couldn’t focus. The words didn’t sit right. Everything felt off.
Then you flipped on the TV.
And there they were.
The Live Breaking News banner flashed red across the screen. Chaos outside a GRC meeting in New York, emergency broadcasts, armed guards, panic. And then— Captain America.
His wings outstretched, the shield gleaming under spotlights. He dropped into frame like a meteor.Your breath caught.
And behind him— Bucky. Charging into frame, metal arm glinting, catching falling debris like it was nothing. Bruised, sweating, while people screamed around them. Cameras were everywhere.
You watched, transfixed, all while Sam gave the speech. "You have to do better. You’ve got to step up. Because if you don’t — the next Karli will."
You looked closer at the screen. Bucky stood off to the side, watching his best friend with pride. He wasn’t a soldier anymore, not like he used to be.
You didn’t realise you were crying until you blinked and tasted salt. You sat in silence long after the coverage ended, the glow of the screen flickering across your empty apartment.
Then your phone buzzed with a new email.
Subject: GRC PRESS PASS — URGENT APPROVAL
From: [email protected]
You are credentialed to cover the post-summit GRC press briefing in Manhattan. Captain Sam Wilson and Sergeant James Barnes will be present.
Due to your proximity and recent work, you are our lead.
Be there by 9:30 a.m.
You were being sent… because you were closest to the scene. Because somehow your strange, messy, not-a-relationship with Bucky had placed you at the epicenter of something bigger than both of you.
Tomorrow, you’d be there in a professional capacity — with your press badge, a recorder, and a deadline — and you’d have to ask questions like he wasn’t the man who kissed your neck and stole your pillows and never stayed past Friday morning.
You’d have to see him like the rest of the world did. And worse… he’d have to see you that way too.
As a reporter, and not the person who massaged the tension from his shoulders, who whispered against his skin, “just sex, right?”
You set the glass in your hand down and on the edge of your bed, and all you could think about was how his toothbrush was still in your bathroom.
You thought about throwing it out. You didn’t.
—
The press conference wasn’t supposed to be your moment.
You were just another journalist in a sea of microphones and recycled questions, trying to keep your hand steady while the world tilted just a little from everything that had just gone down with the Flag Smashers, with Karli, with Cap—Sam.
People around you were fawning over the new Captain America, swooning at his speech, trying to get quotes that would fit well in a tweet. Soundbites. Clicks. Validation. But not you.
You were tired of the bullshit, of the "how does it feel to have the shield again" questions lobbed toward Sam like a beach ball. Instead, you watched Bucky in his uniform that looked like a rushed fitting— his eyes filled with that haunted, half-there, half-wanting-to-leave-the-building-already look.
And then he saw you in the crowd.
He blinked—once, twice—like the universe had glitched. His lips parted slightly, and his brow twitched like he wasn’t sure if you were real. You caught the moment his eyes dropped over your face, your mouth, the line of your collarbone visible just above your blouse. It was familiar territory.
You were trying your best to act like you hadn’t had his hand wrapped around your thigh eight nights ago while you bit down a moan in the crook of his neck. Still, you raised your hand.
And when they called on you, you didn’t hesitate.
“Mr. Barnes,” you called. “Do you think public perception of you has changed after this incident?”
The room froze around your voice. Even Sam glanced over.
Bucky stared at you like you’d sucker-punched him. Not because the question was aggressive—it wasn’t. It was… professional.
But you knew him. You’d had your fingers on his pulse. You were the last person to run your hands through his hair while he came undone in a bed that still smelled like him.
He blinked again, a double-take this time. Like he didn’t quite trust that you were really there, asking that.
“I… don’t know,” he said finally, with a smile he could never help when he saw you. “I don’t… really care anymore.”
You nodded and scribbled something that wasn’t a word into your notebook, just to give your hands something to do.
The press conference moved on. Sam answered a question about international cooperation. A woman from the GRC said something diplomatic and vague, but you didn’t hear any of it.
Because Bucky Barnes was still watching you like he was peeling back every layer of distance, until only the truth of a week ago was left: your nails in his back, his breath against your skin, and the look on his face when he realised he didn’t want it to end.
When it was over, you didn’t wait around. You’d done your job. You’d asked your question.
You slipped out toward the back hallway, but he followed.
—
You were almost down the steps of the building when you heard your name followed with a "Wait—hey."
You turned.
And there he was, cutting through the crowd with that signature Bucky Barnes boyish smile he reserved for you like no one else existed. Which, for that split second, maybe they didn’t.
His tie was undone, hanging loose around his neck, jacket slung over one shoulder, and his ridiculously blue eyes locked onto you.
He slowed down when he got closer, giving you a once-over that was anything but subtle.
And then, softly, almost to himself. “Wow.”
You smiled, shy all of a sudden. “Hi.”
He blinked, and it took him a second too long to respond. “I—wow. Look at you. Invited to press.”
“Bucky,” you said with a smile, feigning offense. “Are you saying a press pass means I’m finally a real journalist?”
That made him laugh, the sound low and rough. “I just…” he started, “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
You tapped your badge, the lanyard swinging lightly against your chest. “Got a job.”
He leaned in to read it, his brow lifting. “The District Post? Isn’t that—”
“In D.C.,” you finished. “Yeah.”
His smile almost dropped, like you had pulled the floor out from under his thoughts. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, wow. That’s—shit, that’s huge. Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” you said, lips tugging into a small smile.
His eyes fell to the sidewalk. “So… you’re moving?”
“Next week,” you confirmed.
“Oh,” he said again, but softer this time, like it hadn’t really sunk in until now.
You tilted your head, watching him. “What, you gonna miss me, Barnes?”
And he met your eyes again. “Yes,” he said without missing a beat. “Of course.”
Your heart did a stupid flip in your chest, traitor that it was.
You let the moment sit between you— the heat, the knowledge that whatever this was didn’t feel finished. That those nights weren't just some casual thing, no matter how both of you had tried to play it cool.
And maybe you were both cowards, not texting, not calling, not saying what it meant. But you refused to let it swallow you whole just yet. Instead, you grinned and crossed your arms.
“We still have a week,” you said suddenly, quieter.
He blinked. “What?”
You lifted your eyes to his. “Before I go. I still have a week.”
He gave you half-smile again, the one that always made your stomach flip.
“Well,” he said, voice rough around the edges. “Guess I should make it count then, huh?”
You raised a brow. “What, suddenly you’re sentimental?”
He brushed a knuckle against your wrist, tentative, like he was asking permission to feel again. “I…,” he started, “I just want to help you spend your last few days in New York. If that’s alright?"
You looked up at him. Let your voice drop, teasing again—because too much honesty all at once might break you both. “Depends,” you said. “You buying takeout?”
He grinned, the tension in his shoulders finally loosening. “Only if you promise not to mock my taste in diners this time.”
“I make no promises.”
He laughed again, and sure, maybe there was still a thousand miles of uncertainty ahead. But for now, you still had a week.
—
The week was over before you knew it.
The morning sun spilled across the sidewalk as Bucky hauled two of your heavy suitcases up the subway and into the train station, the rest of your belongings already en route. He saw you fumble over your ticket but didn’t move, eyes flicking over to you like he was trying to commit the moment to memory.
“Ready?” he asked casually, like he wasn’t thinking about the fact you’d been in his bed less than twelve hours ago. You glanced at him, that familiar flicker of something between amusement and frustration rising. “Yeah. The train is in thirty minutes.”
He nodded, biting his lip like he was holding back a dozen things he wanted to say—and some he probably shouldn’t. You’re letting her go, he thought bitterly, you’re letting her leave without knowing how you really feel.
You had a real shot now — a steady job, a life starting to bloom beyond the chaos that followed him around like a shadow. He remembered the first time he saw the lanyard last week. The pride in your voice should have made him happy. And part of him was.
But another part—one he refused to admit—was drowning.
She’s gonna meet someone out there, he thought, eyes flicking back to you, someone who can give her the kind of life I can’t right now.
He was jealous just thinking of some random guy touching you the way he did last night. He wanted to beg you to wait, to tell you he’d get there — someday. But he knew, It wouldn’t be fair. Not to you.
So instead, he kept quiet.
You caught his gaze, eyes narrowing. “You gonna say something or just stare at me till I leave?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I was gonna say... thanks.”
“For what?” You arched an eyebrow, crossing your arms.
“For this last week,” he said quietly. “For not making it weird. For just… letting it be.”
You laughed, but there was no real humour in it. “We’re not a thing, Bucky. Just friends.”
Liar, you thought to yourself.
He chuckled, shaking his head like he was amused by your insistence. “Right. Friends.”
You didn’t say anything. You knew exactly what he meant.
As he handed you your suitcase, he stepped back toward you, closing the distance.
“You sure this is it?” His hand caught yours, fingers around your wrist.
You held his eyes, the heat sparking between you like a live wire. “Yeah,” you said. “I’m sure.”
He leaned in, hand sliding from your wrist up to cup your cheek “We’re just friends,” he whispered.
You nodded. “So,” you said, teasing, “this is just how friends say goodbye?”
Without another word, Bucky’s lips found yours—soft at first, then deeper. You kissed back, heart pounding, the world shrinking to the two of you right there on the sidewalk.
When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours. “Text me when you get there,” he said, voice rough.
You nodded.
“I’ll miss you,” he admitted, quieter now.
You smiled, brushing your fingers through his hair. “Me too.”
And just like that, you were walking toward the train.
When Bucky got home, he read your piece on him and Sam, and pretended you were still there.
—
For a while, you and Bucky kept in touch like you said you would. Those first few weeks were filled with late-night texts and lonely phone calls — the kind that made the distance seem smaller, like you could almost reach through the screen and touch him on the other side. But life, as it tends to do, got in the way.
You both got busier — deadlines, news stories, and endless responsibilities pulling you in a thousand directions at once. The daily messages turned into weekly check-ins, and the weekly check-ins into texts that came sporadically. Before you knew it, you only texted every three months.
"Hey. Hope you’re good."
"Hey. Still alive."
“I think I’m gonna grow out my hair.”
You’d text a quick update. A joke. A picture of some mundane thing that made you think of the other. Nothing demanding — just enough to say, I'm still here.
You both knew it was a far cry from where you started. No more late-night talks about everything and nothing, no more teasing banter that stretched until sunrise.
But that was okay.
Because sometimes, that’s how life works.
—
A year slipped by like sand between your fingers.
Your work had become a grind — not in a bad way, just in that all-consuming way where your days blurred together in drafts and deadlines and a phone that never stopped buzzing. You still got the occasional “How are you?” text from Bucky. You answered most of the time. Sometimes it took a few days. Sometimes longer.
Then, one morning, while half-listening to a pitch meeting, a colleague offhandedly mentioned a sister company’s political beat — “Big story this week. James Barnes is running for congress. Wild, right?”
You nearly dropped your coffee.
“Barnes?” you asked, pretending it was nothing. Pretending your chest hadn’t just constricted.
“Yeah, Bucky Barnes. Brooklyn seat. He’s advocating for GRC reform, community policy — it’s a whole thing.”
Of course he was running for Congress. Of course.
It was so him —that need to make the world just a little bit better, though still unsure how? Of course he was trying everything.
You sat on the news for a couple days. Thought about saying nothing. But one night, after too much caffeine and too little sleep, you caved.
[You, 2:41 AM]
Saw the news. Congressman Barnes, huh? Good luck.
You didn’t expect a reply. Not right away. Maybe not ever. But then…
[Bucky, 3:05 AM]
Thought I should try something stable.
You started keeping tabs. You watched the campaign videos when they came across your feed. Read a few articles. One photo — him at some community event, sleeves rolled up, squinting in the sun with that smile you remembered too well — made you stare a little too long before scrolling past.
It was weird. You weren’t in love. Right? Just... proud.
And maybe, just maybe, wondering what might happen if you ever crossed paths again.
—
A year after he started campaigning, he got voted in.
Congressman James Buchanan Barnes — Brooklyn’s own, sworn in with a navy suit, a firm handshake, and those same blue eyes you remembered from two years ago.
You didn’t text this time— just watched from a distance. Until the day of his first press conference.
You weren’t even assigned to it, not really. But when the opportunity opened to cover local legislative priorities, your badge was already around your neck and your recorder already in your bag. You told yourself it was just another assignment.
You didn’t expect him to notice you. Not right away, at least.
But the second he stepped up to the podium, eyes scanning the crowd of cameras and reporters, he did. He did a full double take when he saw you.
His hair was a little longer, his suit a little more expensive. But he remembered the way your skin felt under his palm.
Then… you raised your hand.
He called on you, because of course he did. He barely even looked at the press sheet. You stood.
"Congressman Barnes," you said, clearly, pretending your heart wasn’t beating out of your chest “You ran on transparency and reform — with the GRC and domestic policy both under scrutiny. Do you believe public perception of you, personally, has changed after your... past affiliations?"
His teeth clenched — but not in anger. It was like a memory trying to claw its way to the surface.
He let out a deep breath. "I think people will always see what they want to see. But I'm here to serve them, not convince them."
You didn’t flinch. “That’s a diplomatic answer.”
A flicker of a smile ghosted across his face. “You shouldn’t expect any less from me.”
God, he’s changed. You raised an eyebrow, letting the tension simmer. You wanted to say, Funny. Last time I saw you, you were definitely not behaving diplomatically.
But no, you just nodded and sat down.
He was dead silent for half a second too long. He chuckled under his breath, eyes cutting into yours like the rest of the room wasn’t even there.
He stumbled a little on the next question and cleared his throat twice. The comms director gave him a look like get it together.
—
The press conference ended with the usual flurry — interns chasing stories, photographers snapping the last few candids, aides ushering the Congressman toward scheduled handshakes and photo ops. But you… you moved slowly.
You weren’t supposed to linger, you had your quote. Your headline was already half-formed in your head. But still, you hovered, half-expecting — hoping — he’d break through the crowd, just for a second. And of course, he did.
“Hey.”
Bucky Barnes, up close in a tailored black suit that made him look was a sight to behold. But his voice was quiet, and his eyes were soft — the way only you knew how to read.
“Didn’t think I’d see you today,” he said, and he sounded winded like he’d just come off the Senate floor, not a press event.
“I cover federal now,” you said, lifting your press badge with a smirk. “So here I am.”
A long pause formed a chasm between you, bloated with everything you hadn’t said for almost two years. The nights. The slowly drifting apart. The texts that faded from “hey” to “hope you’re well.”
“I missed you,” he said quietly.
God. You swallowed. “We got busy.”
He nodded. “Yeah. You were out there doing your thing. And I was…” He looked down at his polished shoes, then back up, almost sheepishly. “Apparently running for Congress.”
You laughed under your breath. “How the hell did that happen?”
“Woke up one day and wanted to matter,” he said. “I guess… I wanted to do something. Like you.”
His voice cracked just a bit. The way it always did when he let the guard down. When he wasn’t the Winter Soldier, wasn’t a Congressman. Just Bucky.
“How do you feel?” you asked. “Off the record, of course.
“Felt like I was gonna throw up,” he admitted, eyes bright with the kind of joy that only came from honesty. “Until you asked that question.”
“Oh?” you asked, one brow lifting. “Didn’t mean to rattle you.”
“You didn’t.” He tilted his head. “Well. Maybe a little. But in a good way.”
You let another beat of silence fester before lowering your voice. “You know, the last time I saw you…”
“That night,” he finished, a little too fast, “I remember.”
You looked up at him. “And the morning after,” you said, “you dropped me at the station.”
“I did,” he said, softer now. “Kissed you like an idiot before you left. ‘Cause we were just friends, right?”
You smiled, biting your bottom lip. “Right.”
He took a step closer, invading your space just enough to let the muscle memory kick in. “Was it ever really just that for you?” he asked, voice husky.
You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you stepped a little closer, too. Close enough to smell the clean linen of his shirt and the warm spice of his cologne.
“Congressman Barnes,” you whispered. “You’re dangerously close to breaking professional boundaries.”
His eyes darkened, locked on your mouth, before his assistant called his name.
“Shit,” he said, reluctantly, “I’ve got a thing in ten minutes.”
“Good,” you said. “That means I can walk away before this gets messier than it already is.”
You turned, but his hand — his human hand — caught your wrist. “I meant what I said,” he told you. “I missed you. I missed this.”
“I missed you too,” you said, just above a whisper. “Even when I tried not to.”
He stepped back, though only barely. “You still trying?”
You didn’t answer. You just looked at him like you knew. Like only the two of you knew how it really ended — how it never really ended at all.
He let you go. “Dinner?”
“I’ll think about it.”
He smiled. “I’ll take that.”
As you walked away, your heart a livewire under your ribs, he watched you with a look that wasn’t fit for public office — but damn if it didn’t feel like the beginning of something. Again.
—
Your article dropped at 7:30 a.m. on a Monday.
By 8:15, it had already been passed between Capitol Hill interns like contraband. Screenshots on Slack. Circled paragraphs in group chats. Someone in Policy & Strategy made a spreadsheet of who was flayed the hardest.
The article was titled: “The New Faces of Power: An Overview of the Elected Democratic Representatives.”
Bucky Barnes — newly sworn-in Representative of New York’s 7th Congressional District — landed at #3 on that list.
He read it in full by 9:04 a.m., standing by the windows of his DC office, coffee gone cold in his hand. You hadn’t pulled your punches.
It was why you’d gone from freelancer with an uncertain voice to one of the youngest senior political analysts at your publication in just two years. You’d clawed your way up, built a reputation out of clever insight and fearless prose.
You didn't have time for flattery. You didn’t care if your subject wore medals or held office — if their platform wasn’t solid, you said it.
And now, you’d turned that lens on him.
James Buchanan Barnes steps into Congress with a legacy longer than most Representatives’ résumés. He’s got the kind of résumé that makes people feel things — safety, nostalgia, reverence. But policy isn’t about feeling. It’s about doing. And so far, Barnes might be more invested in image than action.
Final Verdict: Symbolic. Possibly even performative. The jury’s still out.
Ouch.
And yet— Bucky let the words sink deep. Because you weren’t wrong. Not entirely.
And that’s what made it sting — and what made him respect the hell out of you. You’d known him in a way no one else had. You’d known his heart. You’d had your fingers on his ribs and your voice in his ear and still, you didn’t let that cloud your judgment.
You didn’t shrink from writing what needed to be written. And God, he missed you for it.
He hadn’t realised how much until now, until he saw your name again in bold, crisp font — right there, above an article that had already shaken the morning meetings of half the House aides.
But then he noticed something.
His heart picked up. No way.
It was ridiculous to think you’d—
But he sat down fast. Grabbed his phone. Opened the Notes app.
Under your name, he noticed a little key smash that looked like it had accidentally made it pass editing.
hes mw fcxxet
But he knew it wasn’t.
You and Bucky had developed a custom Alphabet replacement cipher, started out as a game three years ago. It was a book club dare between lovers, made of childhood tricks and spy movies. You’d laughed about it afterwards and curled up beside him, called it “your nerdy little secret,” and buried one in a crossword puzzle just for him the week after you’d left D.C.
He hadn’t thought you’d ever use it again.
But there it was. Carefully embedded in your very public article.
He decoded quickly, like muscle memory. Years apart hadn’t dulled it.
YES TO DINNER
He blinked.
He did it again, just to be sure.
You’d written a critical analysis that dissected his first month in office and still found room to slip him that?
Because that’s what it was always like with you: you could gut him and leave him breathless, and still leave the door open. Still whisper, come find me.
And oh, he wanted to.
Not just because you were brilliant, or beautiful, or impossible to look away from at press conferences. But because you saw him. Not the image. Not the mythology. Him.
And you never let him off the hook.
He’d text you — eventually. Or maybe he’d make a statement and bury his response somewhere in the transcript. Because he could play the game too.
But for now, he sat back in his chair, phone still in his hand, and smiled to himself.
Because you weren’t gone. You weren’t done.
You were still here — dropping ciphers just for him.
—
You almost missed the email.
It was buried under press releases and budget spreadsheets and one thousand lines of “per my last email.” Just another ping in your inbox at 2:03 p.m., from a congressional domain name.
Subject line:
Response to Editorial – Representative Barnes
The name made your heart jump, but you didn’t let it show. Not at your desk, not around your colleagues, not when you’d trained yourself for years to be unreadable in a newsroom.
You clicked it open like.
The message was clinical on the surface.
Thank you for your recent editorial in The District Post. I appreciate the critical lens and the historical context your piece brought to the ongoing conversation about congressional transparency and symbolic governance. While I would, of course, offer a more nuanced response to some of your assessments, I recognize the value of this kind of scrutiny.
In fact, I’d welcome a longer conversation.
nwye mw ycxe rwt fcxxet
Kind Regards,
Rep. James B. Barnes
2318 Zpxqsmwx Vzpne XJ, Pvm. 7O
slxsem
rtcfph
Your fingers trembled just a little as you pulled up the decoder in your notes app. It felt like sharing a secret in a room full of people who would never understand.
You deciphered the string, slowly.
COME TO MINE FOR DINNER
And then, just beneath the signature:
2318 Langston Place NW, Apt. 7B
Sunset.
Friday.
You stared at the screen.
Your lips parted in something between a laugh and a silent what the fuck. You were sitting in the middle of a very serious, very professional office, and suddenly you were weightless.
Because he didn’t just say yes.
He invited you to his place like no time had passed. Like you hadn’t gone a whole year barely speaking. Like you hadn’t told yourself that those nights with him were heat-of-the-moment, never-again things.
You didn’t reply immediately. That would be too obvious. You minimized the window and tried to pretend you weren’t practically buzzing.
But your fingers drummed on the desk, your cheeks felt warm, and when someone walked past and said your name, you had to blink yourself back into reality.
He knew. That bastard. He knew exactly what kind of signal he’d sent.
—
The apartment was nicer than you expected. Not flashy, but cosy and huge, with wide windows and hardwood floors and a kitchen that smelled like rosemary and garlic and seared butter.
He opened the door in a dark button-down, sleeves rolled halfway, a dish towel tossed over one shoulder. His hair pulled back.
“Wow,” you said before you could help it, your coat still halfway on. “You clean up.”
He grinned, boyish. “So do you.”
You stepped in. He didn’t hug you — not right away. Maybe neither of you were sure what this night was supposed to be.
But then he brushed your arm when he took your coat, and you both noticed.
You sat on the bar stool by the counter while he plated the steak — cooked perfectly, like he knew what he was doing. There were potatoes, charred asparagus. A bottle of red already breathing on the sideboard.
“This is domestic,” you teased. “Should I be worried?”
Bucky gave a huff of laughter. “Campaign staff made me take a cooking class. Said it would ‘humanize’ me.”
You snorted. “Did it?”
He passed you a plate, eyes flicking up. “You tell me.”
Dinner was slow. Not awkward, not rushed. Like the both of you had been saving this conversation in the backs of your minds, knowing it would happen eventually. The stories started pouring in — how you were promoted after your Ross exposé, how D.C. life was treating you.
He chuckled, chewed, leaned forward with his elbows on the table. “You’re still the same.”
You raised a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean—” He gestured, vague and fond. “Smart. Too good at what you do. Makes people nervous.”
“You?”
“Never,” he said. “You scare the hell outta me in the best way.”
The heat in your cheeks surprised you. He looked down, tongue tucked into his cheek. You nudged the topic somewhere safer, even if it stung a little.You told him how D.C. dating was a disaster — lobbyists who thought they were philosophers, bureaucrats who never turned off the PR charm. “I’ve been ghosted by men with press secretaries,” you said. “It’s bleak.”
He laughed, rubbing his jaw. “That’s rough.”
“And you?”
“New York dating’s a lotta noise,” he said. “Everyone’s either performative or trying to ‘fix’ me.”
“They know you’re now, like, if John Wick and C-Span had a baby, right? You’re not a rehab project.”
“Try telling them that.”
You sipped. “So we’re both un-dateable. Good to know.”
He laughed, a little too loud. “Yeah, no. I went on a couple dates last winter. It’s… weird. I had one woman ask me to sign her shirt.”
You raised your wine glass. “That’s… hot, actually.”
“I declined.”
You both laughed, and it felt… familiar.
Eventually, you leaned back, fork resting on your empty plate. “I saw Sam a couple months ago.”
Bucky tilted his head. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. It was right after the Ross thing. I was there when… you know, the president turned red,” you chuckled, though that wasn’t an amusing memory by any means. “The next day, he came by the Post, off the record. Just to… check in.”
His brow furrowed. He knew you and Sam had a professional relationship, to an extent, and he was grateful for it. If not him, at least someone he trusted looked out for you. “You okay?”
“Fine,” you said softly. “Shaken. But fine. I… visited Joaquin, too. Way too cheerful for someone who broke half the bones in his body, if you ask me.”
He chuckled, nodding.
You hesitated. “I… asked Sam how you were.”
His eyes lifted to yours.
You shrugged, trying to play it cool. “He said you were good. Starting to settle.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“Not true?”
He picked up his glass and swirled the wine.
“I’m not unhappy,” he said. “I just… don’t think I ever figured out where I really belong.”
You swallowed.
And then, he asked, “You?”
You smiled. “I’m doing okay.”
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “That’s reductive.”
“Yes,” you agreed. “It is.”
He tilted his head, watching you like he used to.
Then he stood, took your plate, and moved toward the sink.
You sat there, letting it settle. Taking the scent of his soap and warm spices,
When he turned back, his voice was quieter. “I kept reading you, y’know. Even when we stopped talking.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You kept getting better. Meaner, sometimes. But better.” He smiled, almost proud. “I liked that you never held back.”
You bit your lip.
He stepped closer, one hand still drying on the towel. “Still can’t believe you said yes.”
“To dinner?”
“To me.”
You looked up at him. “We’re just catching up, right?”
He leaned in. “Right.”
“As friends?” You said.
“Whatever you say,” Bucky nodded, though he never looked convinced when he said that.
But the way his eyes dropped to your lips — the way yours drifted to the hollow of his throat — it didn’t feel like just friends catching up.
—
Dinner was long gone. The wine was halfway finished, though neither moved to really touch it.
You were both sitting on the fluffy cotton couch in his living room, the city humming outside the windows like it knew how rare this quiet was.
You had your legs curled under you, holding a cup of warm tea with both hands. Bucky sat on the opposite side, one arm lazily draped over the back of the couch, his eyes on you — not exactly subtle.
You were pretending not to notice.
“So,” he said, breaking the silence with a thoughtful tone. “D.C.’s nice. People have schedules. Rules. They hold doors open and write polite emails even when they’re telling you to go to hell.”
You smiled faintly. “Sounds about right.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” He chuckled once. “But… it’s not you.”
“Oh?” You arched an eyebrow as you looked at him over your glass. “What is me, then?”
His eyes lingered on your face. “Less structured. Messier. More… sporadic.”
You laughed, though you didn’t take it to heart. “Okay, rude.”
“No, not like that,” he said quickly, shaking his head, and way too sincere for his own good. “You just… don’t belong in a box. You think too fast. You don’t follow rules unless they’re worth following. You’re more… New York.”
The room felt warmer suddenly. You set your cup down gently on the coffee table. “I had a chance to leave, you know,” you said, tone lighter now, “The New York Times offered me more money.”
He blinked. “Yeah?”
You nodded. “Bigger platform. Fancy job title. But I said no.”
“Why?”
You shrugged. “Because I have friends here. A community. I… love my job.” Then you added, eyes catching his, “And you. Now you’re here, too.”
Bucky’s ears went slightly pink, but he chose to focus on the former rather than the latter, “Do you love that your job includes tearing into your friend’s political motivations?”
You stilled slightly. “You read my latest?”
“Course I did,” he said, like it wasn’t even a question. “You called me ‘possibly performative.’ That was a fun day at the office.”
You shrugged. “Touché.”
“Still stings, though,” he added, quieter.
“I know,” you admitted. “But I said it because I’ve seen you doing your superhero stuff on the field. I know what you look like when you don’t have to ask permission to do the right thing. So forgive me if I think you’re better with your sleeves rolled up, and not behind a podium. Not editing policy drafts.”
Bucky’s teeth clenched slightly, though didn’t look away.
“I just…” you shrugged. “I wonder if this version of you—politician Bucky—is the one who actually is. Or if he’s just… pretending.”
He was silent for a long moment, deciphering your criticism. “I don’t know if I fit anywhere,” he said eventually. “But this?” He gestured vaguely to the apartment, the city, the suit. “This is the first time I’ve chosen something that didn’t involve a gun.”
You watched him carefully. “Why are you really here, Bucky?”
He hesitated. His voice, when it came, was firmer than you expected.
“Because I want to change things. Because I’ve seen what happens when the wrong people are in charge, and I’ve lost too many damn nights thinking about what I could’ve done if I’d mattered.”
Your throat tightened.
“And yeah,” he added. “There are a lot of people here for the wrong reasons. Power, money, legacy. Whatever. But every time I walk through those doors, I get to try. That counts for something, right?”
You smiled, soft and sad. “It does.”
“Besides, Sam and Joaquin are both here.” He leaned in slightly. “And yeah, you being here… doesn’t hurt.”
He held your eyes for a second too long. You looked down, unsure of what to say.
“You still think I’m better off in the field?” he asked, flexing vibranium fingers.
You nodded once. “I think that’s when you’re most you. Not when you’re buried in committees and handshakes and kissing babies.”
He didn’t argue.
“But,” you added, “if this is what you want—if this is who you’re becoming—then I won’t be the one to doubt it. I just want you to be sure.”
Bucky exhaled slowly. “I want to matter,” he said again. “And if I can’t fix all of it, at least I can stand in the way.”
Fuck, he was infuriatingly sincere, and all you could do was nod.
He watched you for a second, then said, casually, “There’s a state gala tomorrow.”
You looked up from the mug in your hands. “Is that code for ‘I’m vanishing into some secret operation and won’t return for 72 hours’?”
He gave a small smile. “It’s real. Suits and champagne and officials pretending they know what they’re doing.”
You made a face. “Sounds excruciating.”
“Oh, it is,” He tilted his head. “But if you really want to see me perform.” — he gave the word a faintly mocking twist — “you should come.”
You raised a brow. “What, you’re gonna give me a press invite?”
He shook his head once. “No,” he said, “I’m asking you to be my date.”
That statement hung there for longer than it should have.
You blinked. “That’s... bold.”
“Is it?” he asked, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I thought I was being subtle.”
“You’re about as subtle as a grenade.”
He smiled.
You leaned over, scooting closer. “Is this the kind of event where they serve caviar and pretend the world isn’t on fire?”
“Probably.”
“And you want me there? With my ‘less structured, more sporadic’ energy?”
“I’m counting on it,” he said slyly. “Otherwise I’ll just stand around pretending I support stupid tax policies and end up punching someone.”
You glanced at him. “So this is strategic.”
He looked at you and said, “It’s not just that.”
You didn’t answer right away— considering it for almost a full minute.
“Fine.” You finally said, “But I’m not wearing heels over three inches.”
He gave a huff of laughter. “Deal.”
“And if you make me have small talk with anyone who says ‘let’s circle back,’ I’m walking out.”
“I’ll chase you,” he said playfully.
You turned to look at him. “Will you?”
He just nodded.
After all, he wasn’t letting you go ever again.
—
The next night, you weren’t nervous. Not exactly. Just… hyper-aware.
You’d changed your outfit twice — okay, three times — before landing on something sleek and black. It had a clean neckline and strong silhouette. Subtle enough for D.C., but you in the bones of it.
Your phone buzzed.
[Bucky, 6:53 PM]
Outside.
You smoothed your dress once, checked your lipstick without really seeing your reflection, then grabbed your clutch and headed down.
The car waiting wasn’t flashy, but it was classy. When the door opened and you stepped out under the street light, he stepped out too — and froze.
His suit was black, his shirt was black. It looked tailored within an inch of its life with silver cufflinks and not a tie in sight. He had his collar open, and hair swept back in that lazy way that looked expensive and just a little reckless. It was like he’d gotten dressed while thinking about you.
He opened his mouth. Closed it again. “Wow,” Bucky said, voice quieter than usual. “Just—off the record?”
You tilted your head curiously.
He let out a deep breath. “You look beautiful.”
You tried not to smile, though it failed.
“Flattery this early in the night might get into my head,” you warned, stepping toward him.
His lips quirked. “Good.”
You both stood there for half a second too long.
Finally, he opened the car door and held out his hand. You took it.
—
The doors clicked shut, the city noise fading. The air inside smelled like his cologne — subtle and clean, a little smoky underneath. There’s a driver, sure, but the glass is up. You’re alone, technically.
Bucky shifted, resting his left arm casually on the center console, metal fingers tapping a rhythm against the leather. His other hand sat loose on his thigh.
You glanced over. “So this is you ‘fitting in’?”
He grimaced slightly. “This is me trying not to pull a fire alarm to get out of going.”
You laughed. “And I’m the distraction from your self-sabotage?”
“No,” he said, and you could tell he meant it. “You’re the reason I showed up at all.”
Your breath caught just slightly, but you played it off with a wry smile, turning your head toward the window.
“So,” you said. “Is this where you do your best politician impression?”
He groaned. “God, please don’t make me do the voice.”
“Oh no, you have a voice?”
“You know I do.”
You mimicked him, overly formal: “‘The Congressman appreciates your concern and will take the matter under advisement—’”
He slumped dramatically. “Okay, now you’re just bullying me.”
You smiled. “You like it.”
He didn’t deny it.
—
The ballroom glittered with wealth and power — not chaotic like press rooms, where you’re most comfortable in. Everyone here wore their masks well with practiced smiles, firm handshakes, and champagne flutes held like accessories to an agenda.
You’d seen a hundred rooms like it, but never quite like this
Bucky walked beside you like a man who’d rather be anywhere else, yet he’d learned how to make discomfort look intentional. His eyes were always moving — reading people, scanning for more information.
And people noticed.
Some recognised you immediately. You could see it in the way their eyes narrowed just slightly, or the pause between sip and smile. You weren’t supposed to be here. Not in this capacity — not as a plus-one in a dress instead of with a press badge and recorder in hand.
Which made your presence all the more interesting.
Bucky knew it, too.
He introduced you a few times. Politely, not as “a friend” — not as “press.” Just your name. Just enough to let people wonder, is she here for him or for the story?
You smiled graciously every time and sipped your champagne like you weren’t watching everything.
And then it happened.
You were standing near one of the tall tables, Bucky in conversation with two Congressmen and a Defense contractor whose face you recognised — old money and a reputation wrapped in plausible deniability. The topic had started light — committee reshuffling, midterm optics — but Bucky didn’t do small talk well, especially when he smelled bullshit.
“I’ve been looking into the appropriations numbers from the last round of GRC aid,” he said smoothly. “Funny how the oversight committee flagged three anomalies—two of them connected to firms your office vouched for.”
One of the men laughed nervously. “Now’s not the time, Barnes.”
“Why not?” Bucky asked, calmly. “Transparency’s a big part of your platform, right?”
One of them looked at you— and he definitely knew who you were.
“This isn’t the place,” the man said again.
Your eyebrows lifted.
Bucky turned his head slightly. “What, because she’s here?”
You took that as your cue.
You smiled wickedly and stepped forward just enough to make them uneasy.
“Oh, don’t worry,” you said, voice like silk. “I’m off the clock. Everything’s off the record.” You sipped your drink. “I’m just a plus-one tonight,” you added, eyes dancing. Which is complete bullshit, of course, but it was very fun to pretend you weren’t clocking everything.
They didn’t laugh. Bucky did.
He stood there beside you, watching them shift in their shoes, and take pleasure in it. Not because you were being antagonistic — you weren’t. You were smiling, polite, even charming. But the presence of a journalist with integrity alone made them sweat.
That’s what he loved about bringing you here.
You didn’t have to say anything.
They still squirmed.
Not all of them, though.
Later in the evening, a young Senator from Illinois approached you both.
“I just wanted to say,” she said, “I appreciated your breakdown of the foreign security budget last quarter. Brutal, but honest.”
You smiled warmer, more genuine. “Thank you. I try not to hold back.”
“You shouldn’t.” The Senator looked at Bucky. “People like you make us better.”
That one stuck with you.
Because for all the ones who looked rattled — who saw your presence as a threat to their comfort — there were others who understood. Who didn’t fear the questions, who welcomed the pressure.
That when you realised Bucky brought you here not to show you off — but to set a tone.
He could’ve brought anyone.
But he brought the one person who made people nervous— as part of his… performance.
And as the night wore on — as the speeches droned and the clinking glasses dulled into background noise — he’d glance at you now and then with a small smile.
—
The ride back was quiet. Your shoes were off the second you got in the car. Bucky had loosened his collar even more, one hand draped lazily on the back of the seat, fingers just barely brushing your shoulder.
When the car stopped outside your place, you didn’t move right away.
He turned to you. “So.”
You looked at him. “So.”
“That wasn’t a complete disaster.”
“Mm,” you said, mock-considering. “You didn’t punch anyone. I didn’t blackmail anyone. That’s a win.”
Bucky snorted. “Low bar.”
You grinned. “Yup.”
He walked you to your door, jacket slung over one shoulder now, tie stuffed in his pocket.
“Thanks for coming,” he said, “Really.”
You looked up at him, keys in hand.
“You mean for distracting your enemies and inciting mild panic among the morally bankrupt?”
He shrugged. “Exactly.”
You turned the key in the lock, pushed the door open halfway, then paused. You hesitated for one heartbeat
“Hey,” you said, glancing over your shoulder. “You wanna come in?”
Bucky looked… surprise. “You sure?”
You shrugged casually. “Just don’t make it weird, Barnes.”
“I’m a hundred years old,” he laughed before gesturing to his driver that he was done for the night. “I make everything weird.”
—
You kicked your shoes off the second you walked in, already sighing with relief. Bucky followed behind you, glancing around with a quiet smile.
“Wow,” he said, soft and sincere. “You’ve really made a life here.”
You turned, one foot curled under you as you leaned on the arm of the couch. “What, you thought I lived in a reporter-shaped room with a desk and no plumbing?”
“I dunno,” he teased. “I pictured you in a shoebox full of press clippings and takeout.”
You walked past him and opened a cabinet, tossing him a glass. “Close.”
He caught it easily and raised it in a little toast. “Seriously, though. It’s nice. It’s… you.”
That mattered, coming from him.
“I tried,” you said. “Stability’s weird, but I don’t hate it.”
You both sat on the couch, facing each other at first, wine in hand, posture still alert. But over the next twenty minutes, the tension melted slowly — minute by minute, like butter on warm toast.
You talked about the gala. About the senator who spilled champagne on her own shoes and tried to blame the caterer. About how politics made everything louder but not always clearer. About Sam. About your job.
At some point, you pulled your hair up into a messy knot and tossed your legs across his lap like nothing has changed. Bucky, to his credit, just adjusted. His hand stayed on your calf, and he didn’t move it.
You were laughing about something — a lobbyist who couldn’t even point out Russia in a map — when Bucky looked at you a little too long.
And suddenly he leaned forward.
It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t a sweep-you-off-your-feet kind of trying-to-kiss-you.
It was slow, like he was giving you the chance to stop it.
And you did.
Gently, you put a hand on his chest and pulled back.
He froze.
“Shit,” he said immediately, backing off. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean— I just—”
“No,” you cut in quickly. “No, Bucky. I want to.” You looked at him, heart thudding. “I really want to.”
That was true. God, it was true. You were dizzy from the way his breath had felt on your lips, the heat still buzzing where your hand had rested on his chest.
You watched his metal arm plates tighten, his teeth clenching, trying to understand.
“But if we do this again,” you continued, “it can’t be like it was before.”
“Friends with… occasional poor boundary control?” he offered, one corner of his mouth twitching in a sad smile. That charm has always softened the blow, even now.
You gave him a fond look. “Exactly.”
A beat of silence came back, but it wasn’t hard this time.
“So what do we do now?” he asked.
You shifted, taking your legs off his lap and tucking them under you as you leaned back on the arm of the couch. Bucky turned too, mirroring you, knees bumping yours.
“We should sleep on it,” you said softly.
He raised an eyebrow, then repeated, “sleep on it?”
“Yeah.” You nudged his knee. “Not everything has to explode. We take a second. Let it breathe, y’know?”
“And if I’m already sure?” he asked.
Your heart gave you a small, reckless kick.
You looked at him still. “Then sleep on it anyway. Because I need to be sure, too. And if we want to try again—” You hesitated. “Let’s start properly,” you said, more certain now. “Not with wine and after-gala adrenaline.”
Bucky was quiet for a moment, studying you. Then he nodded. “Start again.”
“Yeah.”
He leaned his head back against the couch, eyes drifting to the ceiling like he was thinking something through. Then he smiled a tired, lopsided smile. “That sounds terrifying.”
You laughed. “Not as terrifying as pretending we’re still just friends.”
“Of course.”
The city hummed low through the window, the buzz of the TV flickering like white noise behind you both.
He stretched out a little, glancing over. “So… if we’re sleeping on it…”
You arched a brow. “You want to crash here?”
His eyes feigned innocence. “Purely in a start-over, emotionally-mature capacity.”
“Oh yeah?” you teased. “You gonna hold up your end of the truce?”
He gave you a look. “You trust me?”
“I trust me,” you joked, “You, on the other hand...”
“Hey,” he furrowed his eyebrows.
“Kidding.” Still, you got up and walked to the closet to grab a blanket, tossed him a throw pillow (which he barely caught). You didn’t say much, but there was something strangely gentle about the way you both moved around each other — no longer afraid of being too close, but careful all the same.
You showered while he showered in the guest room en-suite. You put on an oversized shirt and returned to the couch to find Bucky already lying down in a shirt some guys left at your place like, a year ago (it was a bit too small on him) — legs curled, arms crossed behind his head like he was trying not to take up space.
You didn’t hesitate, climbing in next to him.
“You always did take up the whole couch,” you muttered.
“Guess you’ll just have to climb over me,” he said innocently.
You narrowed your eyes. “I will smother you with this pillow.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
You rolled your eyes and settled in beside him, both of you a little awkward for a second — arms adjusting, legs figuring themselves out — until it just… worked.
His arm ended up around your shoulder. Your head ended up on his chest. Your knee bumped his thigh and stayed there.
Eventually, you turned on something dumb on TV — a rerun of Friends or Seinfeld, neither of you really watching. You curled into him, one of his hands toyed absently with the ends of your hair.
And somewhere around 1:42 a.m., though you mentioned something about sleeping in your own bed and Bucky taking the guest bedroom — you both drifted off on the couch, your head against his shoulder.
—
The next morning, you blinked awake, cocooned beneath your comforter, your cheek pressed into your pillow.
Your mind, at first, didn’t quite catch up. You were home, clearly. In your bed.
But—
Wait.
You sat up.
The comforter slid off your shoulder, revealing your sleep shirt twisted sideways from the night before. You rubbed your eyes, squinting at the faint ache in your neck and…
No Bucky.
Your brows furrowed as you swung your legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet hitting the hardwood floor. You walked down the hallway, and saw that the guest bedroom was empty.
Continuing into the living room, the couch was also empty.
The blanket was folded, pillow fluffed. Everything was neat like he’d never been there at all — except you knew he had. You remembered the warmth of his breath. You remembered falling asleep with his fingers lazily brushing the inside of your elbow.
So what the hell?
And then you noticed it.
A small, folded slip of paper on your coffee table.
Right where the wine glasses had been.
You picked it up, heart thudding with the sudden, irrational hope that it wasn’t goodbye. That he hadn’t walked out and decided this was all a mistake. That you hadn’t imagined the tenderness under all that restraint.
You unfolded the paper.
At first, it was just nonsense.
A familiar, ridiculous mix of letters.
Fcxxet mwywttwj xcqdm?
Your lips curved before you even touched your phone.
You pulled up the old cipher from your Notes app — You typed it in, letter by letter.
DINNER TOMORROW NIGHT?
You stared at it for a long moment, biting back a grin.
So... he’d carried you to bed.
You knew it. You could see it now — him gently scooping you up when you’d both dozed off on the couch, trying not to wake you, probably muttering something like you’re a lot heavier when you’re pretending to be asleep as he navigated the hallway in the dark.
And then he left without a sound.
You stared down at the note again, fingers brushing over the paper.
You folded the note neatly, slipped it into the drawer beside your bed, and let yourself sink back into the mattress with a small, secret smile still playing at your lips as you got ready for work.
—
Later that day, Bucky returned from his lunch break late — not intentionally, just Capitol Hill late, which meant five different people had stopped him to ask about pending subcommittees and another wanted to get a “quick quote” on infrastructure allocations (it was never quick).
His shoulders were tense. His tie was already undone by a half-inch, the top button of his collar loosening like it couldn’t breathe.
He stepped into his office and greeted his aide with a distracted nod.
“Anything urgent?”
“Just a note was dropped off for you,” he said, not looking up from his monitor. “Someone from the press.”
Bucky raised a brow.
The note sat innocently on his desk — folded in half, no letterhead, no envelope. Just a slip of paper.
It took less than a second for the corner of his mouth to lift.
He didn’t need the cipher chart anymore. It was muscle memory. Every twist of the alphabet was familiar — like a shared language no one else could hear.
He decoded it line by line, letting the message unfold:
LET'S GO FOR SUSHI AROUND THE CORNER TO YOURS. 8PM.
He closed his eyes and let the smile spread fully now, crumpling the note gently in one hand as he leaned back in his chair.
His aide peered around the door. “Good news?”
“Yeah,” he said, voice quieter than usual. “Yeah. It’s really good news.”
—
The sushi place wasn’t fancy.
It was tucked in the corner, with lantern lighting and wooden booths that smelled like soy sauce and rice vinegar. The kind of place only locals knew — no website, no reservation system, just a handwritten menu by the door and a hostess who warmed up after you ordered the special.
Bucky hadn’t protested. In fact, when he saw the low ceilings, the tiny fish tank by the register, and the man behind the bar rolling perfect maki like a magician, he looked at you and said, “This is charming.”
You grinned. “I know.”
He held the door for you, a hand resting lightly on the small of your back, like it had always belonged there. You tried not to overthink it.
You both ordered too much. The waitress just nodded, unimpressed by your enthusiasm. You ended up with two miso soups, three types of rolls, a shared tempura plate, and a carafe of warm sake.
And for the first twenty minutes, you just talked.
Not flirted.
Talked.
About terrible campaign ads. About how Bucky’s suit got stuck in the Capitol Hill coatroom for two days. About how your editor now thinks you're “the only one ruthless enough to handle political profiles and deal with it without crying.”
You made him laugh.
He draped an arm along the back of your chair and leaned in while you recounted a story about accidentally calling a senator ‘dude.’
“I mean,” Bucky said, hiding a grin, “still better than the guy calling ‘mom’ during a floor vote.”
You nearly spit your sake.
And something about this felt so normal.
Like this had always been the plan.
You left the restaurant full, Bucky’s hand brushing yours as you walked to the curb.
“This was good.”
You nodded. “It was.”
And then it became a habit.
Tuesdays became a day for sushi. Or Thai. Or that place with the weird tacos in Foggy Bottom you swore would give you food poisoning but kept going back to anyway.
Every Tuesday night — without fail — you had dinner.
Sometimes you argued about who’d pay. Sometimes you or Bucky would cook, and you teased him until he burned the garlic. Sometimes you ordered takeout and sat on the floor with wine and policy memos you pretended to ignore.
You saw him other days, too — but Tuesdays were yours.
Then came the coffees.
First, it was once a week. You brought him a cup to a hearing. He dropped one off at your office on a quiet Thursday. Then it became routine.
Twice a week.
Always black coffee with way too much sugar for him. A latte for you, but maybe iced, depending on your mood. He started keeping one of those silly reusable cups with your initials on it in his briefcase, just in case. You’d pretend not to notice, but you always did.
He sent you articles at 1am with comments like: this senator’s grammar is actually criminal.You texted him mid-press conference while you were in the crowd just to make him break — fix your tie, you look like you’re being held hostage.
And one night, while sitting across from him in a pizza booth with garlic dip on your wrist you realised this wasn’t your old book-club-then-sex habit. This was new. This was… stable.
—
A month or two passed before you even realised.
You’d just come back from dinner — Thai this time, spicy enough to make both of you sniffle over the last plate of drunken noodles. You still had the faintest smear of chili oil on your lips, and your stomach hurt from laughing when Bucky tried to order in Thai and accidentally asked the waiter if the rice was single.
Now, you were in his living room, kicking your shoes off while Bucky headed down the hall to the bathroom, calling over his shoulder, “Gimme two minutes—pick a movie or something. Remote’s on the coffee table.”
You called back, “Copy that, Barnes.”
Except… there was no remote on the coffee table.
You checked under a magazine, lifted a coaster. You beneath a throw pillow with a dramatic sigh.
Still nothing.
So, naturally, you glanced toward the media console. There were two drawers.
You opened the top one.
No remote. Just a bunch of coasters and a spare charger.
Then the second.
At first, it looked like scraps of paper. Neat ones. Square, all the same size. All stacked and carefully folded. You reached for one without thinking.
Then you saw it.
C zwke hwl
Your cipher.
The letters stared up at you, jumbled and unreadable at a glance. But your brain, so familiar with this dance now that you’ve regularly been using this to communicate, began decoding line by line.
I LOVE YOU
You blinked. What?
You took a second note.
C'y cx zwke jcmd hwl — I'M IN LOVE WITH YOU
You opened another.
C'y rpzzcxq cx zwke jcmd hwl — I'M FALLING IN LOVE WITH YOU
And another — the handwriting slanted, like he’d written it fast, maybe late at night.
C dpke oeex cx zwke jcmd hwl rwt p jdcze — I HAVE BEEN IN LOVE WITH YOU FOR A WHILE
There were dozens, tucked neatly, like they mattered. Like he wrote them down when he couldn’t say them aloud. Some looked older. Some more recent. Some were on scrap paper, one was on the back of a coffee receipt. They were all different. Some were hesitant. Some were certain. One had been rewritten three times with a slightly different phrasing each time.
But they all said the same thing, all had the same two words:
zwke — LOVE
hwl — YOU
Again. And again.
And suddenly, you couldn’t breathe.
The remote was long forgotten. Your fingers shook just a little.
“Hey, sorry, took forever—” Bucky said from behind.
You snapped your head back. Bucky stood in the doorway, towel drying his hands, his hair slightly damp from where he must’ve splashed water on his face.
His eyes dropped to the drawer, to the paper in your hand.
And everything in him went still.
You didn’t speak.
Neither did he.
You just looked at him, standing frozen in the doorway like he wasn’t sure whether to run or brace for impact.
Your voice came in disbelief. “Bucky…” You held up one of the notes. “How long have you been scribbling these?”
He didn’t move. His eyes flicked from the paper to you, and back again.
Then, quietly, almost like it hurt to admit, he said, “Since I moved back here.” He took a deep breath. “But I… I didn’t want to mess it up. Not when we’d just started figuring out what this is.”
You took a step toward him. The room felt smaller now — but not claustrophobic.
He swallowed. “I kept writing it down because saying it felt too… final, I guess. And you’d said to take our time. So I tried, but it’s always been right there. Right on the edge of—”
You didn’t let him finish.
You kissed him for the first time in years, and it was… different.
The kind of kiss that didn’t ask a question or wait for permission — because it was the answer. The kind of kiss that felt like relief and release all the same, like finally.
Bucky froze for half a second, before you back like he’d been holding it in for years.
His hand cupped your cheeks, thumb brushing your jawline like he couldn’t believe you were real. Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt, grounding yourself in the way he made when he finally let go.
When you pulled back — just barely — your noses brushed.
You kept your eyes closed for a moment before whispering, “Next time you feel like writing ‘I love you’ thirty-six times in a drawer, maybe just… try saying it once out loud.”
Bucky gave a huffed breath of a laugh. “Noted.”
His forehead was still pressed to yours, breath shallow between you.
You opened your eyes slowly, and his were already there — dark, focused, like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth, the flutter of your lashes, the way your fingers still curled into the front of his shirt like you needed him to stay real.
“I’m serious,” you whispered. “Just say it.”
He tilted his head slightly, lips brushing yours again, so close it was barely a kiss. “Okay,” almost restrained. “I love you.”
Your breath caught — not because you didn’t know it, but because hearing it was something else entirely.
This time, he kissed you first.
And this time, it was different — hungrier.
His arms were around you in a heartbeat, hands sliding along your back, gripping the fabric of your shirt. You pushed him back toward the couch, urgency curling in your belly as his mouth opened under yours — heat pouring in, your teeth catching his bottom lip just enough to draw a soft, involuntary moan. You barely made it to the couch. Your bodies hit the cushions in a tangle, knees and hands and breathless gasps, his hands framing your face before skimming down your sides. He tugged at the hem of your shirt, and you nodded, lifting your arms.
The shirt hit the floor behind you.
Bucky leaned back slightly, eyes raking over your skin like it physically hurt him not to touch you. “God, I missed this,” he said.
You pulled him back in.
The way he kissed you now was different — unhurried, like he was relearning every inch of you. His mouth trailed along your jaw, your throat, teeth raking the curve of your shoulder as your fingers found the hem of his shirt and pushed it up, palms flattening against his chest.
He hissed when your nails dragged lightly down his ribs.
“Still ticklish?” you teased, breathless.
“Only when you do that,” he growled into your skin.
You felt his metal hand curl behind your knee, pulling your leg up around his waist as his hips pressed into yours — a sigh slipping from you before you could stop it.
You gasped as his mouth found your chest, lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses over your skin. He made a sound when you arched beneath him. You felt the drag of his stubble, the roll of his hips, the way he was holding back for your sake.
“Bucky,” you whispered against his ear, teeth grazing the shell. “Don’t.”
He slowed down, only for a second.
“Don’t hold back.”
And then he didn’t.
—
The room was quiet except for your breathing.
You were lying in the dip of the couch, half-covered by a throw blanket you barely remembered tugging over yourselves. Bucky’s body was curled around you, metal arm slung protective over your waist.
You could still feel him everywhere.
Not just physically — though that, too: the ache between your thighs, the kiss-bruised curve of your mouth, the sweet sting of stubble burns on your inner thighs. But it felt as if he’d pressed himself into your bloodstream, rewired the rhythm of your pulse.
You’d thought you remembered what it felt like to be with him.
You had not.
This time hadn’t been frantic or impulsive like it used to be — not fueled by adrenaline or blurred by loneliness. This time had been devastatingly focused, like he wanted to undo every careless moment you’d ever shared before. And he had. Every touch had felt deliberate — like he’d waited years just to relearn how to love you with his hands and his mouth and his whole damn body.
And you had let him.
Your head rested on his chest now, rising and falling with each breath he took. His human hand gently combed through your hair.
Eventually, his voice came. “Does this mess things up?” he asked, voice careful now. “For us? Our jobs?”
You pulled back slightly, just enough to see him.
His brow was furrowed — not in guilt, but in genuine concern, mostly because he knew how hard you’ve had to work to get to this point in your career.
“Honestly?” you said, fingers brushing across his chest, tracing the faint line of an old scar near his ribs. “It complicates things. But that doesn’t mean it ruins them.”
He searched your face for a beat. “You sure?”
“No,” you said plainly. “But I am going to stop writing about you— only because I don’t sleep with my sources… anymore.”
His lips twitched like he was trying not to smile.
“You always were the reckless one,” he said softly.
“Says the guy with a cybernetic arm and a seat in Congress,” you shot back.
He laughed again.
You glanced at the coffee table, you saw your phone light up and you were suddenly very aware of the time— 2:47 a.m.
“We should go to bed,” you said after a minute, not moving.
He made an amused sound. “Now you want to be responsible?”
You tilted your head. “If we don’t go to sleep soon, we’re going to do that again. And then I’m going to be too tired to write in the morning, and you’re going to miss your 10 a.m. subcommittee meeting, and then the Ethics Committee will suddenly care about optics for the first time in history.”
He let out a low groan. “God, that meeting’s going to be brutal.”
“Mmhm. And I’m going to get yelled at for not turning in my op-ed on legislative gridlock, which is ironic considering I just—” you gestured vaguely between your bodies, “—got very thoroughly unstuck.”
He laughed before pushing a trans of loose hair behind your ears, “You really think we can do this? With all the politics, the press, the oversight committees?”
You reached up and cupped his face, thumb brushing along the edge of his cheekbone. “I think we’ve both done harder things than loving each other.”
He looked like you’d knocked the wind out of him.
“Fuck, please say that again,” he said.
You smiled. “I love you, James.”
His throat worked as he swallowed, then nodded. “Okay,” he said softly. “Okay.”
You kissed him one more time. “We’ll figure it out,” you said.
And you meant it.
Because it wasn’t just adrenaline anymore. Or loneliness. Or lust.
For now, you just had to get him into bed so both of you could get at least five hours of sleep.
-end.
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Masterlist
I wonder if I should make a part two where reader is one of the journalists in the press conference that Val arranged in the end of Thunderbolts because she has been covering her impeachment, and her reaction to her boyfriend being in the lineup? and then maybe explore their relationship when their newfound stability is challenged?
Summary: After overhearing some choice words between Bucky and his best friend, you make the difficult decision to avoid him. For a week. Bucky loses his mind in the process.
Word count: 2.1k
Warnings: Some angst and miscommunication
a/n: I love this trope!! It was so fun to write a little one and I loveee reading it. I hope you enjoy!! Thank you for reading ily ❤️❤️
Masterlist
~~
You fought off the swell of your throat with tight lips, stirring the contents of the pot with unnecessary care. He was staring at you. He had been staring at you from the moment he came inside, but there was nothing you could do about it—nothing you should do about it.
The spices from the haphazardly thrown-together dinner were beginning to burn your eyes. This felt awful. The past week had felt awful.
After overhearing Bucky call you intense, everything you felt was amplified.
It had been an accident, you being at his apartment at that exact moment. You were dropping by unannounced, but you hadn’t even knocked on the door before his words had vibrated past the locked threshold of the door. And then you had left.
You had taken great care to be less intense over the past week. This was the first time Bucky had been in your apartment since that day, and that hadn’t been without struggle. He asked to come over several times, even showing up and knocking on the door while you pretended to be asleep. It all felt very juvenile—the ignoring and avoiding and missing calls. But you didn’t know how else to respond.
You loved Bucky. You loved him and it felt intense, but, apparently, things had moved too fast for him. A few months of dating were not enough. You were too much.
You had told him you loved him for the first time just days before you overheard his confession, so connecting the dots hadn’t been very hard.
You were too much.
Avoiding him had been made easier by your intense work schedule. You stayed overtime and texted brief excuses. That had worked for a time. But last night, Bucky showed up at your office with a bag of takeout and an uncomfortably furrowed brow, and you knew it was probably time to face this.
You gave him space for a week, and now it was time to practice being less intense in person. You couldn’t avoid him forever. And it hurt—being away from him for too long. Not that you would admit that. Not now.
“I don’t know how good this is going to be,” you huffed out a laugh, ladling noodles into two bowls. “It’s a new recipe, and I’m kinda low on groceries.”
When you glanced up at Bucky sitting on the couch, his smile looked strained. “‘M sure it’ll be great.”
You replied with a short smile, glancing down at the bowls as you joined him in the living room. You sat far enough away for it to make sense—one cushion over, not halfway in his lap like you used to. The television created a soft backdrop of some show you weren’t paying attention to, but the meal was otherwise silent.
You missed kissing him.
When he came in, you gave him one quick press of your lips and then darted back to the kitchen, ignoring the feel of his hands on your waist as they rushed to grab you. He was only doing all of that to appease you—the calls and trips to your office and the affection.
If you let him do what he didn’t want to do, you would lose him.
“Well,” you prompted, your teasing smile almost wobbling over the bowl. “How is it?”
Bucky caught your eye from the other side of the small couch. His expression narrowed on your mouth, and then he winced, almost imperceptibly.
Something dropped in your gut.
“It’s good, sweetheart.”
You kept up your smile, but as you turned back to your meal and pretended to watch TV, everything felt final. Your jaw was stiff as you took your next bite, the food tasting like nothing and curdling in your stomach. You hadn’t done enough. You hadn’t given him enough space. He had been so adamant about coming over because this was the end.
You left your bowl half-filled when you placed it on the coffee table, the smell of it nauseating. The inside of your cheek was bleeding from where you bit into it.
“Done already?” Bucky asked. He had finished a few minutes before you, his dish next to yours, and his arm looped back behind the couch. He wasn’t touching you. Almost, but not.
“Yeah,” you replied. The single word sounded unstable, and you cursed your throat for feeling so thick with anxiety. You looked at Bucky from the corner of your eye, only to find his eyes closed and his expression pinched.
Your lips parted. Were you going to beg? That would only make it worse, surely. Too intense, too much.
Maybe this would be for the best. Some time for a break would—
“Please, tell me how to fix this.”
You blinked at the TV, and then you blinked over towards Bucky, lips still parted but no words escaping them.
A pause as breath was caught in the heaviness of your chest, and then, “What?”
Bucky moved his tongue to his cheek, leaning forward to prop his elbows on his knees. He was wearing a hoodie today, and it felt so uncharacteristic that you had almost been distracted at the door.
“I can’t… I can’t lose you, okay? I don’t know what I did, but you gotta tell me or I’m—” his hands came up to run over his head and fall at the nape of his neck. “—just tell me what I did, sweetheart. Please.”
He turned to look at you then, only a foot of space between you but the distance almost stifling. Your hands clenched atop your knees, and he watched them, eyes flickering to any movement you made. He tracked your unsteady breath, the way your gaze couldn’t stay rooted in one place, and each minute shift in your features.
“I don’t—I don’t understand,” you offered, because it was the truth.
Bucky’s jaw rocked to the side. “You barely said three words to me this week. You didn’t want me over—didn’t want to see me. I fought through your building security to bring you dinner, and you looked… Baby, I walked through the door and looked about ready to cry. I mean, you didn’t even—you barely even kissed me today.”
Your gentle sigh weighed down your chest. You dropped your gaze down to the couch, unaware that Bucky was desperately trying to find himself there, leaning his head down to no avail. This didn’t make any sense. You really couldn’t do anything right, it seemed.
“It’s just—baby, I thought you said—” Bucky started, speaking in such disjointed sentences you looked up to try and parse them out. His shoulders untensed as you did, but then he said, “Thought you loved me, is that still true?” and the confusing swirl of emotions turned to devastation.
“I do,” you fervently replied, shaking your head as if that made sense. “Of course I do, Bucky, but you…”
“I what?” Bucky rushed to get clarification, the vulnerability so clear on his face it made you ache.
“I thought I was too much for you. I was trying to give you space. I thought you were going to end things tonight.”
“Why in the hell would you think that?” he exasperated, the words harsh but his delivery of them so gentle.
You bit into your bottom lip and let out another breath, the pressure on your chest looming down into your ribs. The fists on your knees moved to pick at a loose thread on the couch.
“I came by on Saturday—to your apartment, I mean. You left your jacket in my car, and I knew you were going to be out late with Sam.”
“But I didn’t—”
“I never actually got inside your apartment,” you revealed, knocking your head to the side, still unable to fully meet his gaze.
A tick of silence passed.
“You heard me.”
This was the worst part. It made you seem immature, eavesdropping from the hall of his building. It made you seem immature, and you were also petty because you avoided him for a week. You fought the urge to allow the couch to swallow you whole.
“I didn’t mean to hear you,” you stressed, pulling and tugging at the loose corner of your cushion. “I left pretty quickly. I didn’t—”
“Hey,” Bucky interrupted. He placed fingers under your chin, forcing your gaze up to his. The concern in his features masked lingering hurt, and you moved your hands into your lap to squeeze them together instead. “What did you hear, baby?”
You flickered your gaze between his eyes. “I’m not mad at you. I understand, you know? I wouldn’t want—”
“Y/n. What did you hear?”
“That you think I’m too intense. That this—us—is too much, maybe.”
Bucky kept you in his hold, but he closed his eyes. The hurt melted from his face only to be replaced with something akin to regret. He shook his head slightly, jutted out his jaw, and then he looked at you once again, his features strained.
“Damn,” he whispered. The fingers under your chin moved to cup your cheek, rubbing soothing shapes there. “Thought you were leaving me, did you know that? Whole time this has been my own fault. God.”
Bucky shifted forward on the couch until your legs were pressed close. You untucked yours to accommodate him, greedy for the contact despite your confusion, and he only got closer. When his forehead touched yours, you gave in to the burn in your waterline, vision blurrier than it had been.
“I love you so goddamn much,” Bucky began, moving back only an inch to find your watery gaze. “When I said you were intense, I meant that this is the most I’ve ever felt for someone. That the intensity was mutual. That maybe, at the rate we’re going, it would be too much for you. I was asking Sam for advice—seeing if he thought I should back off.”
“You?” you asked, the word crackling in your throat.
“Yeah, me, sweetheart. Not you. I was afraid you were gonna bolt one of these days. I’m not exactly the easiest to get along with, according to quite a few people, and I know that loving you means that I’m probably the worst around you.”
The muscle at the corner of your mouth twitched, and along with it went the stress that had settled in every nerve ending in your body. The tension in your jaw released, your chest began to ease, and the only remaining negative was the sadness at Bucky’s confession—at his fronted vulnerability.
You reached up to catch his wrist in your grip, and he responded by bringing his other hand up to hold you fully.
“I love you,” you affirmed. Bucky’s own smile was sad. “I’ve never thought about ‘bolting.’ I spent this entire week sad and lonely because I was afraid you were going to leave me. I was trying to show you that I could be… chill, I guess.”
“Chill?” Bucky repeated with a scoff-like laugh, brows shooting up as he brushed his thumbs along the dampness of your cheeks. “I drove past your apartment every night this week. I used that shampoo you left in my shower just to make my bed smell like you again. I wrote…God, I wrote you this letter because I figured maybe if you got something in the mail—”
“You sent me mail?” you interrupted.
Bucky’s face blushed a bashful pink, his mouth open in a defensive smile. “We can forget about the mail, okay? Now that we’re talking it out.”
“Right. I’m going to check my mail when you leave.”
“Hey,” he demanded, his playful, pointed look reorienting you to the reason behind the tears now drying on your face. When you settled back into his gaze, Bucky readjusted you in his hands, bringing your head into his shoulder until you were fully in his arms. “I love you, you got that? I’m sorry you heard what you did and thought—thought that wasn’t true. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I never want to feel like that again—like I’m losing you.”
You tightened your fingers into the material of Bucky’s hoodie, taking a moment to relish in his arms around you. You nodded against him, hoping that would suffice, and it did. He kissed the side of your head and leaned back against the couch, bringing you with him.
“Can’t even check the mail,” Bucky eventually grumbled out. “You’re crazy if you think I’m leaving any time soon.”
Summary: You never thought Bucky was the sentimental type, until you found something hidden under his bed.
WC: 3.3k
Tags/Warnings: super fluffy, established relationship, Post Thunderbolts*,Not Beta Read
A/N: I’ve had this idea for weeks and finally did it. Fun fact, the Polaroids may or may not be inspired by real pictures I took of my best friend and her boyf. Also, yes I have been to the rest stop I mentioned. Sadly I live far away from them and I NEED to go back!
You felt like an idiot looking at your wrist and realizing your watch wasn’t there.
“Shit,” you mumbled.
“What’s wrong?” Bucky asked you with concern.
You shook your head, “It’s nothing, I forgot my watch.”
He paused, pondering while he put on his leather jacket. “I think you left it on my nightstand when you took it off last night,” he answered, pointing down the hall. “Do you want to go get it before we leave?”
You hesitated, “You sure you don’t mind waiting?”
Bucky shook his head and held out his hand to hold your jacket and purse for you. “Not at all.”
You smiled, handed him your things, and left a kiss on his cheek. “Thanks, be right back.”
As you walked away the corners of his lips turned up into a soft smile.
You hurried to Bucky’s room and upon entering a frustrated groan left you. There the nightstand was, with no watch. You searched the drawers in the nightstand and the top of his dresser, still no luck.
After staring at the nightstand, you wondered if you really did leave it there but maybe it fell. You kneeled down next to the bed and turned on your phone flashlight. A quick scan finally revealed the missing watch. With a relieved sigh you reached for it, when something caught your eye.
A box.
A box with your name written on the side of it.
Your own name was staring back at you as you grabbed the watch. With a careful hand you reached for the box and dragged it out from the bed.
The box sat in your lap, unopened, unbothered. It was a dark brown cardboard shoe box from one of his pairs of boots. Your name was written in black marker on the side and next to it a tiny messy heart.
Your gut is telling you not to open it. It might have been hidden for a reason. You have no right to be digging and snooping around Bucky’s things. Finding something he didn’t want found.
But another part of you was desperate to know what was inside. That small but loud part of your brain that was screaming at you to open it. The voice kept echoing in your ears. Reminding you that your name was on it.
Why did he have a box with your name on it?
Maybe it wasn’t supposed to be hidden. You kept things under your bed not because you wanted to hide them, but because of storage and safekeeping. Maybe this was like that.
Maybe.
God the anticipation was going to kill you.
Maybe it was a present he put in there for your next anniversary, birthday, or some other reason.
Well then you should really not open it. Don’t want to ruin any possible surprise he has for you.
You really shouldn’t open it. You shouldn’t open it. Don’t open it. Don’t open it. Don’t open it. Don’t open it. Open it. Open it. Open it…
Your hands moved on their own. Your fingers peeled back the lid of the box and set it down on the floor next to you.
You peered inside at the contents of the box with confused curiosity. At first glance it didn’t look like much. It definitely wasn’t a present. There were a bunch of random items, mostly paper ones.
The first thing that caught your attention was the small plastic wristband. It was at the top of the pile. You picked it up and read the words on the side “Luna Park: Coney Island.” Realization dawned on you that it was Bucky’s wristband from your first date. When he asked you out, there was no specific place in mind yet. But when he told you an old story about him and Steve at Coney Island and you said you had never been there before, he knew where he wanted to take you.
It was a perfect first date. The weather was clear and warm but not too hot to be uncomfortable, no doubt because of the cool ocean breeze. You went on rides, you played games. And of course Bucky spent 40 bucks to win you a blue stuffed penguin you fawned over and called cute. He was a man on a mission. And now that penguin sat on a chair in your bedroom.
With a smile you placed the wristband back in the box and picked at the other things inside.
Your heart swelled at the realization that most of the items were from your old dates with Bucky. There were tickets from your trips to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Museum of Natural History and one from The New York Aquarium. There had to be at least 5 movie stubs and 3 dinner receipts from dates you went on with him. There was the playbill from the broadway show he took you to for your birthday a few months ago. He surprised you with orchestra seats.
You dug around more and found a strip of photos from a photo booth you took with Bucky. His eyes shined as he told you about how common they were back in the 30s and how he used to always stop at them with his friends. When you both sat down he stared with wide eyes at the inflated price.
“Ten dollars? This used to cost a quarter!”
You giggled at his complaint, “You sound so old when you say stuff like that.” You reached for your purse to grab a ten when he stopped you with a hand on your arm and pulled out his wallet from his pocket.
“I’m still not going to let you pay for it,” he returned with a sly grin.
You smiled looking down at the strip of pictures in your hand. The top photo was simple, both you and Bucky smiling at the camera with his arm around you. It was sweet, peaceful. In the second photo you placed a hand under his chin and kissed his cheek. His eyes were closed with wrinkles around them from his smile. His cheeks were more rosy than in the last photo. In the third photo Bucky now had his hand on your neck as he kissed you. The fourth and final photo was of you looking at the camera, mid laugh, while Bucky had a hand on your face and pressed a kiss to your cheek.
The machine gave you two copies of the pictures. Yours was pinned to a cork board in your room next to other photos.
You moved on from the photo strip and continued digging through the memory box, throwing caution to the wind.
As you flipped through the other items a shell fell from behind something, landing in the corner of the box. It was the seashell from when you walked and talked on the beach for what felt like hours because you were so engrossed in conversation with him. The water carried a small shell onto the shore. You picked it out from the water and stared at it in awe. You had asked Bucky to hold onto it because your clutch was full and your outfit didn’t have any pockets. Later that night you forgot about it.
In fact, you forgot about it until now, weeks later. Your jaw dropped as you ran your fingertips over the ridges of the shell's surface, reminiscing your walk on the beach. His hand in yours and the
The next thing you found were the birthday cards you gave Bucky from his last two birthdays. One card was from a birthday before you started dating, and the other one was after.
The two year old card was more basic, like you got it from the generic section of the birthday card aisle (because you did). You opened up the old card and read your own handwriting.
Happy Birthday Bucky
I know you don’t like making a big deal out of your birthday but you still deserve a card :)
You’re so important to this team and your effort doesn’t go unnoticed. We’re lucky to have you around. I hope you have a great day and that 109 treats you well. (Even though you’re technically not 109 haha)
You closed it and set it back down in the box before grabbing the one you gave him on his most recent birthday. This one was less generic. You picked out one that had more design and personality.
Happy Birthday my Love
I am so grateful to have you by my side. You’re one of the best things to have ever happened to me. I hope you know you are so important and appreciated. I can’t imagine my life or this team without you.
Happy 110th you old man ;)
I love you with all my heart
Hidden behind the birthday cards was a stack of post-it notes all stuck together. Some of them were old with barely any stickiness left and crinkled edges. Some were new and almost in pristine condition. But all of them were notes from you. You flipped through the stack of sticky notes and saw more of your own handwriting.
Good morning <3
You make me smile :)
Meet me in the lounge later I have a surprise!
I know you stole my last Pepsi >:( prepare for war
I’m so proud of you
Have a great day!
And at least 7 more that just say I love you
Bucky must have saved every single note you left for him.
Your heart almost gave out but thankfully it lasted to see the last few items in the box.
There were more photos. Two to be exact. Two Polaroids taken from Yelena's camera.
One of the Polaroids was taken a few months ago. You knew it was taken because you posed for it. It was on your birthday. The team celebrated at the tower with you after the show Bucky surprised you with. You wanted to keep out of the public eye for the rest of your birthday. Spend the night with just friends. And your boyfriend of course.
Yelena was a few drinks in, wasting her camera film throughout the night. She had a pile of photos on the coffee table that was getting thicker as time went on. Most of them included you.
This one was of you and Bucky. Everyone was sitting on the couches playing a drinking game. You and Bob returned from the bar with new drinks. A Long Island iced tea for you and a regular iced tea for him. You plopped back down on the couch next to your boyfriend, giggling at whatever outlandish thing Alexei said. After you placed your drink down Bucky wrapped an arm around you and placed a gentle kiss to your cheek.
“Awe! Wait, that was adorable, do that again!” Yelena exclaimed as she grabbed her camera.
You rolled your eyes, with no real malice of course. “Yelena,” you laughed.
“Come on, it’s sweet!” She turned the camera on and looked through the viewfinder.
“Kiss!” Alexei shouted.
“Pucker up Barnes!” Ava yelled from the other couch.
The corners of Bucky’s lips turned up into a grin as he shook his head. A gasp left you as Bucky grabbed your hips and pulled you into his lap. He tightened his arm around you and placed a kiss on your cheek. Your face turned bright red as an airy giggle left your lungs.
Yelena snapped the image in front of her. Forever frozen in time.
The memory of that night now sat in your hands as you stared down at it. There was a phantom feeling of his lips on your skin as you set the Polaroid back down in the box.
You picked the other photo up, immediately recognizing when it was taken. Except, you don’t remember it being taken.
This picture was taken a few short weeks before Bucky asked you out. You knew that because your hair was slightly shorter. It was more grown out now.
The photo was of you and Bucky on the couch, taken from behind. Your back was to the camera, resting against the couch. Bucky was sitting next to you. Your attention was pulled away somewhere off camera. But Bucky, he looked right at you.
The thing that really stuck with you was his eyes. His eyes were soft. The kind of soft that people didn't see often from him. His eyes are normally like stone. His stare, usually hard, like rock. It pierces into you. But this look on him was different. He looked at you like you were a work of art. Like he was trying to take in all of you with just his eyes.
You've seen that look before many times. But didn’t notice it before you started dating. You didn’t realize just how head over heels he was in the weeks leading up to your first date.
You cautiously placed the pictures back in the box, like they were delicate and fragile.
Something else you didn’t remember was a napkin with little doodles on it. You recognized it as a napkin from a bar the team occasionally visited. But you can’t remember when you drew flowers and vines on this napkin.
Bucky seemed to remember it. He kept it and cherished it in his memory box like it was a masterpiece you created and not some drunk sketch.
Your heart rate slowly grew in speed as your eyes moved to a keychain at the bottom of the box. It was a small, yellow, metal keychain in the shape of Texas with a cartoon beaver on it.
It was in the middle of the night after a short mission in Texas. You and Ava stopped at the largest rest stop you’d ever seen in your life. The rest stop had a beaver for its mascot and aisles of merch. But what made you buy the keychain for him was the name of the rest stop. Buc-ee’s.
You almost didn’t buy it for him. This was long before you started dating and you weren’t sure how he would appreciate a random gag gift.
“I found something for you in Texas.”
He turned to you and hummed with curiosity. You dug the keychain from your jeans pocket and handed it to him.
“We found this rest stop called Buc-ee’s and they have this little beaver as their mascot,” you explained, fidgeting with the loops in your jeans. “He’s literally your twin, you're both named Bucky,” you ended with a chuckle, trying to make this one sided conversation any less awkward.
He continued to silently examine it, his right, flesh hand running over the painted metal.
“I know it’s stupid, you don’t have to keep it,” you nervously mumbled. You reached forward to grab it back from him,
He pulled his hand back, not willing to give up the present. “No, it’s not stupid. It’s cute,” he reassured.
Your cheeks heated up in real time just like they did when he said that.
He kept it.
He kept the gag gift you got him. This silly little keychain was so important he kept it in a special keepsake box.
You almost couldn’t believe what you found. All the memories, all the stuff you gave him, all the things he cherished because they reminded him of you. It seemed like this box that sat in your lap held his very own heart and all his love for you.
You shuffled the items back to how they were in the box when you found it. You assumed that was all there was to find in there. Until three candy wrappers fell out from between the various papers.
Jolly Ranchers. Your favorite candy.
You always had them on you. Kinda like an old lady that carries around hard candy. John always jokes that you’re an old woman when you grab a jolly rancher from your pocket or purse. He says you and Bucky are perfect for each other because you both have old person tendencies.
Speaking of Bucky, because you often had candy on you, you always offered some to him. He always said yes. Here in his shoe box you saw one cherry and two green apple wrappers.
You froze, staring at the candy wrappers. Even in the silence of his room you couldn’t hear the footsteps approaching. For a moment all you heard was your own heart pounding in your ears.
The door creaked open. “Hey, you’ve been gone for a while. Did you find your watch?” Bucky asked, walking in the room.
He stopped a few feet away from you. Your back was to him, the box hidden in your lap. But he knew you had it because he saw the lid on the floor next to you.
You raised your hand and shook your wrist to show him the watch. “Yeah, I found it,” your voice sounded more hoarse than you expected. You quickly blinked away the tears that collected at your waterline right before he waked in.
Bucky took a few steps closer, and crouched down next to you. He brushed a piece of hair behind your ear. Now that he was close to you, he noticed how glassy your eyes were.
He held your face in his hand, his thumb stroking your cheek. Your eyes fluttered close.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. My watch was under the bed and I found this,” you started rambling. “I saw my name. I know I shouldn’t have opened it-“
“Hey, hey it’s okay,” he soothed in a quiet voice. He turned your face towards his. “I’m not mad.”
You nodded to confirm you understood. You sniffled and glanced between him and the box.
“You kept all this.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
It was a dumb question and you knew it. Yet the word still flew out of your mouth.
He took a pause, breathing in.
“This stuff means a lot to me. You mean a lot to me,” he answered like it was the easiest thing to say in the world.
“After HYDRA, after all the-” he hesitated- “issues with my memory I started keeping stuff like this. To remember.”
With his free hand he grabbed the other side of your face. Bucky leaned closer, his bright blue eyes stared into yours and bore into your soul. You could’ve sworn they looked a little glassy.
“I want to make sure I remember you.”
You lip quivered. Bucky leaned forward and captured your lips in a brief, gentle kiss. He rested his forehead against yours.
“Can I ask about something in the box?”
“Anything.”
“The napkin. I don’t remember it,” you confessed, voice quiet and curious. “Why did you save it?”
“It was the team's first time at that bar. You were drunk and bored because they weren’t playing songs you liked. Someone left a pen on the bar and you sat there drawing on a napkin for twenty minutes.” Bucky paused as his lips curled into a smile. “You were so concentrated. The bar, the team, they were all so loud and distracting. But all your attention was on these little drawings. Like you were painting the Mona Lisa.”
He licked his lips, “that night I realized I have feelings for you.”
A giddy smile snuck its way on your face before you kissed him. Slow and passionate. You poured all your love into that kiss to try and match the amount of devotion and love he had on display for you.
You pulled away, but not too far away. Your lips hovered over his. “I love you with all my heart. You know that right?”
He lightly chuckled, “I know.”
Bucky wiped away a stray tear that you didn’t know escaped and ran down your cheek.
“I love you with all of mine,” he whispered, his voice soft with adoration.
A.N: Thank you so much for your wonderful support my loves, you are so amazing🩷
Friendly reminder that I will be on vacation in July, so I won't have access to my laptop🩷 We will have the next chapter around August 1-2 but my headcanons and asks and everything else is open as usual! 🩷 So please let me know what you think, and I hope you like this chapter! 🩷
Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Female!Reader
Summary: Anything can happen at a barbecue.
Warnings: Explicit language, adult themes, MDNI.
Word Count: 6.6k
Series Masterlist
A short white sundress wasn’t exactly professional but then again, everyone else in the team was going to show up in casual clothes anyway.
Even you had to admit, this was a good PR move. Having a barbecue party at his place surrounded by his team and his family –Wilsons— not only sounded fun but also would show the rest of the world that he wasn’t affected by his breakup, and business was as usual.
So technically, the sundress was purely because of PR reasons and not because you wanted him to think you were pretty.
Technically being the key word.
You fixed your hair and your dress as much as you could with one hand while holding a stack of files and a box of cookies in the other, then knocked on his door and stepped back. Excitement was rushing through your system already, and you took a deep breath to calm yourself down, then looked up as the door opened.
“So I know I came a little early and brought work but the alternative was for me to work in the middle of the barbecue which is like not ideal in terms of PR, so I also brought cookies.”
Bucky looked frozen as he eyed you up and down, his mouth slightly open and you tilted your head in confusion.
“Bucky?”
His eyes whipped to yours and he shook his head as if trying to snap out of the daze he was in, then immediately got the files and the box of cookies from your hands.
“Hey,” he said. “Uh—come in!”
You stepped inside and smiled at Alpine who had run to the hallway to see what was happening.
“Hello my pretty princess!” you cooed, crouching down so that you could pet her. She purred, bumping her head against your hand before she closed her eyes while you ran your fingers through her soft fur.
“I still cannot believe she lets you pet her.”
“She likes me,” you said. “Don’t you Alpine?”
Her answer was rubbing her face against your hand and you scratched at her head, then stood up again to look around. This was bigger than his earlier place which you figured was normal for a Congressman, but it still had Bucky’s characteristics scattered around. His old pictures with The Howling Commandos as well as with Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson were framed on the walls, and as you passed by the living room, you could see his records and phonogram at the corner. You followed him to the kitchen, eyeing his muscular body hungrily, biting at your lip.
How did this man look good both in a suit and casual clothes?
“So.” He pulled you out of your daze as he placed the files and cookies on the kitchen island. “You shouldn’t have.”
“I mean.” You plopped down the stool. “It’s not like I baked them. I don’t want to poison you or the rest of the team.”
He let out a chuckle. “Really?”
“I don’t know how to bake,” you said. “And also I needed bribery so that you’d take a look at the files I brought.”
He eyed them wearily. “That’s a lot of pages.”
“But hey, the cookies are delicious.” You opened the box to turn it in his direction, wiggling your brows. “Try one.”
He heaved a sigh and grabbed one, then bit into it and raised his brows.
“Wow.”
“Right?”
“I’m not sure I know this flavor.”
“Blueberry coffee.”
“Blueberry coffee?” he repeated and you grinned.
“Yeah well, I happen to know you don’t like it too sweet,” you said. “The guy at the register said this one is pretty good—I still refuse to believe you don’t like dessert.”
“It’s not that I don’t like it,” he said. “I just don’t like too much sugar.”
“I could eat dessert for breakfast, lunch and dinner.” You clasped your hands under your chin. “Did you always dislike it?”
“Well,” he trailed off and shrugged his shoulders. “I mean sugar was rationed, so I didn’t grow up with too much of it. We had it better than most folk but we still didn’t use much. And then the war and then HYDRA...It took me a while to get used to food when I got back, and desserts weren’t the priority.”
You pursed your lips, your heart clenching with compassion. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Don’t be, I don’t mind.”
“You hate it when people ask you about your past though.”
He shook his head. “I don’t if you’re the one asking me.”
You could feel a smile warming your face, and you bit down on your lip.
“Well then, I’m making it my personal challenge to find desserts that you’ll like,” you said as he took another bite of the cookie. “And I’m warning you, I’m very ambitious.”
“Oh really?” he teased you, smiling back. “I haven’t noticed.”
“So I will succeed,” you said and reached out to grab the file at the top, then opened it. “Speaking of succeeding, I need you to take a look at these.”
He took a look at the multiple files, then turned to you.
“Coffee?”
“Oh my God, yes please.”
*
The problem with you and Bucky working alone was that you got along way too well. When you were around other people you could work efficiently but when it you were alone, you got way too distracted.
Like you were right now.
“That’s not a valid answer!” he insisted and you gasped.
“It is!”
“It’s not, it goes against the game.”
“There’s only one logical answer to the 3 things you should take to a deserted island. Powerboat, satellite phone, water filter.”
“Nope.”
“The goal is to get the fuck out of the island!” you insisted, moving your hands to emphasize your point and he shook his head.
“That’s cheating.”
“Fine, what am I supposed to take with me, genius?”
“Knife to hunt for food so you don’t starve, water to not die of dehydration, blanket to not freeze to death at night.” He counted with his fingers. “The goal is survival.”
“I wouldn’t survive a day in nature,” you said. “Like, if I’m ever in the nature, I’ll just let it kill me.”
“That’s not…”
“Also,” you added. “What if the animal I need to kill is a cute deer? What am I gonna do, kill Bambi?”
“Again, you have to survive somehow.”
You gasped. “Not at the expense of Bambi!”
“Sorry about Bambi,” he deadpanned and you made a face.
“Like I said,” you muttered. “I’m not hunting, I’m getting the hell out of the island. You have fun playing Survivor there.”
“See you’re saying this now but if we were both on the island, you’d be eating Bambi.”
“Bucky!”
“I’d just lie to you about where it came from.”
Your jaw dropped and you pushed at his arm, making him let out a laugh.
“Bambi is in a farm,” he said, trying to keep a straight face, “where she can run all she wants and be happy—”
“Keep talking like that and I’ll get on my powerboat and leave you behind,” you insisted, pointing a finger at him. “I’m just not built for survival, okay? I can barely survive seasonal change, you think I’ll survive a goddamn island? Nope.”
“I’d keep you alive,” he said nonchalantly, reaching out into the box to get another cookie while you turned your phone in your hand.
“Okay, my turn.” You sat up straighter. “We talked about this the other day with Kels and Caleb.”
“I’m listening.”
“Let’s say you woke up tomorrow,” you said. “And everything is perfect. What’s the first thing you’d want to see?”
He raised his brows, a small smile playing on his lips and you took a sip of your coffee.
“Nothing is off limits,” you said. “And no judging, because Caleb said he’d wake up to a bank account of seven figures and had to deal with Kelsey asking him ‘what about world peace you heartless ass?’ for like days whenever he opened his mouth.”
Bucky let out a chuckle, humming as if he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to tell you or not. You narrowed your eyes at him, resting your elbows on the kitchen island and leaning in.
“Come on,” you taunted him. “Say it.”
“In a perfect world?”
“Yeah,” you said. “You can be totally selfish. What do you wake up to?”
His blue eyes searched your face, his smile fading as he swallowed thickly, then took a deep breath.
“You,” he said. “Next to me.”
Your gaze snapped up to his, the gears in your mind screeching to a halt, your breath hitching in your throat. You could feel your heart hammering in your chest, warmth rushing through your system so fast that it made you lightheaded while you tried your hardest to think through the haze.
Bucky liked you back.
…Oh God, he liked you back.
You could swear your whole body was shaking as you took a trembling breath in a desperate attempt to find your voice but before you could say anything, several voices carried out into the kitchen from the front door; Sam, Cass and AJ, and Sarah.
“Buck?”
“Uncle Bucky!”
“Boys, don’t run!”
Hurried footsteps approached and Bucky had to force himself to tear his gaze from yours, then turned to catch AJ and Cass who flung themselves to him mid-air.
“Whoa, did you guys get bigger since I last saw you?” he asked, making them giggle and you tried to pull yourself together, then waved at them.
“Hi guys.”
“Hi!”
“Oh hey there!” Sarah only hesitated for a moment by the doorframe before she went to kiss Bucky’s cheek, then turned to you. “It’s been so long, how have you been?”
“Good,” you managed to squeak out and then cleared your throat. “Great, and you?”
“I left the door open because there are more people—” Sam paused when he saw you, his eyes going from you to Bucky and to you again. “Uh…more people coming. Hey.”
“Hi Sam, it’s great to see you.”
“Bucky, I already like your—no no no, Alpine, I come in peace!” Caleb’s voice reached the kitchen and Bucky put the boys down, then made his way to the hallway as if nothing was out of the ordinary, as if you weren’t about to pass out in the middle of the kitchen in front of Sam and Sarah.
“And I thought we were here early,” Sam commented, earning a not-so-subtle jab to his ribs from Sarah and you licked your lips, then nodded your head.
“Yeah I…we—we were working.” You vaguely motioned at the files on the kitchen island, your hands still shaky, and you cleared your throat again. “Um—excuse me.”
You made your way out of the kitchen to the hallway and grabbed Kelsey’s arm while Bucky was distracted by the rest of the team asking him where to put the things they brought before you pulled her into the bathroom and slammed the door behind you.
“What’s going on?” she asked and you covered your mouth, jumping up and down with a squeal.
“Kels…”
“What?”
“He likes me.”
Kelsey pulled her brows together. “What?”
You let out a giggle and dropped your hands, your cheeks almost hurting with how wide you were smiling while you bounced on the balls of your feet, your heart still slamming against your chest.
“Bucky,” you whispered. “He…he likes me.”
“Oh my God!” Kelsey pulled you into a tight hug, then pulled back to look at you better. “He said it?”
“Well he—you know, I asked him that question we were talking about the other day, the perfect world one. And he said he’d wake up next to me.”
“Holy shit!” Kelsey whispered and grabbed at your hand. “See? I told you!”
“I can’t believe it,” you said and let out a teary laugh, then fanned at your face with your other hand. “I’m gonna cry I think—”
“Nope you’re not, because the team will start asking questions,” Kelsey said and you took a deep breath, sniffling. “Then?”
“Then Sarah and Sam showed up, and then you guys.”
Kelsey blinked a couple of times. “You guys didn’t even kiss yet?”
“I couldn’t even tell him I like him back yet!” you whispered. “And I—how am I gonna get him alone without the whole team noticing?”
“Yeah, that’s too dangerous right now,” Kelsey said, then shrugged her shoulders. “You’ll have to wait until we all leave.”
Your eyes widened. “That’s hours away!”
“You two waited this long, you can wait a couple of hours,” she said while you let out a whine.
“But I want to kiss him!”
“You will do all that and more, just get through this barbecue nonsense.”
You threw your head back, stomping on your foot like a spoiled kid and Kelsey let out a laugh.
“You’ll be fine,” she said. “Want me to tell Caleb?”
“When you get home, yes,” you said. “I can’t risk anyone hearing it, and the place is full of people.”
“Yeah, good call.”
“And assuming I won’t explode until everyone leaves…”
Kelsey grinned. “To repeat. You could handle seven years of bad sex, you can handle like seven hours until mindblowing sex.”
Your head shot up.
“Wait wait wait,” you said, your heart doing an excited flip. “Do you think he wants to sleep with me? Like, tonight? Because I’m like so so ready but would he want to?”
“No Birdie, once we all leave you guys will hold hands and recite poetry. The fuck do you think?!”
You started fanning your face again.
“I mean I—obviously I really really really like him but also I—I want to jump on him,” you stammered. “Like, both emotional and physical.”
“Shocking,” Kelsey stated. “The sky is blue. Water is wet. You want to fuck Bucky.”
“I mean if he does want to talk about his feelings I can—”
“I don’t think any man would want to talk about his feelings when you’re in that dress and ready to jump in his bed,” Kelsey motioned at you and you beamed at her.
“Aw thank you! I got it from—”
“You can send me the link later,” she said. “We should go before they realize we’re hiding in the bathroom.”
You nodded your head while she opened the door to check the hallway, then stepped outside with you following her suit.
“Remember,” she said. “You’re not doing anything while we’re here. Too risky.”
You nodded again and fixed your hair, letting out a breath.
“Yeah,” you said as you walked with her to the kitchen. “Yeah, of course. Shouldn’t be that hard.”
*
Correction.
It was, in fact, that hard.
You couldn’t focus on a goddamn thing.
You were pretty sure that Bucky had told Sam because they were having a discussion in whispers at the corner of the garden while everyone drank and ate, and the only thing that pulled them out of it was Caleb when he wanted to take pictures with the whole team and Wilsons. You had taken a step in Bucky’s direction for the picture but Kelsey had pulled you to the other side of the crowd, muttering something about PR.
And throughout all that, it was as if you were in a haze.
Bucky’s eyes barely left you the whole day, though he hadn’t come closer to you like he wanted to give you your space to think about it. It was laughable to think he was under the impression that you wouldn’t throw yourself at him after months of pining after him, but Bucky could be very oblivious sometimes so you figured it was normal.
And you were still burning under his gaze, no matter how much you tried to act normal.
“So yeah, apparently Bucky winning gave Paul a huge leverage, just like the rest of us,” Tim said while you stole a look at Bucky who was chuckling at something Caleb said and Sarah let out a laugh, then said something while motioning at Bucky, making Caleb’s jaw drop as Bucky shook his head fervently like he was trying to convince him. “He got like a six figure deal for Senator Holloway’s next campaign. Anyways, I can barely talk to you during work nowadays.”
“Yeah, I’m like swamped with work,” you said, barely paying attention to Tim. “It’s fun but also very busy.”
“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he said, clearing his throat like he was trying to gather up courage while Bucky’s eyes found yours, awakening the butterflies in your stomach, a fire sweeping over your face. “Do you want to grab coffee sometime when you’re—”
“I’ll talk to you later, I just remembered an email I’m supposed to send Gray,” you said without so much as hearing what he was saying before you made your way back into the house so that you could calm down a little. You let out a breath and went into the kitchen to fill yourself a glass of water in hopes of helping the fire burning at the pit of your stomach. You took a huge gulp, then turned your head when you heard Cass saying your name from the doorframe.
“Hey,” you said with a small smile. “What’s up?”
“Um, can you help us with something?”
“Sure thing,” you said, following him to the living room and AJ gave you a shy smile, then pointed at the phonograph.
“Do you know if it works?”
“I think so.”
“Can we play it? I would ask uncle Bucky but he’s talking to mom and the other guests.”
“I don’t think Bucky would mind,” you said with a shrug of your shoulders, then stepped closer to the phonograph. “Sure you can. Want me to help?”
“Yes please,” they both said, making you press a hand over your chest.
“You guys are like the sweetest kids in the world,” you said and sat down in front of the phonograph, tucked your legs under you, then pulled a couple of vinyl records from the shelf underneath it. “Do you have a favorite?”
AJ thought for a moment. “We don’t know any old singers.”
“That’s totally fine,” you said gently. “We can pick together then, and it’ll be a surprise to all of us. Exciting, isn’t it?”
They both nodded and sat down, and as if on cue, Alpine jumped from the couch to curl up next to you.
“Hi,” you said with a smile as you ran your fingers through her fur. “Alpine wants to listen to music too, I guess.”
Cass reached out to pet her while you put some of the records on the floor.
“Which one?” you asked them and they both turned their attention on the covers of the records with such serious expressions that one would think they were trying to decide on something incredibly important.
“Do you have a favorite?” Cass asked and you pretended to zip your mouth shut.
“I trust your judgment.”
They exchanged glances and Cass whispered something into AJ’s ear, making him frown before he nodded.
“Um,” he said and pointed at one of the records. “This one?”
“Whoa!” you said. “How did you guys know it’s my favorite?!”
Well, no.
Sinatra wasn’t your favorite, not by a long shot but they didn’t need to know that.
Their eyes shone with excitement and AJ grinned.
“Really?”
“Oh I’m like a huge fan of him,” you said. “Okay, let’s play him then. Who wants to do it?”
“We don’t know how to play it.”
“I’ll tell you. It’s very easy.”
Cass grabbed the record, then looked at you. “What if I break it or something?”
You shrugged your shoulders and dropped your voice like you were giving them a secret.
“I have the exact same record at home,” you whispered. “If you break it, I’ll replace it with mine, and Bucky won’t even notice.”
Cass giggled and pulled out the record out of the sleeve and you turned the phonograph on.
“Okay, you have to move the needle. AJ, can you do it?”
AJ nodded and moved the needle.
“And Cass, can you place the record over there?”
Cass did as you asked.
“And now, let’s put the needle here,” you muttered, reaching out to put the needle on the record, and the melody filled the room, making them gasp. The look of excitement on their faces was so sweet that you couldn’t help but laugh, then clasped your hands together.
“There you go!” you said. “Told you it was easy.”
“Um, how does it work?” AJ asked and you pointed at the record spinning on the player.
“So there are grooves on it,” you said. “On the vinyl. The needle follows—”
“Uncle Bucky!” Cass ran to the door and your heart skipped a beat, and you looked over your shoulder to see Bucky leaning to the doorframe, watching you with a soft light in his eyes. You tried to pull yourself together and cleared your throat, then motioned at the phonograph.
“I’m teaching them how to use it.”
“We picked her favorite record!”
“They’re way too smart,” you told Bucky as if giving him a secret and Bucky chuckled.
“Oh yeah, they are.”
“And then?” AJ insisted. “How does it turn into music?”
“So yeah, the needle!” You turned to the phonograph. “Okay, the needle follows those grooves. You see those?”
“Mm hm.”
“So the needle follows those to make the sound, and there are magnets in the phonograph,” you said. “Those magnets turn it into soundwaves, and then—”
“Uncle Bucky, she looks like a princess,” You heard Cass’s very loud whisper and you bit back a smile.
“She really does, buddy.” Bucky whispered back, making your cheeks burn and AJ rolled his eyes.
“Don’t mind him,” he told you in exasperation like this was a daily occurrence and you repressed a laugh.
“And then those soundwaves follow here, and tada! Music.”
“Because of magnets?”
“Magnets and soundwaves, yeah.”
“Whoa,” AJ said and turned to Bucky. “But Uncle Bucky, you do know you can listen to music on your phone now?”
“He’s old,” you told AJ, shooting a grin at Bucky. “Give him time, he doesn’t know half of the artists we listen to nowadays.”
“I’ll show you my favorite, come on!” AJ ran to him to pull him by the hand. “You’ll love it!”
“Buddy, can you give me a minute?” he asked without pulling his gaze off you and you shook your head and stood up, making Alpine let out a noise of discontent.
“No, come on!” AJ insisted. “It’s really good music!”
“That sounds important,” you said, while Cass nodded fervently. “Go.”
He looked like he wanted to argue but ended up letting AJ pull him out of the living room to the garden, Cass running after them. You looked down at Alpine who was blinking up at you, then leaned down to scratch at her head.
“It’s fine,” you muttered while she purred. “Patience is a virtue and all that.”
*
You could swear time had decided to move extra slow today.
But it had done nothing to soothe the excitement pulsing through your system, if anything it heightened it.
Thankfully, people were leaving. Everyone was in a good mood, and it was Saturday evening, so you could hear the plans they were trying to decide on as they walked from the garden to the kitchen. You pushed up the sleeves of zip up hoodie Bucky had given you earlier today when you got cold and sat down on the stool, trying to act like your heart wasn’t beating in your throat.
“Bucky, are you sure?”
“Very sure.”
“Sam, you should join us!”
“I appreciate that Kelsey, but I am too old to go bar hopping with you guys.”
“That’s not even true! We only changed like four clubs the last time.”
“Exactly.”
“Miss Wilson?”
“Thank you Caleb, but what Sam said. And I gotta put the boys to bed.”
“Mom, can we go?”
“Nope.”
“Tim?”
“I’m down.”
“Lisa?”
“Oh for sure. Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Birdie?”
You lifted your eyes from the file in front of you.
“Bucky and I will work until late I think,” you said calmly, motioning at the rest of the files. “I’ll take an Uber. See you at home.”
You could see Bucky’s head snapping up like he wasn’t expecting you to stay, Sam and Sarah exchanging glances before they both smirked and Caleb frowned while Tim looked almost sad that you weren’t joining.
“Seriously?” Caleb asked. “It’s Saturday night.”
“And just because you don’t work doesn’t mean no one else can,” Kelsey said, grabbing him by the arm, and Caleb gasped.
“I have been working all day today, if you haven’t noticed—”
“See you guys!” Kelsey said as she dragged him out of the kitchen, Lisa, Tim, Sarah, Sam and the boys following them. Bucky walked them to the door, the chatter in the hallway continuing in full speed until the door opened, and then closed again.
Then, silence.
As silent as it could be with your heart pounding in your ears.
You slipped from the stool to lean your back against the kitchen island, trying to keep your breathing under control, squeezing the phone in your hand as you heard his footsteps coming closer until he appeared at the doorframe.
God, he was way too handsome.
You tried to swallow the nervousness tightening your throat as he took a step closer, putting his hands in his pockets.
“You didn’t leave.”
“Didn’t want to.”
His blue eyes searched your face as if he was trying to read your mind, making your heartbeat even faster.
“How long?” you managed to ask and he huffed out a curt laugh.
“For…” he trailed off. “Since I first saw you. Since you waltzed into the office with that huge folder and put it on my desk and said ‘Hi, you don’t know me yet but I figured out how to win this thing.”
A giggle bloomed in your mouth.
“But why wouldn’t you tell me?” you whispered, taking a step to him and he shook his head.
“You’ve been thinking about this just for a day, I’ve been thinking about this for a very…”
The rest of his sentence got lost somewhere as shock muffled your ears before realization crashed down on you.
…Oh.
Oh, Bucky actually thought—
He had no idea you stayed because you returned his feelings, he was under the impression that you stayed because you wanted him to explain. He actually thought today was the first time you thought about the possibility of you and him.
The idea was so absurd that you couldn’t help the exhale of disbelief leaving you.
“You think—” you cut him off. “Wait, Bucky…You—you think today is the first time I’ve thought about this?”
He looked like he didn’t know how to answer your question and a laugh climbed up your throat.
“Oh my God,” you whispered. “And I thought I was very obvious.”
He frowned slightly as you licked your lips, your stomach still fluttering.
“Ask me what my answer was.”
“To what?”
“The perfect world question,” you said with whatever courage you could pull from somewhere within you. “I know your answer but you don’t know mine. Ask.”
Bucky swallowed thickly, his voice low; “What was your answer?”
You could swear you were shaking, but by some miracle, when you spoke, your voice didn’t crack.
“The same as yours.”
The look of hope that dawned on his handsome face was so foreign that it took you by surprise. You hadn’t even seen it the night he won the election; he was happy then but this was something else. He took a step to close the distance between you, his flesh hand lifting a little so that he could cup your cheek, making your breath catch in your throat. His gaze slipped to your lips, then back at your eyes as if he was asking for your permission and you looked up at him, breathless with anticipation before you nodded. You could almost hear the crackling in the air, something electric between you coming to life, getting more and more intense—
Until his lips found yours.
This was different.
From all the times Max kissed you, or all the times you kissed guys before Max, none of it had ever been like this.
This was pure, unadulterated desire.
You could feel yourself melting in his arms as you lost yourself in his kiss, your fingers curling in his shirt just so that you could have an anchor, but a small whine escaping you when he pulled back to rest his forehead against yours, his breath caressing your lips. Your eyes fluttered open as he pulled down the zipper of the hoodie you were wearing over your sundress, his movements agonizingly slow like he was opening up a fragile present before he let it fall on the floor, desire making you dizzy. He dragged his fingertips down your arm, and gently pulled your phone out of your hand to put it aside just out of your reach, your head following the movement.
“Wait, I…” You tried to think through the haze. “I need that.”
“No.” Bucky’s voice was soft as he shook his head. “You don’t.”
You blinked up at him.
“What if—” you stammered, “what if while we’re not looking the world catches fire?”
A small smile pulled at the corners of his mouth as he leaned in again. “Good. Let it burn.”
You were beginning to think no matter how close he was, it would never be enough with the way your body ached for him. He took your breath away when he kissed you again, his heart drumming under your hand, and he wrapped his arm around your waist to press your body closer to his, only pulling back to trail his thumb over your burning cheekbone.
“God…” he whispered in awe. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”
The room was spinning.
You were on fire.
It had to be because of the fire that you didn’t even realize the words coming out of your mouth until you actually heard them:
“I love you.”
And everything went still.
Including him.
It was as if someone had just poured a bucket of ice water over you, your whole body stiffening the moment you realized what you had actually said. Your eyes snapped open, your breath catching in your throat as tears of frustration rushed to your eyes, and Bucky pulled back to see you better, a look of surprise etched on his handsome face.
Of course you had to ruin it.
“Sorry, I—sorry, I’m just—I’m gonna—” You couldn’t even finish your sentence as you rushed past him to get to the hallway, leaving him in the kitchen completely frozen.
You were an idiot.
You just had to open your stupid mouth and ruin it.
You couldn’t even blame Bucky or anyone else. Hazel had a point, you were the starry-eyed idiot with a schoolgirl crush who couldn’t keep her fucking mouth shut just because he had kissed you.
You all but ran down the hallway to get to the front door but the minute you pulled it to yourself, you felt his presence behind you before he slammed the door close with enough force to shake it in its hinges, making you gasp in surprise.
This must’ve been how he was on missions.
No one heard him coming until it was too late.
If this were someone else—anyone else, you would’ve been petrified but even now, through the frustration and shock, your mind somehow knew that Bucky would rather cut off his own hand than hurt you. No part of him touched you, and for a moment he just stood there behind you, the warmth of his body nearly intoxicating until he broke the silence, his voice a low murmur.
“Did you mean it?”
“What does it matter?” You managed to rasp out. “I ruined it.”
“Birdie…”
“Listen, you’ll say it’s too much, I—I know, it’s fine.” You stumbled over your words. “You’ll have my resignation letter tonight, and Kelsey will pick up my things from the office. We don’t have to talk about any of this, just…” You wiped your eye with the back of your hand. “I ruined it, it’s fine, I’m just gonna go, okay?”
“You didn’t—” Bucky let out an impatient breath. “Sweetheart, can you just look at me please?”
You were pretty sure that if you saw the look of disappointment in his eyes, you were going to collapse on the floor and start sobbing but you sniffled, then turned around to look up at him.
That didn’t look like disappointment.
He lifted his hand to wipe at the tear under your eye with a soft smile.
“I’m not gonna say it’s too much.”
For some reason that remained a mystery to you, you jumped at the opportunity to convince him; “No you should say it’s too much because it is too much, because like I’d totally understand—”
You were cut off when he brushed his lips against yours, but this time it was way too gentle like he feared you would break if he so much as held you wrong. He pulled back to let you breathe since your nose was clogged because of the tears that kept coming, and your eyes fluttered open, confusion settling over your mind like a fog, engulfing all your thoughts in it.
What was happening?
Bucky’s eyes darted over your face, and he took a deep breath like he was nervous.
“I’m not good at this,” he muttered. “But I need you to listen to me, okay?”
You pulled your brows together and sniffled, then nodded.
“I…” he trailed off. “For the last what, 80 years now? Everything with HYDRA, and those missions and cryo, over and over again, it was all ice. That was the only permanent thing. Bone-chilling cold. And when I first came back, when I got my mind back, I kept wondering why I still felt so cold, like a part of me never really left there.”
You blinked back the tears, wiping at your nose.
“And eventually, I figured it would be like that for the rest of my life. No matter what I did, what I tried, it was yet another thing that I would never get back, something that HYDRA carved into me. I got all of it out of my mind but I couldn’t get that…that chill out of my chest.” He paused for a moment and breathed out a curt laugh like he was lost in the memory, his brows furrowing.
“Until you came along,” he said, his voice a mere whisper. “And brought the warmth with you.”
You didn’t even notice the tears were back until Bucky wiped under your eye with a knuckle, trailing your cheekbone.
“I’m not gonna say it’s too much,” he told you. “I can’t. I love you too.”
…Oh.
Bucky—
Bucky loved you.
He actually loved you.
You stared up at him in complete silence as Bucky reached behind you, and you heard the unmistakable sound of the door opening before he stepped back, a shadow playing in his eyes like he was preparing for the pain, like he expected you to somehow reach into his chest to rip out his heart and walk out, leaving him with ice in his chest again.
“I’m not gonna do anything you don’t want me to,” he said. “Including keeping you here. I just needed you to know, that’s it.”
This had to be the third time he gave you a way out today, and each time it felt more and more insane to even think you would walk away.
A small sob climbed your throat, disbelief making you let out a teary laugh before you grabbed the door handle, pushed the door close, then flung yourself into his arms to pull him into a kiss. Your head was spinning, you were breathless, your heart felt like it was trying to climb out of your ribcage but none of that was enough to make you stop kissing him. He leaned down to snake his vibranium arm behind your thighs to lift you up like you weighed nothing, making you let out a squeal that soon turned into a giggle as you wrapped your legs around his waist. He carried you to the room at the other end of the hallway which turned out to be his bedroom, not pulling back from your kiss as if it would somehow break the spell until he carefully laid you down on the bed, settling between your legs. You tugged at his shirt with shaky hands and he pulled it off his head to throw it somewhere in the room, and you had only a couple of seconds to drink in the sight of his muscular torso before his lips found yours again. You trailed your fingertips down his chest to his abs and tried to unbuckle his belt but he pulled back, making you chase his lips with an impatient whine.
“Birdie—hey,” he whispered, his warm hand cupping your cheek as your eyes fluttered open, your heart beating in your ears. “Slow, okay darling?”
You tried to catch your breath, confusion pinching your brows together. No one had ever asked you to be slower about anything in your entire life; on the contrary, you were either pushed or convinced to be faster, to rush, to get it over with, whatever it was.
In or outside the bed.
“I, um…” You tried to find your voice through the fog of desire, looking up at him as he stroked your burning cheek while you played with his dog tags. “I don’t—I don’t know how to do things slow. I think.”
You could see that fond light glimmering in his blue eyes even in the dimly lit room.
“That’s okay,” he murmured, his vibranium fingertips running up and down your leg, waking goosebumps on your skin. “I’ll teach you how.”
This was new.
And way too unfamiliar.
And for once, your brain couldn’t think, not when he was looking at you like that, touching you like that.
“And you don’t—” You paused, but somehow Bucky didn’t seem annoyed by you trying to wrap your mind around the idea. Instead he waited patiently like he had all the time in the world, like there was nothing more important than what you were about to say. “You sure you don’t want to be fast to…”
For fuck’s sake, it was so hard to produce a single thought when he was half naked on top of you.
“To do what, beautiful?” he asked softly, nudging your nose with his, coaxing a giggle out of you while you trailed your fingertips over his muscular back.
“To do something else?” you said, what Max would always say when you were in bed flashing through your mind. “To—to work?”
He looked almost at a loss for words at the mere suggestion but he seemed to pull himself together much faster than you, a chuckle rumbling in his chest.
“Birdie,” he murmured and dipped his head to kiss your neck, his hand pushing the hem of your dress up your legs, making your eyes flutter close. “I cannot even begin to tell you how much we won’t work tonight.”
You stepped inside and smiled at Alpine who had run to the hallway to see what was happening.
“Hello my pretty princess!” you cooed, crouching down so that you could pet her. She purred, bumping her head against your hand before she closed her eyes while you ran your fingers through her soft fur.
“I still cannot believe she lets you pet her.”
Sweet baby angel princess 🥰😍
He shook his head. “I don’t if you’re the one asking me.”
😏
“Let’s say you woke up tomorrow,” you said. “And everything is perfect. What’s the first thing you’d want to see?”
You.
“Come on,” you taunted him. “Say it.”
😈
His blue eyes searched your face, his smile fading as he swallowed thickly, then took a deep breath.
“You,” he said. “Next to me.”
Bucky liked you back.
…Oh God, he liked you back.
Yet another interruption 🫠😵🫨☠️
“Bucky, I already like your—no no no, Alpine, I come in peace!” Caleb’s voice reached the kitchen -
😂
You let out a giggle and dropped your hands, your cheeks almost hurting with how wide you were smiling while you bounced on the balls of your feet, your heart still slamming against your chest.
“Bucky,” you whispered. “He…he likes me.”
Kelsey blinked a couple of times. “You guys didn’t even kiss yet?”
With what time, Kelsey??? Help themmmmm!
“No Birdie, once we all leave you guys will hold hands and recite poetry. The fuck do you think?!”
😂
“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he said, clearing his throat like he was trying to gather up courage while Bucky’s eyes found yours, awakening the butterflies in your stomach, a fire sweeping over your face. “Do you want to grab coffee sometime when you’re—”
“I’ll talk to you later, I just remembered an email I’m supposed to send Gray,” you said without so much as hearing what he was saying before you made your way back into the house so that you could calm down a little.
Oh Tim. Timmy Timmy Timmy. Timbooo. Not happening buddy.
They both nodded and sat down, and as if on cue, Alpine jumped from the couch to curl up next to you.
“Hi,” you said with a smile as you ran your fingers through her fur. “Alpine wants to listen to music too, I guess.”
😍🥰🥹😭
“Uncle Bucky, she looks like a princess,” You heard Cass’s very loud whisper and you bit back a smile.
“She really does, buddy.” Bucky whispered back, making your cheeks burn and AJ rolled his eyes.
😭🥹🥲 my heartttttt
“You think—” you cut him off. “Wait, Bucky…You—you think today is the first time I’ve thought about this?”
Looooooooooooool
Until his lips found yours.
✨F I N A L L Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y ! ! ! ! 🎆🎇🤸♀️🎆🎇
“What if—” you stammered, “what if while we’re not looking the world catches fire?”
A small smile pulled at the corners of his mouth as he leaned in again. “Good. Let it burn.”
It had to be because of the fire that you didn’t even realize the words coming out of your mouth until you actually heard them:
“I love you.”
“Sorry, I—sorry, I’m just—I’m gonna—” You couldn’t even finish your sentence as you rushed past him to get to the hallway, leaving him in the kitchen completely frozen.
“Until you came along,” he said, his voice a mere whisper. “And brought the warmth with you.”
You didn’t even notice the tears were back until Bucky wiped under your eye with a knuckle, trailing your cheekbone.
“I’m not gonna say it’s too much,” he told you. “I can’t. I love you too.”
🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥
“I don’t—I don’t know how to do things slow. I think.”
You could see that fond light glimmering in his blue eyes even in the dimly lit room.
“That’s okay,” he murmured, his vibranium fingertips running up and down your leg, waking goosebumps on your skin. “I’ll teach you how.”
🧎♀️ 😏 😈
“Birdie,” he murmured and dipped his head to kiss your neck, his hand pushing the hem of your dress up your legs, making your eyes flutter close. “I cannot even begin to tell you how much we won’t work tonight.”
I hope you have an amazing break and vacation! 🩷Not sure how I'm going to survive till August, that feels like 3 lifetimes away from now!
On TikTok I saw a comment where a woman said that she told her husband to pretend to be unconscious so he was dead weight to see if she could drag him out of the house in case of fire or emergency, she couldn’t even pull him off the bed and she cried so he had comfort her while dying laughing😭😭😂 reminded me of something biker Bucky and Gorgeous would do
Pairing: Biker!Bucky x Reader
A/N: Written on my phone, unbetad.
Bucky groans dramatically. "You might as well just leave me here and save yourself Gorgeous."
You keep pulling him with all your strength but he barely budges an inch. You might be able to move him if he'd stop talking.
He doesn't.
"Bury me with my bike." Bucky cracks open an eye, his lips twitching. "And a pair of your panties."
"I'm not doing that." A laugh spills past your lips before you can stop it.
You can't concentrate with him cracking jokes like this. Yeah that's the reason you're struggling to move this six foot something man. It's all his fault.
You keep laughing but the more he thinks about it, the more he likes the idea. "Matter fact, line my casket with your panties and toss in a few of those pics I have on my phone."
"Oh my god."
"I'll know if you disregarded my last wishes," he casually warns, like his massive body isn't splayed on the bedroom floor. Like he's still not budging despite the fact that you're putting your all into this.
"Shut. Up."
"Mourn me for the rest of your life," he sighs sadly, head lolling to the side. Bucky hasn't broken character once, he's fully committed to this bit. "Keep a shrine of me in our bedroom."
"Bucky I'm trying to focus," your breathless giggle lost under a grunt when you try to shove him to the side. Nothing. Damn it.
Eyeing his shirtless, tattooed body, you try new a new approach. Adjusting your grip, you hook your fingers under his upper arms. You can barely get your hands around half of his large, warm biceps. Bracing your feet on the floor, you pull so hard you feel your muscles tremble and ache.
"Don't even think about moving on."
"Be quiet," you start. Releasing his arms, you wince when they hit the floor with a thud. You'd have better luck moving a pile of bricks than your man. "What would you do if I did?"
You're teasing but Bucky takes you very seriously.
He doesn't play when it comes to you. Or his burial requests.
He slowly opens his eyes, his darkening gaze captures yours. "I will haunt you for the rest of your life," he states confidently. "No guy will even breathe in your direction by time I'm done with them. You're going to have a rep because of me."
There's no time to process that because his hands suddenly reach out, grabbing your ankles. You're tugged forward, turned and twisted—somehow he manages to squeeze your ass a couple of times—until you're flat on his chest, his pecs under your palms.
Bucky smiles, his hand cups the back of your head and he brings your face close to his. "If you think I'm a menace now, imagine what my ghost will be like. Just imagine what ghost me would do to you. I'd get rid of your little replacement and then you'd get all my attention. Remember ghost me isn't going to get tired."
Oh.
Oh.
Oh no.
Well maybe that could be fun. Wait.
Your eyes widen at the images his words are creating. He chuckles under his breath. "Yeah, that's what I thought."
Resting your chin on his chest, you have to admit, no man would ever measure up to your bike. And if anyone could find a way to come back and haunt someone, it would be the handsome, incorrigible man under you.
"So you want all my panties or just your favorites?"
"Gorgeous. How many times do we have to go over this? All your panties are my favorite."
"Fine," you concede, failing to hold back a smile. "But you promised me a lifetime together and I'm holding you to that."
Bucky brushes his lips across yours in one sweet, sure motion. His deep voice rolls over your skin leaving goosebumps in its wake. "I have no intention of leaving you anytime soon. I got too many plans for you, Gorgeous."
All of his plans revolve around loving you, protecting you, being with you, caring for you any way you'll let him.
And he's going take his time getting through every last one of them.
A.N: Thank you so much for your wonderful support my loves, you are so amazing🩷 I hope you like this chapter as well! 🥰 And please let me know what you think! 🩷
Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Female!Reader
Summary: Having a high pressure job has its consequences.
Warnings: Explicit language, panic attacks.
Word Count: 4.9k
Series Masterlist
The news of the breakup spread like wildfire.
To be honest, you hadn’t expected anything different. This had to be one of the rare times that Caleb hated being in PR because even you could tell that he was working way too hard.
And of course, your name had been brought up multiple times, but so far there wasn’t anything actually threatening thanks to Bucky and Hazel having attended the gala together right before they broke up.
“Mom, how did you know dad was the one?”
Your mother looked up from the bowl she was mixing the cake mixture in, then let out a laugh.
“What brought this on?”
“Just curious.” You dangled your legs from the high stool and sipped your coffee before putting the mug on the kitchen island. “Also, I would like to ask again, why are we in the kitchen? You don’t cook.”
“I’m baking.”
“You don’t bake either.”
“Well, one of the girls in my spiritual retreat said it would be a good bonding practice between mothers and daughters.”
You pulled your brows together.
“I guess today is good as any to start,” you murmured. “Fine, okay. We’re bonding, see? Tell me how you knew, other than the fact that he dazzled you with money.”
“Oh I didn’t care about the money.”
You tilted your head. “Uh, are you sure? I mean no offense obviously, but I always assumed money played a part. Safety and all that.”
“I did feel safe with him but that had nothing to do with the money.”
“So you were actually in love with him.”
“I was and I am.”
You made a face. “Oh come on, that I don’t buy. You can be honest, there’s no way you’re still in love with him.”
“Why not?”
You let out a laugh. “Because he’s evil?”
She rolled her eyes and started pouring the mixture into the cupcake tray. “He’s not evil, honey.”
“Well…” You cleared your throat. “I mean he has been bribing and extorting politicians for decades so that things work the way he wants them to work. That’s like, textbook bad. Disney movie bad.”
“Funny, I heard a lot of people say Bucky Barnes is a bad man, but you seem very eager to defend him.”
“That has nothing to do with—okay, let’s never ever put Bucky in the same category with dad ever again,” you said with a laugh. “It’s kind of like lumping The Night King and Jon Snow together.”
“I didn’t watch that show.”
“They’re like complete opposites.” You took another sip of your coffee. “Let me put it this way; Bucky would sacrifice his own life to save someone, dad would sacrifice the whole world to save himself.”
“And you, and me.”
You made a noise of disagreement.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” you said. “You yes. Me, doubtful.”
“He does love you, you know.”
“No he doesn’t.” You shrugged your shoulders. “And I don’t mind, really.”
“He does,” your mother insisted. “It’s just that, you’re both very stubborn and don’t know how to communicate.”
“That and our political stances and our principles and our goals are very different.”
“So what?” she asked as if it was just trivial, and you scoffed a laugh.
“You seriously don’t mind what he does?” you asked. “All those people he hurt? All the corruption?”
“I’m not interested in what he does at work. I’m interested in what kind of a man he is with us, his family.”
You grimaced. “That’s not how it works, mom.”
“It’s how it works with me.”
You rubbed at your eyes, heaving a sigh. “I guess this just proves it.”
“Proves what?”
“I’ve always thought that…” you trailed off. “I’ve always thought you and him were just meant to be together, but I wasn’t supposed to be in the picture.”
“Never say that!” She gasped. “We love you!”
“That’s not it,” you said with a weak smile. “No, you guys make sense together, in some very weird and unhealthy way. But I don’t, you know what I mean?”
“That’s so not true,” she said, putting pieces of chocolate into the batter in the pan. “And as I’ve said, your father loves you and me. What he does at work doesn’t matter.”
“It actually does,” you said. “You might be able to pick and choose, but I wouldn’t be able to do that.”
“Is that why you broke up with Max?”
“That dickhead voted for the opposition.”
She turned to you. “Please tell me you didn’t break up with him over that.”
“See? It doesn’t matter to you,” you said. “But it matters to me. And hey, it’s a good thing I dumped him, apparently he was cheating on me anyway.”
Her jaw dropped and she reached out to squeeze your hand. “Aw I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine, I don’t care,” you said. “I mastered the art of detachment thanks to the revolving door of nannies you guys kept changing when I was little, so it’s okay.”
“Well, we just didn’t know who was the best for you.”
You bit at your lip to hold back your retort.
“How’s everything at work?” she asked. “Are those rumors still going on?”
“Well, to some extent but no picture or anything,” you said. “Just whispers.”
“And you like him?”
“Professionally, yes.”
Bullshit.
It was a good thing that your mother hardly ever spent time with you, she didn’t know how to read you.
The truth was that every day your feelings for Bucky were getting deeper. You knew that Hazel was right, you knew the risks but somehow, when you thought about him kissing you…
Your brain just refused to be logical.
Granted that didn’t mean you were going to throw all the caution to the wind, but you were wondering if something was wrong with you if that didn’t intimidate you as much as it was supposed to.
“A lot of my friends think he’s too handsome to be in politics.” Her voice pulled you out of your thoughts. “And they have a lot of questions.”
“About him?”
She hummed and walked to the oven to take a look at it. “Which button do I turn?”
You jumped from the stool to turn the button. “This one.”
“Aw thank you,” she said as she put the tray in, then closed it and turned to you. “So what’s he like?”
You took your seat again. “In politics?”
“In his daily life. Why did he and that girl break up?”
You cleared your throat. “Um, difference in opinions.”
“On what?”
“No idea, that’s what I’ve been told.”
She hummed, sitting down as well. “And you guys are close?”
“Professionally.”
“But you consider him a friend as well?” she asked. “I don’t know many people who are friends with their boss.”
“You don’t know many people with a boss.”
“Fair,” she admitted. “But that’s irrelevant. Tell me more about him, we’re all curious. Is he nice?”
“Oh absolutely.”
“To you? Even with all these rumors?”
You couldn’t help but smile, then nodded your head.
“He um…” you trailed off, biting your lip. “He’s amazing, mom. I know a lot of people think there are still traces of the Winter Soldier in him, but it’s not like that at all. He’s the sweetest, I’d trust him with my life. He even—”
You stopped yourself and your mother leaned in, curiosity shining in her eyes. “What?”
“He got Blinky back for me.”
She blinked a couple of times in confusion. “Who’s Blinky?”
Of course.
You hesitated for a second before you forced yourself to smile and shook your head.
“It’s not important,” you mumbled. “Anyways, enough about me, how was your retreat?”
*
The next day, you didn’t even have the time to go to lunch. You had to work on the draft Bucky had asked you to, and of course you had volunteered to go over the revisions Lucas had sent you just so that you could impress Congresswoman Gray, and your phone kept buzzing with emails every two minutes.
And for some reason, everything was louder today.
You took a deep breath, willing your heartbeat to calm down as you clenched and unclenched your hands, staring at the screen before you deleted the last line, and added a new one.
“Please don’t tell me we’re back to skipping lunch for work.”
Your fingers froze over the keyboard before you looked over your shoulder to see Bucky watching you, leaning against the doorframe.
“I had a protein bar and like two cups of red eye, I’m fine.”
His worried gaze raked over you, making your heartbeat even faster.
“I thought we had a deal.”
“I’ll eat when I’m done with this.” You nodded at the screen and he came to lean against your desk, making you bite back a smile.
“Birdie.”
You heaved a dramatic sigh at his teasing tone and looked up at him. “Hm?”
“Let’s have lunch.”
“You literally came back from lunch.”
“I can eat again.” He started tilting the screen of your laptop down but you batted his hand away, then fixed the screen again. “It’s a metabolism thing.”
“Super soldier metabolism?”
“Mm hm.”
“Good for you, I’m too busy,” you said. “I already spent enough time doing nothing with my mom yesterday when I was supposed to go over this, so…”
“You were with your mom?” he asked. “How did that go?”
“Dad wasn’t home so it was fine. Ish.”
“Fine-ish?”
“My mom doesn’t really know much about me but the parts she knows, she loves to dismiss,” you said. “They make a terrific couple with my dad, terrible parents though.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” you said. “Without them, my old therapist wouldn’t have been able to buy her second Ferrari, so I guess it wasn’t a total disaster.”
“And you can tell me all about it while we’re having lunch.”
You turned to your laptop. “Take a powder, Barnes.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you could see the clear confusion on his face but it turned into an amused smile, a chuckle escaping his lips.
“How did you…?”
“Hey, I could have an extensive vocabulary.” You grinned at him. “You don’t know my lexicon.”
“Right. Why do I feel like you googled 40s slang?”
“I once saw you google if lavender is edible, so how about we stop pointing fingers?” you asked and he shook his head vigorously.
“In my defense, Kelsey got me a lavender latte and insisted I had to try it.”
“And what did you think? Your assistant was trying to poison you?”
He shot you a look as if you were asking him a question with a very obvious answer. “It’s Kelsey.”
You thought for a moment, then shrugged your shoulders.
“Fair enough,” you said. “But come on, she—”
You stopped talking when your phone started buzzing, making both you and Bucky turn your glances to the screen, and you both frowned at the same time.
“He’s still calling you?” Bucky asked and held out his hand for you to give him the phone, but you shook your head.
“I’ll handle him,” you said and answered the phone. “Max, go fu—”
“Wait wait, don’t hang up,” he cut you off. “I swear, this will be very civil and you’re gonna want to listen to what I have to say.”
You rolled your eyes, leaning back on your chair while Bucky kept his eyes on you.
“What?” you asked crossly and he took a deep breath.
“I saw that piece about you and Barnes.”
“I’m going to hang up now.”
“A journalist contacted me,” he said in a rush. “He wanted to know whether there was anything going on between you and him while we were still dating.”
Your stomach dropped, your eyes snapping up to Bucky before you gritted your teeth.
“And let me guess,” you said. “You told him you’d think about it and now you’re calling me to ask for something.”
“No actually,” he said. “I told him we broke up because I cheated on you, because you put your career over our relationship, the very same career you wouldn’t risk for anyone much less your boss.”
You pulled back slightly. “…What?”
“I gathered ambitious bitch sounded better than greedy slut. Not that you’re either of those but you know, the guy was an asshole.”
You let out a surprised laugh.
“You’re telling me you had the perfect opportunity to fuck with me and you didn’t take it?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re not asking for anything in return?”
“No, I just wanted to let you know,” he said. “If they called me, it means they’re working on a piece.”
You frowned, drumming your fingernails on the desk.
“And why would you do this without asking for anything in return?”
He fell quiet for a moment, then cleared his throat.
“Tessa said she’d leave me if I didn’t go to therapy,” he said. “And my therapist made me realize it wasn’t cool, what I did. What with keeping Blinky and stuff.”
“By ‘stuff’ you mean cheating on me, or the ultimatum or going behind my back at voting?” you asked and he took a deep breath.
“Yeah. Sorry about all that.”
As much as you wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, you figured this was at least just a little progress.
Very little, but either way.
“Well, what do you know?” you muttered. “I mean you’re still an asshole, that goes without saying but I appreciate the heads up.”
“My therapist says I have um… he says I am scared of emotional intimacy. That’s why I cheated on you, he says.”
“Yeah Max, because he can’t say you’re an asshole. You’re paying him.”
“I guess.” He snorted a laugh. “How’s DC?”
“Full of people who’d love to step on your back for their own gain. I haven’t slept in two days.”
Bucky shot you a disapproving look but you waved a hand in the air.
“So you’re having the time of your life?”
“Something like that.”
“That’s good—” He started but you heard another voice coming from the other line, probably his assistant. “I uh, sorry, I gotta go. Work thing.”
“I gathered,” you replied. “It’s almost five minutes.”
“…Yeah, that wasn’t cool either,” he said. “Also sorry about that.”
“Listen, how about I send you a list of things you should be sorry for and we can get all of them out the way?”
He let out a chuckle. “That’d make therapy so much easier. Can I call or email you to apologize then?”
“Call me and I’ll see if I’m in the forgiving mood,” you said and hung up, then looked up at Bucky.
“So, great news,” you said. “A journalist asked Max if you and I had an affair while I was with him, but he said no.”
“And he didn’t ask for anything in return?”
“He’s doing therapy, as it turns out,” you said. “My belief in psychology has been renewed because honestly, if they can make Max apologize…”
Bucky’s lips twitched into a smile and you bounced your leg, biting inside your cheek.
“We need to find who this journalist is.”
“I will.” His voice was completely calm. “And I’ll take care of it.”
“You can’t threaten him.”
“If he didn’t want me to threaten him, he shouldn’t have dragged you into whatever nonsense he’s working on,” he said, making your heart skip a beat. “That’s just not how it works.”
You tilted your head, feigning confusion. “I thought I was the one protecting you.”
He winked at you. “It’s a two-way street.”
You rolled your eyes at him playfully as he turned his head to look at the approaching footsteps before Caleb appeared at the door and let out a groan.
“I’m like two seconds away from assigning a chaperone to you like we’re in Georgian era,” he said. “Bucky, you might be familiar with that.”
“Wrong century, Caleb.”
“Well, how about we don’t start another fire when I’ve just extinguished the other one?”
You held up your hands and turned your attention to the screen, your cheeks burning and Bucky heaved a sigh, then pushed himself off the desk.
“Make her eat something.”
“I will but did you have the chance to think about what I said?”
You looked between them. “What did you say?”
“Caleb thinks we all should have a barbeque at my new place,” Bucky said. “Something something PR.”
“It would show you’re still relatable and that you’re doing fine after the breakup.”
“That’s not a terrible idea,” you mused. “I haven’t been to your new place yet, and I missed Alpine.”
“And the team would love it,” Caleb added and Bucky’s gaze stopped on you as if he was torn between ideas, then cleared his throat.
“Yeah, whatever,” he told Caleb who pumped his fist in the air in victory. “Just let me know when.”
“Will do!”
“And I’m not locking Alpine in the room,” he said as he walked into his office. “She gives me an attitude for days when I do that.”
Caleb approached you to plop down on the chair next to your desk.
“Thanks for convincing him.”
“I barely said anything.”
“Well, I’ve been begging him for a week and one word from you…” he trailed off and you shook your head, then turned to him.
“Caleb.”
“Hm?”
“There’s something you need to know as Bucky’s communications director.”
His grin wiped off his face in a second. “What?”
“There’s a journalist,” you said. “And apparently he’s been asking questions about me and Bucky.”
Caleb ran a hand over his face, cussing under his breath.
“Of course,” he said and pulled out his phone. “It was getting a bit too peaceful today, so why not? Be right back.”
You watched him walk out of the office and pressed your hands on your eyes before you dropped them, straightening your back.
“It’s fine,” you murmured to yourself as you turned your attention back to the screen. “It’s totally fine.”
*
As your anxiety would show you; it was not, in fact, fine.
You had spent the whole day working, and now almost everyone had left but Kelsey and Bucky, both of whom were in a meeting with Congressman Murray.
And you. Working overtime.
It was already dark out, and the only thing illuminating the office was your laptop screen. You could feel the migraine slowly making its way to your temples. For the whole day, your chest hadn’t stopped feeling tight, like you couldn’t get enough air into your lungs especially after Max had told you about the journalist. In addition to all that, the work you had to cover was getting bigger and bigger, you still had one hundred pages to go over, and to make the necessary edits.
In other news, you might have bitten more than you could chew.
You typed away at the keyboard, forcing yourself to hum a melody in hopes of calming yourself down before you got up from your chair to make your way to Bucky’s office. You grabbed the file from his desk and went back to your desk, but before you could sit down, your phone buzzed on the desk, the screen lighting up.
From: Dad
We need to talk about the journalist.
And just like that, your line of sight grew narrow, darkness swallowing everything else other than the phone.
To your terror, you could feel the familiar tingling spreading over your face as your throat tightened, the breath you were taking getting stuck there. A fire burned through your chest, twisting your heart harder and harder while it tried to escape from your ribcage. You could feel your whole body beginning to shake, the floor getting wobbly underneath your feet like quicksand as you took a step back, grasping at your throat with one hand.
You’re not dying.
It’s a panic attack, you’re not dying.
Except that you were sinking.
You held onto the desk with one hand and managed to crouch down to sit on the floor as the room started spinning, your heart pounding in your ears. Nausea crashed down on you while you tried to get enough air in your lungs, your other hand balling up into fist tight enough to cramp.
You’re not dying.
You couldn’t even tell if it was tears or cold sweat running down your face; it was probably both. Your hand on your throat slipped down to your chest to press on it in hopes of soothing the pain there while you forced yourself to take another breath.
You’re not dying.
You see a laptop, you see a chair, you see a—
You hadn’t even heard Bucky stepping into the office before he rushed to you, his hands grasping your upper arms, almost frantically checking you for injuries like he wanted to see if you were bleeding.
“Birdie?”
“Not dying,” you managed to gasp out. “Panic attack.”
That made him stop only for a moment, a look of absolute relief crossing his face and he let out a breath.
“Okay,” he said. “You’re breathing very fast right now, can you breathe with me?”
You nodded your head, taking a shaky breath at the same time as him, then exhaled. For almost a minute, you followed his lead and once you weren’t breathing as fast, he gave you a small smile.
“There you go,” he said. “Five things you can see?”
That made your eyes snap to his as you took another breath. “How do you—?”
“Five things,” he said and you exhaled.
“Laptop,” you rasped out. “Chair. Papers. Desk. My fox figure on my desk.”
“Four things you can hear.”
You tried to focus, pulling your brows together.
“Your voice,” you said. “Footsteps from the hallway. AC. Um…”
“One more.”
“The laptop running,” you said, pressing your palm on the floor. “And three things I can feel are…the marble floor, and sweat dripping down the back of my neck, which is fucking disgusting—”
“Birdie, focus.”
“And um, the wind. From the AC.”
“And two things you can—”
“Smell. Your cologne and paper. I just printed a bunch of stuff.”
“And one thing you can taste?”
“Blood. I bit my tongue too hard.”
His eyes searched your face and you let out another shaky breath, exhaustion creeping up on you as you leaned your head back to the wall. Bucky hesitated for a second before he sat beside you, leaning back against the wall.
“How do you know grounding techniques?” you asked after a pause and he shrugged his shoulders.
“Mandatory therapy.”
“Ah,” you said, fixing your eyes on the ceiling. “Interesting.”
“And I’m guessing this is not your first panic attack?” he asked, making you scoff a laugh.
“Nope,” you said. “Been having them since I was like twelve.”
Bucky’s brows pulled into a frown. “Twelve?”
“Yup,” you said. “As it turns out, if you put too much pressure on a kid and yell at them whenever they didn’t meet the expectations, their brain gets messed up. Who would’ve known?”
“I’m going to kill your father.”
“You can’t,” you said. “If he’s dead, who’s gonna go around crossroads to make deals for people’s souls?”
“Birdie.”
“I’m fine,” you said even if your arms felt way too heavy when you raised your hand to wipe the sweat off your forehead. “This happens, no big deal.”
“How often?”
“Not regular,” you said. “Sometimes. But let me tell you, I would not last a day back in the 1940s. I saw those documentaries, my husband would send me off to an asylum and they’d try to lobotomize—”
“I’m giving you time off.”
“Tough shit, I’m not taking it.”
He gave you a look. “I’ll change the locks to the office.”
“I’ll work in the hallway.”
He ran a hand over his face as if he was straining his mind to come up with a solution and you wiggled your brows despite exhaustion.
“Sorry. I guess you shouldn’t have hired me, huh?”
“If I hadn’t hired you, neither of us would be here,” he said and thought for a moment. “Well, I wouldn’t be, at least. You would have probably made someone else win so you’d be here.”
“I wouldn’t have worked for someone else,” you murmured and he licked his lips.
“Please take some time off.”
“Nope.”
“You either take some time off, or I’m hiring someone to help you out with the workload.”
Your eyes widened. “Bucky, no.”
“Bucky yes.”
“I don’t trust anyone else with what I do,” you said. “They’re gonna miss something, some detail and then I’ll have to go over what they did anyway.”
“Either vacation, or this,” he said, his voice signaling this was not open to discussion. “You’re not leaving me with many options here.”
“There is an option!” you exclaimed. “The system we have works.”
“It obviously doesn’t if you haven’t slept in two days and the workload is triggering a panic attack.”
“It didn’t though!” you insisted. “It’s a coincidence, not a chain of events.”
“I’m not risking it.”
You huffed out, slipping a little on the floor and crossing your arms while Bucky’s lips twitched into a fond smile.
“You’re pouting.”
“I’m not pouting, I’m contemplating,” you corrected him and gritted your teeth, then rolled your eyes. “Fine. I’ll give the okay though, whoever you hire. I need to make sure they can handle this whole thing.”
“Didn’t think otherwise.”
You let out a noise of displeasure, exhaustion still heavy on your whole body and you leaned your head on his shoulder with a tired sigh. He dipped his head to nuzzle into your hair, making your stomach do a happy flip and you played with the bracelet around your wrist.
“Bucky?”
He hummed into your hair.
“How did it go with Murray?”
He raised his lips from your hair so that you could hear him; “We’re not talking about work right now.”
“But—”
“Nope.”
“Fine,” you said with a pout. “How are you handling the breakup?”
That made him fall quiet for a moment before he cleared his throat.
“I’m fine.”
You lifted your head and sat up straighter to look up at him better.
“Are you?” you insisted. “For real? Because I wouldn’t blame you if you weren’t. I mean no offense but Hazel is kind of perfect.”
“She is,” Bucky said immediately. “She really is, but I don’t think—uh, I don’t think I was the right person for her.
Your heart sped up again but this time instead of dread, all you could feel was excitement rushing through your veins.
“…Oh,” you managed to say. “Why not?”
That made him fall quiet for a moment, his gaze slipping down to your lips before it snapped up to your eyes again. You couldn’t help but notice his throat bobbed nervously, and he took a deep breath as if he was trying to gather up courage.
Which was insane.
You had seen him throw himself in danger over and over again without so much as a second of hesitation.
“Because,” he started, his voice soft, “Birdie, I—”
“Hello?” Kelsey’s voice carried out from the doorway, snapping both of you out of your daze. “Guys?”
You loved Kelsey but you could swear that the urge to scream at her was way too strong.
Bucky closed his eyes for a moment as if he shared the sentiment, then opened them again, his jaw tightening. You sat up straighter and raised your hand from beside the desk.
“Over here, Kels.”
“What the fuck are you two doing on the floor?” Kelsey asked as she made her way to you and you exchanged glances, then turned to her.
“I…we—uh—”
“I think better when I’m sitting on the floor,” Bucky cut you off and Kelsey tilted her head.
“What?”
“Yeah, it’s a habit from the 1940s.”
Kelsey looked from him to you while Bucky stood up, then offered his hand for you to take it, a warmth spreading from your hand to your arm. You were still exhausted, but you looked up at him and mouthed ‘thank you’. Bucky squeezed your hand in an assuring manner, and you turned to Kelsey.
“Are we going home?”
“Sure, let’s.”
“Call me when you get home?” Bucky murmured and you nodded your head, giving him a small smile, then grabbed your purse off the desk and followed Kelsey out of the office.
“Please don’t tell me you two were having sex on the office floor.”
You let out a laugh, then shook your head.
“We were talking about his ex,” you said and cracked your neck, making a face. “And oh, before I forget, Caleb says we’ll have a barbeque at Bucky’s place this Saturday.”
“At Bucky’s place?” she asked. “All of us?”
“Mm hm, the whole team and I think Sam and Sarah will come too.”
Kelsey grinned at you.
“Just let me know if you happen to find yourself in his bedroom and need me to distract others,” she joked. “During the house tour, that is.”
You pushed at her arm gently.
“There’s gonna be people there,” you reminded her. “Lots of people. Hypothetically, even if Bucky liked me like that—”
“Did they raise you in a convent?”
“That would still be impossible,” you said as if she didn’t interrupt you. “Which by the way, he doesn’t.”
“Uh huh.”
“I don’t even think he finds me hot, to be honest with you,” you said. “It’s like Hazel said. He entertains my crush, that’s it.”
Kelsey threw her head back.
“You are so oblivious,” she groaned. “This barbecue—”
“Will be just a barbecue,” you said. “Some PR thing, that’s it. I assure you.”
“Funny, I heard a lot of people say Bucky Barnes is a bad man, but you seem very eager to defend him.”
She blinked a couple of times in confusion. “Who’s Blinky?”
🙄🙄🙄
“Tessa said she’d leave me if I didn’t go to therapy,” he said. “And my therapist made me realize it wasn’t cool, what I did. What with keeping Blinky and stuff.”
Miracle's really do happen, huh? Fascinating.
“Yeah Max, because he can’t say you’re an asshole. You’re paying him.”
😂
“That’s good—” He started but you heard another voice coming from the other line, probably his assistant. “I uh, sorry, I gotta go. Work thing.”
“I gathered,” you replied. “It’s almost five minutes.”
😂😂
“You can’t threaten him.”
“If he didn’t want me to threaten him, he shouldn’t have dragged you into whatever nonsense he’s working on,” he said, making your heart skip a beat. “That’s just not how it works.”
“I’m like two seconds away from assigning a chaperone to you like we’re in Georgian era,” he said. “Bucky, you might be familiar with that.”
“Not regular,” you said. “Sometimes. But let me tell you, I would not last a day back in the 1940s. I saw those documentaries, my husband would send me off to an asylum and they’d try to lobotomize—”
“Because,” he started, his voice soft, “Birdie, I—”
“Hello?” Kelsey’s voice carried out from the doorway, snapping both of you out of your daze. “Guys?”
GET THE FUUUUUUCK OUTTA HEREEEE, KELS!!!!! Not nowwwwwwww!
Every. Single. Timee.
“I don’t even think he finds me hot, to be honest with you,” you said. “It’s like Hazel said. He entertains my crush, that’s it.”
Summary : After going on a date with Bucky, Sarah realises they're better off as friends. So she does the next best thing: sets him up with you, the Wilsons’ childhood best friend.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x Wilsons’ best friend!reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Fluff!!!! Canon-compliant-ish. cursing. Sex is mentioned and described but nothing too graphic. Honorary Wilson!reader lol. (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)
Word count : 6.1k
Note : If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!
Bucky had been hanging around Delacroix more often—helping out with repairs, tagging along with Sam, awkwardly charming every older woman at the community center.
After a while, he asked Sarah out the old-fashioned way. They were mid-conversation on her porch after a neighborhood barbecue when he said, “Would you maybe wanna grab coffee sometime?”
Sarah blinked. “Like… a date?”
Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, shrugging. “Yeah. A date.”
She smiled, a little surprised he actually made a move. “Sure, Barnes. Why not?”
—
The coffee date was… fine.
Sarah looked good—she always did—but sitting across from her in a cosy little café, Bucky felt like he was going through the motions. She talked about her boys, the PTA, the plumber who still hadn’t fixed the upstairs sink. He listened politely, sipping his drink.
As the date went on, the silences got longer. Not the comfortable kind— the searching-for-what-to-say-next kind.
Sarah told a hilarious story about AJ trying to microwave a juice box. Bucky laughed but didn’t know how to relate. He talked about old jazz clubs in Brooklyn, and she smiled, but couldn’t picture it.
Now, he thought to himself, what on earth do we have in common?
She liked things like school pickups and meal prep and making sure her boys had clean socks.
He was still figuring out how to use Google Maps.
By the time their drinks were finished, Sarah leaned back in her chair and tilted her head. “You know this isn’t gonna work, right?”
Bucky let out a relieved sigh. “God, thank you. I thought I was crazy.”
“You’re sweet,” she said with a grin. “But you’re… not for me.”
“You’re way too… normal,” he joked, happy to go back to friendly banter.
“Hey! Normal’s not so bad,” she playfully slapped his arm, grinning. “Especially with two kids and a mortgage. I like normal.”
Bucky shrugged. “I think I’m still trying to figure out what normal even is.”
There wasn’t any bitterness between them, just a mutual understanding. They walked out side by side, still friends, no pressure. Bucky held the door open for her, and they walked side-by-side on the sidewalk.
“You’ll find someone,” she said, patting his shoulder. “Just maybe not a single mom who spends half her life arguing with a ten-year-old about screen time.”
“Mm. Modern dating’s rough,” Bucky muttered, almost to himself, kicking a pebble. He gave her a half-hearted laugh. “I never had to do it before. In the forties, you danced with someone, got shipped three weeks later, and that was that.”
Sarah adjusted the strap of her bag. “Yeah, well, times have changed.”
“I don’t even know what my ‘type’ is,” Bucky sighed, plunging his hands into the pocket of his leather jacket.
“Come on. Everyone has a type,” She glanced at him. “What do you usually go for?”
He thought for a long moment, mouth half open, brows furrowed like he was trying to solve a math problem.
“I dunno… pretty? Smart? Likes reading and stuff?” He squinted. “You know. Someone who makes me feel like I’m not completely out of place all the time.”
Sarah blinked at him, then let out a laugh that was more affectionate than mocking. “You’re hopeless.”
“I said I don’t know!”
“So,” she started, gears already shifting in her head, “You want someone smart, probably a little intense, maybe a little weird— someone who could keep up with your nerdy ass and not try to fix you.”
Bucky looked at her sideways. “...Is that a bad thing?”
“Not at all. Just not me.” She shrugged, before smiling to herself. “Lucky for you, I think I know the woman for you,” she said with a little sing-song voice.
Bucky’s brow furrowed. “You’re setting me up with someone else?”
She grinned, wide and smug. “Damn right I am.”
“After I just tried to date you?”
“Please,” she said, already pulling out her phone. “This is the South. Everyone’s dated everyone once. It’s how we weed out the bad matches and find the good ones.”
—
The air was warm and fragrant with the smell of jasmine, the kind of Southern evening that made time stretch out and slow down. Cicadas hummed in the trees like a constant chorus, and the porch creaked beneath. You sat curled up on the steps, legs tucked beneath you, an old quilt draped across your lap even though the heat hardly called for it. Sarah lounged across from you, sipping sweet tea from a mason jar, her curls tied back, the porch light casting a halo around her.
“So,” she said, breaking the comfortable silence as she swirled the ice in her glass, “I went on a date with Bucky Barnes.”
You blinked. “Wait—the Bucky? Metal arm, might’ve killed a guy with a butter knife?” Sam has told you a lot about him, of course. But that wasn’t the same as knowing him.
Sarah nodded.
You sat up straighter, curious now. “Okay, and? Spill.”
She tilted her head thoughtfully. “He’s... complicated. But nice. Weirdly funny. He loves old movies and books and he’s got this thing where he looks constantly exhausted by the existence of social media.”
“That’s… something.”
Sarah shrugged. “He’s trying. But it didn’t really click, you know? Not romantically, anyway. We kind of gave each other this look like, ‘Yeah, this isn’t it.’”
You took a slow sip of your tea, watching her closely. “So why are you telling me this?”
Sarah raised an eyebrow, unhurried. And if you knew her— and you did— she was scheming. “Because you… you might be exactly his type.”
Your brow shot up. “You’re trying to set me up with the Winter Soldier?”
“No,” Sarah rolled her eyes and leaned forward. “I’m trying to set you up with Bucky. Who happens to have a metal arm and a very unfortunate history of government-sanctioned murder. Besides, I think he’s your type, too.”
You made a show of pretending to consider it, lips pursed. “Pretty but did government-sanctioned murder is my type?”
She nodded without missing a beat. “A hundred percent. You like them brooding and bookish with just a dash of ‘might stab someone for you.’”
You laughed. “Okay, but what about Sam?” You leaned back to the wooden railing, running your fingers around the rim of your glass. “You really think he’s gonna be chill with Bucky taking two of the closest women in his life out?”
“He’ll freak,” Sarah finished, deadpan. “But if it doesn’t work out, he doesn’t have to know. If it does we’ll handle it. I’ll hit him with the ‘don’t get in the way of love’ speech. Maybe throw in some guilt about daddy watching from heaven.”
“That’s cold.”
“It’s effective.”
You chuckled, setting your glass down and leaning back, looking out at the yard. Crickets chirped somewhere near the bushes, and the stars were just starting to peek through the indigo sky.
You bit your lip, shaking your head but not saying no. You were picturing him now— this man you’d only ever seen in brief glimpses, standing quiet at the edges of cookouts, nodding along to conversations, sometimes slipping into laughter like he forgot he was allowed to enjoy things.
“Does he read?” you asked finally, glancing sideways at her.
“All the time. Sam said he annotates in the margins.”
You tried not to smile, but it slipped out anyway. “That’s annoyingly charming.”
“Right?” Sarah grinned, delighted.
You took another sip, thinking. “I mean... I’m not saying yes,” you murmured.
Sarah just chuckled. “But you’re already thinking about what you’re gonna wear.”
You shot her a look. “Shut up.”
But to be fair, she was right. You were intrigued.
Completely, undeniably intrigued.
—
Sarah picked the brunch spot—a sunny corner café with mismatched mugs and a chalkboard menu that changed every week. It had string lights even in daylight and smelled like syrup, coffee, and cinnamon.
Bucky walked in five minutes early, as he always did when he wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. He scanned the room— and then stopped short.
“Oh,” he said aloud, more to himself than anything.
Because there you were, sitting by the window in a breezy sundress and sneakers, sipping coffee from a mug the size of your face. You looked up, spotted him, and smiled like you were in on a secret he hadn’t been told yet.
He found himself smiling. “It’s you.”
You hadn't really talked before, not properly. He knew you were close with Sam and Sarah, always laughing or deep in conversation with someone else at the Wilson gatherings. He’d noticed you, though— thought you were beautiful, but always just too out of reach.
“That’s one way to greet a date.” Your brow lifted, amused. “I was hoping for a little more enthusiasm.”
“No—I mean—hi,” he managed to recover, walking over. “I just didn’t know it was you you.”
“Sarah didn’t tell you?”
“No,” he admitted, a little sheepish. “I thought I was showing up for a complete stranger. Not the Wilson’s pretty friend who always hangs out with the book club moms at barbecues.”
“Hey!” You defended yourself. “Mrs. Landry always has good gossip.”
Oh, this was going to be interesting.
—
You both sat a little awkward at first, but then he made a dry joke about how brunch menus had too many eggs, and you responded with a sass-laced quip about men being afraid of hollandaise. The banter just clicked.
Conversation flowed easy after that.
You teased him for calling the server “ma’am” like he was born in a different century (because he was), and he shot back that you flirt like it’s a contact sport— which you didn’t deny. He found out you liked old books and that you could, in fact, take him in an argument about which Indiana Jones movie was the best.
To your surprise, Bucky was funny. Not just in a dry, sarcastic way, but he was genuinely quick-witted. He told a story about a disastrous attempt to use a self-checkout machine (“It yelled at me, loudly, in front of children”), and you nearly choked on your coffee.
When you talked about the petty drama at your job, he listened with real interest, laughing in the right places, asking the right questions. It wasn’t like dragging someone through small talk; it felt… mutual.
“So…” you started as you took the last bite of your croissant. “how’s this date measuring up to Sarah’s?”
“Well,” he raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t checked the time once.”
Your smile widened.
“She’s cool,” he added, “but… this is different. In a good way.”
“I’ll take that.”
–
By the time the check landed on the table, you both reached for it.
Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Don’t even think about it.”
You tilted your head, amused. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“You were going to insist on splitting. Don’t. Let me feel like a gentleman,” he said playfully, “Don’t steal my moment.”
“Oh, this is your moment?”
He leaned in slightly. “I’m trying to be charming, sweetheart. Let me have this.”
“Fine,” you rolled your eyes, pretending to be pissed, “But only because you said ‘sweetheart’ like a noir movie star.”
He winked. “I’ve got more where that came from.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were grinning now as he handed the check off, and thought, Sarah was right.
–
He walked you to your car, hands in his pockets, close enough that your shoulders brushed every few steps. The sun was warm, the air smelled like honeysuckle and syrup, and you… didn’t want it to end.
“I had a good time,” you said, pausing at your door.
He stopped, looking at you like you’d caught him off guard. “Yeah… me too. More than I expected.”
You raised an eyebrow, pretending to be offended. “More than you expected?”
“I just didn’t think it’d be… this easy,” he admitted, scratching the back of his neck.
“Careful,” you teased. “I might start thinking you like me.”
He looked at you, eyes on your mouth, on the way you leaned back against the car door like you had nowhere else to be. “I do.”
You smiled, knowing this wouldn’t be the last time you saw each other. “So… what now?”
“That depends,” he said. “Would you wanna do this again?”
You stepped in just a little, your face tilted up toward his, close enough to feel the heat off his skin. “Definitely.”
“We should go to the new bar down the corner soon,” he suggested.
“Great,” you said, eyes twinkling. “Text me, and I’ll be there.”
He leaned in like he might say something else, or might kiss you, might do something bold— but instead, he just smiled.
You slipped into your car, started it up, and rolled the window down.
“Hey, Bucky?” you called.
He stepped back, looking unfairly attractive in the sunlight. “Yeah?”
You met his eyes. “You’re even prettier up close.”
And you drove off, leaving him standing there— watching you go like you were the best thing that had happened to him all week.
—
Three days later, you went on your second date.
“Are we sure about this?” Bucky asked, pulling open the bar’s door for you. For better or for worse, tonight was trivia night.
You stepped in, instantly hit with the scent of beer, wings, questionable cologne. “Nope,” you said cheerfully. “I’m mostly here for the nachos.”
“That’s fair.” He chuckled, following behind. “I’m just gonna pretend I know things about pop culture.”
You gave him a sidelong glance. “I don’t know if I trust your grasp on modern trivia.”
“I’ve been catching up,” he said, almost seriously if not for the slight curve on his lips. “Did you know there are nine Fast & Furious movies?”
“Ten, actually,” you said with mock pity. “Proud of you, though.”
He held a hand to his chest like you’d wounded him. “I let you insult my trivia knowledge and I still pulled your chair out for you.”
You beamed. “Chivalry’s not dead.”
“Just slightly bruised,” he said, sitting beside you as the host passed around answer sheets and sharpies.
–
You came in fifth out of nine teams.
“Honestly,” Bucky said as you both stepped into the night air, “I think we did well.”
“You thought Pluto was a planet.”
“It was,” he defended, “back in 1940!”
You laughed, waving him off. “Excuses.”
He walked a little closer, catching up. “Still,” he started again, “I had fun.”
You nudged him with your shoulder. “We make a good team. Incompetent, but y’know.”
“Speak for yourself,” he said lightly.
“So…,” you drawled. “Should we do something again next week?”
He leaned in close, pretending to think. “Only if you promise to educate me on planetary bodies.”
“Deal.”
—
The week after, you decided to go to a roller rink together.
“This is either going to be really cute,” you said as you laced up your skates, “or humiliating.”
Bucky was already upright, perfectly balanced in his skates, the annoyingly coordinated war-time ballerina that he is. He looked down at you with that stupidly charming half-smile. “So far, I’m voting cute.”
You squinted at him. “You’re only saying that because you haven’t seen me fall yet.”
He offered you his hand. “Let’s see, then.”
You took it—gratefully—and let him help you up. Instantly, your legs turned into spaghetti and you clung to his arm with both hands.
“Oh fuck,” you cursed under your breath.. “Fuckfuckfuck.”
He laughed, gently snaking an arm down your waist. “When was the last time you did this?”
“Thirteen?” you guessed, “I had a much lower center of gravity. Also, zero fear of public scrutiny.”
“Well,” he said, guiding you slowly onto the rink like you were made of glass, “you can hold on to me.”
“I’m practically koala-ing your arm.”
“I don’t mind,” he murmured under his breath, glancing down at you with a look that was far too fond for someone who’d just watched you nearly faceplant.
You clutched his arm tighter, still trying to get your legs to cooperate. “God, this is embarrassing."
“It’s cute,” he insisted. “You’re like a baby deer on ice.”
“I will push you into a wall.”
“You’d fall too,” he warned, “So it’d be mutually assured destruction.”
Eventually, you got the hang of not immediately dying, though Bucky still skated close, one hand lightly on your back or guiding your wrist like he didn’t want to be too far away. Every time you stumbled, he caught you like he’d been training for this moment his whole life.
“You’re doing great,” he encouraged, breathless from laughing. “You haven’t even faceplanted yet.”
“That’s because I’ve been using you like a human walker.”
“And I’m honored,” he said solemnly. “Touch me all you want.”
You rolled your eyes but didn’t let go. His hand was steady, and every time you squeezed in fear, it made his heart stutter a little.
As the cheesy pop music echoed through the rink and colored lights flashed over your faces, you tugged him down slightly and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.
He tilted his head like he hadn’t expected it. “What was that for?”
You gave him a casual shrug. “You didn’t let me fall.”
His grin looked a little dazed. “I’m never letting go now.”
You bumped his shoulder playfully. “You sound like you’re catching feelings.”
He looked down at you, cheeks still pink from your kiss. “And if I was? You gonna push me into a wall?”
You leaned into him, still holding on. “No,” you pretended to consider, “You’re growing on me.”
He gave your hand a gentle squeeze, then tugged you into another lap around the rink— this time, not as your balance support, but just because he wanted to keep you close.
—
The next time he took you out was two weeks later— Bucky needed to go on a mission, and thankfully, he came back in one piece.
You weren’t sure what possessed you to say yes to a swing dance night— probably Bucky’s hopeful smile and the promise of watching him do footwork that didn’t involve combat boots and a rifle. But now, standing in the bar with a live brass band warming up and people in suspenders and retro curls twirling across the floor, you were very aware of two things: One, you were wearing a swing dress that flared when you spun. Two, Bucky Barnes was staring at you like he forgot how to breathe.
“Wow,” he said as he stepped up to you. “You look…”
You raised a brow, playfully daring him to finish that sentence.
He blinked, still locked in on your dress. It was deep red with a fitted waist and a full skirt. Your hair was pinned just enough to look like effort without screaming it, and your lipstick was the exact shade of I-wanna-kiss-you red. “Like a dream.”
You laughed, smoothing your skirt like it might somehow make his gaze less intense. “You’re just saying that because the dress twirls.”
He offered you his arm, loving the way you fit beside him— like an old-Hollywood couple.
The dance floor was alive, buzzing with movement and people spinning and dipping under strings of lights. You clutched Bucky’s hand tightly as he led you out, equal parts excited and terrified.
“I have no idea what I’m doing,” you whispered.
He leaned in, mouth brushing your ear. “That’s okay. I do.”
And he did. Oh, he really did.
Bucky danced well, probably because he learned to when it meant something—when music was a lifeline, when joy had to be stolen in smoky clubs when the world was falling apart. He was confident, never showy, and always aware of you.
You found yourself laughing, light and giddy, as he spun you out and back again. Your dress fanned like a flame, your heels sliding along the floor, and every time you landed in his arms, his stare lingered just a moment longer than necessary.
“Where’d you learn to dance like this?” you asked, catching your breath.
He gave a small, wistful smile. “Brooklyn. You had to ask someone or you didn’t dance at all.”
“And you always asked?”
He shrugged, but the glance he gave you was shy. “Sometimes.”
You couldn’t help yourself. “What a player.”
“Well, I never found the right partner,” he chuckled, but didn’t deny it. “Until now.”
Oh?
“Only took you ninety years,” you teased and squeezed his hand. When you leaned back slightly, the lights caught the silver of his dog tags beneath the open collar of his shirt. It was a reminder of everything he’d carried on his shoulders— everything he rarely said out loud. And you wanted, suddenly, for him to feel something new.
So you kissed him.
Right there on the floor, standing on your toes to press your mouth to his. His lips parted with surprise at first, then his hand tightening at your waist, his other sliding up your back like he couldn’t stop himself.
You weren’t trying to steal something from him—you were offering something instead. He kissed you back because he understood that.
When you finally pulled away, he didn’t say anything.
He just looked at you like he was falling in love— and trying, desperately, not to admit it.
—
A couple days later, you had your monthly catch up with Sarah.
Your porch smelled like beer, chicken wings, and dandelions. The boys were pretending to swordfight in your backyard.
Sarah stirred the ketchup pot with a wing. “So,” she said, already smiling like she knew, “how’s it going with our favorite ex-assassin?”
You tried to play it cool. You really did.
“It’s…” You took a sip from your glass to buy time. “Going.”
Sarah tilted her head. “That’s all I get?”
“Fine.” You let out a soft laugh, resting your elbow on the lap, chin in your hand. “It’s going… really well.”
“Mmhmm.” She took a sip like she was examining a case. “Are we talking awkward small talk and polite side hugs? Or—”
“He took me dancing,” you interrupted, like that alone said everything.
Sarah sat up straighter, eyes wide. “Bucky Barnes took you dancing?”
“To a swing bar with a live band and couples in suspenders and victory rolls. He knew all the steps.”
Sarah pretended to look disappointed. “The best he could do for me was coffee.”
You laughed, nudging her shoulders. “And he looked at me like— fuck, Sarah, like I was made of stardust or somethin’.”
“Oof.” She leaned back, hand over her heart. “You’re in it.”
“I’m not—” You paused, considering it. “Okay. Maybe. A little.”
“A little?”
“I kissed him,” you confessed. “On the dance floor.”
Sarah was quiet for a beat, her eyes turning warm. “Sounds like he’s falling for you.”
You toyed with the rim of the bowl. “I think it scares him.”
Sarah nodded slowly. “Good.”
You looked up at her, almost worried. “What if I fall first?”
“Then you fall,” she reassured, proud of her matchmaking skills. “He’ll catch you. Even if it takes him a minute.”
—
Across the world, Sam and Bucky were just finishing up a mission— low-level intel retrieval, some mild breaking and entering, nothing they hadn’t done a dozen times before. Still, Bucky was in a suspiciously good mood for someone who’d just spent three hours crawling through ventilation ducts and dodging motion sensors.
They were walking back to the jet when Sam finally said it.
“You’ve been smiley lately.”
Bucky scoffed, keeping his eyes forward. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’ve got this weird, smug little grin thing going on,” Sam insisted. “Thought maybe you got hit too hard in the head back there.”
Bucky rolled his eyes. “I’m not.”
Sam nudged him with an elbow. “So what’s her name?”
Bucky stiffened for a split second, just enough for Sam to catch it.
“See, I know you,” Sam said, leaning forward now, laughing. “You’re seeing someone, aren’t you?”
Bucky tried to play it off, shrugging like it was no big deal. “I’m... Yeah.”
Sam’s jaw dropped in mock offense. “And you weren’t gonna tell me?”
Bucky groaned, already regretting it. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not making it weird! I’m just—who?”
“Drop it.”
Sam blinked. “You’re not gonna tell me?”
“Nope.”
“Is it someone I know?” Sam insisted.
“I’m not talking about it,” Bucky gritted.
“Is it—? Wait.” Sam’s eyes went round. “It better not be someone from my neighborhood .”
Bucky shot him a look. “It’s none of your business.”
“Oh my God it is someone from the neighbourhood!”
“Sam.”
“You’re dating one of the aunties??”
“No! Jesus.”
“Who then? Just give me a hint—”
“Fuck, it’s… early,” Bucky said, voice a little tight. “So just—drop it, okay?”
Truth was, he didn’t want to deal with the fallout. Yet. Because once Sam found out—once he did the math and realised Bucky had dated his sister, however briefly, and then ended up dating you, his childhood best friend, the one who used to sneak popsicles to Sarah after bedtime and once helped him bury a broken Game Boy like it was a funeral…?
Yeah. No thanks. Not until he had to.
Sam, to Bucky’s immense surprise, let it go.
Kind of.
“Well,” Sam said after a long moment, trying to play it cool but still delighted, “Just a foolproof-Sam-Wilson-dating-tip: bring her over to yours. Cook for her. Ladies love that.”
Bucky side-eyed him. “What, like, from scratch?”
“Yeah, man. Light a candle, put on some Coltrane, pretend you know how to make pasta that isn’t out of a box.”
Bucky rolled his eyes, but Sam could tell he was actually considering it. “I didn’t ask for your advice.”
“You never do, and yet, I keep improving your life,” Sam said in that annoying matter-of-factly way he always did. “You’re welcome.”
Bucky shook his head, fighting the urge to smile again as he started planning your dinner.
—
So he invited you to your apartment when he got back.
When he opened the door that night, you kissed him chastely on the corner of his mouth as a greeting. “Hey you.”
He tried to look casual, but blushed a little. You were in jeans and a tucked-in tank top, nothing dramatic, but seeing you again after three weeks of non-stop texting felt like a breath of fresh air.
You had since gotten comfortable in his place, exploring every nook and cranny, figuring what made this place so…. him.
It was tidy and lived-in, filled with small signs that he was figuring out what a home meant— books stacked on end tables, a couch with a cozy throw, a record player in the corner playing jazz like it belonged in another century.
You were now barefoot in his kitchen, sipping wine and leaning against the counter, watching him move around like he wasn’t nervously making sure he was making the pesto right. Bucky wore a plain black tee and trousers, sleeves pushed up, forearm metal plates rippling as he stirred something on the stove— pasta, homemade sauce, garlic bread in the oven. It smelled good.
“I can’t believe James Buchanan Barnes is cooking for me,” you teased, swirling the wine in your glass.
He glanced over his shoulder, smirking. “Don’t sound so shocked.”
“What?” you defended, “I’m flattered.”
“You should be. I’m just trying to impress you.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Trying pretty hard, huh?”
He squinted playfully at you. “Shut up.”
You were chuckled as he stepped closer, reaching past you for the olive oil—but his hand hovered on the counter instead, palm pressed near your hip. His eyes flickered to your mouth and lingered, there, like it was physically impossible to look away.
“You look good here,” he mentioned, hands creeping closer to you.
“Here?”
“In my space.” He clarified, nodding. “You fit.”
Your heart skipped a beat.
Before he could overthink it, he kissed you.
It started slow—his hand resting just below your ribs,—but it escalated quickly, the kind of kiss that made you forget the world was round.
Your hands slipped up under the edge of his shirt, palms flattening against the warm skin of his stomach. He gasped against your mouth, just a little, but didn’t pull back. His hands found your waist and pulled you closer until there was no space between you.
Bucky kissed like he was starving. Like he’d been trying so hard to be careful and you’d finally told him he didn’t have to be.
You dragged your fingers up his sides, felt the way his body shivered slightly under your touch. He kissed you harder, tongue slipping against yours, his metal hand gripping your waist. Your back hit the edge of the counter and you arched into him, lips parting on a moan you didn’t mean to make—but it set a bomb off in him.
His mouth dropped to your neck, open-mouthed and hot, and your hands found the hem of his shirt again, tugging gently.
“Wait—” you said, breathless, your head falling back a little, “Bucky—”
“What? Did I—?”
You laughed, one hand resting on his chest. “The stove.”
He blinked. “The—?”
You tilted your head toward the pot behind him, steam now visible, the faint bubbling sound definitely not part of the white noise.
“Oh, shit.”
He turned fast, fumbling with the knob, grabbing the towel and yanking the pot off the heat and turning off the oven while muttering curses under his breath. You leaned back against the counter, laughing.
He turned back around, hair slightly tousled, but not looking the least bit sorry. “We can heat it up later.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Mhm.” He stepped in close again, gently crowding you against the cabinets, one hand braced beside your head. “Dinner can wait.”
You didn’t argue. You just hooked a finger into the collar of his shirt, pulled him in again. His hand hiked up your thigh as he sunk down, kneeling on the floor, pasta be damned.
You tasted better than anything on the stove anyway.
—
After a good hour or so in bed, Bucky took you to shower. It was all steam and lazy kisses pressed to damp skin. You’d lingered under the spray longer than you needed to, neither of you in any rush to move, to pull away, to stop being tangled up in each other.
Now, you were perched on the edge of Bucky’s island kitchen counter, freshly showered, legs swinging gently, damp hair tucked behind your ears, wearing nothing but a pair of his briefs and his t-shirt, hanging off one shoulder in a way that made Bucky keep glancing over like he was already planning to peel it back off.
He stood shirtless across from you at the stove, boiling a new batch of pasta after he’d abandoned the old ones earlier. His hair was still a little wet, clinging to the back of his neck, and his gray sweatpants hung dangerously low on his hips. His metal arm glinted in the light as he stirred the sauce one-handed, the other casually wiping at a stray droplet of water on his chest.
You tilted your head. “You know what?” you started.
Bucky looked over, eyebrows raised.
“I think I like sex better before dinner,” you finished your thoughts.
He let out the sweetest laugh, remembering how beautiful you looked underneath him on the couch earlier, right before he scooped you up, took you to bed, and placed you on his lap. “Do you, now?”
“Mmhmm,” you nodded, “Because the food’s not in there yet. It’s not, like… sloshing around.”
Bucky paused mid-stir, blinked at you, then chuckled. “Sloshing?”
You laughed too, unapologetic. “I’m just saying! Strategic timing is key.”
He turned back to the stove and shrugged. “My metabolism’s so quick it doesn’t really matter.”
You scoffed. “Of course it doesn’t.”
He turned to face you fully, spoon in hand, as he fed you a taste of the sauce. “But I’m glad we didn’t wait.”
You hummed in approval at the taste and hooked your fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants to tug him closer, gently. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he admitted, almost sheepishly. “You, in my shirt…” He reached up, tugging the loose collar gently back into place over your shoulder. “Kind of ruins me a little.”
Your smile turned fond. “Good.”
He kissed you again, sighing as he pictured you thirty minutes earlier, mewling and begging on top of him, falling apart at the same time as him. He remembered pulling you close afterward, whispering praises and sweet nothings in your ears as you mumbled his name, content and so fucking pretty—
Knock knock knock.
The sound interrupted the kiss as you pulled away. The knocks were so confident, it sounded like the person on the other side knew Bucky was home.
You tilted your head, your fingers idly twisting the waistband of his sweats. “Who’s that?”
Bucky glanced toward the door, grabbing a towel to wipe his hands. “Probably one of my neighbors. You were loud earlier.”
You swatted him. “Shut up.”
He just winked and went to open the door.
But his smirk vanished the second he saw who was standing there.
“Hey, tin man,” Sam greeted casually, breezing in like he owned the place, holding up a paper bag from that diner down the street. “I got fries, I’m bored, and Joaquin’s still in Miami, so I figured we could—” He trailed off, freezing.
Because he’d looked past Bucky.
And saw you.
You, still perched on the counter in Bucky’s shirt, hair damp, face flushed. Very clearly post-shower, post-sex, post-everything.
Sam looks at Bucky. “Hold up.”
Your eyes grew as wide as dinner plates. Bucky winced.
Sam pointed between the two of you, voice rising. “You’re dating my childhood best friend?!”
You tried to recover, sliding off the counter like that would somehow make things better. “Okay, wait—”
“It’s not—” Bucky started, rubbing the back of his neck like he wanted to disappear into the wall. “It’s not what it looks like.”
Sam gestured wildly. “It looks like she’s wearing your shirt.”
You looked down. Yep. Sure was.
You cleared your throat. “Surprise?”
Bucky groaned. “Look, Sarah set us up.”
“SARAH???” Sam yelped. “What does Sarah have to do with this?!”
You raised a hand like a student in class. “Okay, okay—context,” you started, “Sarah went on a date with Bucky. But it didn’t work out.”
Sam turned so fast. “YOU DATED MY SISTER TOO?!”
Bucky dragged a hand down his face. “It didn’t work out, man!”
“I can’t—” Sam paced in a tight circle. “You dated my sister, and now you’re—what—hooking up with our childhood best friend? An honorary Wilson? Are you working through my entire support system? Gonna date my mom next?!”
You muttered under your breath, “Don’t think they have tinder in the afterlife.”
Bucky gave you a look. “Not the time.”
You winced. “Sorry.”
Sam squinted at you both, still flabbergasted, still holding his fries like they’d betrayed him. “And how long has this been going on?”
You and Bucky exchanged a guilty glance. You opened his mouth to answer, but he beat you to it.
“… when did we get back from that Madripoor mission?”
Sam stared. “That was, like, two months ago.”
Then, quietly, Bucky muttered, “I was gonna tell you.”
“When?” Sam crossed his arms. “At the wedding?”
Bucky sighed. “You gonna be mad forever?”
Sam shook his head, grumbling, “I’m not mad. I’m just—processing.” Then he pointed a finger at you, suspicious. “And you. You were just gonna act like this is normal?”
You bit your lip, smiled sheepishly. “In my defense, I was planning to tell you… eventually. So stop pointing hot food at me and quit being dramatic. Sarah and I can take care of ourselves, thank you very much.”
Sam looked at his fries.
“…These are for both of you now,” he muttered.
And Bucky, hopeful, asked, “So we’re good?”
Sam narrowed his eyes.
“I swear to God, Barnes, if you hurt her—”
“I won’t,” Bucky said, before you even could. And the way he said it made something in your chest flutter.
Sam sighed again, shaking his head. “Fine. But next time, maybe tell me before I walk in on my best friend looking like she just climbed outta your bed.”
You shrugged, plucking a fry from the bag. “Honestly, we never made it to bed the first time.”
“NOPE,” Sam said, backing toward the door. “I’m leaving. And you!” He pointed at Bucky “Next week. You’re explaining everything.” Then he pointed at you. “You. Bring wine.”
You saluted. “Yes, sir.”
And as Sam walked out grumbling, Bucky just shook his head, slid an arm around your waist, and pressed a kiss to your temple.
“Well,” you said, leaning into him, “that could’ve gone worse.”
“Yeah,” Bucky laughed. “He didn’t even threaten to punch me.”
A.N: Thank you so much for your wonderful support my loves, you are so amazing🩷 I hope you like this chapter as well! 🥰 And please let me know what you think! 🩷
Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Female!Reader
Summary: Some dances look more than just friendly.
Warnings: Explicit language, yearning, throwing up, mentions of sexual acts.
Word Count: 5.5k
Series Masterlist
If it were any other time, this gala would be exciting.
It was the perfect opportunity to meet more politicians, get some inside information, and overall a good place to make an impression. However, your love life was a mess, you dreamt about Bucky every night while keeping your distance from him all day, so you had no idea how to even begin forming a game plan for the gala, or care about it.
Also, Bucky looked like he had one thousand questions about why you started avoiding him all of a sudden out of nowhere yet again but you had to admit, he was being very understanding and did not push you.
Then again, maybe his girlfriend played a part in it.
“Can I just skip this one?”
You and Kelsey exchanged glances and she rolled her eyes while you heaved a sigh, then checked your lipstick on the mirror.
“Caleb, get in here.”
“No seriously, DC has a bunch of charity galas I can join some other time—”
“Get in here!” You both called out at the same time and he huffed, then stepped into the living room, still fiddling with his bowtie. One simple observer would have thought he was being forced to go to war instead of a gala from the miserable look on his face, and you stifled your laugh while Kelsey walked to him to bat his hand away so that she could fix his bowtie.
“I look like a waiter.”
“You look like a handsome guy in a suit.”
“Handsome waiter in a suit.”
“Caleb,” Kelsey said patiently. “I will be Bucky’s shadow in that ballroom and running around the place on stilettos. I think you and your bowtie will be fine.”
“I can give you my shoes at the end of the night if you want,” Caleb said and Kelsey smiled at him.
“Not gonna turn down that offer, thank you.”
“Birdie?” Caleb turned to you and you winked at him.
“You look like a handsome PR manager in a suit.”
Caleb let out a breath and ran his hands through his hair.
“Anyone else feel like this is prom night?”
“I lost my virginity on prom night,” Kelsey mused, checking her phone and you raised your brows.
“Really?”
“Yeah, at the back of the limo my date rented.”
You grinned. “Classy. I’ve never had sex in a car.”
“You’re telling me Five Minutes Comma Max wasn’t adventurous?” Caleb teased you. “Shocker.”
“I should make a list or something.”
“A sex list?”
“Yeah for like places and stuff.”
“Uber is here,” Kelsey said and you grabbed your purse off the coffee table while Caleb rolled his shoulders back. “Ready?”
“Yep,” you said. “Let’s go to prom.”
*
This was not prom.
This was prom West Wing edition.
There were so many important people everywhere that you didn’t even know where to start. You could see your father talking to a senator at the corner of the ballroom, and the sight was enough to make your stomach do a nervous flip, but you cracked your knuckles, searching the room for—
Oh there he was.
It wasn’t like you expected him not to look good in a suit but this was another level. For a couple of seconds, you let yourself stare at him; your heartbeat getting faster while he gave a curt smile to something Hazel said, then made a face and shook his head, making her laugh.
Jesus, they really did make a hot couple.
Jealous burned at the pit of your stomach but you frowned to yourself, trying to focus. Kelsey made her way to him while Caleb walked to one of the journalists he knew, and you took a deep breath, then approached him.
Professional.
You were going to be just professional and get through tonight, and then go home where you could whine all you wanted.
“Good evening Mr. Barnes. Miss Brooks.” You offered a smile to her which she acknowledged with a nod, but you made sure not to look at Bucky, instead lowering your glances to your phone in your hand. “Mr. Barnes, I think it could be a good idea to talk Congressman Murray tonight about the veteran bill proposal once you get the chance. He has military background, he supports getting more financial support to veteran families especially after the Blip, and he has already contacted us for next week, so it could be the first step to breaking the ice. I sent you the main points of the latest bill he proposed a couple of months ago, so if you’d like to take a look, it could help.”
Silence.
You pulled your brows together and looked up from your phone to find him staring at you in awe, making your heart skip a beat. You could feel your cheeks burning but you shot him a quizzical look, which made him clear his throat, trying to pull himself together.
“Sorry, I zoned out,” he managed to say. “Can you repeat that?”
Oh this was not going to help this situation with Hazel.
She narrowed her eyes at him, looking between you while Kelsey bit back a smile, and you took a deep breath.
“Congressman Murray could help with the veteran bill, I sent you the details.”
“Ah,” he said. “Right, yeah. Which one is he?”
“That one.” Kelsey pointed at the man subtly and Bucky nodded like he was trying to focus.
“Okay.”
“I’d better go and see who else is here,” you said and walked away from them in a rush just so that you wouldn’t be alone with Hazel. You looked around and made your way to one of the waiters to grab a champagne flute from the tray he carried, then thanked him and took a huge sip of the champagne, closing your eyes for a moment.
Tonight was going to be a long night.
“Wow.”
You looked over your shoulder, then smiled at Lucas and turned to see him better.
“Hi.”
He let out a breath, eyeing you up and down. “You look amazing, Hurricane.”
“You don’t look so bad yourself,” you said, your smiling growing bigger. “Hey, how come you know my nickname and I don’t know yours?”
“Because I came to the Capitol before you.”
“Oh that’s how it works?”
“Mm hm,” he said solemnly. “Not to look like I’m pulling rank but…”
“But you are pulling rank?”
“But I am pulling rank,” he repeated with a nod of his head. “Sorry about that, but technically you’re a freshman and I’m a senior.”
“You’re a sophomore at best,” you deadpanned. “And in case you forgot, this freshman is helping you with that mess you call a draft.”
He let out a laugh. “Oh that’s how we’re gonna play this?”
You shrugged your shoulders, inspecting your nails nonchalantly. “Just saying.”
“I mean I wouldn’t call it helping,” he teased you back. “More like I’m showing you the ropes.”
You let out a hum, swirling your champagne in the glass.
“I’ve seen first graders with better text cohesion.”
“Ouch.” He grinned. “That hurt.”
“It shouldn’t,” you said calmly. “You know Lucas, there’s nothing wrong with being bad at things. We all have to start somewhere.”
“Is that right?”
“Mm hm,” you said. “For example, I was just like you when I was in college.”
“Oh, in college?”
“Lost…” You waved a hand in the air. “Clueless. Amateur. Poor in vocabulary.”
He made a face. “No you weren’t, you were the top of your class.”
You tilted your head. “And how would you know that?”
“I have my ways.” He motioned at you to keep going. “But back to dragging me.”
“Oh yeah,” you said. “And then I worked very hard and then…here we are. It might take you longer but you’ll get there.”
“We should’ve called you Viper instead of Hurricane.”
“That does sound more badass than Hurricane—” you started but Lucas’s eyes found someone over your shoulder, his smile wiping off his face immediately, and you frowned before you heard your father’s voice.
“Do you mind, Lucas?”
Lucas looked from your father to you, then shifted his weight and heaved a sigh.
“See you later, Hurricane.”
Your father gave you a small smile as Lucas walked away and you turned to glare at him.
“Dad,” you said through your teeth. “That wasn’t nice.”
“Let’s be serious here, you can do better than a glorified assistant.” He scoffed. “Would you like to dance?”
“I’m working.”
“Oh come on,” he said with a chuckle. “You used to throw fits whenever your mother and I took you to events if we didn’t have our father-daughter dance.”
“Well in my defense, I was like eight,” you replied, keeping your eyes on the people who were dancing in the ballroom. “And half of the government wasn’t in the room. And I wasn’t working.”
“And how is it going at work?” he asked. “I saw Barnes talking to Murray just now. Let me guess, they’ll work together on the veteran bill?”
You shrugged your shoulders. “Yeah. And after Bucky is done talking to him, I’ll talk to Congressman Riley about our project for the education of children in low income families.”
“What’s next?” he asked. “We start handing out stacks of money on the street?”
“You have more than enough. Why not?”
“That’s not how it works.”
“At the risk of sounding like a hopeless idealist, I happen to think some of the government money should be used for people in need instead of your buddies buying yachts,” you snarked. “I know it’s a little difficult to understand it for you, the idea of helping people.”
“We do help people, you know.”
“Oh yeah, the world is a much better place with your help.” You snorted and raised your glass in a mock of toast. “They don’t thank you enough.”
“Pumpkin, you know how it goes,” he said. “Some win and some lose. Don’t blame me, I didn’t come up with the rules for this game.”
“No but you keep rigging it,” you growled through your teeth, looking him in the eye. “And for most people, dad, it’s not a game. A lot of people are in need of help. Real help.”
“And you want to be Robin Hood.”
“I want to make a difference in the world,” you insisted. “I’m going to—I’m going to help people—”
“Before or after going on a date with your boss?”
That made you shut up immediately and you pulled back a little, searching your mind for the right words.
“I already talked to mom about this,” you managed to say. “That’s just lies.”
He hummed and took a sip of his drink.
“I don’t appreciate getting my name dragged into tabloid gossip,” he said, his voice void of any emotion. “Any more than I appreciate seeing my daughter put herself in that situation.”
This—
Alright.
You could feel the familiar knots in your stomach, your throat tightening. This was exactly how it would go when you were little, your father’s voice turning into this, and the moment you opened your mouth to explain yourself, yelling would start. Panic was already giving you nausea but you managed to keep your expression flat before you downed your drink and put it on a tray a waiter was carrying just so that you could cross your arms to hide the trembling of your hands.
“I don’t control what the PR comes up with,” you pointed out. “And I didn’t put myself in any situation—”
“I’m not interested in excuses,” he cut you off, his voice low but stern. “I’m interested in solutions. Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
With that, he walked away from you, leaving you there dumbfounded as you felt your breath hitching in your throat.
No.
This was not happening, not right now and especially not here.
You darted through the ballroom as subtly as you could without getting any attention on you, then stepped out into the hallway to rush to the bathroom. You slammed the door open, then ran to the nearest stool to throw up, pushing the button to flush it before you put the lid down, and sat on top of it.
Your hands were still shaking and you closed your eyes shut, trying to keep your breathing under control.
This was just nonsense. You weren’t a child anymore, your father couldn’t yell at you without you yelling back, and there was no way he would’ve tried to yell at you surrounded by all those people in the ballroom but—
But the fear of disappointing him was still enough to make you throw up.
It took you almost half an hour to pull yourself together. You massaged your temples, willing the headache to disappear before you stepped out of the stool, then walked to the sink to wash your hands, then kept them under the cold water.
The girl next to you gave you a sympathetic smile. “I hate these things too.”
“You have no idea,” you muttered. “Any chance you have mints?”
“Oh yeah, here.” She reached into her purse to pull out a pack of mints and you took one to pop it in your mouth.
“Thanks.”
“I’m Mel,” she said. “I work for Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.”
“CIA.” You whistled. “Badass. I work for Congressman Barnes.”
Her jaw dropped. “Oh, I knew I’ve seen you somewhere, in that—”
She stopped herself mid-sentence and you heaved a sigh.
“That gossip piece, yeah.”
“I didn’t mean to be rude, sorry.”
“You weren’t rude,” you said. “No worries.”
Her phone buzzed in her hand and she checked it, then turned to you.
“Gotta go but it’s nice to meet you.”
“You too,” you said and turned to check your makeup in the mirror, then grabbed a tissue to dab at your eyes.
“Get your shit together,” you muttered to yourself and threw the tissue into the garbage can, then walked out of the bathroom. You slowly made your way toward the ballroom but when you felt your throat tightening, you huffed out and turned the nearest corner to another empty hallway, then sat on the stairs.
Fine, you apparently needed more time.
You didn’t even have the energy to check your phone that kept buzzing because that meant you needed to go into the ballroom, so you kept it in your lap while you wrung your hands, then cracked your knuckles one by one. Counting in your head, you took a deep breath, and leaned your forehead on your knees to focus before you exhaled.
“Here you are.”
It was almost funny how with just his voice he managed to pull you out of the spiral of your thoughts. You could feel your lips pulling into a small smile and you took another breath, then lifted your head to look up at him.
He was way too handsome.
“You okay?” he asked, his blue eyes searching your face and you scoffed, waving a hand in the air.
“Drinking champagne on an empty stomach isn’t the best idea.”
“You think so?”
“Oh yeah,” you said. “Just gonna take five and then go back. How about you, why are you here?”
“I don’t really like the whole…” He motioned in the direction of the ballroom and you raised your brows.
“Socializing in order to manipulate people?”
“That and just—people,” he admitted, then nodded at the stair you were sitting on. “Got room for one more person in there?”
You scooted over and he sat down next to you, making you let out a giggle.
“You do know that we’re supposed to be in there working people?”
“It’s not like they’re going anywhere.”
“Still,” you said. “I doubt many politicians or employees are hiding from the crowd sitting on a staircase.”
“Well, you’re the only person I actually want to sit with tonight,” he said with a shrug, as if that didn’t make your stomach flutter. “What’s your excuse?”
Focus.
“How did it go with Murray?”
“He wanted me to share stories.”
“From the front?”
He nodded and you scrunched up your nose. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine, I’m used to it.”
You fell silent for a couple of seconds, then turned sideways to see him better, resting your chin on your fist.
“I wonder about that too sometimes, you know?”
He frowned. “The front?”
You shook your head. “Who you were back then. I mean I saw the footage with the Howling Commandos and Steve Rogers, and you were…” You paused for a second and sat up straighter, grinning at him. “Tell me who you were.”
“You know who I was,” he said as if the answer was obvious and you shook your head again.
“I’m not asking about Sergeant Barnes, or the Winter Soldier,” you told him. “I’m asking about James Bucky Barnes before the war.”
He raised his brows like he hadn’t thought about that in a long time. You had seen that look on his face before, a mixture of curiosity and longing as he fell into silence, trying to dig up a memory that wasn’t full of trauma or bloodshed, a memory that was warm and pleasant and carefree.
“Well, things were difficult even before the war,” he started. “But I think I was happy. Me and Steve, we basically grew up together. My mother would always put a plate on the table for him on Sunday breakfast.”
A soft smile warmed your face. “That’s sweet of her.”
“We would get in trouble sometimes, which she hated,” he said. “Me and Steve, we once went to Rockaway Beach, and had to come back to Brooklyn on the back of a freezer truck.”
“Wait, why?”
He let out a chuckle. “Well, Steve spent our money on hot dogs, and I was trying to impress this girl, Dot.”
Your grin widened. “Ah?”
“So I spent 3 dollars trying to win a stuffed bear for her, which meant we had no money to go back, so we hitchhiked.”
You pulled out your phone.
“I need to check something, give me a second,” you said and quickly typed it into google, then gasped.
“3 dollars back then is— Bucky, you spent 70 dollars on a stuffed bear to impress a girl?” you exclaimed. “During Great Depression?”
“Mm hm.”
“Please tell me you did win the goddamn stuffed bear.”
“I did actually,” he said with a smirk. “And she was impressed, so money well spent.”
“So in your order of priorities,” you said, motioning with your hands, “impressing the girl was higher than going back to Brooklyn safe and sound? And comfortable?”
“Yeah, she was pretty.”
“And that’s enough reason?” You gawked at him. “She was pretty?”
He nodded his head. “Yeah. And she wanted the stuffed bear.”
You bit your lip to contain your smile and heaved a sigh, then leaned back to narrow your eyes at him playfully.
“I knew it.”
“Knew what?”
“That it wasn’t just a rumor. You really were a charming ladies’ man back then.”
He let out a noise of disagreement. “That’s not exactly…”
“Bucky, you looked like this.” You gestured at his face. “And I saw you in that footage, with Steve Rogers and The Howling Commandos. Come on, you were popular with women, it’s very obvious.”
That boyish smile pulled at his lips again. “Someone had to make sure Steve got a date, and double dates were all the rage back then.”
“Oh I’m sure you did all that for him.” You played along with a pout. “Of course. Did you use to dance as well?”
“I did, actually. Steve hated it, I didn’t mind.”
You hummed, fixing the silky skirts of your dress as you crossed your legs and he eyed you up and down, then leaned in so that you could hear his teasing tone.
“Do you wanna dance?”
That made your head whip around and you gawked at him before you snorted a laugh.
“Yeah, let’s go dance in the ballroom full of people we work with, and the media,” you said. “After that PR disaster? Terrible idea.”
“I didn’t say it had to be in the ballroom,” he said and stood up to offer you his hand, awakening butterflies in your stomach.
“Bucky…”
“It’s a waste of music if a pretty dame like you isn’t dancing to it darlin’,” he said with that old Brooklyn accent, a laugh spilling from your mouth before you scrunched up your face in embarrassment, then took his hand, a fire spreading from your fingers to your whole body.
“God, no wonder why Dot was impressed,” you said as he pulled you closer and wrapped his vibranium arm around your waist, smiling down at you.
“Is that right?”
It felt like your heart was trying to climb out of your chest and a giggle bloomed in your throat as he twirled you, then pulled you closer again.
“So this is James Bucky Barnes,” you mused. “I like him. I’d probably work for him back in the 1940s if he decided to get in politics.”
“He didn’t have any plans for politics, trust me.”
“Yeah well, it wouldn’t stop me. I’d talk him into it.”
That managed to coax a laugh out of him, the rare sound making you smile wide.
“I’d make him hire me,” you said. “Through Dot, by the way. Convince the wife and get the husband situation.”
He chuckled, shaking his head.
“Yeah I don’t think he would up with Dot.”
“Because he’s a ladies’ man?”
“Because he is an idiot,” he said softly as you both swayed with music. “He messed things up with her.”
Your eyes snapped up to his and you gulped, realizing that you weren't talking about Dot anymore.
“Beyond saving?”
“Feels that way.”
You scrunched up your nose. “That doesn’t sound right.”
“Well, he backed himself into a corner,” he said, sadness etched on his handsome face. “Right person, wrong time.”
You could hardly hear him from the rush of blood in your ears, but you managed to shrug your shoulders, taking a deep breath.
“Maybe,” you said. “Or maybe it’s just another excuse for him to torture himself. I mean, time has to give him a break at some point, so they just need to find the corner their lines cross.”
A slow smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, but before he could say anything, you both heard the sound of heels on the marble floor and you pulled your hand from his, stepping out of his embrace even if your body urged you not to. You fixed your hair just so that you could keep your hands busy and Kelsey appeared at the corner, then pulled her brows together.
“Hi,” she said after a beat. “Bucky, Caleb was looking for you.”
Bucky nodded and turned to look at you. “Are you…?”
“I actually need to borrow her for a moment,” Kelsey said and you motioned at the ballroom.
“You go, I’ll be right there.”
Bucky walked past Kelsey to make his way into the ballroom and Kelsey approached you.
“Anything you’d like to tell me?”
“Long story,” you said. “I’ll tell you when we get home. Is everything okay in there?”
“I just saw Hazel leave,” she said. “Caleb thinks it’s an urgent business thing, she’s been here all week.”
“Does Bucky know?”
“That’s what Caleb wanted to ask him I think,” she said, linking her arm with yours. “Now come on. You can’t leave me alone with those assholes, and I think I’ve been flirting with a journalist so you need to tell me whether he’s hot or just tall.”
*
Apparently, Hazel had left without letting Bucky know, so he had left as well to make sure she was alright, which meant you and Kelsey and Caleb could go home.
“We should’ve stolen a champagne bottle or something,” Caleb said while he laid on the floor on his back and you played with the corner of the pillow you were sitting on.
“I’ll keep that in mind the next time we go to a gala. So the journalist, Kels?”
“He is kinda cute,” Kelsey said. “Like a puppy.”
“But he’s a journalist,” Caleb said. “I mean, can he be trusted?”
“Caleb, this is yet another instance we have to remind you that we work in politics,” you said, motioning between you. “Journalists think the same about us.”
“You work in politics, I work in communications.”
“Communications in politics.”
“That’s a detail though—” he started but was cut off when his phone started buzzing.
“At this hour?” Kelsey asked as Caleb sat up and answered the phone while you leaned in to hear what it was about.
“Hello? Yes, this is he.” Caleb said and listened to the other line, his eyes widening.
“What?” you whispered and he motioned at you to be silent, standing up to pace in the room. He ran his hand through his hair, letting out a breath.
“Uh, Mr. Barnes didn’t bring me up to speed I’m afraid,” he said, his gaze snapping to you before he mouthed ‘What the fuck’ and nodded as if the other person could see him. “Yeah that sounds like a great idea. Do you have my email address? Okay, great, I’ll check it out right now and get back to you, and we can put it out. Thank you, have a nice evening.”
He hung up and whirled on his heels to look at you and Kelsey.
“What the fuck?”
“What’s going on?”
“That was Hazel’s PR team.” He held up his phone. “They want to check in with me to see if their statement is in line with ours.”
“What statement?”
“Their break up statement.”
Your breath caught in your throat as you gawked at him, disbelief crashing down on you while you reached to hold Kelsey’s arm.
“What?”
“I—what happened while you two were in that hallway?” Caleb asked you and you shook your head.
“We just danced,” you insisted while his eyes darted on the lines on his screen. “I swear. We were dancing and joking about his past—”
“Right before Kelsey found you?”
“Yeah!”
Caleb gritted his teeth and turned to Kelsey.
“And you found them right after Hazel left?”
A look of realization dawned on Kelsey’s face. “…Yeah.”
“No that’s not related,” you insisted, jumping on your feet. “I would’ve noticed if she saw us, or Bucky would—”
“A bunch of people were coming and going to the hallway next to it, he easily could’ve chalked it up to anyone else passing there.”
Your heart was pounding in your head as you covered your mouth.
“Good news is, there’s literally nothing about you on this statement,” Caleb murmured, his attention on his phone. “And her team said nothing about it either—shit, did we have her sign an NDA?”
“Knowing Bucky? I doubt it,” Kelsey said while Caleb touched his screen, then put the phone to his ear.
“Bucky,” he said, making your head whip up. “Hey. Yeah she’s fine. Yeah, I’m fine too. Uh…so friendly reminder, you’re supposed to tell me if you broke up with your girlfriend so that I can put out a statement before her team calls me. Because—” Caleb threw his hand in the air in exasperation. “Because that’s how it works. No, forget what I said about the Bachelor. Did you have her sign anything?” Caleb pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course you didn’t. Okay, I need you to tell me what happened in detail.”
You rushed to your room to change into a t-shirt and jeans as fast as you could, then stepped into the living room again.
“Are you going to Bucky’s place?” Kelsey whispered while Caleb kept pacing in the room, trying to convince Bucky that privacy didn’t exist in a situation like this, and you shook your head, making her frown.
“Then what—Birdie, no.” Her voice was stern as she realized what you were about to do. “That’s a terrible idea.”
“What hotel is she staying at, Kels?”
“You’re the last person she wants to see, you do realize that?”
“And I owe her an explanation, you know that,” you said. “There’s no way she is at Bucky’s place, so what hotel?”
Kelsey pulled out her phone with a sigh, then touched the screen for a minute before your phone vibrated.
“There, the location, and the room number,” she said. “Bucky went there the other day.”
“Thank you,” you said, grabbing your coat on your way to the door. “I’ll text you.”
With that, you slammed the door behind you and rushed outside, raising your hand for a taxi.
*
You knew Hazel didn’t want to see you.
You couldn’t even blame her. You had a pretty clear idea how that dance would look to an outsider, much less to her.
But you knew you had to explain yourself, and apologize.
You cracked your knuckles nervously as the elevator door opened, the door at the end of the hallway greeting you. Letting out a breath, you rolled your shoulders back and forced yourself to approach the door, then raised your fist to knock on it and stepped back, clasping your hands to stop the shaking.
Hazel scoffed a laugh when she opened the door.
“Oh this is gonna be fun,” she said, her voice calm despite her red-rimmed eyes. “Finished your dance?”
You closed your eyes for a second before you opened them.
“Miss Brooks, I’m really sorry,” you started, making her raise her brows as if she was amused. “I know how it looks like, but I swear to you nothing happened. I was feeling bad, that’s why I left the ballroom, but there’s nothing going on between us.”
“Yes there is.”
“No, I assure you—”
“Oh, you guys aren’t sleeping together.” Hazel waved a hand in the air. “But there is something between you. You know it, I know it, and Bucky also knows it even if he likes to pretend otherwise. He knew it throughout the time he was trying to make himself fall in love with me.”
You pulled back slightly, straining your mind to find the right thing to say.
“Miss Brooks—”
“I’m not going to say anything to the press,” she said. “So if that’s why you’re here, you can go away.”
You shook your head. “That’s not why I’m here.”
“Then why are you here?”
“To apologize.”
Hazel held your gaze in hers as if she was trying to find any sign of dishonesty, then let out a breath.
“Listen, I’m going to show you this courtesy only because I’m not proud of how I treated you back in that bathroom,” she said. “I was still pretty angry, but blaming you makes no sense. That’s not the type of person I am, or the type of person I want to be.”
You wrung your hands, staring at her.
“I mean I asked him to fire you,” she said after a beat. “Not my proudest moment.”
“I get it,” you rasped out and she took a deep breath.
“And I hope you understand what I’m about to say doesn’t come from a place of hostility,” she said. “But from woman to woman? Don’t do it.”
Your eyes snapped up to hers, your throat tightening.
“You know how it goes,” she said, her voice almost sad. “You’ve seen how quick the public was to forgive him for everything. His PR was good but no PR is that good, they want to love him. The guy is a superhero, he could walk away from politics today and it wouldn’t make any difference. They will still love him.”
You sniffled and wiped your nose, nodding your head.
“So you know what will happen,” she said. “This is one of the rare things that hasn’t changed since the 40s, no matter what anyone says. He will be their hero, and you will be the whore.”
You tried to swallow the lump in your throat, tears blurring your vision.
“I need you to understand that,” she told you. “Doesn’t matter if I like you or not, I wouldn’t wish it upon any woman. They will fucking tear you apart, and trust me, not even the big bad Winter Soldier can protect you from that.”
Don’t cry.
Do not cry.
“And he doesn’t even see it.” She scoffed a laugh. “But you do. You’re smart, something inside you has to be warning you against this. You know the moment he steps out with you, he will be throwing you to the wolves.”
Your hand shot up to wipe at your eyes and you nodded again, heaving a shaky sigh while she gave you an apologetic smile.
“Good luck,” she said. “You’re going to need it.”
She closed the door and you balled your hands into fists, digging your fingernails into your palms to focus on anything other than the tears falling from your eyes. You slowly made your way to the elevator to step in, watching the doors close.
“Sorry, I zoned out,” he managed to say. “Can you repeat that?”
Bucky:
“You don’t look so bad yourself,” you said, your smiling growing bigger. “Hey, how come you know my nickname and I don’t know yours?”
“Because I came to the Capitol before you.”
Please tell me his nickname is something super embarrassing 😂 this looks like an avoidance technique to meeeee, shmoopsiepoo.
He made a face. “No you weren’t, you were the top of your class.”
“I’m not interested in excuses,” he cut you off, his voice low but stern. “I’m interested in solutions. Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
These two idiots dancing in the hallway.
BREAKUP. STATEMENT?! Oh nooo, how sad...
Birdie going to Hazel's hotel before even talking to Bucky first 😅 giiiirl
“So you know what will happen,” she said. “This is one of the rare things that hasn’t changed since the 40s, no matter what anyone says. He will be their hero, and you will be the whore.”
You tried to swallow the lump in your throat, tears blurring your vision.
“I need you to understand that,” she told you. “Doesn’t matter if I like you or not, I wouldn’t wish it upon any woman. They will fucking tear you apart, and trust me, not even the big bad Winter Soldier can protect you from that.”
This isn't sitting right with me.
Say those things again in front of Bucky. I dare you.
Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x Thunderbolts!Female Reader
Summary: Bucky wants to ask you out and you give him the courage to do so in an unexpected way.
Word Count: Over 2.4k
Warnings: Longing, pining, mild humor, fake dating mention (of sorts), kissing, referenced masturbation, confessions, getting together, slight possessive and jealous behaviour, Bucky's POV, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?) and he's smitten.
A/N: Waiting at the airport and whipped this up. What is it with me and game nights? 😂 Not part of Tower Shenanigans, but it has that feel of sorts. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
Bucky nursed a beer as he sat on the roof and looked at the stars. He was taking a small breather from the impromptu game night after Alexei spilled his drink all over the table. He should've asked you to join him, but you had stepped away to take a call with an annoyed look on your face. Whoever it was that was bothering you he hoped everything was okay.
And if it wasn't okay, he’d take care of it or do his best to cheer you up.
His lips curled in a gentle smile when he heard your footsteps behind him. “One of these days you might be able to sneak up on me,” he said, twisting his head so he could look at you.
The smile on your face nearly knocked the breath from his lungs. He had it bad and he swore he fell for you more with each day that passed. He tried not to follow you around the tower like a lovesick puppy, but he often found himself in the same area as you so he could talk to you or ask you to spar as a desperate excuse to touch you. Whenever he pinned you beneath him, he had to rush back to his room and jerk off as images of your face and echoes of your sighs and gasps raced through his mind.
While he tried not to stare at you either, he always had his eyes on you whenever you were around. That morning he had been so busy staring at you that he poured too much coffee into his mug and burned his hand, which you thankfully hadn't seen. And there was that time he walked right into a wall when you wore a form fitting dress for an event Valentina demanded you attend.
“Bucky! Are you okay?” you had asked, rushing over to check on him. When you cupped his face to look over his face with worried eyes, he nearly melted on the spot.
“I’m fine. Just… distracted,” he answered, almost wishing he was a little injured so you'd dote on him some more.
“Well, let me kiss it better anyway,” you said, surprising him by kissing his nose and spreading warmth up to his cheeks.
“Thanks.” He swallowed hard. “You look beautiful, by the way.”
“Thanks,” you whispered back and walked away, leaving him to stare after you as you glided away with confidence and grace.
“Smooth,” Ava said once you were out of sight. “You know, I’m the one who can phase through walls, not you.”
“Don’t blame Barnes. She looked good in her dress,” Yelena said with a knowing smirk when Bucky snarled. “Perhaps she will wear it again if you ask nicely.”
“Shut up,” he muttered, but he had a goofy smile on his face since the feel of your lips lingered on his skin.
The girls would never let him live it down, and he wondered if his crush on you was obvious to you or if he hid it well enough.
Whatever level was beyond whipped was where he was.
Back in the present, you playfully groaned when you took a seat beside him. “You have enhanced senses. I’ll never be able to sneak up on you.”
Bucky turned toward you, watching as you tilted your head and gazed up at the sky. The night seemed more beautiful because of your presence. “You never know,” he said. You had stealth and agility, and you gave him a run for his money in training.
Your eyes sparkled when you turned your gaze on him, the mixture of your subtle perfume and natural scent making him breathe a bit deeper. “Your faith in me is astounding,” you teased, nudging his arm. He’d always believe in you. “But why did you ditch me down there?”
He chuckled when you pouted. It was fucking adorable. “Wasn't ditching you,” he promised. He’d never do that. “Just needed some fresh air.”
“So, it’s okay if I'm here, too?”
“Of course.” He wanted to be where you were.
You smiled, your knee touching his. “I asked where you went and John put his hand on my thigh when he said you were up here.”
It was as if someone shined a red light in front of Bucky’s eyes from the sudden rage he felt. “He what?” he asked, gripping the bottle tighter and feeling it crack under the pressure.
“He put his hand on my thigh,” you repeated, making him clench his teeth. He set the bottle down, too, so he wouldn't shatter it. “Like… Wait, can I demonstrate?”
Bucky nodded and hoped he wasn't dreaming. Asking to touch him showed how thoughtful you were. “Yeah, sure,” he said evenly.
You placed a hand on his upper thigh and gently squeezed. Heat curled at the base of his spine from your touch and he tried not to get excited. He couldn't get hard, not here, not now. He focused on the white hot anger that flowed through him instead since John touched you just as intimately.
Would breaking his fingers be too much?
You moved your hand away and he was two seconds away from taking your hand to put it back there. “I bent one of his fingers back before I came up here,” you told him, making him proud. “I think Bob may have filmed it.”
“That’s my girl,” he said before he could stop himself. His eyes widened when you turned your head and held his stare. “I mean…”
There was no excuse that came to mind for why he said that. All he had to do was confess how he felt. It should've been simple. He was reformed, a super soldier, a hero, and surely he could open his heart to you. So why wouldn't the words come out?
Why couldn't he say that he wanted you to be his girl?
“About that…” You took a breath and scooted away a few inches which had him internally panicking. Did his comment bother you? “What if I sort of told someone that I am your girl?”
His cheek twitched. “I’m sorry, what?” he asked. Did you really tell someone that?
And why did he respond that way instead of playing it cool?
“You know that call I took a bit ago? Well, it was Valentina,” you said, taking another deep breath. He didn't like where this was going. “She wants me to go to a benefit this weekend, and she was hoping I would schmooze a recently divorced potential investor,” you explained, wrinkling your nose and shuddering.
Bucky stomach dropped. You were beautiful and charming, so it wasn’t a shock that Valentina wanted to use you for her advantage. It made his blood boil. First John touching you, and now this. “What does that have to do with being my girl?” he questioned, not connecting the dots.
“I told her I already had a date,” you replied and pointed at his chest. “You.”
Bucky had enhanced hearing, but he couldn't have heard that statement correctly. “You what?”
You bit your lip and risked moving closer again. “I told her you were going as my date.”
The words slowly registered. “So, Valentina not only expects me to be there, but she thinks we're going to be there together?” he asked, gesturing between the two of you. “The two of us.”
You shifted in your seat. He hardly ever saw you uncomfortable. “Yes, the two of us, and I'm sorry,” you said.
Bucky wasn't sorry. Not at all. “Wow,” he breathed. He had pictured himself asking you out so many times and should've done it long ago, but he hadn't imagined a fake dating scenario with you asking him. Is that what it was?
“Bucky, I really am so sorry. I should've asked before I said anything to her,” you said, putting a hand over his before pulling it away just as quickly. “I understand if you don't want to.”
He shrugged like it wasn't a big deal..“It’s okay. I want to go.” He didn’t stay at benefits for long since kissing up to people wasn't his thing and he couldn't stand Valentina, but he’d put up with all of it to be by your side.
“It is? You do?” you asked, your teeth digging into your lip again and drawing his attention to your perfect mouth. “You’ll go?”
“It is, I do, and I will.” He hesitated, but mustered up the courage to put his hand over yours this time. He’d do anything for you. “Really. It’s okay.”
If Valentina had put him in a spot like that, he may have done something similar.
You looked where your hands were joined together and smiled softly. “And you aren't mad at me?”
“No, I’m not mad at you. Not at all,” he promised, exhaling before he moved his hand to your cheek. He felt the temperature rise in your body, heard your heart beat faster. “But why me? Why not Bob or…” He almost choked when he asked, “John?”
“Because I want you, Bucky,” you said without hesitation. “No one else.”
Bucky’s next breath came out harsher than he intended. You didn't say you wanted to date him- you said you wanted him, and he wanted you to want him in every way. “You really want me to be your fake date out of everyone else?” he asked, the word “fake” like acid on his tongue.
You lifted a hand to brush his hair back. “Would I be pushing it if I said I don't want it to be fake?”
He briefly closed his eyes, as if it could hide his longing. The simple question rocked him. “Don't ask me that if you don't mean it,” he whispered.
You leaned in and rested your hand against his. “I mean it. I want you,” you whispered, your lips a breath away from his. You wouldn't play with his feelings or heart. “I want the man who talks with me, spars with me.” You kissed the tip of his nose. “Walks into walls because of me.”
“Sweetheart,” he exhaled, the term of affection easily slipping out.
“I don't want it to be fake, Bucky,” you said, wrapping yourself tighter around his heart than he thought possible. “And I don't think you do either.”
He curled a hand around your hip to draw you closer on the bench. “No, I don't. I don't want to pretend,” he confirmed, kissing the tip of your nose the way you had kissed his. “So, why don't I take you out tomorrow?” he asked, finally asking the question that had been burning in the back of his throat for ages.
He felt your next breath when you tilted your head. “Tomorrow? The benefit isn't until this weekend.”
“I know, but I want a real date with my girl before the benefit,” he smiled, his lips skimming yours. “Been wanting to ask you out for ages.”
“Yeah?” you smiled back. “And it took me arranging a fake date to give you that push?”
“Give me a break. I’m an old man,” he joked.
You smirked, a seductive and dangerous glint in your eyes. “Should I wear that dress tomorrow, or will it give you a heart attack since you're an old man?”
He let out a groan. “I think that dress should come with a warning.” He had already jerked off to the thought of you wearing nothing beneath that gorgeous dress and he would think about that again when he finally went to sleep tonight.
“You're the one who should come with a warning,” you teased, still not kissing him quite yet. “Those tactical pants make your thighs and ass look incredible. And your t-shirts? I swear you wear them on purpose to see if I fall over.”
“I walked into a wall because of you,” he pointed out.
“I touch myself because of you,” you blurted out.
He wasn't sure if he closed the gap or if you did, but his lips were suddenly on yours and everything finally felt right. He wanted to devour you, but he slowly let the heat build before deepening the kiss. When your lips parted, he took the opportunity to sweep his tongue into your mouth and worship it the way he wanted to worship every inch of you. He wasn't going to rush or ruin this perfect moment. Not when he finally had you in his embrace, where he wanted you to belong.
He savored the moan that vibrated on his tongue and swallowed it down to keep it buried deep inside him. When you pulled away to breathe, he didn't let you get far before he went back in for another kiss. The world around you didn't slow down or rush by. It was simply a perfect moment that reverberated through his entire being.
Bucky framed your face when you pulled away again, your gentle panting making him smirk. “I touch myself because of you, too,” he said, chuckling and covering your mouth again when you let out a wanton moan. If he wasn't careful he’d have in his lap and he didn't want to rush that either, unless you wanted to. “And I might break Walker’s fingers for touching you,” he growled.
He worried for a second that it was a bit too much, too possessive. But he heard the whimper in your throat and knew you liked it. “Maybe break one to start with since we weren't officially together.”
“Fine,” he huffed. You were right. You weren't technically together earlier tonight, so he couldn't hold it completely against him. “But he isn't touching your thigh again, sweetheart. You're my girl now.”
“About time,” you sighed, bringing your lips back to his.
“Um,” Bob said from behind you two. Bucky hadn't paid attention to his footsteps since he was so consumed with you. Instead of pulling away from each other, you continued kissing as if you hadn't heard him. “Okay. Guess you two aren't coming back to game night. I’ll tell Yelena and Ava not to bother you,” he added before leaving you two alone.
Bucky would have to plan the perfect date for tomorrow and deal with the team teasing and asking questions. Tonight, he’d leave you breathless with kisses and then kiss you again. And he’ll kiss you every day after that because you were finally his girl.
I guess we can consider this the end of my vacation and my welcome back of sorts agree the week? I missed you lovelies. 🥰 Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
