The Bookstore - Part One
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Running a bookstore and trying to survive life, you never expect to run into the James Buchanan Barnes. You also don't expect that meeting him will turn your hollow life upside in the best way possible.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader
Tags: meet cute, fluff, pre FatWS, bookstore owner reader
wc: 5361
The first time you ever saw James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes was when you were eleven years old, and your newest friend made you sit down to watch a war documentary on the late Captain America. She had an unhealthy—borderline fanatic obsession with the lost Super Soldier that only intensified when he miraculously returned during your senior year of high school and helped save the world from an alien invasion. This propelled her to join you in applying for New York based colleges, though your reasons weren’t as boy crazed or fangirl focused.
With a mother too busy drinking to raise you and a father who worked for the shady side of every business, you walked a fine line between following your passion and trying to escape your home life. As soon as you got an acceptance letter from your dream writing college—and your father agreed to help pay for the tuition—you moved from sunny Fontana, California to Brooklyn, New York.
The next time you hear about the Sergeant, is when his name and face are plastered over every news screen across the world.
That was the first time you heard of The Winter Soldier.
Having lived in Brooklyn for four years by then, you had found yourself unwillingly dragged into many superhero based political conversations. You had even read the Sokovia accords and most of the files released when S.H.E.I.L.D was dismantled—purely out of curiosity and boredom between classes and work. What you always struggled with was everyone’s black and white style of thinking in any of these conversations.
You’ve lived in the shades of gray your whole life; being loosely connected to the underbelly of California crime—thanks to your father—you learned early that there is more to every person and story than what you see on the surface. It has made you a fascinating debate partner across campus, but it also hasn’t allowed you to build close connections. Most of your friends were for the accords, even your oldest friend turned on her obsession of Captain America before he went AWOL. By that point you didn’t have much time for friends or partners anyways; especially once your father sent you a rather ominous message.
“Your education trip is getting a little long don’t you think? When are you coming home?”
Despite this subtle threat, he sent over the funds for your master’s degree tuition. You knew time was running out. There was no way you would go back home, but you had to find a stable job and place of your own. Making a foundation for yourself became your sole focus. Friends fell away and contact with both your parents got more and more distant the closer you got to graduation, but you weren’t without connection.
The bookstore you found yourself employed at was one of the oldest in Brooklyn—a very sweet elderly couple ran it. They loved it with every fiber of their being and once they learned you were working towards becoming a published author—they fell in love with you, too. With their help you secured a stable income and a tiny studio apartment. They encouraged you to work on your manuscript every chance you had between customers and restocking shelves.
You finally felt like you were finding yourself.
Then, The Snap happened.
The memory of that day is ingrained in your brain; a nightmare you still have some nights.
It was only a few days after you had finished your master’s degree. The streets were relatively busy—as they always were on an early morning work commute—and you were cradling a fresh to-go coffee close to your chest as you maneuvered through the crowds. The summer heat hadn’t set in yet, but it was comfortably warm enough for you to have pulled out the shorter skirt you had worn that day. Its hem bounced around your knees with each quick step and twist as you weaved around the slow walkers and people too busy on their phones to notice you breezing past them.
There was a smile on your lips as you quietly sung along to the last song you had listened to on your record player. Coincidently, the reason you had been making haste was the Micheal Jackson vinyl you had put on while getting dressed because—as it always is with you and music—you lost track of time again as you belted out every lyric and melody.
Giggling, you moved again to avoid someone talking adamantly on their phone and found yourself bumping shoulders with another person. Still being careful of your coffee, you slowed your pace and turned, raising your free hand out to the person as you began to apologize.
Right before your very eyes, the person turned towards you and disintegrated into an ashy cloud of dust.
There wasn’t even time to fully process what was happening.
A cold sense of dread sank into your stomach, something you hadn’t felt since you were a child and your dad’s “friend” pulled a gun on you for the first time. The coffee cup slipped from your fingertips as they too began to disappear. The lid popped off as it hit the ground, spilling the contents across the concrete, but your feet left no marks in the puddle. A scream—that never came—built up in your throat and the world vanished.
In the next second, you found yourself gasping for air and standing petrified on the same sidewalk. It was sunset—not morning—and the air had the sharp taste of oncoming winter. The stranger you had bumped into was standing before you as well, and they looked just as terrified as you were.
Five years had passed.
Most of the people who returned still have a hard time wrapping their minds around it. Half the population gone in an instant and then brought back just the same.
What stuck with you though was that you were the only person in your family to disappear. From what you gathered across the news, the mad man who caused this claimed half the population would be chosen at random to make it as fair as possible, but for some like you, it didn’t feel fair.
Any friends you had managed to hold onto at the end of college had moved on; your mother had remarried and moved and your father—well, you still haven’t reached out to him and that’s probably for the better you think.
There was no time to dwell on the state of the world, or the loss of all your connections, or even having lost the opportunity to publish your almost finished manuscript. No—you had to rebuild your entire life from scratch and that hasn’t been easy. To your surprise though, there was one thing waiting for you: the bookstore.
After finding their family, you learned that they had grown ill shortly after The Snap. Their children convinced them to let the store go and retire while they still had time, but they refused to outright sell the bookstore. In their final weeks, they fought with a lawyer to set up a contract to have the store placed under your name for a decade before going to market. Every the optimists, they believed that someday someone would bring everyone back and make the world whole again—somehow, they had been right.
You spent your first week back in the bookstore, alone and mourning everything. The apartment you had was gone, almost all your belongs gone with it; there wasn’t a soul on the earth who wanted to speak to you anymore. From there, cold reality set in and the depression took over like a winter storm. Ever the fighter, you made the decision to keep going.
There was no reason behind this decision though. No guiding path or light at the end of the tunnel. All you know is you don’t want your life to be over, so you soldier onward.
Gentle, muffled pitter-patter rouses you from an all too common restless sleep.
“Fuck.”
Rainstorms usually don’t come around Brooklyn until summer and yet—much to your dismay—it has rained on and off for the past few days. An early rain is always better than a late season snow, but rain means water and you still haven’t gotten the seal fixed on the front door. Silently you thank the repair man—who came in and fixed the heating last month—for noticing it. You move that particular task higher in your mental check list of fixes, repairs, and shop tasks; despite the few months you've been at this, the list seems to grow instead of shrink.
With a heavy sigh, you heft yourself up into a sitting position. A sharp pain runs down from your neck to your hips as the floor boards creek beneath you. The room is pitch black, but with the ease of having slept on the floor of this room for almost five months, you raise your hand and flip a light switch above your head. An incandescent bulb hanging form the center of the ceiling flickers to life. It’s yellow glow gives the small office space an old time feel, aided by the fact that the desk across from you is more than likely as old as the store itself—a conclusion you came to when you first started working here. It serves as your desk, dining table, and kitchen counter all in one, with a small single serve coffee machine and hot plate taking up most of the space.
Slowly, you lift your aching body off the pile of blankets and pillows and hobble over to the desk. You grab a pink chipped mug and slot it into place before turning the coffee maker on. It's the newest addition to your makeshift home. You were surprised when you came across it just last month. By this point, the care for those misplaced from returning is dwindling just as much as the care for those misplaced by the returned. It's a pattern of struggle you are all too familiar with and seeing the coffee machine was a site that made you literally tear up and spend a few minutes collecting yourself before taking it home.
A quick glance to the clock above the door behind you shows it’s almost eight in the morning.
Your voice croaks as you mutter, “almost four hours of actual sleep. New record.”
The steady thrum of the coffee machine fills the space as the smell seeps into your skin. You take a deep breathe in, holding it for a few moments before letting it go as you rest your hands on the desk and step back into a slow stretch, head tipping as far forward between your arms as your spine will allow. There's a dull throb as you push a little deeper making you stop and hold until the machine beeps. A strained sigh escapes as you pull yourself upright. You take out a dry creamer container form a wicker basket beside your feet, mixing it in until the coffee reaches your preferred color. You take a sip to confirm it’s the right ratio, humming as the warmth travels down your body.
Instead of letting yourself relish the feeling, you turn and bend down to grab your wrinkled day clothes and let the haze of daily routine slip over your consciousness.
Once dressed—smoothing the wrinkles of your skirt as best you can—you walk through the store and unlock the front door, roll up the shutters, and flip the sign on the door to ‘open.’ Then you do a quick walk through of each aisle—upstairs and downstairs—to make sure everything is in place before settling behind the front counter.
It’s not a large store by any means, and while it may be tight to wander through the three aisles upstairs, the lower section of the store has a good amount of walking space. There’s a smaller aisle leading to the back door and then one connecting the office door and front counter, with one side having been cleverly built into the space beneath the staircase. In the center of the wide aisle are two tables stacked with fresh books you finished pricing the night prior. Next to you—cluttering the space behind the counter—are boxes upon boxes of book donations from the years the store hadn’t been running. People continued to donate and drop them off since so many other stores and libraries had to start rejecting donations due to lack of space.
This is what you occupy yourself with as the day trickles by—checking each books condition and then doing quick goggle searches on the cheap tiny tablet you managed to snag from the donation center, to figure out the best price. A thick steno pad sits on the counter, filled with notes for each book you unpack: title, date, condition, and price. Some are crossed out with a thick red line to denote they were sold, while others have blue asterisks next to their title and a note about its edition number or rarity somewhere on the side.
Order in chaos: getting you through each new day.
The first few customers of the day are uneventful. A few pleasantries passed and a single purchase—which you write down in a separate steno pad tucked under the counter before crossing out the title on the other pad. The owners had at least managed to upgrade their systems to allow card purchases, but the inventory is still all done by hand and memory. Thankfully, opening a new bank account and attaching it to the store had been easy once the government reinstated your social security number—which took them quite a while to figure out.
You manage to finish the box you started the night prior. Once it’s empty and the books are placed on the tables, you take it out to the dumpster in the back alley. There's even more boxes tucked in the corner by the back door, which you maneuver around before snagging a new one to add to the stack behind the counter.
Finish one box, replace it with another: the never ending cycle.
It's sometime past noon, after a lull of customers that a pair of girls strolls in. The bell above the door chimes and you quickly plaster on your best smile. You turn, giving them a cheerful welcome. The pair are giggling as one waves a hand at you. You aren't sure if it's dismissive or friendly, but they vanish into the first aisle, out of eye sight. The faint sound of their voices carries easily in the small space, but you tune it out as always and open a new box to start catalouging.
As the girls come around the corner at the back—stepping into the wider aisle and sifting through the books on the far table—the bell chimes once more. Instead of looking up immediately, you finish scratching down the books condition. The squeak of well worn leather boots reaches you with light footfalls. You expect to look up to find someone of small build—instead, you are met by a six foot figure who’s large frame looks out of place in the space. Despite the poor lighting—due to a few blown bulbs that you can’t afford to replace yet—you can see that his eyes are blue or gray and soft. They’re gentle in a way like he’s aware of how heavy his presence feels and is trying to minimize it. Something akin to familiarity tickles the back of your brain as you take in his long hair and strained smile. There’s evidence of time in his features, wrinkles and creases around his eyes and mouth either form age or years of stress. None of this diminishes the overall thought bouncing around in your head—this has to be one of the most handsome men that has every set foot in the store.
Before the silence stretches on too long—and before you begin to look like a gawking teenager—you throw on your customer service smile and give a cheerful greeting.
"Afternoon," his voice is rough around the edges, with a slight rasp like he isn't used to talking. He takes an awkward step towards the counter and says, “I'm looking for a specific book. I wasn't sure if you'd have it."
Familiar territory. You ease into professional mode, back straightening as you set the book in your hands down. "What are you looking for, sir?"
The man gives a grimace at the formal title. He rests a gloved hand on the surface as he looks around, eyes calculating. "It's called The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien."
A real smile creeps onto your face. It takes some self restraint to not immediately gush about the book, the man is clearly older—probably in his forties or fifties—and you can't imagine he would want to listen to a young woman gush over a book he may also love. Prior to the Blip you had run into your fair share of Tolkien fans who hadn't taken kindly to a girl being as invested in the series and having opinions on his writing style—especially those who only loved the movies. They had many thoughts to share with you even when you didn't ask. Instead of jumping into a passionate speech, you take a second to pretend contemplation.
"I believe upstairs we should have a few copies of the whole series,” you tell him, gesturing to the staircase. “Check the first aisle, right at the top of the stairs and feel free to look at the publish dates for each version. We've had a lot of donations recently, so there may be a few older versions in the lot as well."
"Thanks," he gives a tight smile—not unkind, just awkward—and turns to the stairs.
You let out a slow breath as he ascends. His steps are just as quiet as when he came in, and you’re silently surprised to only hear the faint creak of the stairs instead of the usual loud creaking and groaning when most customers go up and down. Once he’s out of sight, you notice the girls had also been watching him, mouths open as they look to each other.
Their frantic whispers reach across the space with ease. “There’s no way!”
“That’s him,” the shorter of the two gestures towards the stairs aggressively as her face drops into a scowl. “I’d recognize that maniac anywhere after all the press.”
“Can you believe he was acquitted? Of everything?!” They both make noises of disgust and then break in to a fit of laughter.
The tickle of familiarity comes back and with it comes the image of The Winter Soldier. You recall the trials from a few months back, of the latest court sketch and press shot you had seen of him with Falcon—Sam Wilson. It could be him, you reason, but it also could be a case of looking too similar. You are prepared to brush it off, assume he’s a random person with a face similar to one James Barnes, but then one of the girls opens her mouth again and something begins to boil inside you.
“That man should be behind bars or six feet under. No one who has done the things he has should be a free man,” they say.
“Excuse me?” The words are out of your mouth before you can filter them.
Both girls look up in surprise. They’re standing at the table directly before the register and being this close, you can tell they’re younger—probably only in their first or second year of college—and their skin is immaculate in a way only makeup can conjure. A logo on one of their hand bags catches eye—Hermès. Between that and their clothes, their outfits probably cost more then double the average monthly rent. If you were to place a bet, you're sure they didn't bat an eyelash as they paid for them.
Once they process you and see the annoyance on your face, theirs’ melt into indifference.
“What? It’s the truth, I mean—” she leans forward to stage whisper “—did you hear the things he did?”
“Yes. I did.”
“See—”
“I also paid enough attention to know he was brainwashed the entire time,” you cut in, stare hard and unyielding.
“Still did it,” she waves you off, perfectly manicured nails being thrown in your face. “Just cause he’s Captain America’s best friend doesn’t mean he should get off scot-free.”
Rage is one emotion you’ve never had full control over. It doesn’t come out when you get angry though, it comes when you face injustice for others and are faced with a system that tries to put you and the people you love down. It especially comes out when entitled rich people step into your world and act just like this.
“Get out.”
The girls snap their heads to you. “What?”
“You heard me, get out,” you repeat while pointing to the door. “I have the right to refuse service to any customer. I’m using that right because, I don’t have the time or energy to argue with you about ethics you clearly will never understand.”
“Ethics?” The shorter girl starts towards the door as her friend continues to argue. “What is there ethically to talk about? He used his best friend’s name as get out of jail free card.”
“Incorrect," you counter like a practiced defense lawyer. "He was willing to serve the time and his friends stood up to testify for him and show that he was no longer brainwashed. If you actually followed the trial you would know this, but I suspect even if you did you would gloss over it like you people always do,” by this point the frustration and anger at your own situation, your own life; your own troubles, begins to bleed into your words. You can’t stop yourself though, it's been so long since you’d last let yourself feel anything and the rage is quick to fill the void. “Now, again, I don't have the time, energy, or will to explain why the man was fairly acquitted and I won’t stand for people who wish undue harm onto others and spread their misinformed views to shop here. So please, get out of my store.”
She opens her mouth, hand raised to point at you, but her friend grabs her arm and drags her to the door. Both mutter some derogatory term—more than likely racially charged—under their breath, but they leave with the too cheerful chime of the bell.
Silence folds in again, broken only by the rain. There is still a churning in your gut, your breaths heavy as you work to regain your even footing. Then you glance at the staircase—sound travels way too well through such a small space. There isn't a chance the man upstairs didn’t hear all of argument. Embarrassment consumes your anger and you slump onto the stool you had been occupying all morning, face falling into your hands.
Best case scenario: he isn't actually James Barnes and you two laugh it off.
Annoying scenario: he still isn’t James Barnes, but he is on the same side as the girls and you have to brace for throwing out another customer.
Worst case scenario: he is James Barnes and he's offended at you for defending him.
The anxiety spiral hits like a freight train. It chokes the air in your lungs; your hands shake as they drag down your face. With a long breath in and out you reach down and grab the book again. Your eyes stare down at the paper, picking up your pen with a shaky hand. You don’t see the page though. Your ears are laser focused on the floorboards above, listening for the tell tale creak of movement and scratch of books being moved.
Nothing.
The silence is defining.
Trained assassin—your brain supplies unhelpfully.
Eventually you see him make his way down the stairs, book in hand. You don't immediately look up and you try your best to not look as shameful and embarrassed as you feel. What you don't notice is his feet suddenly start making noise on the floorboards once he gets to the point where he can see you and read you. His footsteps and the book gently placed on the counter before you, would have announced his presence if you hadn't been so tuned in. You lay the pen down and turn to him with what you hope isn't a strained smile.
"Find it okay?" You ask as you reach for the book, checking the sticker tag.
"Yeah, didn't realize there was more than just," he waves his hand to the book, "this one."
Before you can think to fix your face, it scrunches in confusion. "Really? The Lord of the Rings is more popular than the Hobbit by far, especially given the movies."
He gives a small, tired chuckle. "Didn't even know there were movies. Guess I got some more reading and watching to do,” His fingers tap the counter, gloves muting the sound as he shuffles his feet. “Lot to catch up on still since being back."
Your smile falters.
This is in fact James Buchanan Barnes.
He looks down.
"Ya know," he starts, hesitant, "you didn't have to—ya know. You didn’t have to kick the girls out. They were just saying their opinion."
You pause to really look at him.
He's hunched in on himself, broad shoulders pulled tight. It doesn't necessarily make him look any smaller, but you feel the way he’s trying to pull his aura inward and how he wears his long hair untucked, loose around his face like a dark coffee colored shield. Unlike earlier, he’s resting his weight on the counter which gives you a clear view into his eyes. The eye contact is fleeting—his gaze landing for only a moment before he shifts his focus away—but it’s long enough for you to feel your heart trip into their steel-blue depths. Though, they could be easily mistaken for a still lake as you see the same hollow, self-deprecation reflected back at you. The small internal misguided view of self reflects back at you and you know deep inside there’s a part of you who craves kind words and gentleness; it’s easy to reason there’s a part of him that wants that too. There’s also probably a part of him that doesn’t think he deserves it—a part of yourself you’ve managed to get rid of.
Even though you have a negative view on your life situation, you know that these misfortunes don’t make you unworthy of kindness and love. Some days are harder than most—obviously—but you make an effort to remind yourself that when the opportunity presents itself you choose kindness and let kindness be given to you.
“Oh,” the word leaves you are a quiet breath.
Bucky takes another look up to you, and whatever he sees makes his aura shrink even more.
With a quick blink and mental shake, you look back to the book and reach for your steno pad. As you flip through the pages to find the specific copy he picked, you piece together your next words carefully. “She was just stating her option, true, but her opinion was misinformed. Especially saying you got off “scot-free.”” Upon finding the book listing, you grab your red marker and cross it out with a harsh stroke. You move your focus to the register, punching in the amount and taking a small calming breath before saying, “I can’t even begin to imagine what you’ve been through, but I’m sure it has come with a lot of drawbacks and struggles. Never judge a book by it’s cover as they say.”
“Even if that cover is as bad as mine?” He gives a strained, painful chuckle.
This time you make deliberate eye contact. With a genuine, gentle smile you reply, “yes, even your cover.”
The heaviness of the earlier silence lifts from the air. There’s a spark of something akin to surprise in his eyes; his face remains stoic if not for a slight loosening of his jaw. It’s a minor movement—almost inappreciable if not for the small distance between you.
A warm wave of joy settles into your system. The kind of satisfaction from knowing you left someones soul a little lighter than when you first met. If this is the only chance you’ll have to meet the infamous Bucky Barnes, then you know that’s the way you want to leave him. There’s no doubt he doesn’t have many pleasant interactions in his life and while you hate assuming things about people—you feel certain this case may be more true than even you are imagining.
Smile unwavering, you gently peel the sticker from the book and place it in front of him. “This one is on me, no charge.”
“No,” he pushes off the counter and reaches into his jean pocket. “I can’t accept that; I can pay for it.”
Shaking your head, you push the book towards him. “Consider it a,” you hum, tilting your head back and forth as you think, “welcome back to Brooklyn gift. Was this one you read before the war?”
The question makes him pause. His wallet is in his hands, but his fingers don’t move to pull anything out. Looking from the book to you, he quietly says, “yeah, it was.”
You aim for a casual tone as if speaking to an easily spooked feral cat. “Then this will bring back good memories, so it’s a gift from one reader to another. If you’re ever interested in the trilogy then I’ll let you pay for those, but this one is on me.”
He stares at you for a long moment—processing—before seeming to admit defeat. After he returns his wallet to his pocket he takes the book and offers you the first real smile you’ve seen on him. “Thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure,” you say. Nervously, you fold up the sticker between your fingers and look down towards the counter. His continued stare causes a faint redness to bloom across your cheeks and you repress the urge to fidget with you hair by placing the sticker on the pad under the counter.
Without another word—though it feels like he wanted to say something more—he takes his leave. As quickly as he entered your little bubble of a world, he leaves it with the cheerful chime of the store bell trailing behind him.
You expect to feel tense, expect to need a moment to collect yourself—instead you find a weird sense of calm settle into the shelves around you. It’s a welcome feeling. For the first time since you returned to this world you take a deep, relaxing breath and let yourself truly just sit in the feeling.
Something you’ve never said aloud—not even to your old best friend—is that Barnes’s story always struck a chord with you. You could never place your finger on why—all you knew is that similar to how deeply connected some people find themselves feeling to celebrities and their life stories, you found yourself in a similar state with his.There isn’t anything his story and yours have in common—that you can see from the surface—but a sense of connection has been living inside you. It’s why, for a creative writing project one year, you wrote a whole short story about the Howling Commandos—a piece of literature you know is still on your laptop alongside your manuscript and buried somewhere in the office beneath boxes of more important things.
“A once in a life time moment,” you whisper to yourself. Then the calm, serene moment breaks with a snort and you muttering, “and I’ll never see the man again.
