warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut (p-in-v & unprotected, oral - f!receiving, fingering, creampie, lots of dirty talk, edging, p-pronouns, light p-inspection, mentions of somno and free use), dom!Bucky, power imbalance, sugar daddy / sugar baby dynamic, age gap (reader in mid-to-late twenties while Bucky’s in his early forties), mentioned illness/death of parents (minor characters), money troubles, i.e., debt, bills, etc., alcohol consumption, one instance of smoking, no mentions of y/n
word count: 31.8k
summary: The arrangement is simple enough: you give him friendship, he gives you a better life. But between the private dinners cozied up in a booth and the charity galas pressed to his side, it’s getting harder for you to hold up your end of the bargain when you’re starting to feel things for your sugar daddy that were not included in the contract…
PARTS:
part one
part two
part three
DRABBLES:
coming soon…
thanks for reading!🤍 check out more in my masterlist
summary: After the mission of returning the infinity stones goes wrong, the power stone leaves you with something you can’t get rid of. You survive the exposure, but now Bucky can only survive you in small doses.
word count: 5.2 k
warnings: angst, hurt/no comfort, implied smut, no happy ending (kind of open), graphic depictions of physical stress, mentions of blood and medical trauma, separation/implied breakup, self-destructive behavior. | english is not my first language so I'm sorry in advance for any mistypo/grammar mistake.
a/n: may I say thank you to the lovely anon who made this request based on Smallville Lara and Clark’s last kiss? Honestly I cried a lot while writing this 🥀 I hope you guys enjoy it and I’m sorry in advance for what you’re about to read.
read in AO3
The quantum tunnel spits you out on Morag in 2014, and the first thing you notice is how quiet it is. Dead quiet. Just wind and ruins and the distant sound of waves.
"We've got forty-five minutes before the window closes," you say, checking th GPS device on your wrist. "The temple's half a klick north."
Steve adjusts his shield. "Stay sharp, we don't know what we're walking into."
Bucky's already scanning the perimeter, rifle raised. "Looks abandoned."
"It is," you confirm. "Quill still unconscious down there. We're early."
The temple is exactly where it should be—a massive structure carved into the cliff face, a fascinating alien architecture. The power stone it's placed in its pedestal, sealed in the orb, pulsing with barely contained energy.
"Okay," Steve says. "Nice and easy. We secure the stone, get back to the platform and—"
The explosion cuts him off.
You're thrown sideways, slamming into one of the temple pillars. Your ears are ringing. Through the smoke, you see them: Sakaraans, maybe a dozen of them, firing indiscriminately. They must have followed you when they saw the quantum tunnel.
"Get the stone!" Steve shouts, shield already deflecting blaster fire.
Bucky's at your side, hauling you up. "You good?"
"Yeah, go—"
Another explosion, closer this time. The temple shudders and you watch in horror as the pedestal cracks, the orb rolls free splitting open on the ston floor.
The power stone tumbles out, raw, uncontained, pulsing with enough enrgy to level a planet.
Everything slows down.
Bucky's moving toward it—he's a super soldier, he might survive the exposure—but you're closer. You're already running. You can hear him screaming your name, but you're faster. Your hands close around the stone, and the universe explodes… at least for you.
Purple lightning crawls up your arms, through your veins, behind your eyes. It's not pain, it's way too big to be pain. It's everything, all at once. Every star being born and dying, every moment that ever was or ever will be, all of it flooding through you at once.
You can hear Bucky screaming but you can't let go. If you let go, the energy discharge will kill everyone. Will crack the planet open.
So you hold on.
Four seconds. Five. Six.
You slam the stone back into what's left of the pedestal and the world snaps back into focus. You're on your knees, your hands are still glowing, purple veins crawling under your skin like lightning scars. Bucky's hands are on your face, he's saying your name over and over, frantic.
"I'm okay," you manage. Your voice sounds wrong, distant. "I'm okay, I'm—"
You pass out in his arms.
You wake up three days later in the med bay. Bruce is there immediately, shining a light in your eyes, checking your vitals. "Welcome back, how do you feel?"
"Like I touched an infinity stone."
"Well, you're not dead, so, that's a good start." He's trying for levity, but you can see the concern in his eyes. "The glowing has mostly faded, you've still got some residual marks, but they should disappear completely in another few days."
You look down at your hands. The purple veins are still there, faint now, like a spiderweb under your skin.
"Where's Bucky?"
"He's been here the whole time, I finally convinced him to go shower about an hour ago." Bruce hesitates. "He was… he didn't handle seeing you like that very well."
You're about to respond, when the door crashes open and Bucky's thre, hair still wet, looking like he's been through hell.
"You're awake." He's across the room in three strides, hands hovering over you like he's afraid to touch. "You're okay, you're—"
"I'm okay," you assure him. "Buck, I'm fine."
He sits on the edge of the bed, and you can see his hands shaking. "You stopped breathing twice. Did Bruce tell you that? Your heart stopped once, I had to watch them—"
"But I'm here now." You catch his hand, lacing your fingers through his. "I'm right here."
He lifts your joined hands to his mouth, kissing your knuckles. "Don't ever do that again."
"No more infinity stones, I promise."
He manages a weak smile before leaning down to kiss you properly. You don't notice the way his hand tightens on yours or the way his breathing picks up.
Twenty minutes later, he's vomiting in the bathroom.
Bruce runs every test he can think of. Bucky insists it's just stress, just the comedown from the mission, but you all know better.
It happens again the next day. You're sitting together in the common room, your head on his shoulder, and after thirty minutes he has to excuse himself. You find him in the hallway, pale and shaking, leaning against the wall.
"This is connected to the stone," you say.
"We don't know that."
"Bucky—"
"We don't know that," he repeats, more firmly. "Could be a hundred things, could be—"
He doesn't get to finish. His knees buckle and you barely catch him.
Bruce's diagnosis is clinical and devastating: you're still emitting radiation from the power stone. Not enough to hurt a normal person, but enough that Bucky's enhanced metabolism reads it as a threat. The serum is trying to fight it, which is tearing him apart from the inside.
"It should fade," Bruce says, but he won't meet your eyes. "In theory."
"How long?" Bucky demands.
"I don't know. The levels are decreasing, but slowly. It could take weeks, maybe months." He pauses. "Maybe longer."
"So what do we do?"
Bruce looks between you both. "You stay apart, minimize exposure until radiation dissipates to safe levels."
The silence is deafining.
"How much exposure is safe?" You ask quietly.
"Based on today's readings?" Bruce checks his tablet. "Five minutes. Maybe ten if he's had time to recover."
Five minutes. You only get five minutes.
After a few weeks, the lab tests proof that you're safe for fifteen minutes.
You measure everything now.
Bucky sets a timer on his phone every time he enters your room. When it goes off, he leaves without arguments or exceptions.
Fifteen minutes isn't enough time for anything meaningful. It's enough for "how was your day" and "I miss you" and one kiss before the alarm sounds and he has to go.
You start writing things down. All the things you want to tell him, but don't have time for. You leave notes in his room, he leaves notes in yours.
Thought about you today when I saw a cat stuck in a tree. It reminded me of that mission in Prague. -B
Sam made a joke about your hair, I defended your honor. You're welcome. -You
I'm counting down the minutes until tomorrow, always counting. -B
By week four, your time increases to forty five minutes, and it fels like a miracle.
You can have a meal together now… well, most of one. You learn to eat fast, to tlk while chewing, to fit entire conversations into the space between bites.
"Bruce says the decline is steady," Bucky tells you over breakfast. "If it keeps dropping at this rate, we might have a few hours in another month."
"That's good," you say, but you're both thinking the same thing: What if it stops? What if this is as good as it gets?
The timer goes off and Bucky's only eaten half his food.
"I'll finish it tomorrow," he says, kissing your forehead on his way out.
His plate sits on your table for the rest of the day. You can't bring yourself to throw it away.
By the sixth week, you got two hours, and it feels like the cruelest gift.
It's enough time to watch a movie—if you start it the second he walks in and he leaves before the credits roll.
It's enough time to have sex—once, and only if you're efficient about it, and only if you're both okay with him leaving immediately after. You try it once, the alarm goes off while you're still catching your breath. He kisses you and walks out, and you lie there alone in the tangled sheets and cry.
When the eighth week comes, you notice the increase is slowing down. Bruce shows you the charts, the curve is flattening. The rate of decrease is dropping.
"What does that mean?" Bucky asks.
"It means we might be approaching a plateau," Bruce says carefully. "A baseline level that won't decrease further."
"But it's still going down," you argue. "It went up forty seven minutes this week."
"Forty-seven minutes in seven days. Last week it was an hour and twelve minutes. The week before that, ninety minutes." Bruce looks tired. "I'm not saying it's definitely plateaued, but we need to prepare for the possibility."
That night, Bucky comes to your room. You lie together in your narrow bed, fully clothed, his flesh arm wrapped around you.
"We have thirty more minutes," you whisper. "We should talk about something."
"I don't want to talk."
"Then what do you want?"
"This." His voice is rough. "Just this, just you."
You fall asleep like that. Wake up four hours later to Bucky convulsing beside you, blood streaming from his nose and ears.
"You could've died!" You're shouting, pacing, because if you stop moving you'll fall apart. "You could've— do you have any idea what it was like, waking up and seeing you like that?"
Bucky's sitting on the edge of the med bay bed, still pale but recovering. "I fell asleep, it was an accident."
"An accident? You stayed for four hours, Bucky! Four freaking hours! Your timer went off and you turned it off instead of leaving—"
"I didn't—"
"FRIDAY showed me the logs!" Your voice cracks. "You dismissed the alarm six times, six."
The silence stretches between you.
"I wanted more time," he says finly.
"You could've died."
"I wanted more time with you." He looks up, and his eyes are red. "Is that so fucking terrible? That I wanted to fall asleep next to you? That I wanted one night where I didn't have to watch the clock?"
"Yes!" The word tears out of you. "Yes, it's terrible, because you're killing yourself for a few extra hours—"
"Don't you get it? It's not about hours!" He's on his feet now. "It's about us. Us being together… that's the only thing keeping me—"
The nose bleed starts.
You've been here too long. Twenty minutes arguing, and he's already over the limit.
"I'm leaving," you whisper.
"We're not done—"
"I said I'm leaving!" You're crying now, shoving at his chest before walking out.
You sink to the floor of the next room and finish the fight alone, screaming at an empty room.
Bruce calls you both into the lab. You know it before he speaks, he has a terrible poker face.
"The levels have been stbale for two weeks," he says. "No decrease, no increase. I think… I think this is it."
"It could still drop," Bucky argues. "Could just be longer plateau before—"
"It could." Bruce agrees. "But it's been twelve weeks. The radiation signature should've decreased more by now if it was going to." He pulls up a graph. "I think we're looking at a permanent baseline, aproximately three hours of safe exposure per day."
Three hours for the rest of your life. Three fucking hours.
"There has to be something else," you say, but your voice sounds distant. "Another treatment, a way to extract it, something—"
"I've consulted with everyone I can think of. Shuri, Helen Cho, Strange… There's no precedent for this. Infinity stone exposure on this scale…." Bruce shakes his head. "I'm really sorry."
You're aware of Bucky's hand finding yours, holding it tight.
"Three hours," he says. "We can work with three hours."
You don't answer.
That night, you sit in your room and do the math.
Three hours a day is 1,095 hours a year. Divided by 24, that's 45.625 days. You get 45 days a year with him… the rest, you spend alone.
If you live by 80—optimistic, given your line of work— and Bucky lives to be 150 because of the serum, you'll get 58 years together: 2,668 days total out of 21,170.
12.6% of your life together. The other 87.4% alone.
You're still staring at the numbers when Bucky walks in.
"Three hours a day is 1,095 hours a year," he says, and his voice is so carefully controlled it hurts to hear. "That's 45 days, we get 45 days a year together. Some couples do long distance and see each other less than that. We could— we could make this work, right?"
He's standing in the doorway, hasn't crossed the threshold yet. Even now, he's trying to preserve your time.
"Buck—"
"I wake up at 5, come here until 8. Then lunch, 12 to 1. Dinner, 6 to 8. That's three hours, we just split it up throughout theday. It's structured but it's— it's something." He's talking faster now, desperate. "We could meal prep on Sundays so we don't waste time cooking. We could— I don't know, we could read books at the same time so we have something to talk about during—"
"Bucky, stop."
"No." He takes one step into the room, just one. "No, I won't stop. I've done the math every possible way and this— this is what we have, so we make it enough, we make it—"
"It's not a life."
The words land like a physical blow. You watch him flinch.
"It's our life." His voice cracks. "It is what he have, and people leave with worse. People— people do long distance, people have—"
"People don't get poisoned by the person they love."
"Don't—" The word comes out sharp, ragged. "Don't make this about—"
"What if it gets worse?" You're on your feet now, and you can see the exact moment the timer his head starts counting. He's been here for two minutes. You have 178 minutes left today. "What if the plateau is temporary? What if three hours become two, and then one—"
"Then we'll deal with it."
"What if it kills you?"
"Then it kills me!"
The shout echoes in the small room. Bucky's chest is heaving, his flesh hand clenched into a fist, and you can already see it— the slight tremor starting in his fingers, the way his pupils are dilating wrong.
Five minutes. He's been here for five minutes.
"Get out," you whisper.
"No."
"Bucky, please—"
"No." He crosses the room in three strides, and you can see what it costs him. There's already a slight drag to his left leg—the serum's propioception breaking down. "You don't get to decide this alone… you grabbed that stone to save the mission, to save Steve, to save the entire goddamn universe. You think I'm gonna let that sacrifice be for nothing? You think I'm gonna just walk away after—"
He stops and sways.
Seven minutes.
"Sit down." You grab his arm— his flesh arm, careful now— and try to guide him to the bed. His skin is already too warm. "Damn it, James, sit down before you—"
"No," he's shaking his head and the movement seems to cost him. "Not yet. I can't—I'm not ready yet."
"You're already past your limit—"
"I know." His voice drops. "God, I know. I can feel it. It's like fire in my blood, did you know that? It burns. Everything burns when I'm near you."
Your breath hitches. "You never told me—"
"Because I don't care." He cups your face with both hands, and the metal one is whirring wrong, plates shifting and clicking out of sync. "I don't care if it hurts. I don't care if it burns— the only thing I need is you."
His knees buckle. You catch him, barely, and you're both sinking to the floor. His back hits the edge of the bed and you're kneeling between his legs, holding him up.
"I need one more time," he breathes out. "I need to kiss you one more time without the fucking timer, without counting the seconds in my head, without wondering if this is the one that finally—"
He doesn't finish. Can't finish.
"This is cruel," you whisper as your hands frame his face, and you can feel the fever radiating off his skin. "This is so cruel, letting you stay when you—"
"Then be cruel." His eyes lock on yours, and even unfocused with pain, they're still looking at you with so much love it hurts. "Be cruel, let me have this, let me—"
"It's killing you—"
"You think leaving me won't?" His metal had comes up—jerky and malfunctioning— and catches your wrist. The grip is weak. How could it be? His metal arm is never weak. "You think walking away and leaving without you won't kill me just as dead? At least this way I got to…"
His nose starts bleeding.
It's been ten fucking minutes.
"Please, stop." You sob, reaching for something to stop the blood, but he catches your hand.
"No, please, just—" He's pulling you closer, even though every instinct you have is screaming to push him away, to save him. "Just stay, please. I know we're out of time, I know this is it, I know tomorrow you're gonna leave and never come back, so just— god, please just let me have this."
"How did you—"
"I know you." His thumb brushes your cheekbone. "I know that stubborn look in your face… you've already decided. You're planning on disappear and going somewhere I can't find you, because you think that way you'd be saving me. But baby, I'm not gonna survive without you, you understand that?"
He's crying now, and the tears are pink-tinged. There's blood on his tears. That's new.
"I can't lose you again," he chokes out. "I can't be the one left behind again. I can't wake up and find out the person I love the most is gone."
"Then you have to let me go." You're crying too, your forehead pressed against his. "You have to let me be the one that walks away, because I can live knowing you're out there, somewhere, safe and whole and alive. But I can't live watching this kill you. I can't, Bucky, I simply can't."
"One more time," he whispers against your mouth. "Let me have one more time where I'm not counting… where I can just pretend we have forever."
"We don't have forever…"
"I know. And I know I'm past it, I know I'm gonna pay for this, I don't care."
And he kisses you.
It's not gentle nor careful. It's desperate and drowning. His mouth is relentless against yours, like he's trying to memorize the taste, the feeling, the way you feel together. Your hands are on his hair, on his face, feeling the fever burning through him.
The kiss tastes like copper and salt. And somehow you feel it like the one last thing you'll ever have in your life.
His body is shaking violently now. You can feel every tremor, every muscle spasm. His metal arm is now hanging useless at his side, but his flesh hand is still cupped around the back of your neck, still holding you close as his strength fails.
You break the kiss against to breathe and he makes this desperate, broken sound that breaks your heart and chases your mouth. "Not yet, not yet, please—"
"Bucky, you're—"
"I know." He kisses you again, softer this time, gentler. "Just one more time."
Another kiss, this one starts to taste like blood. His hands are sliding down from your neck, he's losing motor control and his eyes are rolling back. You catch him as he slumps forward, his full weight collapsing into you.
"No, no, no…" You're holding him, lowering him down to the floor, cradling his head. "FRIDAY! Get Steve here! Get Bruce! Please someone—"
Bucky slurs something low, barely conscious. You look down at him with tears in your eyes. "Please, please, stay with me—"
But he's out.
You lay down, screaming until your throat hurts for what it feels like forever, even though it only has been two minutes.
You're still holding him when Steve and Sam crash through the door. Bruce arrives a bit later to the med bay. They try to pull him from your arms and you won't let go.
"How long?" Bruce asks quietly, already prepping an IV.
Your voice barely comes out and sounds distant. "Fifteen minutes, maybe more…"
Steve's face go white. "Jesus Christ."
"Get her out of here," Bruce orders and Sam pulls you away gently.
You watch from the doorway as they work in him. Watch as they load him onto a gurney and wheel him past you to medical.
His metal arm is hanging off the side of the gurney, completely loose. Blood is still trickling from his nose. But on his face, even unconscious, there's this ghost of a smile.
Like it was worth it.
You slide down the wall in the empty hallway and sob, praying in silence for him to be okay.
When Steve finds you an hour later, you're still there. Still staring at the same spot where they took him away.
"He's stable," Steve says quietly, sitting down beside you. "He's gonna be okay…"
You don't answer, looking down at your hands.
"Bruce says the exposure set him back weeks, maybe months. He will need time to recover before…" He trails off but you already know what he means.
Before you can see each other again.
"I'm leaving," you say. Your voice is flat, empty. "Tomorrow, somewhere he won't find me…"
"He'll look."
"I know." You finally look at Steve. "That is why I need you to stop him. You need to make him understand that this is— this is the only way I know how to save him."
Steve remains in silence for a long moment. Then: "He's not gonna forgive you for this."
You close your eyes, leaning your head on the wall. "…But at least he'll be alive."
The next morning, you're gone.
You leave a note on his bedside table in medical, anchored down by a small locket with your initials and a picture of you both inside. You took his dog tags in exchange. The paper is covered in your handwriting, and in some places the ink is smudged.
Bucky,
I'm writing this while you're still unconscious, and I'm trying not to look at you, because if I do, I won't be able to leave. So I'm staring at this paper instead, forcing my hand to move and trying to get all of it out before I lose my nerve.
By the time you read this, I'll be gone. And I need you to understand that this isn't me running away from you. This is me running forward the only future where you survive.
I love you. I love you so much it feels like it's burning me from the inside out. I love the way you still sleep on the left side of the bed just because I asked you once to do so because I felt more comfortable sleeping on the right. I love how you pretend you don't like when Sam calls you "Buckaroo" but I can see you trying not to smile. I love that you learned how to braid hair just so you could braid mine on the nights we actually had time together.
I love you for fighting so hard, for pushing your limits for wanting me badly enough to hurt yourself. But that's exactly why I can't stay.
Last night I watched you almost die in my arms just for some extra time with me. I felt your heartbeat falter under my hands, I saw the blood and I saw you smiling unconscious when they were taking you to the medbay. And that's how I know you're never going to stop. You'll never choose yourself over me. You'll push and push until there's nothing left, and I will have to watch you fade.
I can't do that, Buck. I can't let the person I love most in this world destroy himself for stolen moments and rationed hours. I can't live knowing that every kiss might be the one that finally kills you.
So I'm choosing for the both of us. I'm doing the thing you can't do.
I'm leaving. And I need you to let me go.
I know you're probably already planning how to find me. I know Steve is probably going to help you, and if they ever find me Sam is going to yell at me for breaking your heart, and you're going to pull every favor and every resource until you track me down.
Please don't. I'm begging you baby, please don't look for me.
I know it's not fair to ask, I know I don't have the right, but I'm asking anyway because I need you to live. I need you to have a full life without timers and blood and goodbye kisses that might be the last one.
You've spent so much time being a weapon, being used, being told you don't get to choose. So I'm giving you a choice now: you can spend the rest of your life chasing a ghost or you can let me be the one that got away. You can hold on the hurt or you can let it make you strong enough to move forward.
You probably already know which one I'm hoping you'll choose.
Be happy, James Buchanan Barnes. Be reckless and stupid and alive. Get a cat. Let Sam teach you how to use social media, let Steve drag you to those museums you always pretend to hate. Flirt with someone at a coffee shop, have a one night stand, fall in love again.
Live the life I can't give you.
I'm sorry I couldn't be strong enough to stay. I'm sorry for choosing this way. I'm sorry for every fight we won't have and every meal we don't share and every tomorrow we won't get.
But most of all I'm sorry that loving me turned into something that could kill you.
I'm serious, James, don't look for me. This is the only way I know how to save you.
Always yours, even from far away.
When Bucky wakes up, the first thing he see is the letter. The second thing he sees is that his dog tags are gone. The third thing he realizes is that you are gone too.
He reads the letter and the machine monitoring his heart rate starts screaming.
"No." He's already ripping off the IV from his arm, swaying his legs over the side of the bed. "No, no, no—"
Steve's hands land on his shoulders. "Buck, you need to calm down."
"Where is she?!"
The scream echoes through the medbay. Bucky shoves Steve back hard enough that he hits the wall.
"You need to lie back down," Bruce says, trying to use his calm voice. "Your system is still recovering, you can't—"
Bucky's on his feet now. The room spins but he doesn't care. He's moving toward the door and Steve's blocking it and Bucky can feel it rising in his chest—that cold, dark thing he's spent burying.
"Move."
"You're in no condition—"
"I said move!"
His metal fist goes through the wall next to Steve's head. Sam is there too now, both of them trying to corral him back towards the bed, but Bucky's fighting them… really fighting them. There's blood running down his arm from where he tore the IV out and he can feel his body failing, feel the weakness on his legs, but he doesn't care.
"She's gone!" He's shouting, or maybe sobbing, he can't tell anymore at this point. "She's gone, I have to find her, I have to—"
"Bucky, listen to me—" Steve tries.
"No!" Bucky slams his metal arm into a medical cart and sends it crashing across the room. "You don't understand, she thinks—the letter says—"
He can't get the words out, can't even breathe properly. His chest is too tight and the room is spinning. You're gone.
"We need to sedate him," Bruce intervenes.
"Don't you fucking dare!" Bucky spins toward him and Steve has to physically tackle him. They go down hard, Steve pinning him to the floor and Bucky's still fighting, thrashing, his metal arm whirring as he tries to throw Steve down.
"I'm sorry," Steve is saying and he means it, Bucky hears it in his voice. "I'm sorry, Bucky but you're gonna hurt yourself if we don't stop you."
"I don't care!" Bucky's voice cracks. "I don't care, let me go, let me find her—"
He feels the needle slide into his arm.
"No, please, I have to— she doesn't understand—I need to tell her." His vision is blurring, Steve's face above him, both of them looking wrecked. "Find her, please find her…"
The darkness takes him back.
When he wakes again, it's dark outside.
He's restrained now. Steve's asleep in the chair beside the bed, Sam is gone.
Bucky lies there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, his body aches and his head pounds. Underneath it all, there's this hollow space where you used to be.
The letter is folded on the bedside table. They must've picked it up after… after whatever happened. He doesn't remember all of it, just the rage and the panic, the desperate need to move, to chase you and fix everything.
But he's not panicking now, he's thinking.
What if all of it wasn't permanent? What if there was a cure? Bruce said there was no precedent for infinity stone exposure like this. No treatment, no solution. But Bruce doesn't know everything. Bruce couldn't save Tony.
Bucky's mind was starting to work, clicking through possibilities: Carol Danvers got her powers when she was exposed to the space stone. Wanda's powers were the result of an experiment trial with the mind stone. Peter Quill was exposed to the power stone, along with his team, according to what Steve told him.
There were options. Leads. Possibilities.
And if none of them worked, he would find new ones. He'll search every corner of the universe if he has to. He'll make deals with gods and monsters and anyone else who might have answers.
The restraints are loose enough that he could break them. They're meant to slow him down, not stop him. But he doesn't move. He just lies there, breathing steadily, his mind cataloguing resources and contacts and next steps.
He reaches back for the letter and reads it one more time.
I'm serious, James, don't look for me. This is the only way I know how to save you.
He folds it carefully and picks up the locket you left there, a picture of the both of you staring back at him. He closes his hand around it and presses it against his chest.
"I'm going to solve this out," he murmurs quietly, low enough to prevent Steve from waking up. "And then I'm going to find you, and we're going to have forever. I promise."
summary: After the mission of returning the infinity stones goes wrong, the power stone leaves you with something you can’t get rid of. You survive the exposure, but now Bucky can only survive you in small doses.
word count: 5.2 k
warnings: angst, hurt/no comfort, implied smut, no happy ending (kind of open), graphic depictions of physical stress, mentions of blood and medical trauma, separation/implied breakup, self-destructive behavior. | english is not my first language so I'm sorry in advance for any mistypo/grammar mistake.
a/n: may I say thank you to the lovely anon who made this request based on Smallville Lara and Clark’s last kiss? Honestly I cried a lot while writing this 🥀 I hope you guys enjoy it and I’m sorry in advance for what you’re about to read.
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The quantum tunnel spits you out on Morag in 2014, and the first thing you notice is how quiet it is. Dead quiet. Just wind and ruins and the distant sound of waves.
"We've got forty-five minutes before the window closes," you say, checking th GPS device on your wrist. "The temple's half a klick north."
Steve adjusts his shield. "Stay sharp, we don't know what we're walking into."
Bucky's already scanning the perimeter, rifle raised. "Looks abandoned."
"It is," you confirm. "Quill still unconscious down there. We're early."
The temple is exactly where it should be—a massive structure carved into the cliff face, a fascinating alien architecture. The power stone it's placed in its pedestal, sealed in the orb, pulsing with barely contained energy.
"Okay," Steve says. "Nice and easy. We secure the stone, get back to the platform and—"
The explosion cuts him off.
You're thrown sideways, slamming into one of the temple pillars. Your ears are ringing. Through the smoke, you see them: Sakaraans, maybe a dozen of them, firing indiscriminately. They must have followed you when they saw the quantum tunnel.
"Get the stone!" Steve shouts, shield already deflecting blaster fire.
Bucky's at your side, hauling you up. "You good?"
"Yeah, go—"
Another explosion, closer this time. The temple shudders and you watch in horror as the pedestal cracks, the orb rolls free splitting open on the ston floor.
The power stone tumbles out, raw, uncontained, pulsing with enough enrgy to level a planet.
Everything slows down.
Bucky's moving toward it—he's a super soldier, he might survive the exposure—but you're closer. You're already running. You can hear him screaming your name, but you're faster. Your hands close around the stone, and the universe explodes… at least for you.
Purple lightning crawls up your arms, through your veins, behind your eyes. It's not pain, it's way too big to be pain. It's everything, all at once. Every star being born and dying, every moment that ever was or ever will be, all of it flooding through you at once.
You can hear Bucky screaming but you can't let go. If you let go, the energy discharge will kill everyone. Will crack the planet open.
So you hold on.
Four seconds. Five. Six.
You slam the stone back into what's left of the pedestal and the world snaps back into focus. You're on your knees, your hands are still glowing, purple veins crawling under your skin like lightning scars. Bucky's hands are on your face, he's saying your name over and over, frantic.
"I'm okay," you manage. Your voice sounds wrong, distant. "I'm okay, I'm—"
You pass out in his arms.
You wake up three days later in the med bay. Bruce is there immediately, shining a light in your eyes, checking your vitals. "Welcome back, how do you feel?"
"Like I touched an infinity stone."
"Well, you're not dead, so, that's a good start." He's trying for levity, but you can see the concern in his eyes. "The glowing has mostly faded, you've still got some residual marks, but they should disappear completely in another few days."
You look down at your hands. The purple veins are still there, faint now, like a spiderweb under your skin.
"Where's Bucky?"
"He's been here the whole time, I finally convinced him to go shower about an hour ago." Bruce hesitates. "He was… he didn't handle seeing you like that very well."
You're about to respond, when the door crashes open and Bucky's thre, hair still wet, looking like he's been through hell.
"You're awake." He's across the room in three strides, hands hovering over you like he's afraid to touch. "You're okay, you're—"
"I'm okay," you assure him. "Buck, I'm fine."
He sits on the edge of the bed, and you can see his hands shaking. "You stopped breathing twice. Did Bruce tell you that? Your heart stopped once, I had to watch them—"
"But I'm here now." You catch his hand, lacing your fingers through his. "I'm right here."
He lifts your joined hands to his mouth, kissing your knuckles. "Don't ever do that again."
"No more infinity stones, I promise."
He manages a weak smile before leaning down to kiss you properly. You don't notice the way his hand tightens on yours or the way his breathing picks up.
Twenty minutes later, he's vomiting in the bathroom.
Bruce runs every test he can think of. Bucky insists it's just stress, just the comedown from the mission, but you all know better.
It happens again the next day. You're sitting together in the common room, your head on his shoulder, and after thirty minutes he has to excuse himself. You find him in the hallway, pale and shaking, leaning against the wall.
"This is connected to the stone," you say.
"We don't know that."
"Bucky—"
"We don't know that," he repeats, more firmly. "Could be a hundred things, could be—"
He doesn't get to finish. His knees buckle and you barely catch him.
Bruce's diagnosis is clinical and devastating: you're still emitting radiation from the power stone. Not enough to hurt a normal person, but enough that Bucky's enhanced metabolism reads it as a threat. The serum is trying to fight it, which is tearing him apart from the inside.
"It should fade," Bruce says, but he won't meet your eyes. "In theory."
"How long?" Bucky demands.
"I don't know. The levels are decreasing, but slowly. It could take weeks, maybe months." He pauses. "Maybe longer."
"So what do we do?"
Bruce looks between you both. "You stay apart, minimize exposure until radiation dissipates to safe levels."
The silence is deafining.
"How much exposure is safe?" You ask quietly.
"Based on today's readings?" Bruce checks his tablet. "Five minutes. Maybe ten if he's had time to recover."
Five minutes. You only get five minutes.
After a few weeks, the lab tests proof that you're safe for fifteen minutes.
You measure everything now.
Bucky sets a timer on his phone every time he enters your room. When it goes off, he leaves without arguments or exceptions.
Fifteen minutes isn't enough time for anything meaningful. It's enough for "how was your day" and "I miss you" and one kiss before the alarm sounds and he has to go.
You start writing things down. All the things you want to tell him, but don't have time for. You leave notes in his room, he leaves notes in yours.
Thought about you today when I saw a cat stuck in a tree. It reminded me of that mission in Prague. -B
Sam made a joke about your hair, I defended your honor. You're welcome. -You
I'm counting down the minutes until tomorrow, always counting. -B
By week four, your time increases to forty five minutes, and it fels like a miracle.
You can have a meal together now… well, most of one. You learn to eat fast, to tlk while chewing, to fit entire conversations into the space between bites.
"Bruce says the decline is steady," Bucky tells you over breakfast. "If it keeps dropping at this rate, we might have a few hours in another month."
"That's good," you say, but you're both thinking the same thing: What if it stops? What if this is as good as it gets?
The timer goes off and Bucky's only eaten half his food.
"I'll finish it tomorrow," he says, kissing your forehead on his way out.
His plate sits on your table for the rest of the day. You can't bring yourself to throw it away.
By the sixth week, you got two hours, and it feels like the cruelest gift.
It's enough time to watch a movie—if you start it the second he walks in and he leaves before the credits roll.
It's enough time to have sex—once, and only if you're efficient about it, and only if you're both okay with him leaving immediately after. You try it once, the alarm goes off while you're still catching your breath. He kisses you and walks out, and you lie there alone in the tangled sheets and cry.
When the eighth week comes, you notice the increase is slowing down. Bruce shows you the charts, the curve is flattening. The rate of decrease is dropping.
"What does that mean?" Bucky asks.
"It means we might be approaching a plateau," Bruce says carefully. "A baseline level that won't decrease further."
"But it's still going down," you argue. "It went up forty seven minutes this week."
"Forty-seven minutes in seven days. Last week it was an hour and twelve minutes. The week before that, ninety minutes." Bruce looks tired. "I'm not saying it's definitely plateaued, but we need to prepare for the possibility."
That night, Bucky comes to your room. You lie together in your narrow bed, fully clothed, his flesh arm wrapped around you.
"We have thirty more minutes," you whisper. "We should talk about something."
"I don't want to talk."
"Then what do you want?"
"This." His voice is rough. "Just this, just you."
You fall asleep like that. Wake up four hours later to Bucky convulsing beside you, blood streaming from his nose and ears.
"You could've died!" You're shouting, pacing, because if you stop moving you'll fall apart. "You could've— do you have any idea what it was like, waking up and seeing you like that?"
Bucky's sitting on the edge of the med bay bed, still pale but recovering. "I fell asleep, it was an accident."
"An accident? You stayed for four hours, Bucky! Four freaking hours! Your timer went off and you turned it off instead of leaving—"
"I didn't—"
"FRIDAY showed me the logs!" Your voice cracks. "You dismissed the alarm six times, six."
The silence stretches between you.
"I wanted more time," he says finly.
"You could've died."
"I wanted more time with you." He looks up, and his eyes are red. "Is that so fucking terrible? That I wanted to fall asleep next to you? That I wanted one night where I didn't have to watch the clock?"
"Yes!" The word tears out of you. "Yes, it's terrible, because you're killing yourself for a few extra hours—"
"Don't you get it? It's not about hours!" He's on his feet now. "It's about us. Us being together… that's the only thing keeping me—"
The nose bleed starts.
You've been here too long. Twenty minutes arguing, and he's already over the limit.
"I'm leaving," you whisper.
"We're not done—"
"I said I'm leaving!" You're crying now, shoving at his chest before walking out.
You sink to the floor of the next room and finish the fight alone, screaming at an empty room.
Bruce calls you both into the lab. You know it before he speaks, he has a terrible poker face.
"The levels have been stbale for two weeks," he says. "No decrease, no increase. I think… I think this is it."
"It could still drop," Bucky argues. "Could just be longer plateau before—"
"It could." Bruce agrees. "But it's been twelve weeks. The radiation signature should've decreased more by now if it was going to." He pulls up a graph. "I think we're looking at a permanent baseline, aproximately three hours of safe exposure per day."
Three hours for the rest of your life. Three fucking hours.
"There has to be something else," you say, but your voice sounds distant. "Another treatment, a way to extract it, something—"
"I've consulted with everyone I can think of. Shuri, Helen Cho, Strange… There's no precedent for this. Infinity stone exposure on this scale…." Bruce shakes his head. "I'm really sorry."
You're aware of Bucky's hand finding yours, holding it tight.
"Three hours," he says. "We can work with three hours."
You don't answer.
That night, you sit in your room and do the math.
Three hours a day is 1,095 hours a year. Divided by 24, that's 45.625 days. You get 45 days a year with him… the rest, you spend alone.
If you live by 80—optimistic, given your line of work— and Bucky lives to be 150 because of the serum, you'll get 58 years together: 2,668 days total out of 21,170.
12.6% of your life together. The other 87.4% alone.
You're still staring at the numbers when Bucky walks in.
"Three hours a day is 1,095 hours a year," he says, and his voice is so carefully controlled it hurts to hear. "That's 45 days, we get 45 days a year together. Some couples do long distance and see each other less than that. We could— we could make this work, right?"
He's standing in the doorway, hasn't crossed the threshold yet. Even now, he's trying to preserve your time.
"Buck—"
"I wake up at 5, come here until 8. Then lunch, 12 to 1. Dinner, 6 to 8. That's three hours, we just split it up throughout theday. It's structured but it's— it's something." He's talking faster now, desperate. "We could meal prep on Sundays so we don't waste time cooking. We could— I don't know, we could read books at the same time so we have something to talk about during—"
"Bucky, stop."
"No." He takes one step into the room, just one. "No, I won't stop. I've done the math every possible way and this— this is what we have, so we make it enough, we make it—"
"It's not a life."
The words land like a physical blow. You watch him flinch.
"It's our life." His voice cracks. "It is what he have, and people leave with worse. People— people do long distance, people have—"
"People don't get poisoned by the person they love."
"Don't—" The word comes out sharp, ragged. "Don't make this about—"
"What if it gets worse?" You're on your feet now, and you can see the exact moment the timer his head starts counting. He's been here for two minutes. You have 178 minutes left today. "What if the plateau is temporary? What if three hours become two, and then one—"
"Then we'll deal with it."
"What if it kills you?"
"Then it kills me!"
The shout echoes in the small room. Bucky's chest is heaving, his flesh hand clenched into a fist, and you can already see it— the slight tremor starting in his fingers, the way his pupils are dilating wrong.
Five minutes. He's been here for five minutes.
"Get out," you whisper.
"No."
"Bucky, please—"
"No." He crosses the room in three strides, and you can see what it costs him. There's already a slight drag to his left leg—the serum's propioception breaking down. "You don't get to decide this alone… you grabbed that stone to save the mission, to save Steve, to save the entire goddamn universe. You think I'm gonna let that sacrifice be for nothing? You think I'm gonna just walk away after—"
He stops and sways.
Seven minutes.
"Sit down." You grab his arm— his flesh arm, careful now— and try to guide him to the bed. His skin is already too warm. "Damn it, James, sit down before you—"
"No," he's shaking his head and the movement seems to cost him. "Not yet. I can't—I'm not ready yet."
"You're already past your limit—"
"I know." His voice drops. "God, I know. I can feel it. It's like fire in my blood, did you know that? It burns. Everything burns when I'm near you."
Your breath hitches. "You never told me—"
"Because I don't care." He cups your face with both hands, and the metal one is whirring wrong, plates shifting and clicking out of sync. "I don't care if it hurts. I don't care if it burns— the only thing I need is you."
His knees buckle. You catch him, barely, and you're both sinking to the floor. His back hits the edge of the bed and you're kneeling between his legs, holding him up.
"I need one more time," he breathes out. "I need to kiss you one more time without the fucking timer, without counting the seconds in my head, without wondering if this is the one that finally—"
He doesn't finish. Can't finish.
"This is cruel," you whisper as your hands frame his face, and you can feel the fever radiating off his skin. "This is so cruel, letting you stay when you—"
"Then be cruel." His eyes lock on yours, and even unfocused with pain, they're still looking at you with so much love it hurts. "Be cruel, let me have this, let me—"
"It's killing you—"
"You think leaving me won't?" His metal had comes up—jerky and malfunctioning— and catches your wrist. The grip is weak. How could it be? His metal arm is never weak. "You think walking away and leaving without you won't kill me just as dead? At least this way I got to…"
His nose starts bleeding.
It's been ten fucking minutes.
"Please, stop." You sob, reaching for something to stop the blood, but he catches your hand.
"No, please, just—" He's pulling you closer, even though every instinct you have is screaming to push him away, to save him. "Just stay, please. I know we're out of time, I know this is it, I know tomorrow you're gonna leave and never come back, so just— god, please just let me have this."
"How did you—"
"I know you." His thumb brushes your cheekbone. "I know that stubborn look in your face… you've already decided. You're planning on disappear and going somewhere I can't find you, because you think that way you'd be saving me. But baby, I'm not gonna survive without you, you understand that?"
He's crying now, and the tears are pink-tinged. There's blood on his tears. That's new.
"I can't lose you again," he chokes out. "I can't be the one left behind again. I can't wake up and find out the person I love the most is gone."
"Then you have to let me go." You're crying too, your forehead pressed against his. "You have to let me be the one that walks away, because I can live knowing you're out there, somewhere, safe and whole and alive. But I can't live watching this kill you. I can't, Bucky, I simply can't."
"One more time," he whispers against your mouth. "Let me have one more time where I'm not counting… where I can just pretend we have forever."
"We don't have forever…"
"I know. And I know I'm past it, I know I'm gonna pay for this, I don't care."
And he kisses you.
It's not gentle nor careful. It's desperate and drowning. His mouth is relentless against yours, like he's trying to memorize the taste, the feeling, the way you feel together. Your hands are on his hair, on his face, feeling the fever burning through him.
The kiss tastes like copper and salt. And somehow you feel it like the one last thing you'll ever have in your life.
His body is shaking violently now. You can feel every tremor, every muscle spasm. His metal arm is now hanging useless at his side, but his flesh hand is still cupped around the back of your neck, still holding you close as his strength fails.
You break the kiss against to breathe and he makes this desperate, broken sound that breaks your heart and chases your mouth. "Not yet, not yet, please—"
"Bucky, you're—"
"I know." He kisses you again, softer this time, gentler. "Just one more time."
Another kiss, this one starts to taste like blood. His hands are sliding down from your neck, he's losing motor control and his eyes are rolling back. You catch him as he slumps forward, his full weight collapsing into you.
"No, no, no…" You're holding him, lowering him down to the floor, cradling his head. "FRIDAY! Get Steve here! Get Bruce! Please someone—"
Bucky slurs something low, barely conscious. You look down at him with tears in your eyes. "Please, please, stay with me—"
But he's out.
You lay down, screaming until your throat hurts for what it feels like forever, even though it only has been two minutes.
You're still holding him when Steve and Sam crash through the door. Bruce arrives a bit later to the med bay. They try to pull him from your arms and you won't let go.
"How long?" Bruce asks quietly, already prepping an IV.
Your voice barely comes out and sounds distant. "Fifteen minutes, maybe more…"
Steve's face go white. "Jesus Christ."
"Get her out of here," Bruce orders and Sam pulls you away gently.
You watch from the doorway as they work in him. Watch as they load him onto a gurney and wheel him past you to medical.
His metal arm is hanging off the side of the gurney, completely loose. Blood is still trickling from his nose. But on his face, even unconscious, there's this ghost of a smile.
Like it was worth it.
You slide down the wall in the empty hallway and sob, praying in silence for him to be okay.
When Steve finds you an hour later, you're still there. Still staring at the same spot where they took him away.
"He's stable," Steve says quietly, sitting down beside you. "He's gonna be okay…"
You don't answer, looking down at your hands.
"Bruce says the exposure set him back weeks, maybe months. He will need time to recover before…" He trails off but you already know what he means.
Before you can see each other again.
"I'm leaving," you say. Your voice is flat, empty. "Tomorrow, somewhere he won't find me…"
"He'll look."
"I know." You finally look at Steve. "That is why I need you to stop him. You need to make him understand that this is— this is the only way I know how to save him."
Steve remains in silence for a long moment. Then: "He's not gonna forgive you for this."
You close your eyes, leaning your head on the wall. "…But at least he'll be alive."
The next morning, you're gone.
You leave a note on his bedside table in medical, anchored down by a small locket with your initials and a picture of you both inside. You took his dog tags in exchange. The paper is covered in your handwriting, and in some places the ink is smudged.
Bucky,
I'm writing this while you're still unconscious, and I'm trying not to look at you, because if I do, I won't be able to leave. So I'm staring at this paper instead, forcing my hand to move and trying to get all of it out before I lose my nerve.
By the time you read this, I'll be gone. And I need you to understand that this isn't me running away from you. This is me running forward the only future where you survive.
I love you. I love you so much it feels like it's burning me from the inside out. I love the way you still sleep on the left side of the bed just because I asked you once to do so because I felt more comfortable sleeping on the right. I love how you pretend you don't like when Sam calls you "Buckaroo" but I can see you trying not to smile. I love that you learned how to braid hair just so you could braid mine on the nights we actually had time together.
I love you for fighting so hard, for pushing your limits for wanting me badly enough to hurt yourself. But that's exactly why I can't stay.
Last night I watched you almost die in my arms just for some extra time with me. I felt your heartbeat falter under my hands, I saw the blood and I saw you smiling unconscious when they were taking you to the medbay. And that's how I know you're never going to stop. You'll never choose yourself over me. You'll push and push until there's nothing left, and I will have to watch you fade.
I can't do that, Buck. I can't let the person I love most in this world destroy himself for stolen moments and rationed hours. I can't live knowing that every kiss might be the one that finally kills you.
So I'm choosing for the both of us. I'm doing the thing you can't do.
I'm leaving. And I need you to let me go.
I know you're probably already planning how to find me. I know Steve is probably going to help you, and if they ever find me Sam is going to yell at me for breaking your heart, and you're going to pull every favor and every resource until you track me down.
Please don't. I'm begging you baby, please don't look for me.
I know it's not fair to ask, I know I don't have the right, but I'm asking anyway because I need you to live. I need you to have a full life without timers and blood and goodbye kisses that might be the last one.
You've spent so much time being a weapon, being used, being told you don't get to choose. So I'm giving you a choice now: you can spend the rest of your life chasing a ghost or you can let me be the one that got away. You can hold on the hurt or you can let it make you strong enough to move forward.
You probably already know which one I'm hoping you'll choose.
Be happy, James Buchanan Barnes. Be reckless and stupid and alive. Get a cat. Let Sam teach you how to use social media, let Steve drag you to those museums you always pretend to hate. Flirt with someone at a coffee shop, have a one night stand, fall in love again.
Live the life I can't give you.
I'm sorry I couldn't be strong enough to stay. I'm sorry for choosing this way. I'm sorry for every fight we won't have and every meal we don't share and every tomorrow we won't get.
But most of all I'm sorry that loving me turned into something that could kill you.
I'm serious, James, don't look for me. This is the only way I know how to save you.
Always yours, even from far away.
When Bucky wakes up, the first thing he see is the letter. The second thing he sees is that his dog tags are gone. The third thing he realizes is that you are gone too.
He reads the letter and the machine monitoring his heart rate starts screaming.
"No." He's already ripping off the IV from his arm, swaying his legs over the side of the bed. "No, no, no—"
Steve's hands land on his shoulders. "Buck, you need to calm down."
"Where is she?!"
The scream echoes through the medbay. Bucky shoves Steve back hard enough that he hits the wall.
"You need to lie back down," Bruce says, trying to use his calm voice. "Your system is still recovering, you can't—"
Bucky's on his feet now. The room spins but he doesn't care. He's moving toward the door and Steve's blocking it and Bucky can feel it rising in his chest—that cold, dark thing he's spent burying.
"Move."
"You're in no condition—"
"I said move!"
His metal fist goes through the wall next to Steve's head. Sam is there too now, both of them trying to corral him back towards the bed, but Bucky's fighting them… really fighting them. There's blood running down his arm from where he tore the IV out and he can feel his body failing, feel the weakness on his legs, but he doesn't care.
"She's gone!" He's shouting, or maybe sobbing, he can't tell anymore at this point. "She's gone, I have to find her, I have to—"
"Bucky, listen to me—" Steve tries.
"No!" Bucky slams his metal arm into a medical cart and sends it crashing across the room. "You don't understand, she thinks—the letter says—"
He can't get the words out, can't even breathe properly. His chest is too tight and the room is spinning. You're gone.
"We need to sedate him," Bruce intervenes.
"Don't you fucking dare!" Bucky spins toward him and Steve has to physically tackle him. They go down hard, Steve pinning him to the floor and Bucky's still fighting, thrashing, his metal arm whirring as he tries to throw Steve down.
"I'm sorry," Steve is saying and he means it, Bucky hears it in his voice. "I'm sorry, Bucky but you're gonna hurt yourself if we don't stop you."
"I don't care!" Bucky's voice cracks. "I don't care, let me go, let me find her—"
He feels the needle slide into his arm.
"No, please, I have to— she doesn't understand—I need to tell her." His vision is blurring, Steve's face above him, both of them looking wrecked. "Find her, please find her…"
The darkness takes him back.
When he wakes again, it's dark outside.
He's restrained now. Steve's asleep in the chair beside the bed, Sam is gone.
Bucky lies there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, his body aches and his head pounds. Underneath it all, there's this hollow space where you used to be.
The letter is folded on the bedside table. They must've picked it up after… after whatever happened. He doesn't remember all of it, just the rage and the panic, the desperate need to move, to chase you and fix everything.
But he's not panicking now, he's thinking.
What if all of it wasn't permanent? What if there was a cure? Bruce said there was no precedent for infinity stone exposure like this. No treatment, no solution. But Bruce doesn't know everything. Bruce couldn't save Tony.
Bucky's mind was starting to work, clicking through possibilities: Carol Danvers got her powers when she was exposed to the space stone. Wanda's powers were the result of an experiment trial with the mind stone. Peter Quill was exposed to the power stone, along with his team, according to what Steve told him.
There were options. Leads. Possibilities.
And if none of them worked, he would find new ones. He'll search every corner of the universe if he has to. He'll make deals with gods and monsters and anyone else who might have answers.
The restraints are loose enough that he could break them. They're meant to slow him down, not stop him. But he doesn't move. He just lies there, breathing steadily, his mind cataloguing resources and contacts and next steps.
He reaches back for the letter and reads it one more time.
I'm serious, James, don't look for me. This is the only way I know how to save you.
He folds it carefully and picks up the locket you left there, a picture of the both of you staring back at him. He closes his hand around it and presses it against his chest.
"I'm going to solve this out," he murmurs quietly, low enough to prevent Steve from waking up. "And then I'm going to find you, and we're going to have forever. I promise."
pairing thunderbolts!bucky x PR!reader (enemies to lovers trope)
summary When your whole world collided, your job was the only thing you hold to. Trough the blip and grief you became the perfect employee, but then you are assigned to turn Bucky Barnes, retired assasin into a PR dream, and your job doesn't seem so easy anymore.
tags/warnings enemies to lovers; grief; death; hurt; they are kind of mean to eachother; bad attempt to emulate angers tower fics lol; incoming angst
author's note hi!! this is going to be a series obviously but i just wanted to test the idea. this is my first bucky fic so please let me know if i got the character right.
ALSOO please like, comment, or repost if you liked it, i really appreciate it <3
dividers by @uzmacchiato
wordcount 6.4k
masterlist
The unrelenting sound of the NYC Subway floats in the air as the train finally pulls into stop.
-"Grand Central–42 St"- The monotone voice of a woman cuts through the speakers.
A sudden stampede of people pulling forward at your sides snaps you from the dizzying state that you had drifted to in the middle of stops. Leaving your comfortable spot against the small rail in the back of the wagon, you harden your grip, knuckles turning white, against the styrofoam cup of hot coffee. Your elbow swiftly glued to your other side pressing a black leather folder under your arm, the front smartly hidden underneath your sleeve to not draw attention to its design.
The rush hour never treated you nicely, the morning cold seeping through your skin-coloured pantyhose, the impatient workers trying to make it into their schedule and the usual chaos that New York city was on a daily basis, but more annoying since it was the start of your day.
Through people elbowing you and trying to pass you as if you were made of pure air, you made it to the subway entrance. Ignoring the thought of how many illnesses you must have picked up in your hands, you straighten your dark blue blazer. You'll be damned if you showed up with a crease after you spent an hour steaming your clothes at your kitchen last night, your boss wouldn't let you hear the end of it for sure.
You sighed as the amber sky became present over you, and trying to not get your heels trapped into the weird patterns of the concrete, you started to make your way through the familiar streets. Soon enough, a tall skyscraper appeared, your eyes flicked undividedly to the top of it, searching for the letter that also used to match the one in your folder, the bold “A”, but it never came. Instead, vertigo hit you just from thinking how many floors you had to go up now.
You loved the tower, probably you spent more hours inside of your office there than in your own one bedroom apartment, but now the atmosphere was different, definitely darker. A mixed feeling of sadness and grief was stuck onto the walls, the lonely desks and the empty bullpens. Long gone were the days where jazz melodies filled the speakers in each corridor and laughter was not only heard but also resounded through the panels. A place where you found your passion and also, your family.
People always defined you as an overachiever, and maybe they were right. You were really young in comparison to your other colleagues when you finished your major in International Relations with excel notes, and that was just the beginning. You were a year far from finishing a master of Professional Studies in Crisis & Emergency Management when Pepper Potts got in contact with you through the email you addressed in your thesis.
She was surprised to hear your voice, even said she expected you to be a elderly man with anger issues for the type of job she wanted to offer you. You laughed thinking she was joking, but she was not. As naive as you could be, you accepted, knowing that working in such a huge company as Stark Industries was like taking a skyrocket to the exact point where you always imagined you would end up, and turning an ear deaf to the warnings of people.
You thought you would argue with angry senators, making conferences around the globe to promote the company's reach or something just as epic as you had seen people do in TV shows. Instead, your job required you to sell action figures, arrange photoshoots and erase scandals from the public eye.
Like the time where Thor wandered the streets of New York in just boxers, while he loudly (and drunk) complained about some ex-girlfriend. The videos immediately spread through the internet like wildfire and you came up with the only solution you could think of, hire a Thor lookalike to repeat the same thing over and over again until everyone thought it was just a bit meant to entertain tourists at Times Square.
Or the time where Hulk destroyed a man´s car (in his defense the man was taking photos really close with a blinding flash and it woke the worst of him) and you prayed that the image of the green monster painting toys to donate to charity was enough to keep people at least not terrified to death about him.
But after all of that, your hard work had finally paid off as Tony Stark trusted you enough to write the first drafts to the Sokovia Accords, which you did, but immediately regretted as you watched the team being divided by an irremediable crack. You worked even harder to maintain at least some of the respect the public had for The Avengers, trying to paint them as normal humans with feelings that made mistakes too. Families had crises too, right? Maybe they didn't involve superpowers and special prisons, but still, the context was just a little bit different.
Years passed by slowly and painfully, like swallowing rocks. You couldn't leave the company, maybe you were emotionally compromised, but you were determined to get its glory back. That's the reason why you stayed after the Snap.
Walking into the office almost empty if it wasn't for other two coworkers and Natasha, who took the leadership without even questioning it, was gut wrenching. Without products to sell or scandals to manage, you drifted into organizing press conferences and maintaining global communications with other countries.
After some weeks of staying extra hours, one day you felt sleep on top of some papers, drool accumulating in your forearm which you were using as a pillow when the sudden sound of a paper bag was placed in front of you. You immediately jumped in place, your reading glasses sliding down your frame, and right through them the figure of a redhead appeared.
Natasha smirked at you, finding the scene fun, but after seeing you blush, she just shrugged and opened the bag, taking out a plastic container that had a burger logo.
"”Figured it out that you may have skipped dinner”" She briefly explained and then proceeded to sit in the wheeled office chair beside you, grabbing a filled to the top fries carton, taking each one and eating while meticulously observing you, trying to read you. Instead, you opened conversation, letting her in to fill the void in the cubicle where you spent your working days.
The friendship blossomed from there, making you her right hand, bringing back the business to life.
In those five years you gained a best friend, considering how lonely you both were, you even went as far as to call each other sisters. She trained you with quick sparrings (which always ended up with you on the floor mat begging for mercy and air) and you trained her in pop culture, your favorite movies and whatever drama that was happening in social media.
Probably what you missed the most was those nights where sleeping felt like dangerous territory. The silence and the loneliness of it clinging to you like smoke after a fire, impossible to escape, impossible to breathe. So, you'd go to the Tower, with the excuse of finishing some papers you left there earlier, and you'd find her sitting at the burgundy couch in the middle of the common room, her look as haunted as yours. A moment later, music would fill the space, encapsulating the room in a bubble, so far away from the terror, the war and the past. And you both danced, drunk in happiness, the type of happiness you only realise it had been there because your cheeks start to ache from smiling.
The song would be a saccharine pop, volume so high even the unbrokeable windows would wobble, but at that hour of the night it didn't matter. Both of your minds aching to forget and move on, and when you thought you got the hand of it, life struck again.
You knew the price of the victory was high, sacrifices are bound to happen, but nothing could ever prepare to lose someone. And deep in your heart, when you walked the morning after in the Tower and the silence was screaming back at you, pain painting everyone's face, you knew she wasn't coming back. Not in another jet, not in five years, never.
The timeline blurried after that.
You buried yourself in self pity and an illegal overload of work, all done through the confinement of your small apartment and your laptop. Barely surviving out of cereal and instant noodles, the high achiever was left behind, even doing the dishes twice a week felt energy draining.
One afternoon, you received a call (more like dozens of them) offering you your old job, in the Tower which had been restored. The answer came confidently, a hard no and the slam of the red button on your screen. The last thing you needed was to go back there.
But then the image of Valentina de Fontaine standing in a podium with the chaos of what you assumed to be New York city behind her, appeared on your TV, demanding your full attention. She then presented her team, the New Avengers.
The name gave you a visceral reaction, your brain catching up a second later, but before you could form an opinion, Yelena Romanoff came up beside the authoritarian woman, grabbing her by the shoulders and muttering a phrase, which you didn't catch in your hazy state.
Immediately, you jumped out of your designated spot on your uncomfortable couch, grabbing your phone from the floor and dialling the number who called you weeks ago. Maybe you didn't have superpowers or any type of gift to help Natasha, but if you could honor her and help her sister in any way, you would.
That's the statement phrase you say to yourself to cheer you up when the elevator’s doors open, welcoming you into the eighteenth flor of the now WatchTower, where the conference room awaits you.
Given your rush, you murmured some type of salute to the secretary sitting at the desk in the right side of the waiting area and then proceeded to open the heavy grey door, pushing with the minimal force you were able to make that early in the morning.
When you stepped into the room, panting and feeling a thin layer of sweat covering your temples, everyone turned to look at you. Your face elaborated a weak side smile, your version of an apology.
Yelena was sitting at the far right edge, when you made eye contact she just raised her hand slightly, waving at you. Beside her, the Red Guardian imitated her gesture, way more dramatic, hitting his elbow in the process. Ava laughed under her breath, she was sitting on the far left edge of the table with Bob at her side, who was watching the scene silently.
Walker was nowhere in sight, which should've worried you given the nature of your job was keeping him out of trouble, but you decided to put that topic for after your lunch break.
You took the only seat left beside Bob, immediately in front of you, Bucky Barnes caught your eye.
There was nothing particularly new about him today: same long hair down to his jawline, tucked behind his ears, same black tactical long sleeve you've seen him wear a thousand times and same uninterested look. He traced your movements as you sat down, eyes wandering around your figure. When you finally completed the action and decided to look him back to give at least a polite smile, he was already drifting, turning his attention to an imaginary point between Ava and Bob.
"”Sorry for being late, the subway was a bit crowded today”" is what you decided to say, putting down the styrofoam cup of coffee (now gone cold) and the folder in your area of the large table.
“Ha! Subway! Is that still a thing?”" Valentina joked, looking around the table for approval, earning zero laughs whatsoever. She took a seat in the head chair, the wrinkle of the leather filling the dead silence. "”Difficult public today I see”
After a clap of her hands, the automatic white curtains started to cover the windows, lights turning off on command too, the projector behind her gaining the attention of everyone in the room.
“I’ve arranged this meeting to talk about the public image of the team”
You could make out a graphic on the slide, six lines with different colors in it, the gears of your brain started to turn.
“Thanks to our amazing…mmhm…PR manager?” She said, furrowing her eyebrows and signaling to you with both hands. You just nodded in confirmation, trying to keep your expression neutral.
“People are loving us!!” The sudden raise of her voice made Alexei, who was falling asleep in his seat, jump wide awake. You couldn't help but grin at the sound of Yelena’s muffled laugh.
“But we have one problem. These lines represent the amount of positive comments we see about all of you across our social media, as you can see the acceptance its surprisingly high”
You followed the figure of Valentina’s finger, which was pointing to the dark blue line of the graphic. The line was a little bit lower than the others, but at the end of the graphic the line was almost hitting the bottom.
“Except for this one”
A warm sensation started to form in your gut, you knew who this was about, you dreaded this moment, but after all it was your job.
“Whose line is it?” Bob asked, looking up at the image.
“Barnes” you deadpanned, feeling everyone's curious eyes pointing at you. You decided to focus on the statistics of it all, pretending to be particularly interested in the graphic, rather than to meet the piercing stare that you were feeling heavy on your side profile.
“We noticed a decrease in the general public’s acceptance of James Barnes, so we need to take action to get it back to normal” You prayed that the group didn't notice the slight red burning up in your ears, you were feeling like a caged animal.
“For the well being of the team, of course”" You finished your vague speech, not knowing how to defend whatever was about to come from Valentina’s mouth.
“Well, I brought some ideas!” She said before clapping her hands again to change the slide.
The next one was a stock image of a man playing with puppies, his smile felt painful as it occupied almost all of his face. From the corner of the screen, an image of Bucky’s face made its way to replace the man’s from the photo.
“Puppy dates!” Your boss exclaimed, the excitement visible in her expression.
The room erupted in laughter.
The table shook every time Alexei hit it, Yelena was grabbing her stomach, balancing back and forth, not making any effort to contain her laugh. You swear you could see a tear leaking from Ava's eye, as she observed the way Bob was trying (and very much failing) not to let any chuckles fall from his mouth.
The sharp scrap of a chair across the floor made everyone quiet again, and you froze, you were frightened to turn as you heard footsteps making their way to the door.
When you finally got out of your trance, you noticed that Barnes had really left the meeting.
“Come on! This wasn't even the best one! I have plenty more” Valentina continued to show the slides and explain what their goal was, but you tuned out the echo of the voices, turning them into distant background noise.
Your thoughts were moving at full speed through your mind. If Barnes didn't hate you before, with all his avoidant gaze and indifference, he for sure despised you now.It was like a silent agreement, he didn't get himself in trouble and you didn't get in his way, but now you had to break it for bigger reasons.
You had to turn the goddamn Winter Soldier, ex deadliest assassin of the world, into a lovely and kind hero. This was going to be probably the most difficult challenge in your career so far, but you were excited to work with him and succeed, right?
Your head gained a couple pounds since the last hour you had spent sitting in front of your computer, an emotional support bag of chips beside you on the couch, busy enough with the blank document before you to mind the little crumbs falling.
In the last sixty minutes you couldn't bring yourself to write a single word, the title “Operation America’s sweetheart” sending chills along your spine, despite having your favorite hoodie on. This was part of your job, you had done this before, like when last month you had to upload a video of Yelena and Alexei bonding and you decided that playing Just Dance was the move. Or that time when you got that partnership with the app Calm and you put Bob to narrate a sleep story, and people absolutely loved it. He did too, the next week he was asking for advice to open up an ASMR youtube channel.
But this time was different. The rest of the team wanted (deep inside) people to like them and accept them, they were tired of living in the shadows and were determined to make things right, except Bucky.
You didn't know much about him really, you knew he was trying to get into politics and then dropped everything when Valentina got him to enter the New Avengers. He was a closed-off man, wouldn't utter a word if it wasn't extremely necessary, and you understand that, he went through quite a lot. But the others did too, and they treated you nicely or at least with respect, maybe you shouldn't give them the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was just an asshole.
And you wouldn't put your job at risk, at least not for a person that couldn't even look your way to acknowledge you. So, after cleaning your greasy fingers on the fabric of your clothes, you started to type ideas, you were going to transform the serious Bucky Barnes into a literal ray of sunshine.
The glasses you were wearing were doing wonders for your sore eyes after a long research on James Buchanan Barnes. The lack of proper sleep coming through your lazy steps to the Watchtower.
The first step is getting to know what you're working with, ideally you would do an interview with the client, getting to know what they are trying to portray and establish a concept that feels genuine enough for people to believe in, but this wasn't the ideal case.
Instead you decided to sacrifice your rest to dig some old S.H.I.E.L.D archives about the soldier, only to hit a dead end. You spent more hours than you were willing to admit reading psychological tests, medical stats and other experiments about him. To be honest, half the time you didn't get what they were supposed to mean, but after the thirteenth document, you decided it was enough. You weren't getting any personal information that was useful to your campaign.
That's why you decided to get it yourself.
The elevator’s ding cut through your ravelling thoughts as you made your way to the living room, without even taking your foot out you could hear the familiar chaos.
"Bob! Bob! Bob!" John and Yelena were chanting, both grinning and raising their arms in enthusiasm.
"What are you guys doing?"
The sound of your voice made them stop, and you couldn't help but to laugh when Bob turned around, his cheeks full.
"He’s trying to fit as many marshmallows as possible in his mouth," Walker explained, while the blonde just shoved the bag of marshmallows to Bob’s chest.
"¡Keep going Bob!"
"How many has he got yet?"
Before they could answer, Bob raised a finger and mumbled some words. You think you heard seven before all the marshmallows started to erupt from his mouth. John and Yelena started to give him a lesson making him blush.
"You shouldn't have talked!"
"Try it again!"
"Have anyone seen Barnes?" You asked, so they all just shrugged their shoulders.
"I think he was in the terrace" Yelena gave you a compassive look, rubbing your right shoulder in support "Good luck with that"
"Thanks"
As you left behind the weird scene, the nervousness began to creep up your system. It was just going to be a friendly (mostly work related) conversation but it felt like walking right to the eye of the storm.
You found him sitting in a patio chair, his back turned to you, a black long sleeve shirt covering the frame of his broad figure. The sound of you fake clearing your throat alerted him, making him sit straight in a second, you put your black folder against your chest as if it was a shield that could protect you for what was about to go down.
"Hi James" You opted to say" Is it okay if I sit here?"
The scraping of the patio chair beside him made him turn to face you, his eyes lingering in the object that you were grasping, and he just nodded in response.
The sky was bright, hiding behind some clouds, you were thankful that the sun wasn't too strong today. The view before seemed more interesting than the task in hand, that's when you noticed the fake plastic plants in the flowerpots or the amount of leaves that were piling up in the corner of the rail. You don't exactly remember if you had been here before, but the terrace stood up like a place frozen in time, probably the only one where you could find some loneliness in the building. And yet, here you were bothering Barnes in what probably was the best part of his day.
"So, James, I have some questions I would like you to answer if that’s alright" You took the slight drop of his stiff position as a sign to continue.
"Okay… How is the team treating you? Do you like them?"
The silence felt too loud as your question lingered in the air, the overthinking coming in like a habit. After a beat, he nodded again, rearranging his position in the chair. Now he was laid back, still sitting straight with his arms crossed around his chest.
"Alright then, what do you think about the missions you are assigned?”
He kept looking straight, the city of New York as tumultuous as always filling the gaps of his answer. You got the hint that he wasn't going to answer your brief pop quiz, fool you for thinking this was going to be easy. The exasperation made you sigh, you knew you didn't have the best relationship -because you had none- but at least he could try to be polite. He wasn't even looking at you.
"Barnes, I know you probably don't want to do this, but i really need some answers" You really tried to sound neutral, but he was keeping that attitude and you had enough, the lack of sleep probably having its consequences.
"Lets try a fun one, what is your favo…"
The sudden movement of him standing up and pushing back the heavy chair like it was made of air made you jump. He was finally looking at you, his blue eyes cold and sharp. If you weren't so bothered, maybe you would have been scared, but you couldn't concentrate on two emotions at once. The slight gesture of his jaw clenching caught your eye, he was trying to contain something, and you were tired of talking with a wall, so you tilted your head, singing him to spit it out.
"I´m not a fucking toy figure, Im not something you can redesign, so tell Valentina to leave me alone. I've had enough of this bullshit"
Your mouth dropped in disbelief, you think it was the most you've heard of him in years, and it wasn't exactly a good thing. You were processing his voice, dark and low, when he turned back to you, his metal hand on the handle of the double door.
"If you want to sell a lie, make it up yourself, you're good at that, right?"
And with that, he left, the loud slam of the door as it closed making you come right to your senses. Did he try to make a hurtful comment about your job?
You came here in peace, just trying to know him, and he treated you like a plague he couldn't eradicate. Anger was boiling inside you, warming up your cheeks. You were good at what you did, you knew that, you couldn't let a difficult case disturb your performance. The determination was probably reckless, but you needed to prove it to him, prove it to you, that you were capable.
The afternoon sun came right through the window warming the room, Mean Girls was playing on the TV working as a background noise as you and Yelena had already seen it a thousand times. You were laying on your stomach, papers spread around your figure, your purpose of getting ahead of your work defeated the moment you entered her bedroom.
The blonde almost fell down the bed with laughter when the too familiar scene of students attacking each other like animals came on the screen, her head was upside down hanging from the edge and when the giggles faded, she looked at you with a serious expression.
"He was kind of an asshole I'll give you that" She finally agreed with you after fifteen minutes of rambling about the terrace incident. "But he has been through a lot, I mean it's obvious he was going to turn into a grumpy grandpa.”
You grabbed a licorice red twist and aimed right to her forehead, making her sit straight after the shot.
"Don't call him that" You lectured, turning back to the movie, in your rear view you noticed that she rolled her eyes in a mocking tone " I know he's been through hell and back, but is it too hard to smile for some pictures?”
The sooner you get your job done, the sooner you are out of his hair. It was just a simple transaction, but he seemed to make things complicated.
"Listen, I've been through similar things, the programming, people trying to control your life. You aren't exactly full of trust after that. " Her lips closed shut, probably from remembering the first time you met, when she acted rude until you dropped her sister’s name.
"If you want him to open up, make him trust you. Maybe he could use a friend.”
You tilted your head, the train of thought becoming clearer. It's been a long time since you tried to get to know a new person, perhaps you could learn to be a little less cold and calculative than usual. Fuck Valentina and her ideas, you were going to do this your way, not matter how long it takes.
Hope started to bloom in your chest with the idea of your goal completed, but then it faded away the second Yelena opened her mouth again.
"Or maybe he’s going to punch you with the metal arm if you come close.”
She giggled when another piece of licorice was thrown in her direction, her arms protecting her head.
That simple conversation in your friend's room leads you to an intense investigation about the soldier’s life, stepping into every corner on the internet to find interviews, photos and even old footage from his time in the Howling commandos.
Maybe it was the late hour or the sudden loneliness that surrendered your apartment, but you started to overthink.
It began with a video, what once was Sergeant Barnes waving his right hand and mouthing words. You couldn't guess which year it belonged to, but the unintelligible audio and grainy image gave you an idea. The colors seemed washed away, the sky behind him looking grey, but his uniform, a shade of army green, contrasted with the gold insignia attached to his chest.
Curiosity creeped in, it looked like he was on a stage or a podium of some sort, people around him clapping their hands on congrats. Did he accomplish something important? Was he saying goodbye to them?
It wasn't clear, and the doubt had to die inside of you, you couldn't ask about his time in the military, it would be disrespectful.
Suddenly, your brainstorm concluded when a group of ladies were brought up on stage. Their skirts were floor length and they all seemed to be wearing the same type of uniform. It reminded you of the ones nurses used to wear on those old war movies you came across on TV.
The girl who positioned herself to his right caught your attention, her ponytail moving side to side with her trust. And then, he looked in her direction, his eyes lightning up in recognition.
His smile grew even bigger when he pulled her to his side, his hand carefully placed on her waist. The other girls also took a place on stage, but the distance was clear.
The head of a photographer became visible on the bottom of the screen, he was holding a camera that seemed bigger than him. And when he signaled with his fingers “on the count of three”, the girl stood on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss on Bucky’s cheek.
You let out a silent gasp, the scene felt like it was straight out of a romcom. And you searched, really searched, for a trace of discomfort or even a faint awkward reaction from him, but there were none. He seemed happy, truly happy.
So you stopped your search there, the old memories started to feel like a self inflicted torture. But the image of his smile kept haunting you even when you slammed your computer shut.
There was a natural ease in the way she got closer to him that felt like a blow to your chest. You were sure that if now you got that close to Barnes he would snap at you like a furious dog. Any time you step into a room, he would trace down your movements as if you were a threat to him, even though you were just a girl and he was a super soldier.
That's why you decided that the first step to the plan was going to establish a conversation with him, and if you were lucky enough, maybe get to know him and warm him up. You knew that Bucky had to be buried somewhere.
Today was a rare day as the team had a day off. Without fighting targets or PR duties, they were lingering around the tower, bored and moping as always. You decided to use your exclusive access to the system of the building, and you noticed that Bucky had left a couple of minutes ago.
So, you grabbed your bag and your small notebook, determined to walk around New York to find him and hoping that the fresh air and public place would work in your favour. You wandered through the closer streets, following the flood of tourists, your eyes quickly tracing every person that resembled his figure.
The sky was getting darker, a breeze started to appear making it hard to keep your hair out of your face, so when you spotted a small record shop in a parallel street. The facade of the store wasn't too appealing, probably its best days were behind it, but the cozy atmosphere felt like a refugee at this time.
Feeling the defeat of your mission, you decided to enter,, the bell at the top of the door announcing your entrance to no one in particular as it was practically empty besides from the old man at the counter, who briefly gave you a salute. Inside, the smell of old wood and coffee invaded your nostrils, your stomach grunted in protest reminding you of your lack of a proper lunch for being walking around New York all day.
There was a table in the middle of the room, a box full of CDs on top, which brought you back in time where you still had a cd player in your room and used to treat yourself to a new one whenever something felt good enough to recognize it. Your fingertips traced the dividers between each category, stopping when you spotted the album you and Natasha used to blast on late nights which felt eternal.
The impulsive thought of buying it came instantly, and you were debating the absurd decision (because you didn't have a player anymore) when the unexpected sound of a deep voice startled you.
"Are you following me?"
The perception of a warmth that wasn't there beside you before followed, you turned around in your heels to face him. His expression was as cold and somber as earlier, making you shiver, your immediate response would be to run, to escape the confrontation, but you were searching for him and you couldn't back it up now. It was too late.
"No" you deadpanned, the word coming out quite like a question but he didn't notice it, or didn't care.
"Why are you here?" The question felt appropriate as He stood there like a sore thumb, dressed all back with a leather jacket that didn't match the vibe of the shop.
Instead of words, Bucky lifted his glove covered left hand, waving a vinyl in front of you.
"Oh great, what are you buying?"
His demeanor changed when your spirit of continuing the conversation came through as if for a brief moment he had forgotten who you were and why he had his guard up all the time. He maintained eye contact (which was starting to generate a visceral reaction out of you) and twitched his jawline.
"Listen,I'm sorry, I didn’t want to be rude to you but I really mean it when I say I won't be participating in what Valentina has asked you to do.”
Your eyebrows were raised in amusement, you had expected anything to come out of his mouth except for an apology that looked sincere. Your gears started to turn, maybe if you were discreet with your work, he won't be as irritated by it like before.
"Valentina didn’t ask me to come" You half lied, turning around before he could see your face and detect something.
"I actually came here to buy a CD" The plastic box did nothing to put a distance between you as you raised it in front of his face. You were grateful you didn't let go of it when this interaction started.
He opened his mouth, and your heart was pounding in anticipation of him blowing your buff, but he didn't. Instead he shut it again and started to make his way to the counter, where the owner was pretending to wipe the cash register. You followed him, decided to get through this, and finally settled with your hip against the wood, awaiting your turn.
"Buck!" The man lit up, his white moustache raising with his smile. "Haven´t seen you in a long time, boy."
The supersoldier suddenly seemed shy, not expecting the gracious recognition, but he returned the greeting with a slight lift of one side of his mouth, which you did not fail to spot from your position.
“Hello Mr. Davis”
“Oh! Is she your girl? It was about time!” Reaching out, he put his wrinkled hand on top of yours, giving you another smile, and then took the CD in your hands to start the checkout.
Words died on your tongue, out of sudden it felt dry enough to conjure up anything. You looked up to Barnes to watch his reaction, but couldn't see anything since he lifted up his arm to scratch the back of his neck. Thankfully, Bucky decided to manage the situation himself.
“No, no, she’s just a… colleague”
It would be stupid to deny that you felt a tiny hit on your chest from the statement. Surely, you weren't more than that, but after sharing some time working together and being around The Avenger for quite some time, you expected his tone to be more neutral about it. Maybe you were right and he really despises you, he doesn't seem to be so grumpy with everyone else.
“Forgive me then” The old man started to put the vinyl and the cd box in a bag, and you felt sour enough to not inform him that you weren't purchasing together. Bucky didn’t seem to care either, he just pulled a card, grabbed the bag and after a simple goodbye walked out of the store.
The bell rang when he pulled the door open and you followed his exit, the bell above you dangling. And for a second you hated that you noticed, you noticed that he didn't hold the door, you noticed that he didn't even look back to see if you were behind, he just left.
You groaned in retaliation when you stood in the middle of the sidewalk, the soldier nowhere in sight and the sky getting dark every minute.
You turned and started your way to the subway to get to the safety of your home as soon as possible, an aftertaste left behind. You knew he wouldn't be so receptive but he was not even interested in being socially polite.
Some part of you wished you weren't so stubborn, to leave things as they had been, so you grabbed your phone from the back pocket of your jeans, the green button appeared below Valentina’s contact. One call and it would be over, maybe she would understand the difficulty of the chore. The pad of your thumb hovering over the screen when a thought popped up.
Barnes still had your cd, and you would need to meet him again so he could give it to you.
Your reflection immediately became visible in the black mirror when you pressed the power button, a defeated look washed over your features. Why was he getting under your skin?
You had never been the one to give up, and you couldn't do it now, not because of a petulant man.
One last try.
One last try to befriend grumpy James Barnes, and if he was an irremediable case, you were going to call it all off.
masterlist
if you liked it please interact with the post <3 thanks for reading!
warnings: 18+ MDNI, eventual smut, fluffy!Bucky, power imbalance, sugar daddy / sugar baby dynamic, age gap (reader in mid-to-late twenties while Bucky’s in his early forties), mentioned illness/death of parents (minor characters), money troubles, i.e., debt, bills, etc., alcohol consumption, one instance of smoking cigarettes, no mentions of y/n
word count: 12.5k
part two: coming soon
summary: The arrangement is simple enough: you give him friendship, he gives you a better life. But between the private dinners cozied up in a booth and the charity galas pressed to his side, it’s getting harder for you to hold up your end of the bargain when you’re starting to feel things for your sugar daddy that were not included in the contract…
sammy speaks: so the rumors are true, I am in fact bucky’s sugar baby and this is my autobiography, thank you for reading it!! could easily say this is my magnum opus, I don’t think I’ve put more time and effort into a piece of writing than I have this one. I hope everyone out there on the bucky x reader tag gets the chance to read it <3
Your shift is off to a very bad start.
The subway broke down — again — which means you had to sprint the last six blocks in your tiny skirt and sheer tights just to make it to work forty minutes late. Sweat pours down your back by the time you burst through the service door; the girls still lingering after the day shift give you wary looks while you lean against the wall, panting and brushing wet strands of hair from your face. You don’t care.
All you want is some water and to clean yourself up before heading out onto the floor, but your manager decides now is as good a time as any to give you a lecture on tardiness.
Your lungs are still struggling for air as you endure his power trip, your teeth grinding together over the fact that he hadn’t let you clock in before launching into his tirade. His ruddy face and the drool collecting at the corners of his mouth would’ve made for a comical sight if you weren’t already fuming over your situation. By the time he tires himself out, he’s eaten away at seven additional minutes you could’ve been paid for.
Safe to say, there’s a black cloud over your head when you finally emerge onto the floor. Cleaning yourself up had been futile — there was nothing you could do about your hair, and you’re putting a lot of faith in the ambiance to keep the sweat stains on your uniform indiscernible. And not only are you sticky with dried sweat, smelling of the cheap drug store body spray and year-old deodorant you borrowed, but blisters are beginning to form after your uncoordinated run in heels earlier. You have a feeling you’ll be cleaning dried blood from them at the end of the shift, and until then, every step will be torture.
That is until you see the floor map at the host stand, then you don’t even register the pain anymore. The hostess fidgets nervously beside you as you double and triple-check what you’re seeing.
At first glance, it looks like it always does. You have the same tables every night with the same people filling them like clockwork, because this place thrives on consistency and it’s common knowledge that regulars have the deepest pockets. Everything looks normal…except for one table. And once your eyes catch on it, it makes your heart seize.
Your Friday night 8:30 p.m. regulars is missing — the group of eighty-something year-old men that like to compare you to their granddaughters and fuss over your wellbeing and always tip like it’s their last day on earth are no longer in their usual back booth. No, the long-standing reservation under ‘S. Lee’ is off in another corner of the screen. In Melissa’s section. In her booth.
“This has to be a mistake,” you say out loud. The young girl playing hostess for the evening squeaks, curling in on herself.
“I’m sorry, he made me,” she whispers urgently, and you know she means your manager. “You were running late and he didn’t want them to wait, so he had me put them at Mel’s table next to the piano—“
You tune her out, a hand covering your eyes to block out every sensory input you could. The missing table of your best regulars feels like the death blow to your optimism, your hope, your last chance. With debt collectors clogging up your voicemail, you haven’t thought about anything but this shift for the last week. A lot was riding on it, and not just the tips or the wages — tonight was going to be the night you swallowed your pride and pitched your sob story to the table of Warren Buffet clones. It’s a gamble — one that risks your job if you don’t play your cards right — but after months of buttering them up with winks and pats and an endless amount of patience for repeatedly-told stories, you figured at least two out of the six might crack open their wallets for a charitable cause of a motherless young woman with crippling medical debt.
But now you would never know. The thought hurts a lot worse than the blisters.
It takes great effort to slap a smile on your face and act like you didn’t just miss the last lifeboat on the sinking ship, but every time you pass the empty booth, a cold chill runs down your spine. Deadlines, due dates, and late notices swirl in your brain while you take orders or fake laughter. Your mind has catalogued everything you think the repo men will take first when they come knocking next week. It’s a dark and winding internal spiral.
But just when you think it can’t get any worse, your black cloud becomes a roaring thunderstorm.
You know the hostess thought she was helping — you’ve been catching her apologetic looks from the corner of your eye throughout the shift. But when she creeps over to you cautiously, a small smile on her face, and says she found the perfect replacement reservation for you, you’re about ready to dump a pitcher of water over her head.
“Replacement” rings alarm bells in your head. “Replacement” means reservations outside of the regulars’ time slots. “Replacement” means snotty out-of-towners with connections or ignorant first-time club members. “Replacement” means trouble.
And trouble they are.
You assess your new group of gentleman from across the bar. There are seven of them in the secluded booth, all of them spread out and lounging comfortably like they’ve been patrons of your table for years. You don’t recognize any of them, and neither does the bartender, which confirms your biggest fears. You’re at risk of cracking a tooth.
But your manager appears out of nowhere, giving you the evil eye, so you have no choice but to relax your jaw and make your way over to the newcomers.
Your forced smile could power a small generator when you sidle up to the table.
“Welcome to The Alpine, gentlemen. How are we?”
Seven pairs of eyes snap to you, and you know what comes next: the head-to-toe look over and appreciative smiles that follow shortly after. The tall blonde in the middle has a particularly disarming curl to his lips that raises the hair on the back of your neck.
“Better, now that you’re here,” he quips, line of vision resting somewhere between your chin and your naval. The man beside him chuckles.
“Well, glad I could be of service,” you say brightly, eyelashes fluttering on command. Even if it kills you, you’ll flirt like hell with them if it means better tips. “What brings you in tonight?”
The blonde one speaks up again. “Our friend here just bought another nightclub,” he says, gesturing to a man to his right. “So we thought we’d celebrate him adding to his empire.”
Your smile never falters, but you feel your eye twitch.
“How exciting,” you manage to say.
It takes you much longer than necessary to get their drink orders. The blonde man — whose name you learned is Walker — doesn’t seem to know how to stop talking. Even if you shoved a dirty bar towel down his throat, you think he’d still be shooting off jokes. Probably about ball gags, after hearing the mouth on him.
As you walk away to put in their orders, you can just hear Walker’s nasty little comparison of a bouncy ball and your ass. Your eyes roll so hard they hurt.
When you return with their drinks, he once again zeroes in on your neckline.
“How long have you been working here, sweetie?” he asks your breasts, voice cutting through the others’ conversations. Your smile is blank and placid as you hand him his drink, ignoring the purposeful drag of his fingers over yours.
“Coming up on a year,” you reply. “Long enough to know when someone interesting walks in.”
You add a wink for good measure and he devours it. Sitting up straighter, Walker puffs out his chest.
“Interesting, huh?” he asks with a smirk that’s probably meant to seduce but instead summons vomit. “Sounds like I might be a new favorite of yours.”
Do not gag do not gag do not gag—
“Oh, I don’t do favorites. I just like my clientele to feel special.”
God, you might make yourself vomit—
“Good to know,” he drawls, “because I’ll be around a lot more soon. Barnes is getting me on the short-list next month, right, Barnes?”
Before whichever man named Barnes can reply, Walker continues. “So don’t go running off anywhere. Wouldn’t want you breaking my heart before I even get settled in.”
The cliche of it all has you actively fighting the urge to burst out laughing.
“And give up the chance to have you as a regular? Wouldn’t dream of it,” you soothe, smile cracking with your hidden mirth. The man at the end of the booth makes a noise somewhere between a snort and cough, but Walker beams like he won the lottery.
As the drinks flow, his audacity grows, which you find as shocking as it is endearing — which is to say, not at all. But you play along, because what other choice do you have? None when Walker’s giving all the signs that he’ll be footing the bill.
So you keep it up, the back and forth, the balance of flirty and dismissive responses; you can see the interest growing in Walker’s eyes as his sobriety shrinks. His friends are right there with him, and soon enough the energy of the table starts to shift in Walker’s direction.
“That vest really does wonders for you.”
“I like it when a girl shows a little skin.”
“That skirt looks like it was made for you.”
Your patience is wearing thin.
To their credit, a couple others at the table try to rein him in when they can, including the man of the hour, the club buyer, an attractive guy in his early forties called Sam. He makes pointed subject changes and laughs off the awkwardness when Walker makes a comment that lands just this side of perverted. Truthfully, you wouldn’t mind Walker running his mouth until you had grounds to have him removed, essentially destroying whatever chance he has at the “short-list,” or whatever the fuck that made up thing was. But you appreciate Sam’s efforts all the same.
And then there’s the other guy, the one on the end, who takes a more direct approach to shutting Walker up.
Walker’s in the middle of a slurred proposition for you to accompany him home after your shift when the man at the end of the booth lifts his head.
“Enough,” he says bluntly, suddenly; his voice is low and rough, direct. The tongue-in-cheek comment about sharing a bed immediately dies on Walker’s lips, his eyes flashing to his interruptor.
He doesn’t even bother looking at Walker, staring at his drink as he slowly spins it on the table, still his first one when the others are on their fourth or fifth. There’s a brief flash of something black and gold peeking from underneath the cuff of his suit jacket — a brilliant watch, clearly high-end and probably worth more than you’ll ever make in your life. A ring sits on his pinky, polished titanium. His charcoal suit fits his shoulders like every stitch and seam were custom made for his measurements — and maybe they were.
You see money in various forms all the time at this job, but occasionally you’ll stumble across real money. Big money. Stupid money. The kind that expresses itself quietly instead of boisterously like Mr. Short-List. It’s not always easy to spot, but you’ve learned how to over the last year, and when you do, it doesn’t fail to knock you on your ass every time.
One quick look and you know this man has real money. Your heart stutters in your chest, thoughts of your stack of unpaid bills wiping the smile clean off your face.
On the other side of the table, Sam disrupts the new silence by making a brave pivot to the stock market, something the rest of the group jumps on, even Walker. You’re attempting to swallow the lump in your throat, scrambling to grab empty glasses and old napkins, when you feel eyes on you.
It’s him, the man at the end of the booth.
His eyes are a startlingly bright blue that sends an electric shock down your spine. His face, looking like it was carved straight from Michelangelo’s private diary, stays neutral as you meet his gaze; you can see the years on him through scars and scruff and wrinkles around the eyes, but you wouldn’t guess him to be older than forty-five. His thick dark hair is swept back, threaded with silver near the temples that matches the silver around his chin.
He’s watching you like he’s waiting for something. Some sort of reaction maybe. His pink lips are parted like he’s about to ask a question. You have no idea what it could be.
Not giving yourself the chance to hesitate, the smile is back on your face with practiced ease. “Can I get you anything, sir?” you murmur quietly, trying to draw as little attention from the others as possible.
He blinks, breaking the undisclosed stare down between the two of you. “Just the check, please.”
“Of course. Can I get the name under the membership?”
“Barnes,” he says, holding out a black credit card for you to take. “James Barnes. Thank you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Barnes.”
His eyes find yours again and stare. You offer him one last smile before leaving.
Your fingers tap restlessly against the counter as you wait for the receipt to print. From across the room, you watch as the group at the booth begins to get up. Walker’s foot catches on the lip and he stumbles into his friend; Sam’s there immediately to usher them toward the door. You place the receipt in the black book and make your way back to the table, where James Barnes still sits, still staring at his drink.
Unfortunately, you have to pass Walker on your way over. With a sad excuse for a smile, you thank him for coming in tonight. He leans forward, into your personal space, reeking of liquor and leering at you.
“Left my number on the napkin if you miss me too much. We can pick up where we left off when you’re done with work.”
Clearly he thought he was bestowing a tremendous gift on you, from the way he winks and struts away. Your smile drops as soon as you turn back to the table, where you see James Barnes staring at you yet again.
Feeling caught, you offer him a sheepish look, a small upturn of your lips, and hand him the receipt.
“Thank you for coming in tonight, Mr. Barnes. We hope you come back soon.”
He hums, taking it from your hands; your fingers brush, and your brain has no choice but to acknowledge how different it feels from when Walker did it. He signs the receipt and offers it back to you before you have the chance to give him privacy, but when you grab it, he holds on to the other end, stopping you in your place.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, eyes boring into yours again, “for what you had to put up with tonight.”
You blink. “Oh, that’s — it’s not a problem at all, your friends seem like a, uh — fun time.”
A smile flits across his face, crooked and devastating. “Fun? So, you enjoy getting asked to go home with your customers?”
“I—“ your blush lights up your face. “He didn’t mean it, I’m sure—“
“He did.”
“It’s fine,” you rush to say. “I get it a lot, comes with the territory. Call it a work perk.”
His eyebrow lifts.
“A work perk,” he repeats. “Sure. Some places offer health insurance, but you get to be flirted with by married men.”
Fucking dick bag, you seethe internally, your mind conjuring up a scenario where you curb stomp Walker until his teeth fall out.
You try to smile but it feels like a grimace. “What can I say? I’m living the dream.”
He chuckles, finally releasing the bill. His eyes sweep across your face.
“Are you?”
You pause. “Am I what?”
“Living the dream.”
“Is anyone, really?” you say with a quirk of your lips.
“I don’t know,” he allows, tilting his head. ”Maybe not. But we keep pretending we are.” His gaze drifts around the room before settling back on you. “Were late nights and putting up with guys like Walker what you always pictured your life to look like?”
You chuckle, but there’s hesitation in it. Images of your verbally abusive manager and meager paystubs flash through your mind. But that’s the darker side of the club that customers aren’t supposed to know about. As a server, your job is to slap a pair of rose-colored glasses over their eyes and keep them there. Yet he’s asking to take them off. It feels taboo.
He’s looking at you like he can read your thoughts, but he waits for your answer like he has all the time in the world.
“Uh, no,” you say slowly. “Definitely not.”
You glance over your shoulder like you’re expecting your manager to be standing there, red-faced and spitting again.
“Good,” James murmurs, “I was starting to worry about your long-term goals.”
“I’m…I’m actually in school,” you admit before you can stop yourself. “Grad school. Masters in Business Analytics.”
His lips do something similar to a smile, but his eyes are serious as he leans your way. “Impressive. What are you hoping to do with this degree?”
You shrug, feeling the full weight of his undivided attention. It isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s heavy.
“Something with data. It kind of — I don’t know — speaks to me, I guess? I’m good with numbers. I can read an Excel sheet, which is half the battle. Interpreting data really isn’t that difficult when you dictate the right models and—“ You stop short and shake your head quickly. “I’m sorry. I’m boring you.”
His smile returns. “You’re not boring me.”
“I was rambling. You probably have better things to do than listen to me run my mouth about dictating data models,” you joke.
“On the contrary,” he murmurs, “I’d like to hear what you have to say about data models.”
You look to the floor as the blush blooms across your face. “It doesn’t make for very thrilling conversation.”
“We’re at The Alpine Club — I’m pretty sure data models make up ninety percent of the conversations around here. What’s one more?”
You laugh, bright and unexpected. “You got me there.”
He watches you for a moment, thoughtful.
“So,” he says, twirling his empty glass, “what kind of data are you hoping to manipulate around when you graduate?”
You blink as his question lands. It isn’t lost on you that he’s prolonging the conversation. Your weight shifts, you debate answering him; you have tables that haven’t been touched in minutes, you have side work that’s waiting for you in the back. Plus, your gut is screaming at you that this has gone a lot further than the average conversation between customer and server, especially when he’s already settled up. You should thank him for coming in and walk away.
“Manipulating data sounds corrupt,” you say with a small smile. The side work can wait. “It’s more like…making sense of it. Organizations collect all this information and half the time they don’t even know what to do with it. I like the idea of being the person who can look at a mess of numbers and data points and say okay, here’s the story.”
“Sounds like an art,” he says.
“Artists don’t use spreadsheets.”
“I think it still counts.”
Your hands tighten around the receipt book. “Not sure if I’ve ever heard someone call data analytics an art. Most people start disassociating when I mention Excel.”
“Most people are missing out.”
Your smile grows. “That sounds like a line.”
“It’s not,” he says easily, placing both hands on the table. “I’m genuinely interested.”
“In data?”
“In you.”
The words are a shock to your system. You feel heat climb into your cheeks again. Okay, that’s definitely a line.
That smile flickers on his face again, and he points toward his empty glass. “Actually, do you mind if I get one more from you? Please?”
You hesitate for a moment before nodding, turning for the bar again. When you return with his drink, he takes it from you with gentle fingers that brush yours.
“Do you think you’d be able to sit with me? Just for the drink?” he asks.
You freeze.
“If you’re busy, I understand,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to keep you from your work.”
Chewing your lip, you chance a look at your section. It’s died down considerably — closing time is near, but your last few tables have yet to pay. He watches you in that patient way of his.
“No, it’s — I’m not busy,” you mumble. You’re about to move to the other side of the booth when he slides over deftly, leaving room for you to sit next to him with a healthy amount of distance left between. Your hesitation is quick, but obvious, although he says nothing when you eventually take the spot beside him.
“Where do you go to school?” he asks, like there wasn’t a break in the conversation.
“O’Malley.”
His eyebrows lift a fraction. “That’s a great school.”
“Ha. Thank you. Yeah, my mom nearly had a heart attack when I got my acceptance letter. Big school, bigger price tag.” Your nose wrinkles. “I guess you could say that’s part of the reason I’m here.”
You’re not sure what made you bring up your mom — you haven’t weaved her into conversation in weeks. While your brows furrow in thought, James shifts in his seat, suddenly, like a twitch but more intentional. He lifts the drink to his lips.
“Part of the reason?” he repeats.
“It’s a long story.”
He looks at you, eyes bright but calm.
“I have time.”
You exhale softly, unable to hold the eye contact. “It — well, it’s not a very good story either.”
He doesn’t say anything, letting you consider in silence whether or not to share. You don’t tell your story very often — in fact, you’ve tried running from it multiple times. Hence the reason the debt collectors were after you. Tonight was going to be a rare occurrence if you had actually ended up telling your table of regulars your tearful tale.
Sitting beside him, you can’t deny the pull to James, nor the urge to tell him; you want to chalk it up to being prepared for another audience, but deep down, you know it’s something completely different.
With a sigh, you start.
“I had a lot saved up. A good chunk of it from my dad’s life insurance policy. Car accident when I was sixteen,” you add, when James’ tilts his head questioningly. “It was…sad, but we got through it. My mom and me. I got the money when I turned twenty-two, just in time to graduate college. I worked at a bar part-time and made some money there, so I decided to take a year off before grad school. Travel. See the world…”
James clears his throat. “Where did you go?”
“Europe. Mostly Italy. I love the food, the history, how the country’s broken up by states and each one has its own culture…” You trail off, biting down on a smile. “I think it’s my favorite place in the world.”
Next to you, James shifts again, but he’s got a soft smile on his face as he watches the liquid swirl in his glass.
“But then my mom got sick,” you continue, your voice lowering automatically. “Stage 4 colon cancer. I came home right away, brought her to every doctor in the city, but they all said the same thing: that there was nothing they could do.”
There’s a sound like a hushed rumble coming from James’ chest. He sets his drink down and meets your eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
A stab of grief shoots through your heart at those two words. You’ve heard them a million times over in your life, eventually growing numb to them — especially when they came from strangers. But the way he’s looking at you, the simplicity in the way he said it, causes a reaction you haven’t had in months. You quickly blink away the burn behind your eyes.
“It’s…thank you.”
He nods once, a gesture of acknowledgment and to continue. You take a breath.
“She refused to give up. She was a badass, but I also think that was just her being a mom. She didn’t want to leave me on my own in the world. So we used up every cent we had flying across the country, meeting with the best doctors out there and trying treatment after treatment. We spent a stint at the Mayo in Rochester, and for a moment, things were starting to look up. But she took a sudden turn for the worse, so we came back here. We came home.”
You rest your chin in your palm, eyes following his finger as it taps against his glass. You can feel him watching you closely.
“I tried to make her as comfortable as I could. Took the rest of my savings and poured it into her care. She hated that I did that, but there was no point arguing. Not when we only had weeks left. She passed last spring.”
James’ free hand twitches in your direction. You pretend not to notice.
“After the funeral, I looked around and realized I had mountains of medical bills to pay, a mortgage suddenly in my name, and a future full of student loans.” You make a soft noise in the back of your throat, untitled in emotion. “Despite everything, my mom made me enroll in classes as soon as we got home — she wanted me to have something waiting for me on the other side of it all. I thought she was crazy at first because I couldn’t think about anything but her, but now that she’s gone, I’m glad she made me do it.”
The silence after you finish is surprisingly light. It doesn’t feel tense or heavy like it usually does, when your audience isn’t sure how to reconcile all of that grief in one person’s lifetime. James sits beside you easily, absorbing your story with careful consideration and space.
“For what it’s worth, I think your mom would be really proud of where you are today” he murmurs.
The corner of your mouth lifts.
“Don’t speak too soon. I sold the house, but it barely made a dent in the medical bills. Whoever invented interest can suck my dick.”
James coughs and takes a large sip of his drink.
“Truthfully, I’m — I’m drowning,” you laugh breathlessly. “I can’t study because I’m constantly worried about having enough money to keep the lights on, and then that makes me worry that I’ll get kicked out of the program and lose my chance at a job that pays enough to make these bills go away. So I got a job here in the meantime because — well, everything’s outrageously priced and that means you get outrageous tips, which is literally the only way to keep my head above water.”
Your voice has raised in volume, pitch and speed, but you plow on, too late to bottle it up now.
“I ran the numbers a hundred times, set them against average incomes of thousands of jobs in the city, calculated inflation and costs, and it came down to either this or stripping. Which I don’t have anything against! But I can’t move like that, I can barely do a push up — so tips would be beyond sad for me, if I get any, and then I’d be back to where I started. So between that and The Alpine, I thought why not save myself the embarrassment and—”
You cut yourself off with a wince. You did it again.
You shoot a furtive glance his way. He’s turned completely in his seat to face you, jaw tight and eyes unreadable. Like this, you get the full force of him, the piercing blue of his eyes, the sharp features of his face; it’s unnerving, but in a way that makes your skin tingle, like electricity’s dancing down your limbs. A brief look reveals a brush of chest hair peeking out from under his white button down, and your subconscious decides it would like to see the rest of it someday.
He appears to be considering something, mulling it over carefully in his head. He hasn’t looked away from you since you stopped talking, but you don’t find it creepy. Yet.
“Sounds like you have a lot on your plate,” James mutters.
“Yeah,” you say faintly, “sorry to unload all of that on you.”
He shakes his head quickly, throwing back the last of his drink in one large gulp. His lips press into a thin line. You’re kicking yourself mentally, thinking you’ve finally traumatized the poor guy with your unfiltered stream of consciousness, when he sets the glass down with a sharp klink.
“I could help,” he says quietly.
You blink. “Oh, you don’t — you don’t need to do that. I promise I wasn’t using my sob story to get you to kick me a bigger tip or anything—“
“Just listen, please.”
Your mouth shuts with a snap. The air hums with a level of anticipation that wasn’t there before. His eyes hold steadily onto yours.
“I’ll only say this once, and if it’s not for you, I won’t say another word about it ever again.” He tilts his head. “I believe two people can come together in an uncomplicated and beneficial way, like friends do, to help each other out. I’d like to make your life easier so you can focus on what actually matters to you. I’d be someone you can rely on, who values your company and wants to see you succeed…while also helping you with any roadblocks in your way. I could take some of the pressure off — financially — so that you can focus on your future instead of struggling to make things work today. And in return, I get your company. I’ve had a better time talking to you for the last twenty minutes than I’ve had with that group of guys for years. You’re sharp, you’re funny, you’re grounded…Your time and your attention is all I would want.”
He lets that sit between you with a short pause. Meanwhile, the air has left your lungs.
“This requires trust. Discretion. Maturity. It’s not about rescuing anyone or buying affection. It’s more…intentional than that. Mutual.”
He pauses again, longer, as if he’s waiting for his words to sink in with you. They certainly have.
“Being my friend will never require you to be out of your comfort zone,” he continues softly. “It’s about making you comfortable. You’ll get support without strings, without owing anything, and without judgment. It’s not complicated, and it’s not about control. It’s about being a friend. I’d like to be your friend.”
Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. Not a whisper of a sound. The corners of his mouth twitch up as he searches your face — you suspect you’re not doing a very good job at concealing your emotions.
“You don’t need to give me an answer now,” James murmurs, leaning back against the booth; his voice has dipped into a lower octave, and the sound of it sends vibrations up your spine. “All I’m asking is that you consider it.”
You’re silent as you turn his words over in your mind, your heart thrumming beneath your chest.
“We don’t even know each other,” you whisper.
“I know,” he replies, “but I’d like to know you. This is a way for me to do that.”
You bite your lip. “If you’re saying all of this because of my mom, or — or ‘cause you feel bad—“
“No,” he says calmly, hand resting on the table near yours. “This isn’t because I feel bad.”
“Then why?” you ask.
“Because you’re beautiful, and I enjoy the sides of you that you’ve shown me tonight. And selfishly, I’d like to be your friend that makes things easier for you.”
Your gut swoops low. He called you beautiful. But there was an innocence behind it, like he was stating a fact rather than making a move. This settles over you like a warm blanket after a long day.
James watches you for another moment before reaching into his suit jacket and pulling out a card. He offers it to you.
“Take some time. Think it over. If you have questions, call me. If you never want to hear from me again, say the word and I’ll leave you alone. But if you’re interested in what this could be, let me know.”
You take the card without a word, absentmindedly pocketing it while you get to your feet. Your body has overridden your brain, moving you through the motions. James rises after you, and his frame towers over yours as you finally stand next to him. His bright eyes scan your face, assessing every detail. You swallow hard, his eyes track that as well.
“I hope to hear from you soon,” he murmurs, dipping his head down to your eye level. You nod breathlessly.
With a pointed look, he nudges the receipt book closer to you, where it had been abandoned on the table after he asked for another drink.
“It’s—it’s on me,” you say weakly. He raises his eyebrows, hands shoved into his pockets; you wave vaguely in front of you. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Thank you,” James says politely, and with a small dip of his chin, he turns away for the door. You watch as he crosses the room at a relaxed pace, dark hair bouncing gracefully, suit swishing perfectly. He doesn’t look back as the door is opened for him like a king and he exits the room
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Holy shit.
Later that evening, when you stumble home with ruptured blisters, smelling of stale sweat and cleaning products, you collapse onto your couch and pull out the card.
James B. Barnes, Chairman of the Board
Barnes Group, Inc.
The last name should have given it away, but to be fair, you were blindsided by the smooth talking and how good he looked. Barnes Group, Inc. was a quiet but major asset management firm that dominated the Financial District. They held their weight with the other big ones despite being around for less than twenty years. They were well-respected and popular, from what you’ve heard around The Alpine. Your instincts proved correct once again — he really did have real money.
Your mind whirled. How cliche was it for one of the wealthiest men in the city to offer an arrangement like this to a younger woman? Very — there’s no beating around that bush.
But the way he framed it had broken through your initial judgment, hitting you in a place that was dark and dusty and unused for ages. Friendship.
You couldn’t remember the last time you spoke to someone you could call a friend. All of them had slowly disappeared after you buried your mother, and for valid reasons; you made it impossible to keep in touch, dodging phone calls and ignoring texts like it was your job. But you’re still human — even if you push everyone away, that doesn’t mean you’re immune to loneliness. And with hardly any family left, that doesn’t leave you with many options for human companionship.
His words had shined a spotlight on that gaping hole in your life, intentional or not. Maybe he could see that on top of flirting with poverty, you’re lonely.
Maybe he’s lonely, too.
You rub your eyes viscously with your knuckles, willing the day to seep from your bones. Your cat, Lucky, hops onto the couch and curls up beside you.
You can’t believe it, but you think you need to consider this. While several true crime documentaries could show you the downfall of trusting the wrong person, you can’t help but take James’ words as they are. Perhaps that ity, bity, tiny sliver of hope you allow to live on inside you has taken charge of your decision making. It would explain your sudden deviation from enormous dislike for the rich.
You sigh, stroking Lucky’s back. “If this is real, I’d be an idiot not to,” you say to him, like you have no other choice. Lucky yawns his affirmation.
So you think on it. A lot. A lot a lot. Pretty much every minute of the next three days, you’re thinking about James. His words replay over and over in your head until it’s an automatic loop of noise.
I’d like to be your friend.
It’s distracting, thinking about him and his offer. Which means you’re distracted at work, you’re distracted on the subway, you’re distracted folding laundry. You even answer a debt collector by accident because your mind is in two places. You’ll never do that again.
…He could make sure you never do that again.
It comes to a head when you’re taking your break during your shift. The August night is hot and humid, the sky bragging of potential thunderstorms. The cigarette in your hand shakes as you inhale greedily.
The same two things circle your brain: how long would you let this go on for? And what would your mom think?
Both questions hold great weight, yet both are unanswerable to you — at least for now. Just when you start going down that road, your brain screeches to a halt in some sort of self-preservation tactic, distracting you by throwing mental memories of James’ soft smile, his quiet empathy, or — even worse — his chest hair.
It makes it a lot easier to pull out your phone than you think. The card is slightly crumpled from taking it out and holding it often, but the numbers read clearly as you punch them in.
He’s offering you a way out of this mess you call your life. Just because he wants to. And all he asks is for you to smile and thank him for it over dinner every now and then. Either he’s dealing with a lot of guilt over having money, or he truly wants to see your life get easier because of him. Maybe it’s both. Either way, it’ll change your life.
For the better. Right?
The line rings three times before he answers. “Hello?”
“James,” you croak, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “It’s me. From The Alpine. Hi.”
Something shifts in the background, like he’s sitting up straighter or moving something around. It sounds like sheets against skin. “Hi,” he says back, neutral. You glance at the time on your phone.
“Shit,” you mutter, “I’m sorry. I didn’t even think about how late it is. I can call you back—?”
“No,” he cuts in. “Now’s fine. How are you?”
You chew on your lip. “I’m good. Busy, but.. I’ve been— uh, I’ve been thinking.”
“Oh, yeah?” he murmurs, soft and loose like it’s a knee-jerk response. Your gut swoops low.
“About what you said,” you choke out. “About being…friends. I…I have some questions.”
“I have some answers.”
“I was wondering if we could meet. Soon. So I can ask you the questions. And learn a little more about…what this will be like.”
There’s a pause on the other end, not even a rustle of fabric or a brush of his breathing against the receiver to be heard. Then he clears his throat.
“How about tomorrow night? 8 o’clock at Pepper’s.”
“Yeah— uh, yes. That works,” you breathe. There’s a moment of silence where all you can hear is the pounding of your own heart.
“Would it be presumptive of me to bring a few documents? Unless you’d like to have a lawyer look over them—”
Your mouth goes dry. “No. That’s okay,” you say. “You can bring them.”
He makes a soft noise, something pleased. “I’m glad you called,” he says, voice low and warm. “I was starting to think I wouldn’t hear from you.”
The hand holding your cellphone spasms. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.
He shushes you quietly. “It’s okay. I’m glad you took your time. You seem like the type of person who wants to know exactly what she gets herself into. I admire that.”
You hum, because words are elusive as ever right now.
“Are you working?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“It’s almost midnight. Isn’t The Alpine closed by now?”
“Yeah, well…side work’s a bitch. I’ll probably be here until one.”
He grunts. “Let me send a car to get you home.”
“James, I—“
“Please. It’ll let me sleep tonight. Worrying about you walking around New York at one in the morning in the rain will do the opposite.”
Your foot taps restlessly. “Okay,” you breathe.
“Okay, doll.”
A flush runs through your body, from the crown of your head to the tip fo your toes. It leaves behind a wave of tingles that tickle your skin.
“Yeah, uh. I’ll let you— uh, I’ll let you get back to it then. I’ll see you tomorrow, James.”
“Tomorrow,” he vows. And the line goes dead.
You adjust the straps of your dress again, pulling them further back on your shoulders so that they frame your chest just right. It’s your favorite dress — or, more accurately, your only dress — and your one item of clothing that’s acceptable enough for the five star restaurant you’re meeting James at.
He’s sending another car — he texted you this time, brokering no argument over it, just a time and the driver’s name. You’d be put off if the ride last night hadn’t cut your usual hour-long hike home down to ten minutes and saved you from a torrential downpour. Private cars have their benefits, apparently.
The driver, Bob, picks you up at half past seven. He weaves in and out of traffic flawlessly, leaving you with very little time to fix your makeup and call on every shred of courage you have.
When he pulls up to the curb, he hops out of the car and opens the door for you, helping you to balance on your heels that don’t entirely cover the bandaids on the back of your ankles. You thank him for the ride as he ushers you into the restaurant.
James waits at the table tucked into a secluded corner at the back of the room, hair parted perfectly, scruff a little longer than before, and dressed in a suit of midnight black. His shirt is a shade lighter, the top three buttons undone and exposing even more chest hair than the last time. You take a deep breath as you approach.
He stands immediately when he spots you, eyes appraising you gently, like his favorite person in the world just showed up.
“Hello,” he says, coming around to hold out your chair for you.
“Hi,” you mumble, blushing as you sit. He holds eye contact as he resettles into his own seat, a small smile on his face.
“You look breathtaking,” he admits, a twinge in his voice that could pass for pained, like the way you look is so devastatingly beautiful, it hurts.
“Thank you. You look very nice, too.”
His smile grows. “I’m glad you could meet me tonight. I have to say I’ve been a bit restless since our talk last night.”
“Oh?” is your dumb response. Your pulse flutters as his smile grows crooked.
“I guess you could say I’m eager to hear your questions.”
“Oh, um…yes. I have a few…”
He gestures to the table. “Do your worst.”
You were prepared for this, but it still makes you feel light-headed as you pull out the small slip of paper from your purse. He watches you carefully as you unfold it, pieces of the ripped edges fluttering to the floor. Maybe you were expecting a bit of small talk, but what’s there to talk about when you hardly know each other? You can appreciate cutting to the chase, even if it makes your mouth dry.
“First, I…I just want to say thank you,” you begin quietly, shyly meeting his gaze. “For listening to me. And for not making it a big deal. It was the first time I’ve told that story that I didn’t feel like a tragedy after, and you made me feel that way.”
His shoulders seem to relax a little, his expression gentle. “You’re welcome.”
“That being said,” you continue shakily, unable to meet his eyes any longer. “I’m wondering what kind of help you want to give, and if there are things I can say no to.”
He nods, his face becoming serious. “Of course. I want to help, not intrude. If there are things you don’t want me to touch, then I won’t. You get the say in that.”
“So, if I say I don’t want any help with my student loans…”
“Then that’s that. I won’t push you about it either.”
You nod, fingering the edge of the paper nervously. The silence stretches.
“Would it be useful to give you a summary of what I will and won’t help with?” he asks, leaning back in his seat. You nod again, motioning for him to continue. He settles into his seat, clearing his throat. “To start, I won’t help with the circumstances of friends or relatives, unless they’re direct dependents of yours, which it doesn’t sound like you have anyway. This arrangement is for us, so it stays between us. And I won’t help with any legal troubles either. If you end up in jail, I won’t pay for bail, I won’t pay fines, and I won’t pay for legal counsel. If you’re charged with anything, this arrangement is void.”
His voice is level, almost monotonous, like he’s said this a few times. You gulp.
“But I will pay for everything else, if you’ll let me,” he remarks, growing softer. “You’ll get my card for the day-to-day things. Groceries, coffee, transit, take out. Anything you do when you’re not at work. I also want to pay for the things you couldn’t do before. Expect appointments booked for the spa, massages, hair, nails — whatever you decide. My assistant will help with that.”
“Okay,” you breathe, feeling just a little dizzy. God, when was the last time you got your nails done?
“I’ll also pay for your rent. Or, if you want to move, I’ll buy you a new place. Apartment. Condo. Brownstone. Up to you. I want you feeling comfortable and safe when you’re not with me.”
Your mouth falls open to protest. Buy a brownstone? For you? The girl he just met? You crumples the paper in a reflex reaction, but he holds up a hand before you can speak.
“You don’t have to, I’m just giving you the option. Remember, you’ll never have to go out of your comfort zone with me.”
He scans your face — you’re sure you’re a shade paler than before.
“Where do you live now?” he asks gently.
“Queens.” He smiles.
“Then I’d at least argue for you to use my driver.”
“Makes sense,” you murmur distractedly.
The server comes over then, placing a whiskey in front of James and asking what you’d like to drink. You order a white wine, cringing when he asks if you have a preferred bottle, but James answers for you, naming a brand you’ve never heard of, his eyes on you the entire time. The waiter returns a minute later with your glass, and you take a greedy sip as soon as it hits the table.
“I also like to give gifts,” James says, picking up where he left off. “That could mean jewelry, bags, cars, vacations—“ you choke on your wine, he politely ignores it. “Whatever I’m feeling that day.”
“Oh, is that all?” you say weakly. He chuckles, genuine and soft.
“It may change, depending on what I think you’d like. And what you tell me you like.”
“I’m picky,” you attempt to joke.
“I like a challenge.”
The air shifts subtly, you’d miss it if you weren’t paying attention. He crosses his legs effortlessly at the knee, looking every bit composed while you’re pinching yourself to keep from hyperventilating.
“Ideally, you’d quit your job,” he begins slowly. “Not for me, but because you won’t need to work anymore. You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but you’re in school, and it’s clear you love it. I want you to be comfortable enough to focus on that. Put your time into studying. Not dealing with men like Walker.”
You huff a soft laugh because you aren’t sure what else to say. Quitting your job hadn’t even crossed your mind through all of this, but now that the seed’s been planted, it takes root quickly, despite the voice in your head telling you not to let it.
James must be a mind reader, because he leans forward, making sure you meet his eyes.
“I’d like to spoil you, because I think you deserve it. Not because of what’s happened to you, but because of what you’ve done since it happened,” he says, voice pulling you in with the husky lilt to it. “I think you’ve earned the right to feel taken care of. It can be on your terms, of course, but trust me when I say there’s almost nothing I wouldn’t help with. Including the medical bills and the debt. Including the loans. But I will respect whatever you wish to keep separate from this.”
For a moment, you’re not sure what to say, but you end up on, “Thank you, James. I…I’ll think about it.”
He nods, businesslike. ”What other questions do you have?”
You blink, looking down at your list. “Well, you answered a couple of them, actually…um, I guess my next question is—“ You feel the heat rise to your cheeks. “When you say friendship, what does that…include, exactly?”
He leans back in his seat, taking a slow sip of his drink.
“I meant what I said about being friends,” he offers, “and I meant it in the traditional sense. This isn’t a “friends with benefits” situation. Holding hands, a light hug, or sitting close together are all reasonable to me. But touch isn’t required by you — you’re welcome to do whatever you’re comfortable with, and I won’t withhold anything from you if you aren’t comfortable with it. And I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to, but I will say I’m hoping to earn that right eventually.”
Something loosens in your chest, an unnamed tension releasing.
“I understand,” you say slowly. “I think those are reasonable, too.” His eyes flicker across your face for a moment. “I appreciate you clarifying that for me. It was on my mind a lot over the last few days.”
“That’s why we’re here,” he answers calmly. “Any more questions?”
“Yes, um. How does this…start?”
The smile returns to James’ face, sweet and relaxed. He waves two fingers in the air, and a server comes hurrying over with an official-looking envelope, setting it before him. James pulls out a small stack of documents and finds a pen in his suit jacket.
“It starts with a couple signatures. These are NDAs stating you won’t talk or publish anything about our time together, and the same goes for me. I’m held to the same principles you are. If I say a word about us to anyone without your permission, you have every right to sue me for all I’m worth. I hope it tells you how serious I am about this.”
It actually says a hell of a lot more than just how serious it is, but he’s already shuffling the papers aside, picking up the one on the bottom.
“This is an agreement on what I’m allowed to pay for. Like the rent — I’ll need to know where to pay to. There’s also a place for your bank account information, in the case of moving large sums of money. I’d like it wired safely and securely.”
You must show signs of panic, because he quickly tucks it away and says, “You don’t have to decide on anything today. You can add whatever you want to this as time goes on.”
Your breathing evens. He taps the pen against the stack of NDAs.
“Anything else?” he asks quietly. Your pinching grows stronger.
“Are you…friends…with anyone else right now? Or is it just me?”
His lips quirk like he was expecting this question. He leans forward, elbows on the table, and holds your gaze steadily.
“Just you. And I can promise that I won’t need any other friends as long as I have you.”
Oh.
“But you’ve…had other friends before. In the past.”
His eyes go blank for a moment. “Yes, I’ve had other friends before. A few.”
“They’re not still your friends, though?” you ask.
“No,” he answers. “There came a point when it was time for them to explore other…friendships. Start different lives. It always ended amicably.”
You hesitate. “So, if one day I decide I want to…stop being friends, that would be okay with you?”
“Of course. I’m here as long as you’ll have me. Or until we both decide it’s time.”
“Okay,” you whisper, meeting his gaze. There’s a roaring sound in your ears, like the ocean on a stormy night, but your hands are surprisingly steady as you reach out your hand toward him. “Okay. Can I borrow your pen?”
James smiles, the biggest smile you’ve seen from him yet. He offers you the pen and the first document, pointing out where to sign and initial. You do so quickly, conscious of your climbing blood pressure, but the adrenaline leaves a sweet aftertaste as you write your name with a flourish. Or maybe it’s him, beaming at you while you sign up for this new chapter of life with him.
Once the documents are signed, he proposes a toast. “To friendships,” he says. You clink your glass to his. “And, by the way, call me Bucky.”
“Bucky?” you ask, eyebrows raised.
“It’s what my friends call me.”
It starts immediately.
The next morning, you’re greeted with a jungle of flowers waiting outside your apartment door. Flowers of all shapes and colors, some tropical, some simple, and all of them make you smile. You’re placing the last of them on the counter when there’s a knock on your door — a dozen freshly-made croissants from the Parisian cafe in Midtown. Impossible to get into, impossible to order out from, yet here’s a box full of their best-selling pastries, still warm from the oven. You indulge in one too many, but it’s worth it.
Throughout the day, Bucky texts you. It’s something he mentioned off-handedly, probably meant to give you a choice, but he likes to talk during the day. A lot. He likes check ins, he likes updates; he wants to hear about anything and everything.
At first, it’s odd having someone to talk to so consistently again — the last person you spoke to like this was your mom.
But Bucky keeps it unforced, easing the conversation along with the right questions and dry comments that actually have you smiling at your phone. When you get to work that night, he wishes you a good shift. No mention of you quitting. You appreciate this so much that you have half a mind to quit anyway.
Not today, you tell yourself. You need to wait to see if Bucky actually puts his money where his mouth is first.
It isn’t long before he does.
Less than a week after you signed the papers, he asks you to join him for dinner on your night off. He makes the reservation early because he knows you have an exam in two days that you’re stressed over, leaving you with the rest of the evening to study. You’re grateful for his mindfulness, but equally grateful for the distraction he’s providing. He’s waiting outside the restaurant when Bob pulls up, offering his hand to help you out of the car.
“You look beautiful,” he states plainly, like only an idiot would argue with him. Your answering smile is wide and uninhibited.
Inside, the two of you are seated at a booth mostly concealed from the other diners. He sits beside you, much like he did that first night, close but with enough space for you to breathe easily. He asks you about your day, he encourages you to try something strange on the menu, he compliments you again and again and again.
Your whole body is flushed from the wine and his attention by the time the desert arrives. You’re licking chocolate syrup off the spoon, regaling a work story involving your meathead manager and another server.
“He just chooses to ignore anything that makes us seem human to him. No emotions allowed. No personal problems allowed. You show up for your shift, you do your job, and that’s it. Leave your life at the door, God help you if you don’t.”
You sigh, your spoon clattering loudly onto the plate. Bucky fidgets with his own spoon, eyes on the corner of your mouth. He shakes his head a little, like he thought better of something, then points to the corner of his own mouth, smiling. You blush, taking the hint, and wipe a dab of chocolate away from your skin. Bucky’s still smiling as he takes another sip of his drink.
“Might be because he lacks his own personal life,” he muses. “People are always going to project what hurts them.”
You consider this. “Now that you say it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him take a day off.”
“That can do some fucked up things to a person.”
“Tell me about it,” you whine. “I haven’t taken a day off in months.”
His eyes slide lazily to you, glass held loosely in his hand. He smiles wryly, and you understand what he means before he says a word.
“I know, I know. I just…” You take a breath. “I need to know this is real first. Before I start cutting ties.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “Tomorrow’s the first of the month,” he says. “Have you thought more about allowing me to help with your rent?”
Your breath hitches.
“Yes,” you whisper. He hums, eyes sparkling with something bright and ambiguous.
“And what have you decided?”
“I think…it would be a show of good faith…if you helped me out.”
“Good faith,” he laughs. “Sweetheart, I’ll buy you the moon if it means you’ll believe me when I say I’ll take care of you.”
The next morning, you get the email at 9 a.m. — your rent has been paid, utilities as well. Your stomach had been in knots when you wrote down the information for him, but seeing the confirmation makes you feel like you’re floating.
It only takes you another week until you’re calling your manager and quitting. To celebrate, Bucky rents out the Met for the night, and you explore and observe and admire to your heart’s content as he stands quietly and steadily by your side. He knows an impressive amount about art, surprisingly, but then he starts making things up when a specific piece stumps him, and the rest of the unguided tour is spent inventing made-up artists and their tragic backstories. By the end of the night, you can’t resist anymore. You quickly lean in and wrap your arms around his waist.
It’s clear he’s shocked, that you’ve caught him off guard. But he recovers quickly, mirroring your grip and resting his cheek on top of your head. It’s strange, it’s new, but it’s…comforting.
Quitting your job means a lot more free time, but Bucky is adamant about you dedicating much of that time for school. So to keep a balance between time spent studying and time spent with him, Bucky proposes you come by his office between classes. Sometimes for lunch, sometimes to take a break, sometimes to set up camp on his leather couch, nose to your laptop screen as you research data sets and monitor the market while he quietly works at his desk.
It’s calming and oddly motivating — he’s the perfect person to work next to.
When you’re not studying, Bucky’s supplying you with appointments that fill up your calendar. You have a new contact saved in your phone — Inga, Bucky’s very Dutch, very cheerful assistant — because she calls you at least twice a day, arranging your schedule and finding time you didn’t know existed to fill.
A certain Thursday brings a yoga class from 7:45 to 9, then a massage from 10 to 11:30. After that is lunch with Bucky at his office (take out sushi from a place you’ve only ever dreamed of going to), followed up by a nail appointment from 2 to 3 and a virtual meeting from 3:30 to 4:30 with your old therapist that you had to abandon when money got tight.
Once you get past the catch up, your therapist says you seem a lot better than you were the last time you saw her. Crazy concept, to agree with a therapist, but you actually do.
You’re about a month into the arrangement when Bucky clears his throat at dinner, making you pause while twirling your pasta on your fork. You’ve slowly graduated to sitting closer, and his arm rests on the back of the booth behind you, its presence warm and obvious around your shoulders. You look up at him, waiting.
“I’ve got this thing tomorrow night,” he begins, voice a little on the gruff side. You’re shocked to realize he’s being shy, and poorly hiding it. “It’s a gala. The black tie kind. It’s for charity — Children’s, I think. If you’re up for it, I was wondering if you’d like to come with me.”
You smile slowly. “I’d love to. Just need something to wear.”
A stack of hundred dollar bills is on the table in seconds. Inga accompanies you the following morning to ten different stores, all designer, all with prices that make you feel faint, but she is quick to shoo you away from the price tags and push you to try on the dresses that make you sigh dreamily. Maybe that’s the reason Bucky wanted her with you.
You pick something bold, something you’d never see yourself in unless you had it on your body. It fits like a glove and reminds you that you’re a woman, not just a cog in the wheel of the working class. You only panic a little when you hand over the entire wad of cash Bucky gave you.
After that, you’re dropped off at the salon, where a facial and a blowout get you glowing like the sun. Bob picks you up and brings you to your apartment where your dress is waiting for you, courtesy of Inga. At 9 o’clock, Bucky’s waiting for you outside. The late September breeze ruffles his hair and swishes your dress as you come face-to-face.
He takes in every inch of you, from your painted toe nails to your shiny hair, and he sighs.
“You look…unbelievable.”
Later, when you’re buried deep into a crowd of people you don’t know, Bucky’s anchoring you to him with a hand on the small of your back, thumb brushing the skin there. He leans in, nose nudging your temple, and whispers, “I’m very lucky to have you here with me.”
Just like that, something inside of you breaks. Not in a sad way, but in a revolutionary way. Like a floodgate’s been cracked open, and what’s been locked inside is beginning to trickle out.
When he pulls back, your eyes linger on him. He flashes a movie star smile for the people that approach, but when he meets your gaze again, he gives you his crooked grin. Meant only for you. His warm hand pulls you closer into his side.
And that’s when it begins, right there at that gala. Your appreciation for Bucky has opened up into something larger, still undefinable, but growing in magnitude.
You find yourself sweating under the lights of the ballroom, not from the heat, but from the unknown shift. It shapes itself a little more when Bucky runs into a colleague and introduces you as his friend. He’s been doing it all night, but this time, it doesn’t feel right. It feels…off. Generalized. Misplaced.
Not that you’d ever tell him. Bucky was clear about your arrangement being a friendship — to question what he calls you would be to question where you stand, and you don’t want to make it seem like you can’t hold up your end of the bargain as his friend.
So you smile through it, focusing on the feel of his hand on your skin, and push it down. For now.
You’re a couple months into the arrangement when Bucky opens his home to you. It’s a penthouse suite hundreds of feet in the sky, offering breathtaking views of the city sprawled below. The apartment is big and modern, with plenty of low lighting and soft colors. You find out right away that he’s messy, which you think is more endearing than it is a nuisance, even if that means throwing sweatshirts and belts and books off the couch just to find a place to sit.
He apologizes constantly, but it never gets better each time you come over. You don’t mind.
With classes gearing up for finals, your time is more limited than before, leaving you with just a few windows of opportunity a week to be with each other. Most of these fall late at night, past 10 p.m., or early in the morning before he leaves for work.
So you start staying over.
It happens accidentally the first time. He picks you up and takes you back to his place for Chinese take out and binge watching trashy reality TV (of which he is a secret super fan), but you end up passing out minutes after he turns the show on.
The next morning, you wake in a soft bed, surrounded by oversized pillows and silk sheets. Bleary eyed, you stumble into the kitchen to find him dressed for work, sipping a coffee at the kitchen island and scrolling on his phone. He sets both of them down when he sees you, standing as you shuffle over.
“Morning,” he says, stretching out a hand to catch your sweatshirt clad waist.
This is par for the course these days — soft, grounding touches that don’t linger for too long, cuddles on the couch that don’t get too pretzel-like, barely-there kisses against the forehead when you say something that makes him smile a little too hard. All friendly, all innocent.
“Did I — did I crash?” you ask, suppressing a yawn. He chuckles, offering you his coffee.
“Didn’t even make it to the elimination. Steve R. went home.”
“Fuck, I liked him.”
“Me too.”
You look up at him, suddenly shy. “I’m sorry. Thanks for carrying me to bed.”
“Only threw out my back for it. No worries.”
You slap away his hand on your waist, but it’s teasing, playful. He withdraws, taking a seat again so you’re eye level with him. A look takes over his face, something caught between serious and hopeful.
“You know, that room can be yours, if you’d like.”
You pause mid sip of coffee. “What?”
“The room. It’s yours. For when you want to crash. Or just don’t want to go home.”
“Really.” It’s not a question.
“Really,” he repeats. “Don’t ever feel like you have to stay, I’ll take you home any time of night. But if you do want to stay, it’s there for you.”
“That’s…really sweet of you.”
He smiles a little. “Not too much?” You shake your head. “Good. ‘Cause I like knowing you’re close. Think I slept better. And I like waking up with you here.”
The feeling from the gala returns with renewed force. It almost drowns you, leaving you reeling in its tidal wave of emotion. It defines itself a little more as you picture sharing mornings with him, pouring travel mugs of coffee and shoving pieces of toast in his mouth as he races out the door.
But he’s watching you closely, expecting an answer, so you beat the feelings down until you’re numb. Sending him a smile over the mug, you say, “Okay.”
And that’s that.
The first time you sleep over intentionally, Bucky’s not in a great mood. Which is a rare occasion in and of itself. You know he’s only human, but you’ve barely seen him annoyed, let alone upset.
He makes an effort to hide it from you, greeting you with a soft kiss to the top of your head when you step out of the private elevator that opens to his floor. He all but forces you to relax on the couch while he cooks dinner, so you do, cracking open your textbook and stretching out lazily while he cooks. But even from the living room, you can feel the negative energy radiating from him.
He throws pans into the sink with a little too much force. He answers a call with a sharp bark of “what now?” He mutters to himself like a cranky old man.
His face is drawn and stony when he hands you a plate and joins you on the couch — pasta with red sauce, simple, and a family recipe, he claims. But the way he eats it, you’d think he hates it.
“Bucky,” you say after watching him stab his food with homicidal intent. He grunts. “Bucky,” you try again.
“What?” he snaps, sneering. Immediately, his eyes go round with guilt before you even have the chance to react. “Oh, God — I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—“ He pinches the bridge of his nose, breathing deeply; when he opens his eyes again, his expression is calmer, more open. “Jesus. You didn’t deserve that. Forgive me.”
“Always,” you say like it’s second nature. “What’s going on?”
He sighs, setting down his plate. “Work,” he mutters, “is killing me. Someone fucked up a deal with a really, really important client. They aren’t happy, so I had to step in to clean up the mess. But now they’re playing hard to get, so all day I had to suck their dicks and call them pretty just to get a reply.”
You giggle. He tilts his head at you.
“You think that’s funny?”
“A little. But I can’t imagine anyone not getting on their knees for you immediately.”
Something flashes in Bucky’s eyes, something darker that doesn’t fit the conversation topic. It’s quick, brief, but you see it. He smiles before you can think twice about it.
“Not these guys. They like to test me. And I don’t like being tested.”
“I can tell,” you comment. “Want me to help?”
He side-eyes you. “How?”
“You can take all your anger out by…rubbing my feet?” Your smile is saccharine as you slide your legs into his lap. He laughs, one loud sound, but takes your left foot in his hands anyway.
“How sweet of you,” he coos. “How’d you know this is exactly what I needed?”
His mood improves for the most part, although his phone buzzes a few times and sets his jaw ticking. But whether it’s to keep him sane or to keep the easy vibe of the night going, he ignores it. Reality TV is watched, cookies are eaten (he has five), and you’re feeling satisfied for having turned his night around just as you start to yawn.
He notices it immediately.
“Alright, doll. You’re tired. I’m taking you home.”
“I might stay here tonight, if that’s okay with you.”
He freezes as he reaches for his keys. Slowly, his arm lowers, and there’s a slightly dazed look in his eye.
“Sure, yeah. Whatever you want,” he breathes.
He sets you up with a tooth brush and towels, an old shirt of his and boxers. While you’re brushing your teeth, you wander over to his bathroom and find him doing the same. You stand beside him, laughing through the toothpaste as he gets his all over his mouth and chin. Unintentionally, though he’ll deny it.
He walks you to your room like he’s dropping you off at the end of date. You try not to think too much about that.
“Sleep tight,” he says softly, leaning against the doorway, smiling at the too-big shirt and boxers. You smile back, sleepy and content.
“Goodnight, Bucky.”
He’s gone before you wake up the next morning, but the note on the counter thanks you for being there with him last night. It makes your heart flutter much too fast for having just started your day.
When you get back to your own apartment, your phone alerts you to a new email. The name on it makes your stomach sink: the debt collectors. They’ve been quiet for a while since you’ve been able to offer them bigger scraps of money, so what do they want now?
Thank you for your payment. Your bills have been reconciled and your current balance is at $0.00.
The room tilts. Your breathing stops. Hundreds of thousands of dollars of medical bills, gone overnight.
Bucky.
It was only a week ago that you had shyly asked to amend the document on what he could help pay for. You weren’t even sure that he looked at it yet.
Well, now you know he has. And in one fell swoop, he banned the debt collectors from ever bothering you again. Your mind can hardly wrap around it, can hardly wrap around Bucky, and his generosity, and his promises, and his follow through. All of it is a murky, muddy emotional mess inside of you. For the first time in months, you break down and cry.
Later that night, when the tears have finally dried and you’re sitting next to him at your favorite little Italian spot, you place a hand over his and just squeeze. You meant to say words, but they’ve disappeared on you.
But Bucky doesn’t need the words. He knows everything that you’re saying with the simple touch. He squeezes back, smile soft, posture relaxed as he nudges your shoulder with his.
The floodgate inside of you swings open wider.
sammy speaks again: wowowowowow ok that’s a wrap on part one. part two coming almost immediately! I tried to fit it all into one but tumblr doesn’t like 30k word posts I guess :/ don’t forget to let me know what you think, I appreciate all of you for making it this far 🤍
warnings: 18+ MDNI, eventual smut, fluffy!Bucky, power imbalance, sugar daddy / sugar baby dynamic, age gap (reader in mid-to-late twenties while Bucky’s in his early forties), mentioned illness/death of parents (minor characters), money troubles, i.e., debt, bills, etc., alcohol consumption, one instance of smoking cigarettes, no mentions of y/n
word count: 12.5k
part two: coming soon
summary: The arrangement is simple enough: you give him friendship, he gives you a better life. But between the private dinners cozied up in a booth and the charity galas pressed to his side, it’s getting harder for you to hold up your end of the bargain when you’re starting to feel things for your sugar daddy that were not included in the contract…
sammy speaks: so the rumors are true, I am in fact bucky’s sugar baby and this is my autobiography, thank you for reading it!! could easily say this is my magnum opus, I don’t think I’ve put more time and effort into a piece of writing than I have this one. I hope everyone out there on the bucky x reader tag gets the chance to read it <3
Your shift is off to a very bad start.
The subway broke down — again — which means you had to sprint the last six blocks in your tiny skirt and sheer tights just to make it to work forty minutes late. Sweat pours down your back by the time you burst through the service door; the girls still lingering after the day shift give you wary looks while you lean against the wall, panting and brushing wet strands of hair from your face. You don’t care.
All you want is some water and to clean yourself up before heading out onto the floor, but your manager decides now is as good a time as any to give you a lecture on tardiness.
Your lungs are still struggling for air as you endure his power trip, your teeth grinding together over the fact that he hadn’t let you clock in before launching into his tirade. His ruddy face and the drool collecting at the corners of his mouth would’ve made for a comical sight if you weren’t already fuming over your situation. By the time he tires himself out, he’s eaten away at seven additional minutes you could’ve been paid for.
Safe to say, there’s a black cloud over your head when you finally emerge onto the floor. Cleaning yourself up had been futile — there was nothing you could do about your hair, and you’re putting a lot of faith in the ambiance to keep the sweat stains on your uniform indiscernible. And not only are you sticky with dried sweat, smelling of the cheap drug store body spray and year-old deodorant you borrowed, but blisters are beginning to form after your uncoordinated run in heels earlier. You have a feeling you’ll be cleaning dried blood from them at the end of the shift, and until then, every step will be torture.
That is until you see the floor map at the host stand, then you don’t even register the pain anymore. The hostess fidgets nervously beside you as you double and triple-check what you’re seeing.
At first glance, it looks like it always does. You have the same tables every night with the same people filling them like clockwork, because this place thrives on consistency and it’s common knowledge that regulars have the deepest pockets. Everything looks normal…except for one table. And once your eyes catch on it, it makes your heart seize.
Your Friday night 8:30 p.m. regulars is missing — the group of eighty-something year-old men that like to compare you to their granddaughters and fuss over your wellbeing and always tip like it’s their last day on earth are no longer in their usual back booth. No, the long-standing reservation under ‘S. Lee’ is off in another corner of the screen. In Melissa’s section. In her booth.
“This has to be a mistake,” you say out loud. The young girl playing hostess for the evening squeaks, curling in on herself.
“I’m sorry, he made me,” she whispers urgently, and you know she means your manager. “You were running late and he didn’t want them to wait, so he had me put them at Mel’s table next to the piano—“
You tune her out, a hand covering your eyes to block out every sensory input you could. The missing table of your best regulars feels like the death blow to your optimism, your hope, your last chance. With debt collectors clogging up your voicemail, you haven’t thought about anything but this shift for the last week. A lot was riding on it, and not just the tips or the wages — tonight was going to be the night you swallowed your pride and pitched your sob story to the table of Warren Buffet clones. It’s a gamble — one that risks your job if you don’t play your cards right — but after months of buttering them up with winks and pats and an endless amount of patience for repeatedly-told stories, you figured at least two out of the six might crack open their wallets for a charitable cause of a motherless young woman with crippling medical debt.
But now you would never know. The thought hurts a lot worse than the blisters.
It takes great effort to slap a smile on your face and act like you didn’t just miss the last lifeboat on the sinking ship, but every time you pass the empty booth, a cold chill runs down your spine. Deadlines, due dates, and late notices swirl in your brain while you take orders or fake laughter. Your mind has catalogued everything you think the repo men will take first when they come knocking next week. It’s a dark and winding internal spiral.
But just when you think it can’t get any worse, your black cloud becomes a roaring thunderstorm.
You know the hostess thought she was helping — you’ve been catching her apologetic looks from the corner of your eye throughout the shift. But when she creeps over to you cautiously, a small smile on her face, and says she found the perfect replacement reservation for you, you’re about ready to dump a pitcher of water over her head.
“Replacement” rings alarm bells in your head. “Replacement” means reservations outside of the regulars’ time slots. “Replacement” means snotty out-of-towners with connections or ignorant first-time club members. “Replacement” means trouble.
And trouble they are.
You assess your new group of gentleman from across the bar. There are seven of them in the secluded booth, all of them spread out and lounging comfortably like they’ve been patrons of your table for years. You don’t recognize any of them, and neither does the bartender, which confirms your biggest fears. You’re at risk of cracking a tooth.
But your manager appears out of nowhere, giving you the evil eye, so you have no choice but to relax your jaw and make your way over to the newcomers.
Your forced smile could power a small generator when you sidle up to the table.
“Welcome to The Alpine, gentlemen. How are we?”
Seven pairs of eyes snap to you, and you know what comes next: the head-to-toe look over and appreciative smiles that follow shortly after. The tall blonde in the middle has a particularly disarming curl to his lips that raises the hair on the back of your neck.
“Better, now that you’re here,” he quips, line of vision resting somewhere between your chin and your naval. The man beside him chuckles.
“Well, glad I could be of service,” you say brightly, eyelashes fluttering on command. Even if it kills you, you’ll flirt like hell with them if it means better tips. “What brings you in tonight?”
The blonde one speaks up again. “Our friend here just bought another nightclub,” he says, gesturing to a man to his right. “So we thought we’d celebrate him adding to his empire.”
Your smile never falters, but you feel your eye twitch.
“How exciting,” you manage to say.
It takes you much longer than necessary to get their drink orders. The blonde man — whose name you learned is Walker — doesn’t seem to know how to stop talking. Even if you shoved a dirty bar towel down his throat, you think he’d still be shooting off jokes. Probably about ball gags, after hearing the mouth on him.
As you walk away to put in their orders, you can just hear Walker’s nasty little comparison of a bouncy ball and your ass. Your eyes roll so hard they hurt.
When you return with their drinks, he once again zeroes in on your neckline.
“How long have you been working here, sweetie?” he asks your breasts, voice cutting through the others’ conversations. Your smile is blank and placid as you hand him his drink, ignoring the purposeful drag of his fingers over yours.
“Coming up on a year,” you reply. “Long enough to know when someone interesting walks in.”
You add a wink for good measure and he devours it. Sitting up straighter, Walker puffs out his chest.
“Interesting, huh?” he asks with a smirk that’s probably meant to seduce but instead summons vomit. “Sounds like I might be a new favorite of yours.”
Do not gag do not gag do not gag—
“Oh, I don’t do favorites. I just like my clientele to feel special.”
God, you might make yourself vomit—
“Good to know,” he drawls, “because I’ll be around a lot more soon. Barnes is getting me on the short-list next month, right, Barnes?”
Before whichever man named Barnes can reply, Walker continues. “So don’t go running off anywhere. Wouldn’t want you breaking my heart before I even get settled in.”
The cliche of it all has you actively fighting the urge to burst out laughing.
“And give up the chance to have you as a regular? Wouldn’t dream of it,” you soothe, smile cracking with your hidden mirth. The man at the end of the booth makes a noise somewhere between a snort and cough, but Walker beams like he won the lottery.
As the drinks flow, his audacity grows, which you find as shocking as it is endearing — which is to say, not at all. But you play along, because what other choice do you have? None when Walker’s giving all the signs that he’ll be footing the bill.
So you keep it up, the back and forth, the balance of flirty and dismissive responses; you can see the interest growing in Walker’s eyes as his sobriety shrinks. His friends are right there with him, and soon enough the energy of the table starts to shift in Walker’s direction.
“That vest really does wonders for you.”
“I like it when a girl shows a little skin.”
“That skirt looks like it was made for you.”
Your patience is wearing thin.
To their credit, a couple others at the table try to rein him in when they can, including the man of the hour, the club buyer, an attractive guy in his early forties called Sam. He makes pointed subject changes and laughs off the awkwardness when Walker makes a comment that lands just this side of perverted. Truthfully, you wouldn’t mind Walker running his mouth until you had grounds to have him removed, essentially destroying whatever chance he has at the “short-list,” or whatever the fuck that made up thing was. But you appreciate Sam’s efforts all the same.
And then there’s the other guy, the one on the end, who takes a more direct approach to shutting Walker up.
Walker’s in the middle of a slurred proposition for you to accompany him home after your shift when the man at the end of the booth lifts his head.
“Enough,” he says bluntly, suddenly; his voice is low and rough, direct. The tongue-in-cheek comment about sharing a bed immediately dies on Walker’s lips, his eyes flashing to his interruptor.
He doesn’t even bother looking at Walker, staring at his drink as he slowly spins it on the table, still his first one when the others are on their fourth or fifth. There’s a brief flash of something black and gold peeking from underneath the cuff of his suit jacket — a brilliant watch, clearly high-end and probably worth more than you’ll ever make in your life. A ring sits on his pinky, polished titanium. His charcoal suit fits his shoulders like every stitch and seam were custom made for his measurements — and maybe they were.
You see money in various forms all the time at this job, but occasionally you’ll stumble across real money. Big money. Stupid money. The kind that expresses itself quietly instead of boisterously like Mr. Short-List. It’s not always easy to spot, but you’ve learned how to over the last year, and when you do, it doesn’t fail to knock you on your ass every time.
One quick look and you know this man has real money. Your heart stutters in your chest, thoughts of your stack of unpaid bills wiping the smile clean off your face.
On the other side of the table, Sam disrupts the new silence by making a brave pivot to the stock market, something the rest of the group jumps on, even Walker. You’re attempting to swallow the lump in your throat, scrambling to grab empty glasses and old napkins, when you feel eyes on you.
It’s him, the man at the end of the booth.
His eyes are a startlingly bright blue that sends an electric shock down your spine. His face, looking like it was carved straight from Michelangelo’s private diary, stays neutral as you meet his gaze; you can see the years on him through scars and scruff and wrinkles around the eyes, but you wouldn’t guess him to be older than forty-five. His thick dark hair is swept back, threaded with silver near the temples that matches the silver around his chin.
He’s watching you like he’s waiting for something. Some sort of reaction maybe. His pink lips are parted like he’s about to ask a question. You have no idea what it could be.
Not giving yourself the chance to hesitate, the smile is back on your face with practiced ease. “Can I get you anything, sir?” you murmur quietly, trying to draw as little attention from the others as possible.
He blinks, breaking the undisclosed stare down between the two of you. “Just the check, please.”
“Of course. Can I get the name under the membership?”
“Barnes,” he says, holding out a black credit card for you to take. “James Barnes. Thank you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Barnes.”
His eyes find yours again and stare. You offer him one last smile before leaving.
Your fingers tap restlessly against the counter as you wait for the receipt to print. From across the room, you watch as the group at the booth begins to get up. Walker’s foot catches on the lip and he stumbles into his friend; Sam’s there immediately to usher them toward the door. You place the receipt in the black book and make your way back to the table, where James Barnes still sits, still staring at his drink.
Unfortunately, you have to pass Walker on your way over. With a sad excuse for a smile, you thank him for coming in tonight. He leans forward, into your personal space, reeking of liquor and leering at you.
“Left my number on the napkin if you miss me too much. We can pick up where we left off when you’re done with work.”
Clearly he thought he was bestowing a tremendous gift on you, from the way he winks and struts away. Your smile drops as soon as you turn back to the table, where you see James Barnes staring at you yet again.
Feeling caught, you offer him a sheepish look, a small upturn of your lips, and hand him the receipt.
“Thank you for coming in tonight, Mr. Barnes. We hope you come back soon.”
He hums, taking it from your hands; your fingers brush, and your brain has no choice but to acknowledge how different it feels from when Walker did it. He signs the receipt and offers it back to you before you have the chance to give him privacy, but when you grab it, he holds on to the other end, stopping you in your place.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, eyes boring into yours again, “for what you had to put up with tonight.”
You blink. “Oh, that’s — it’s not a problem at all, your friends seem like a, uh — fun time.”
A smile flits across his face, crooked and devastating. “Fun? So, you enjoy getting asked to go home with your customers?”
“I—“ your blush lights up your face. “He didn’t mean it, I’m sure—“
“He did.”
“It’s fine,” you rush to say. “I get it a lot, comes with the territory. Call it a work perk.”
His eyebrow lifts.
“A work perk,” he repeats. “Sure. Some places offer health insurance, but you get to be flirted with by married men.”
Fucking dick bag, you seethe internally, your mind conjuring up a scenario where you curb stomp Walker until his teeth fall out.
You try to smile but it feels like a grimace. “What can I say? I’m living the dream.”
He chuckles, finally releasing the bill. His eyes sweep across your face.
“Are you?”
You pause. “Am I what?”
“Living the dream.”
“Is anyone, really?” you say with a quirk of your lips.
“I don’t know,” he allows, tilting his head. ”Maybe not. But we keep pretending we are.” His gaze drifts around the room before settling back on you. “Were late nights and putting up with guys like Walker what you always pictured your life to look like?”
You chuckle, but there’s hesitation in it. Images of your verbally abusive manager and meager paystubs flash through your mind. But that’s the darker side of the club that customers aren’t supposed to know about. As a server, your job is to slap a pair of rose-colored glasses over their eyes and keep them there. Yet he’s asking to take them off. It feels taboo.
He’s looking at you like he can read your thoughts, but he waits for your answer like he has all the time in the world.
“Uh, no,” you say slowly. “Definitely not.”
You glance over your shoulder like you’re expecting your manager to be standing there, red-faced and spitting again.
“Good,” James murmurs, “I was starting to worry about your long-term goals.”
“I’m…I’m actually in school,” you admit before you can stop yourself. “Grad school. Masters in Business Analytics.”
His lips do something similar to a smile, but his eyes are serious as he leans your way. “Impressive. What are you hoping to do with this degree?”
You shrug, feeling the full weight of his undivided attention. It isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s heavy.
“Something with data. It kind of — I don’t know — speaks to me, I guess? I’m good with numbers. I can read an Excel sheet, which is half the battle. Interpreting data really isn’t that difficult when you dictate the right models and—“ You stop short and shake your head quickly. “I’m sorry. I’m boring you.”
His smile returns. “You’re not boring me.”
“I was rambling. You probably have better things to do than listen to me run my mouth about dictating data models,” you joke.
“On the contrary,” he murmurs, “I’d like to hear what you have to say about data models.”
You look to the floor as the blush blooms across your face. “It doesn’t make for very thrilling conversation.”
“We’re at The Alpine Club — I’m pretty sure data models make up ninety percent of the conversations around here. What’s one more?”
You laugh, bright and unexpected. “You got me there.”
He watches you for a moment, thoughtful.
“So,” he says, twirling his empty glass, “what kind of data are you hoping to manipulate around when you graduate?”
You blink as his question lands. It isn’t lost on you that he’s prolonging the conversation. Your weight shifts, you debate answering him; you have tables that haven’t been touched in minutes, you have side work that’s waiting for you in the back. Plus, your gut is screaming at you that this has gone a lot further than the average conversation between customer and server, especially when he’s already settled up. You should thank him for coming in and walk away.
“Manipulating data sounds corrupt,” you say with a small smile. The side work can wait. “It’s more like…making sense of it. Organizations collect all this information and half the time they don’t even know what to do with it. I like the idea of being the person who can look at a mess of numbers and data points and say okay, here’s the story.”
“Sounds like an art,” he says.
“Artists don’t use spreadsheets.”
“I think it still counts.”
Your hands tighten around the receipt book. “Not sure if I’ve ever heard someone call data analytics an art. Most people start disassociating when I mention Excel.”
“Most people are missing out.”
Your smile grows. “That sounds like a line.”
“It’s not,” he says easily, placing both hands on the table. “I’m genuinely interested.”
“In data?”
“In you.”
The words are a shock to your system. You feel heat climb into your cheeks again. Okay, that’s definitely a line.
That smile flickers on his face again, and he points toward his empty glass. “Actually, do you mind if I get one more from you? Please?”
You hesitate for a moment before nodding, turning for the bar again. When you return with his drink, he takes it from you with gentle fingers that brush yours.
“Do you think you’d be able to sit with me? Just for the drink?” he asks.
You freeze.
“If you’re busy, I understand,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to keep you from your work.”
Chewing your lip, you chance a look at your section. It’s died down considerably — closing time is near, but your last few tables have yet to pay. He watches you in that patient way of his.
“No, it’s — I’m not busy,” you mumble. You’re about to move to the other side of the booth when he slides over deftly, leaving room for you to sit next to him with a healthy amount of distance left between. Your hesitation is quick, but obvious, although he says nothing when you eventually take the spot beside him.
“Where do you go to school?” he asks, like there wasn’t a break in the conversation.
“O’Malley.”
His eyebrows lift a fraction. “That’s a great school.”
“Ha. Thank you. Yeah, my mom nearly had a heart attack when I got my acceptance letter. Big school, bigger price tag.” Your nose wrinkles. “I guess you could say that’s part of the reason I’m here.”
You’re not sure what made you bring up your mom — you haven’t weaved her into conversation in weeks. While your brows furrow in thought, James shifts in his seat, suddenly, like a twitch but more intentional. He lifts the drink to his lips.
“Part of the reason?” he repeats.
“It’s a long story.”
He looks at you, eyes bright but calm.
“I have time.”
You exhale softly, unable to hold the eye contact. “It — well, it’s not a very good story either.”
He doesn’t say anything, letting you consider in silence whether or not to share. You don’t tell your story very often — in fact, you’ve tried running from it multiple times. Hence the reason the debt collectors were after you. Tonight was going to be a rare occurrence if you had actually ended up telling your table of regulars your tearful tale.
Sitting beside him, you can’t deny the pull to James, nor the urge to tell him; you want to chalk it up to being prepared for another audience, but deep down, you know it’s something completely different.
With a sigh, you start.
“I had a lot saved up. A good chunk of it from my dad’s life insurance policy. Car accident when I was sixteen,” you add, when James’ tilts his head questioningly. “It was…sad, but we got through it. My mom and me. I got the money when I turned twenty-two, just in time to graduate college. I worked at a bar part-time and made some money there, so I decided to take a year off before grad school. Travel. See the world…”
James clears his throat. “Where did you go?”
“Europe. Mostly Italy. I love the food, the history, how the country’s broken up by states and each one has its own culture…” You trail off, biting down on a smile. “I think it’s my favorite place in the world.”
Next to you, James shifts again, but he’s got a soft smile on his face as he watches the liquid swirl in his glass.
“But then my mom got sick,” you continue, your voice lowering automatically. “Stage 4 colon cancer. I came home right away, brought her to every doctor in the city, but they all said the same thing: that there was nothing they could do.”
There’s a sound like a hushed rumble coming from James’ chest. He sets his drink down and meets your eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
A stab of grief shoots through your heart at those two words. You’ve heard them a million times over in your life, eventually growing numb to them — especially when they came from strangers. But the way he’s looking at you, the simplicity in the way he said it, causes a reaction you haven’t had in months. You quickly blink away the burn behind your eyes.
“It’s…thank you.”
He nods once, a gesture of acknowledgment and to continue. You take a breath.
“She refused to give up. She was a badass, but I also think that was just her being a mom. She didn’t want to leave me on my own in the world. So we used up every cent we had flying across the country, meeting with the best doctors out there and trying treatment after treatment. We spent a stint at the Mayo in Rochester, and for a moment, things were starting to look up. But she took a sudden turn for the worse, so we came back here. We came home.”
You rest your chin in your palm, eyes following his finger as it taps against his glass. You can feel him watching you closely.
“I tried to make her as comfortable as I could. Took the rest of my savings and poured it into her care. She hated that I did that, but there was no point arguing. Not when we only had weeks left. She passed last spring.”
James’ free hand twitches in your direction. You pretend not to notice.
“After the funeral, I looked around and realized I had mountains of medical bills to pay, a mortgage suddenly in my name, and a future full of student loans.” You make a soft noise in the back of your throat, untitled in emotion. “Despite everything, my mom made me enroll in classes as soon as we got home — she wanted me to have something waiting for me on the other side of it all. I thought she was crazy at first because I couldn’t think about anything but her, but now that she’s gone, I’m glad she made me do it.”
The silence after you finish is surprisingly light. It doesn’t feel tense or heavy like it usually does, when your audience isn’t sure how to reconcile all of that grief in one person’s lifetime. James sits beside you easily, absorbing your story with careful consideration and space.
“For what it’s worth, I think your mom would be really proud of where you are today” he murmurs.
The corner of your mouth lifts.
“Don’t speak too soon. I sold the house, but it barely made a dent in the medical bills. Whoever invented interest can suck my dick.”
James coughs and takes a large sip of his drink.
“Truthfully, I’m — I’m drowning,” you laugh breathlessly. “I can’t study because I’m constantly worried about having enough money to keep the lights on, and then that makes me worry that I’ll get kicked out of the program and lose my chance at a job that pays enough to make these bills go away. So I got a job here in the meantime because — well, everything’s outrageously priced and that means you get outrageous tips, which is literally the only way to keep my head above water.”
Your voice has raised in volume, pitch and speed, but you plow on, too late to bottle it up now.
“I ran the numbers a hundred times, set them against average incomes of thousands of jobs in the city, calculated inflation and costs, and it came down to either this or stripping. Which I don’t have anything against! But I can’t move like that, I can barely do a push up — so tips would be beyond sad for me, if I get any, and then I’d be back to where I started. So between that and The Alpine, I thought why not save myself the embarrassment and—”
You cut yourself off with a wince. You did it again.
You shoot a furtive glance his way. He’s turned completely in his seat to face you, jaw tight and eyes unreadable. Like this, you get the full force of him, the piercing blue of his eyes, the sharp features of his face; it’s unnerving, but in a way that makes your skin tingle, like electricity’s dancing down your limbs. A brief look reveals a brush of chest hair peeking out from under his white button down, and your subconscious decides it would like to see the rest of it someday.
He appears to be considering something, mulling it over carefully in his head. He hasn’t looked away from you since you stopped talking, but you don’t find it creepy. Yet.
“Sounds like you have a lot on your plate,” James mutters.
“Yeah,” you say faintly, “sorry to unload all of that on you.”
He shakes his head quickly, throwing back the last of his drink in one large gulp. His lips press into a thin line. You’re kicking yourself mentally, thinking you’ve finally traumatized the poor guy with your unfiltered stream of consciousness, when he sets the glass down with a sharp klink.
“I could help,” he says quietly.
You blink. “Oh, you don’t — you don’t need to do that. I promise I wasn’t using my sob story to get you to kick me a bigger tip or anything—“
“Just listen, please.”
Your mouth shuts with a snap. The air hums with a level of anticipation that wasn’t there before. His eyes hold steadily onto yours.
“I’ll only say this once, and if it’s not for you, I won’t say another word about it ever again.” He tilts his head. “I believe two people can come together in an uncomplicated and beneficial way, like friends do, to help each other out. I’d like to make your life easier so you can focus on what actually matters to you. I’d be someone you can rely on, who values your company and wants to see you succeed…while also helping you with any roadblocks in your way. I could take some of the pressure off — financially — so that you can focus on your future instead of struggling to make things work today. And in return, I get your company. I’ve had a better time talking to you for the last twenty minutes than I’ve had with that group of guys for years. You’re sharp, you’re funny, you’re grounded…Your time and your attention is all I would want.”
He lets that sit between you with a short pause. Meanwhile, the air has left your lungs.
“This requires trust. Discretion. Maturity. It’s not about rescuing anyone or buying affection. It’s more…intentional than that. Mutual.”
He pauses again, longer, as if he’s waiting for his words to sink in with you. They certainly have.
“Being my friend will never require you to be out of your comfort zone,” he continues softly. “It’s about making you comfortable. You’ll get support without strings, without owing anything, and without judgment. It’s not complicated, and it’s not about control. It’s about being a friend. I’d like to be your friend.”
Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. Not a whisper of a sound. The corners of his mouth twitch up as he searches your face — you suspect you’re not doing a very good job at concealing your emotions.
“You don’t need to give me an answer now,” James murmurs, leaning back against the booth; his voice has dipped into a lower octave, and the sound of it sends vibrations up your spine. “All I’m asking is that you consider it.”
You’re silent as you turn his words over in your mind, your heart thrumming beneath your chest.
“We don’t even know each other,” you whisper.
“I know,” he replies, “but I’d like to know you. This is a way for me to do that.”
You bite your lip. “If you’re saying all of this because of my mom, or — or ‘cause you feel bad—“
“No,” he says calmly, hand resting on the table near yours. “This isn’t because I feel bad.”
“Then why?” you ask.
“Because you’re beautiful, and I enjoy the sides of you that you’ve shown me tonight. And selfishly, I’d like to be your friend that makes things easier for you.”
Your gut swoops low. He called you beautiful. But there was an innocence behind it, like he was stating a fact rather than making a move. This settles over you like a warm blanket after a long day.
James watches you for another moment before reaching into his suit jacket and pulling out a card. He offers it to you.
“Take some time. Think it over. If you have questions, call me. If you never want to hear from me again, say the word and I’ll leave you alone. But if you’re interested in what this could be, let me know.”
You take the card without a word, absentmindedly pocketing it while you get to your feet. Your body has overridden your brain, moving you through the motions. James rises after you, and his frame towers over yours as you finally stand next to him. His bright eyes scan your face, assessing every detail. You swallow hard, his eyes track that as well.
“I hope to hear from you soon,” he murmurs, dipping his head down to your eye level. You nod breathlessly.
With a pointed look, he nudges the receipt book closer to you, where it had been abandoned on the table after he asked for another drink.
“It’s—it’s on me,” you say weakly. He raises his eyebrows, hands shoved into his pockets; you wave vaguely in front of you. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Thank you,” James says politely, and with a small dip of his chin, he turns away for the door. You watch as he crosses the room at a relaxed pace, dark hair bouncing gracefully, suit swishing perfectly. He doesn’t look back as the door is opened for him like a king and he exits the room
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Holy shit.
Later that evening, when you stumble home with ruptured blisters, smelling of stale sweat and cleaning products, you collapse onto your couch and pull out the card.
James B. Barnes, Chairman of the Board
Barnes Group, Inc.
The last name should have given it away, but to be fair, you were blindsided by the smooth talking and how good he looked. Barnes Group, Inc. was a quiet but major asset management firm that dominated the Financial District. They held their weight with the other big ones despite being around for less than twenty years. They were well-respected and popular, from what you’ve heard around The Alpine. Your instincts proved correct once again — he really did have real money.
Your mind whirled. How cliche was it for one of the wealthiest men in the city to offer an arrangement like this to a younger woman? Very — there’s no beating around that bush.
But the way he framed it had broken through your initial judgment, hitting you in a place that was dark and dusty and unused for ages. Friendship.
You couldn’t remember the last time you spoke to someone you could call a friend. All of them had slowly disappeared after you buried your mother, and for valid reasons; you made it impossible to keep in touch, dodging phone calls and ignoring texts like it was your job. But you’re still human — even if you push everyone away, that doesn’t mean you’re immune to loneliness. And with hardly any family left, that doesn’t leave you with many options for human companionship.
His words had shined a spotlight on that gaping hole in your life, intentional or not. Maybe he could see that on top of flirting with poverty, you’re lonely.
Maybe he’s lonely, too.
You rub your eyes viscously with your knuckles, willing the day to seep from your bones. Your cat, Lucky, hops onto the couch and curls up beside you.
You can’t believe it, but you think you need to consider this. While several true crime documentaries could show you the downfall of trusting the wrong person, you can’t help but take James’ words as they are. Perhaps that ity, bity, tiny sliver of hope you allow to live on inside you has taken charge of your decision making. It would explain your sudden deviation from enormous dislike for the rich.
You sigh, stroking Lucky’s back. “If this is real, I’d be an idiot not to,” you say to him, like you have no other choice. Lucky yawns his affirmation.
So you think on it. A lot. A lot a lot. Pretty much every minute of the next three days, you’re thinking about James. His words replay over and over in your head until it’s an automatic loop of noise.
I’d like to be your friend.
It’s distracting, thinking about him and his offer. Which means you’re distracted at work, you’re distracted on the subway, you’re distracted folding laundry. You even answer a debt collector by accident because your mind is in two places. You’ll never do that again.
…He could make sure you never do that again.
It comes to a head when you’re taking your break during your shift. The August night is hot and humid, the sky bragging of potential thunderstorms. The cigarette in your hand shakes as you inhale greedily.
The same two things circle your brain: how long would you let this go on for? And what would your mom think?
Both questions hold great weight, yet both are unanswerable to you — at least for now. Just when you start going down that road, your brain screeches to a halt in some sort of self-preservation tactic, distracting you by throwing mental memories of James’ soft smile, his quiet empathy, or — even worse — his chest hair.
It makes it a lot easier to pull out your phone than you think. The card is slightly crumpled from taking it out and holding it often, but the numbers read clearly as you punch them in.
He’s offering you a way out of this mess you call your life. Just because he wants to. And all he asks is for you to smile and thank him for it over dinner every now and then. Either he’s dealing with a lot of guilt over having money, or he truly wants to see your life get easier because of him. Maybe it’s both. Either way, it’ll change your life.
For the better. Right?
The line rings three times before he answers. “Hello?”
“James,” you croak, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “It’s me. From The Alpine. Hi.”
Something shifts in the background, like he’s sitting up straighter or moving something around. It sounds like sheets against skin. “Hi,” he says back, neutral. You glance at the time on your phone.
“Shit,” you mutter, “I’m sorry. I didn’t even think about how late it is. I can call you back—?”
“No,” he cuts in. “Now’s fine. How are you?”
You chew on your lip. “I’m good. Busy, but.. I’ve been— uh, I’ve been thinking.”
“Oh, yeah?” he murmurs, soft and loose like it’s a knee-jerk response. Your gut swoops low.
“About what you said,” you choke out. “About being…friends. I…I have some questions.”
“I have some answers.”
“I was wondering if we could meet. Soon. So I can ask you the questions. And learn a little more about…what this will be like.”
There’s a pause on the other end, not even a rustle of fabric or a brush of his breathing against the receiver to be heard. Then he clears his throat.
“How about tomorrow night? 8 o’clock at Pepper’s.”
“Yeah— uh, yes. That works,” you breathe. There’s a moment of silence where all you can hear is the pounding of your own heart.
“Would it be presumptive of me to bring a few documents? Unless you’d like to have a lawyer look over them—”
Your mouth goes dry. “No. That’s okay,” you say. “You can bring them.”
He makes a soft noise, something pleased. “I’m glad you called,” he says, voice low and warm. “I was starting to think I wouldn’t hear from you.”
The hand holding your cellphone spasms. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.
He shushes you quietly. “It’s okay. I’m glad you took your time. You seem like the type of person who wants to know exactly what she gets herself into. I admire that.”
You hum, because words are elusive as ever right now.
“Are you working?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“It’s almost midnight. Isn’t The Alpine closed by now?”
“Yeah, well…side work’s a bitch. I’ll probably be here until one.”
He grunts. “Let me send a car to get you home.”
“James, I—“
“Please. It’ll let me sleep tonight. Worrying about you walking around New York at one in the morning in the rain will do the opposite.”
Your foot taps restlessly. “Okay,” you breathe.
“Okay, doll.”
A flush runs through your body, from the crown of your head to the tip fo your toes. It leaves behind a wave of tingles that tickle your skin.
“Yeah, uh. I’ll let you— uh, I’ll let you get back to it then. I’ll see you tomorrow, James.”
“Tomorrow,” he vows. And the line goes dead.
You adjust the straps of your dress again, pulling them further back on your shoulders so that they frame your chest just right. It’s your favorite dress — or, more accurately, your only dress — and your one item of clothing that’s acceptable enough for the five star restaurant you’re meeting James at.
He’s sending another car — he texted you this time, brokering no argument over it, just a time and the driver’s name. You’d be put off if the ride last night hadn’t cut your usual hour-long hike home down to ten minutes and saved you from a torrential downpour. Private cars have their benefits, apparently.
The driver, Bob, picks you up at half past seven. He weaves in and out of traffic flawlessly, leaving you with very little time to fix your makeup and call on every shred of courage you have.
When he pulls up to the curb, he hops out of the car and opens the door for you, helping you to balance on your heels that don’t entirely cover the bandaids on the back of your ankles. You thank him for the ride as he ushers you into the restaurant.
James waits at the table tucked into a secluded corner at the back of the room, hair parted perfectly, scruff a little longer than before, and dressed in a suit of midnight black. His shirt is a shade lighter, the top three buttons undone and exposing even more chest hair than the last time. You take a deep breath as you approach.
He stands immediately when he spots you, eyes appraising you gently, like his favorite person in the world just showed up.
“Hello,” he says, coming around to hold out your chair for you.
“Hi,” you mumble, blushing as you sit. He holds eye contact as he resettles into his own seat, a small smile on his face.
“You look breathtaking,” he admits, a twinge in his voice that could pass for pained, like the way you look is so devastatingly beautiful, it hurts.
“Thank you. You look very nice, too.”
His smile grows. “I’m glad you could meet me tonight. I have to say I’ve been a bit restless since our talk last night.”
“Oh?” is your dumb response. Your pulse flutters as his smile grows crooked.
“I guess you could say I’m eager to hear your questions.”
“Oh, um…yes. I have a few…”
He gestures to the table. “Do your worst.”
You were prepared for this, but it still makes you feel light-headed as you pull out the small slip of paper from your purse. He watches you carefully as you unfold it, pieces of the ripped edges fluttering to the floor. Maybe you were expecting a bit of small talk, but what’s there to talk about when you hardly know each other? You can appreciate cutting to the chase, even if it makes your mouth dry.
“First, I…I just want to say thank you,” you begin quietly, shyly meeting his gaze. “For listening to me. And for not making it a big deal. It was the first time I’ve told that story that I didn’t feel like a tragedy after, and you made me feel that way.”
His shoulders seem to relax a little, his expression gentle. “You’re welcome.”
“That being said,” you continue shakily, unable to meet his eyes any longer. “I’m wondering what kind of help you want to give, and if there are things I can say no to.”
He nods, his face becoming serious. “Of course. I want to help, not intrude. If there are things you don’t want me to touch, then I won’t. You get the say in that.”
“So, if I say I don’t want any help with my student loans…”
“Then that’s that. I won’t push you about it either.”
You nod, fingering the edge of the paper nervously. The silence stretches.
“Would it be useful to give you a summary of what I will and won’t help with?” he asks, leaning back in his seat. You nod again, motioning for him to continue. He settles into his seat, clearing his throat. “To start, I won’t help with the circumstances of friends or relatives, unless they’re direct dependents of yours, which it doesn’t sound like you have anyway. This arrangement is for us, so it stays between us. And I won’t help with any legal troubles either. If you end up in jail, I won’t pay for bail, I won’t pay fines, and I won’t pay for legal counsel. If you’re charged with anything, this arrangement is void.”
His voice is level, almost monotonous, like he’s said this a few times. You gulp.
“But I will pay for everything else, if you’ll let me,” he remarks, growing softer. “You’ll get my card for the day-to-day things. Groceries, coffee, transit, take out. Anything you do when you’re not at work. I also want to pay for the things you couldn’t do before. Expect appointments booked for the spa, massages, hair, nails — whatever you decide. My assistant will help with that.”
“Okay,” you breathe, feeling just a little dizzy. God, when was the last time you got your nails done?
“I’ll also pay for your rent. Or, if you want to move, I’ll buy you a new place. Apartment. Condo. Brownstone. Up to you. I want you feeling comfortable and safe when you’re not with me.”
Your mouth falls open to protest. Buy a brownstone? For you? The girl he just met? You crumples the paper in a reflex reaction, but he holds up a hand before you can speak.
“You don’t have to, I’m just giving you the option. Remember, you’ll never have to go out of your comfort zone with me.”
He scans your face — you’re sure you’re a shade paler than before.
“Where do you live now?” he asks gently.
“Queens.” He smiles.
“Then I’d at least argue for you to use my driver.”
“Makes sense,” you murmur distractedly.
The server comes over then, placing a whiskey in front of James and asking what you’d like to drink. You order a white wine, cringing when he asks if you have a preferred bottle, but James answers for you, naming a brand you’ve never heard of, his eyes on you the entire time. The waiter returns a minute later with your glass, and you take a greedy sip as soon as it hits the table.
“I also like to give gifts,” James says, picking up where he left off. “That could mean jewelry, bags, cars, vacations—“ you choke on your wine, he politely ignores it. “Whatever I’m feeling that day.”
“Oh, is that all?” you say weakly. He chuckles, genuine and soft.
“It may change, depending on what I think you’d like. And what you tell me you like.”
“I’m picky,” you attempt to joke.
“I like a challenge.”
The air shifts subtly, you’d miss it if you weren’t paying attention. He crosses his legs effortlessly at the knee, looking every bit composed while you’re pinching yourself to keep from hyperventilating.
“Ideally, you’d quit your job,” he begins slowly. “Not for me, but because you won’t need to work anymore. You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but you’re in school, and it’s clear you love it. I want you to be comfortable enough to focus on that. Put your time into studying. Not dealing with men like Walker.”
You huff a soft laugh because you aren’t sure what else to say. Quitting your job hadn’t even crossed your mind through all of this, but now that the seed’s been planted, it takes root quickly, despite the voice in your head telling you not to let it.
James must be a mind reader, because he leans forward, making sure you meet his eyes.
“I’d like to spoil you, because I think you deserve it. Not because of what’s happened to you, but because of what you’ve done since it happened,” he says, voice pulling you in with the husky lilt to it. “I think you’ve earned the right to feel taken care of. It can be on your terms, of course, but trust me when I say there’s almost nothing I wouldn’t help with. Including the medical bills and the debt. Including the loans. But I will respect whatever you wish to keep separate from this.”
For a moment, you’re not sure what to say, but you end up on, “Thank you, James. I…I’ll think about it.”
He nods, businesslike. ”What other questions do you have?”
You blink, looking down at your list. “Well, you answered a couple of them, actually…um, I guess my next question is—“ You feel the heat rise to your cheeks. “When you say friendship, what does that…include, exactly?”
He leans back in his seat, taking a slow sip of his drink.
“I meant what I said about being friends,” he offers, “and I meant it in the traditional sense. This isn’t a “friends with benefits” situation. Holding hands, a light hug, or sitting close together are all reasonable to me. But touch isn’t required by you — you’re welcome to do whatever you’re comfortable with, and I won’t withhold anything from you if you aren’t comfortable with it. And I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to, but I will say I’m hoping to earn that right eventually.”
Something loosens in your chest, an unnamed tension releasing.
“I understand,” you say slowly. “I think those are reasonable, too.” His eyes flicker across your face for a moment. “I appreciate you clarifying that for me. It was on my mind a lot over the last few days.”
“That’s why we’re here,” he answers calmly. “Any more questions?”
“Yes, um. How does this…start?”
The smile returns to James’ face, sweet and relaxed. He waves two fingers in the air, and a server comes hurrying over with an official-looking envelope, setting it before him. James pulls out a small stack of documents and finds a pen in his suit jacket.
“It starts with a couple signatures. These are NDAs stating you won’t talk or publish anything about our time together, and the same goes for me. I’m held to the same principles you are. If I say a word about us to anyone without your permission, you have every right to sue me for all I’m worth. I hope it tells you how serious I am about this.”
It actually says a hell of a lot more than just how serious it is, but he’s already shuffling the papers aside, picking up the one on the bottom.
“This is an agreement on what I’m allowed to pay for. Like the rent — I’ll need to know where to pay to. There’s also a place for your bank account information, in the case of moving large sums of money. I’d like it wired safely and securely.”
You must show signs of panic, because he quickly tucks it away and says, “You don’t have to decide on anything today. You can add whatever you want to this as time goes on.”
Your breathing evens. He taps the pen against the stack of NDAs.
“Anything else?” he asks quietly. Your pinching grows stronger.
“Are you…friends…with anyone else right now? Or is it just me?”
His lips quirk like he was expecting this question. He leans forward, elbows on the table, and holds your gaze steadily.
“Just you. And I can promise that I won’t need any other friends as long as I have you.”
Oh.
“But you’ve…had other friends before. In the past.”
His eyes go blank for a moment. “Yes, I’ve had other friends before. A few.”
“They’re not still your friends, though?” you ask.
“No,” he answers. “There came a point when it was time for them to explore other…friendships. Start different lives. It always ended amicably.”
You hesitate. “So, if one day I decide I want to…stop being friends, that would be okay with you?”
“Of course. I’m here as long as you’ll have me. Or until we both decide it’s time.”
“Okay,” you whisper, meeting his gaze. There’s a roaring sound in your ears, like the ocean on a stormy night, but your hands are surprisingly steady as you reach out your hand toward him. “Okay. Can I borrow your pen?”
James smiles, the biggest smile you’ve seen from him yet. He offers you the pen and the first document, pointing out where to sign and initial. You do so quickly, conscious of your climbing blood pressure, but the adrenaline leaves a sweet aftertaste as you write your name with a flourish. Or maybe it’s him, beaming at you while you sign up for this new chapter of life with him.
Once the documents are signed, he proposes a toast. “To friendships,” he says. You clink your glass to his. “And, by the way, call me Bucky.”
“Bucky?” you ask, eyebrows raised.
“It’s what my friends call me.”
It starts immediately.
The next morning, you’re greeted with a jungle of flowers waiting outside your apartment door. Flowers of all shapes and colors, some tropical, some simple, and all of them make you smile. You’re placing the last of them on the counter when there’s a knock on your door — a dozen freshly-made croissants from the Parisian cafe in Midtown. Impossible to get into, impossible to order out from, yet here’s a box full of their best-selling pastries, still warm from the oven. You indulge in one too many, but it’s worth it.
Throughout the day, Bucky texts you. It’s something he mentioned off-handedly, probably meant to give you a choice, but he likes to talk during the day. A lot. He likes check ins, he likes updates; he wants to hear about anything and everything.
At first, it’s odd having someone to talk to so consistently again — the last person you spoke to like this was your mom.
But Bucky keeps it unforced, easing the conversation along with the right questions and dry comments that actually have you smiling at your phone. When you get to work that night, he wishes you a good shift. No mention of you quitting. You appreciate this so much that you have half a mind to quit anyway.
Not today, you tell yourself. You need to wait to see if Bucky actually puts his money where his mouth is first.
It isn’t long before he does.
Less than a week after you signed the papers, he asks you to join him for dinner on your night off. He makes the reservation early because he knows you have an exam in two days that you’re stressed over, leaving you with the rest of the evening to study. You’re grateful for his mindfulness, but equally grateful for the distraction he’s providing. He’s waiting outside the restaurant when Bob pulls up, offering his hand to help you out of the car.
“You look beautiful,” he states plainly, like only an idiot would argue with him. Your answering smile is wide and uninhibited.
Inside, the two of you are seated at a booth mostly concealed from the other diners. He sits beside you, much like he did that first night, close but with enough space for you to breathe easily. He asks you about your day, he encourages you to try something strange on the menu, he compliments you again and again and again.
Your whole body is flushed from the wine and his attention by the time the desert arrives. You’re licking chocolate syrup off the spoon, regaling a work story involving your meathead manager and another server.
“He just chooses to ignore anything that makes us seem human to him. No emotions allowed. No personal problems allowed. You show up for your shift, you do your job, and that’s it. Leave your life at the door, God help you if you don’t.”
You sigh, your spoon clattering loudly onto the plate. Bucky fidgets with his own spoon, eyes on the corner of your mouth. He shakes his head a little, like he thought better of something, then points to the corner of his own mouth, smiling. You blush, taking the hint, and wipe a dab of chocolate away from your skin. Bucky’s still smiling as he takes another sip of his drink.
“Might be because he lacks his own personal life,” he muses. “People are always going to project what hurts them.”
You consider this. “Now that you say it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him take a day off.”
“That can do some fucked up things to a person.”
“Tell me about it,” you whine. “I haven’t taken a day off in months.”
His eyes slide lazily to you, glass held loosely in his hand. He smiles wryly, and you understand what he means before he says a word.
“I know, I know. I just…” You take a breath. “I need to know this is real first. Before I start cutting ties.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “Tomorrow’s the first of the month,” he says. “Have you thought more about allowing me to help with your rent?”
Your breath hitches.
“Yes,” you whisper. He hums, eyes sparkling with something bright and ambiguous.
“And what have you decided?”
“I think…it would be a show of good faith…if you helped me out.”
“Good faith,” he laughs. “Sweetheart, I’ll buy you the moon if it means you’ll believe me when I say I’ll take care of you.”
The next morning, you get the email at 9 a.m. — your rent has been paid, utilities as well. Your stomach had been in knots when you wrote down the information for him, but seeing the confirmation makes you feel like you’re floating.
It only takes you another week until you’re calling your manager and quitting. To celebrate, Bucky rents out the Met for the night, and you explore and observe and admire to your heart’s content as he stands quietly and steadily by your side. He knows an impressive amount about art, surprisingly, but then he starts making things up when a specific piece stumps him, and the rest of the unguided tour is spent inventing made-up artists and their tragic backstories. By the end of the night, you can’t resist anymore. You quickly lean in and wrap your arms around his waist.
It’s clear he’s shocked, that you’ve caught him off guard. But he recovers quickly, mirroring your grip and resting his cheek on top of your head. It’s strange, it’s new, but it’s…comforting.
Quitting your job means a lot more free time, but Bucky is adamant about you dedicating much of that time for school. So to keep a balance between time spent studying and time spent with him, Bucky proposes you come by his office between classes. Sometimes for lunch, sometimes to take a break, sometimes to set up camp on his leather couch, nose to your laptop screen as you research data sets and monitor the market while he quietly works at his desk.
It’s calming and oddly motivating — he’s the perfect person to work next to.
When you’re not studying, Bucky’s supplying you with appointments that fill up your calendar. You have a new contact saved in your phone — Inga, Bucky’s very Dutch, very cheerful assistant — because she calls you at least twice a day, arranging your schedule and finding time you didn’t know existed to fill.
A certain Thursday brings a yoga class from 7:45 to 9, then a massage from 10 to 11:30. After that is lunch with Bucky at his office (take out sushi from a place you’ve only ever dreamed of going to), followed up by a nail appointment from 2 to 3 and a virtual meeting from 3:30 to 4:30 with your old therapist that you had to abandon when money got tight.
Once you get past the catch up, your therapist says you seem a lot better than you were the last time you saw her. Crazy concept, to agree with a therapist, but you actually do.
You’re about a month into the arrangement when Bucky clears his throat at dinner, making you pause while twirling your pasta on your fork. You’ve slowly graduated to sitting closer, and his arm rests on the back of the booth behind you, its presence warm and obvious around your shoulders. You look up at him, waiting.
“I’ve got this thing tomorrow night,” he begins, voice a little on the gruff side. You’re shocked to realize he’s being shy, and poorly hiding it. “It’s a gala. The black tie kind. It’s for charity — Children’s, I think. If you’re up for it, I was wondering if you’d like to come with me.”
You smile slowly. “I’d love to. Just need something to wear.”
A stack of hundred dollar bills is on the table in seconds. Inga accompanies you the following morning to ten different stores, all designer, all with prices that make you feel faint, but she is quick to shoo you away from the price tags and push you to try on the dresses that make you sigh dreamily. Maybe that’s the reason Bucky wanted her with you.
You pick something bold, something you’d never see yourself in unless you had it on your body. It fits like a glove and reminds you that you’re a woman, not just a cog in the wheel of the working class. You only panic a little when you hand over the entire wad of cash Bucky gave you.
After that, you’re dropped off at the salon, where a facial and a blowout get you glowing like the sun. Bob picks you up and brings you to your apartment where your dress is waiting for you, courtesy of Inga. At 9 o’clock, Bucky’s waiting for you outside. The late September breeze ruffles his hair and swishes your dress as you come face-to-face.
He takes in every inch of you, from your painted toe nails to your shiny hair, and he sighs.
“You look…unbelievable.”
Later, when you’re buried deep into a crowd of people you don’t know, Bucky’s anchoring you to him with a hand on the small of your back, thumb brushing the skin there. He leans in, nose nudging your temple, and whispers, “I’m very lucky to have you here with me.”
Just like that, something inside of you breaks. Not in a sad way, but in a revolutionary way. Like a floodgate’s been cracked open, and what’s been locked inside is beginning to trickle out.
When he pulls back, your eyes linger on him. He flashes a movie star smile for the people that approach, but when he meets your gaze again, he gives you his crooked grin. Meant only for you. His warm hand pulls you closer into his side.
And that’s when it begins, right there at that gala. Your appreciation for Bucky has opened up into something larger, still undefinable, but growing in magnitude.
You find yourself sweating under the lights of the ballroom, not from the heat, but from the unknown shift. It shapes itself a little more when Bucky runs into a colleague and introduces you as his friend. He’s been doing it all night, but this time, it doesn’t feel right. It feels…off. Generalized. Misplaced.
Not that you’d ever tell him. Bucky was clear about your arrangement being a friendship — to question what he calls you would be to question where you stand, and you don’t want to make it seem like you can’t hold up your end of the bargain as his friend.
So you smile through it, focusing on the feel of his hand on your skin, and push it down. For now.
You’re a couple months into the arrangement when Bucky opens his home to you. It’s a penthouse suite hundreds of feet in the sky, offering breathtaking views of the city sprawled below. The apartment is big and modern, with plenty of low lighting and soft colors. You find out right away that he’s messy, which you think is more endearing than it is a nuisance, even if that means throwing sweatshirts and belts and books off the couch just to find a place to sit.
He apologizes constantly, but it never gets better each time you come over. You don’t mind.
With classes gearing up for finals, your time is more limited than before, leaving you with just a few windows of opportunity a week to be with each other. Most of these fall late at night, past 10 p.m., or early in the morning before he leaves for work.
So you start staying over.
It happens accidentally the first time. He picks you up and takes you back to his place for Chinese take out and binge watching trashy reality TV (of which he is a secret super fan), but you end up passing out minutes after he turns the show on.
The next morning, you wake in a soft bed, surrounded by oversized pillows and silk sheets. Bleary eyed, you stumble into the kitchen to find him dressed for work, sipping a coffee at the kitchen island and scrolling on his phone. He sets both of them down when he sees you, standing as you shuffle over.
“Morning,” he says, stretching out a hand to catch your sweatshirt clad waist.
This is par for the course these days — soft, grounding touches that don’t linger for too long, cuddles on the couch that don’t get too pretzel-like, barely-there kisses against the forehead when you say something that makes him smile a little too hard. All friendly, all innocent.
“Did I — did I crash?” you ask, suppressing a yawn. He chuckles, offering you his coffee.
“Didn’t even make it to the elimination. Steve R. went home.”
“Fuck, I liked him.”
“Me too.”
You look up at him, suddenly shy. “I’m sorry. Thanks for carrying me to bed.”
“Only threw out my back for it. No worries.”
You slap away his hand on your waist, but it’s teasing, playful. He withdraws, taking a seat again so you’re eye level with him. A look takes over his face, something caught between serious and hopeful.
“You know, that room can be yours, if you’d like.”
You pause mid sip of coffee. “What?”
“The room. It’s yours. For when you want to crash. Or just don’t want to go home.”
“Really.” It’s not a question.
“Really,” he repeats. “Don’t ever feel like you have to stay, I’ll take you home any time of night. But if you do want to stay, it’s there for you.”
“That’s…really sweet of you.”
He smiles a little. “Not too much?” You shake your head. “Good. ‘Cause I like knowing you’re close. Think I slept better. And I like waking up with you here.”
The feeling from the gala returns with renewed force. It almost drowns you, leaving you reeling in its tidal wave of emotion. It defines itself a little more as you picture sharing mornings with him, pouring travel mugs of coffee and shoving pieces of toast in his mouth as he races out the door.
But he’s watching you closely, expecting an answer, so you beat the feelings down until you’re numb. Sending him a smile over the mug, you say, “Okay.”
And that’s that.
The first time you sleep over intentionally, Bucky’s not in a great mood. Which is a rare occasion in and of itself. You know he’s only human, but you’ve barely seen him annoyed, let alone upset.
He makes an effort to hide it from you, greeting you with a soft kiss to the top of your head when you step out of the private elevator that opens to his floor. He all but forces you to relax on the couch while he cooks dinner, so you do, cracking open your textbook and stretching out lazily while he cooks. But even from the living room, you can feel the negative energy radiating from him.
He throws pans into the sink with a little too much force. He answers a call with a sharp bark of “what now?” He mutters to himself like a cranky old man.
His face is drawn and stony when he hands you a plate and joins you on the couch — pasta with red sauce, simple, and a family recipe, he claims. But the way he eats it, you’d think he hates it.
“Bucky,” you say after watching him stab his food with homicidal intent. He grunts. “Bucky,” you try again.
“What?” he snaps, sneering. Immediately, his eyes go round with guilt before you even have the chance to react. “Oh, God — I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—“ He pinches the bridge of his nose, breathing deeply; when he opens his eyes again, his expression is calmer, more open. “Jesus. You didn’t deserve that. Forgive me.”
“Always,” you say like it’s second nature. “What’s going on?”
He sighs, setting down his plate. “Work,” he mutters, “is killing me. Someone fucked up a deal with a really, really important client. They aren’t happy, so I had to step in to clean up the mess. But now they’re playing hard to get, so all day I had to suck their dicks and call them pretty just to get a reply.”
You giggle. He tilts his head at you.
“You think that’s funny?”
“A little. But I can’t imagine anyone not getting on their knees for you immediately.”
Something flashes in Bucky’s eyes, something darker that doesn’t fit the conversation topic. It’s quick, brief, but you see it. He smiles before you can think twice about it.
“Not these guys. They like to test me. And I don’t like being tested.”
“I can tell,” you comment. “Want me to help?”
He side-eyes you. “How?”
“You can take all your anger out by…rubbing my feet?” Your smile is saccharine as you slide your legs into his lap. He laughs, one loud sound, but takes your left foot in his hands anyway.
“How sweet of you,” he coos. “How’d you know this is exactly what I needed?”
His mood improves for the most part, although his phone buzzes a few times and sets his jaw ticking. But whether it’s to keep him sane or to keep the easy vibe of the night going, he ignores it. Reality TV is watched, cookies are eaten (he has five), and you’re feeling satisfied for having turned his night around just as you start to yawn.
He notices it immediately.
“Alright, doll. You’re tired. I’m taking you home.”
“I might stay here tonight, if that’s okay with you.”
He freezes as he reaches for his keys. Slowly, his arm lowers, and there’s a slightly dazed look in his eye.
“Sure, yeah. Whatever you want,” he breathes.
He sets you up with a tooth brush and towels, an old shirt of his and boxers. While you’re brushing your teeth, you wander over to his bathroom and find him doing the same. You stand beside him, laughing through the toothpaste as he gets his all over his mouth and chin. Unintentionally, though he’ll deny it.
He walks you to your room like he’s dropping you off at the end of date. You try not to think too much about that.
“Sleep tight,” he says softly, leaning against the doorway, smiling at the too-big shirt and boxers. You smile back, sleepy and content.
“Goodnight, Bucky.”
He’s gone before you wake up the next morning, but the note on the counter thanks you for being there with him last night. It makes your heart flutter much too fast for having just started your day.
When you get back to your own apartment, your phone alerts you to a new email. The name on it makes your stomach sink: the debt collectors. They’ve been quiet for a while since you’ve been able to offer them bigger scraps of money, so what do they want now?
Thank you for your payment. Your bills have been reconciled and your current balance is at $0.00.
The room tilts. Your breathing stops. Hundreds of thousands of dollars of medical bills, gone overnight.
Bucky.
It was only a week ago that you had shyly asked to amend the document on what he could help pay for. You weren’t even sure that he looked at it yet.
Well, now you know he has. And in one fell swoop, he banned the debt collectors from ever bothering you again. Your mind can hardly wrap around it, can hardly wrap around Bucky, and his generosity, and his promises, and his follow through. All of it is a murky, muddy emotional mess inside of you. For the first time in months, you break down and cry.
Later that night, when the tears have finally dried and you’re sitting next to him at your favorite little Italian spot, you place a hand over his and just squeeze. You meant to say words, but they’ve disappeared on you.
But Bucky doesn’t need the words. He knows everything that you’re saying with the simple touch. He squeezes back, smile soft, posture relaxed as he nudges your shoulder with his.
The floodgate inside of you swings open wider.
sammy speaks again: wowowowowow ok that’s a wrap on part one. part two coming almost immediately! I tried to fit it all into one but tumblr doesn’t like 30k word posts I guess :/ don’t forget to let me know what you think, I appreciate all of you for making it this far 🤍
summary: After waking up from surgery still under anesthesia, you meet a ridiculously pretty stranger who claims to be your boyfriend. Convinced he's too perfect to be real, you spend the next hour flirting with him.
word count: 2.1 k
warnings: fluff, post-surgery / anesthesia humor, memory loss (temporary), established relationship, bucky barnes being soft, tooth-rotting fluff, mild embarrassment, idiots in love.
a/n: how crazy is that there's already +400 people following me now? I started working on this thing when I was a bit under 300 and timing was crazy. So I saw this tiktok (couldn’t find the og creator🥺) & came with this silly idea lol not used to writing this much fluff, but I hope you enjoy it. (Also, update on rockstar!Bucky coming soon.) | dividers by @enchanthings
You blinked down slowly, the world swimming into focus in patches of white and blue. Hospital room, beeping machines, and— oh.
There was a man sitting beside your bed. A really really pretty man. Dark hair, sharp jaw, shoulders that looked like they were personally crafted by Michelangelo. And his eyes, of the most ridiculous shade of blue you've ever seen.
"Hi," you breathed, the word slurring slightly. "Are you real?"
The pretty man's lips twitched into a smile. "Yeah, sweetheart, I'm real. How you feeling?"
"Floaty," you admitted, trying to lift your hand but it felt like it weighted a thousand pounds. "Everything's… soft. Are you a nurse? You're the prettiest nurse I've ever seen."
He laughed and the sound made your fuzzy brain light up. "I'm not a nurse, baby. I'm Bucky, your boyfriend."
You squinted at him suspiciously. "No."
"No?"
"No," you said firmly. "Because if you were my boyfriend I'd definitely remember. I would remember so hard you'd be all I ever thought about. I'd be insufferable about it."
"You're insufferable about it," he said, grinning now. He reached out and took your hands, his thumb stroking over your knuckles. One hand was warm, the other was cool metal. "You literally have a folder on your phone called 'Bucky being pretty' with like three hundred photos in it."
Your eyes went wide. "I do?"
"Yes, you do."
"…can I see?"
"After you're more awake." He was trying so hard not to laugh. "The nurse said you'd be loopy for a bit."
"I'm not loopy," you insisted, then immediately contradicted yourself by reaching up to poke his face. "You're loopy. Your face is loopy. Too pretty, not fair." Your finger booped his nose. "Boop."
Bucky caught your hand before you could poke him again, pressing a kiss to your palm. The gesture was so tender it made your drugged heart skip. "You tell me that a lot."
"Well, it is true." You tried to sit up and failed spectacularly. Bucky immediately stood up, his hands gentle as he helped adjust your pillows. "Woah, you're really tall too. How tall are you? Like eight feet?"
"Just six feet, baby."
"That's so many feet." You grabbed at his jacket as he tried to sit back down. "Wait, come back. I need to look at you more."
"I'm right here." But he stayed standing, letting you stare up at him with unbashed wonder.
"Your eyes are blue," you announced, like you'd discovered something groundbreaking.
"They are."
"Like… aggresively blue. Who gave you permission to have eyes that blue? That's illegal, you should be arrested." You gasped suddenly. "Wait, are you a criminal? Is that why you're in the hospital? Are you on the run?"
"I'm not on the run, I'm here because my girlfriend had surgery and I wanted to take care of her and make sure she was okay."
You processed this slowly, then after a minute of silence, you said: "Your girlfriend is so lucky."
"Yeah?" His smile was soft, affectionate in a way that made your chest warm even through the drug haze.
"Yeah. I hope she knows how lucky she is, if I had a boyfriend that looked like you—" you sighed dreamily. "I'd never let you leave, I'd just stare at you all day. I'd cancel plans, I'd call in sick to work 'sorry, can't come in, too busy looking at my boyfriend's face."
Bucky actually had to cover his mouth to hide his laughter. "That so?"
"Mmhmm…" You tried to focus on him but everything kept going a little fuzzy at the edged. "What's your girlfriend like? Is she pretty? She's probably pretty, you seem like you have good taste."
"She's beautiful," he said quietly. "Smartest person I know, funny, brave as hell, a little reckless sometimes, which gives me heart attacks. But yeah, she's pretty perfect."
Your drugged brain felt emotions about this that you couldn't quite name. "Wow, you really love her."
"More than anything."
"That's…" your eyes were getting misty. "That's so nice, everyone should be loved like that. I wanna be loved like that." You looked up at him with the saddest eyes. "Do you think anyone will ever love me like that?"
Bucky's expression did something complicated. He sat back down on the edge of your bed, taking both of your hands in his. "Baby… sweetheart, I'm talking about you. You're my girlfriend."
You blinked slowly. "…I am?"
"Yes."
"But…" You looked down at your hands, then back up at his face. "But you're so pretty."
"So are you."
"And nice, you seem really nice."
"You're nicer."
"And you have good hair." You reached up to touch it and he let you, patient as a saint while your clumsy fingers carded through the strands."It's so soft, do you condition? What's your routine? I need your routine."
"You bought me the conditioner," he said, amused. "You did a whole presentation about hair care."
"I did?" You perked up. "Was it good? Did I use a PowerPoint?"
"It was very thorough, had charts and everything."
"Past me is so smart." Your hand dropped from his hair to his face, cupping his cheek. Your thumb traced his cheekbone, then down to his jaw. "You have a really good bone structure, like… really good. Are you a model?"
"Not a model."
"You should be, you'd be great at it. You'd just stand there being pretty and everyone would throw money at you." You gasped dramatically. "Do you even have a job?"
"I'm an Avenger."
Your jaw dropped. "Like… the superheroes?"
"Yep."
"Oh my god, you're a superhero! A pretty superhero." You looked at him with renewed awe. "What's your power? Is it being pretty? Because that should count."
He was fully grinning now. "I've got a vibranium arm. Super soldier serum."
"Can I see the arm?"
Bucky glanced at the door, then shrugged off his jacket and rolled up his sleeve, revealing the black and gold vibranium arm. Your drugged gasp was deeply gratifying.
"That's so cool!" You grabbed at it, running your fingers over the plates. "It's pretty. You're pretty. Everything about you it's pretty… do you sparkle in the sunlight?"
"That's vampires, baby."
"Are you a vampire?"
"No."
"Are you sure? Because you look like you could be a vampire. A really hot vampire." You squinted at him. "Smile, let me see your teeth."
He humored you, smiling wide. You peered at his teeth very seriously. "Okay not a vampire, just a regular pretty person." You seemed satisfied with his conclusion. "Can I tell you a secret?"
"Always."
You leaned in conspiratorially, nearly falling out of the bed. Bucky caught you easily, steadying you. "I think I have a crush on you."
"Do you now?"
"The biggest crush. An embarrassing crush." You bit your lip. "But you have a girlfriend so I shouldn't be saying this… that's not good etiquette, I apologize." You tried to look serious. "I respect your relationship, even though I'm dying inside.
"Noted," he was shaking with silent laughter now. "What if I told you that you're the girlfriend?"
"Then I'd say you're lying because there's no way—" you gestured vaguely at him. "—that someone who looks like that would date someone like me."
"And what's someone like you?"
"You know, regular, average… not a superhero. Probably have weird hobbies." You paused. "Do I have weird hobbies?"
"I don't thinks is weird, but you enjoy collecting vintage objects—"
"See? Boring."
"I think it's cute."
You stared at him. "Okay, but if we're actually dating—which I still don't believe—but IF we are, then I need to know some things…"
"Shoot."
"Have I kissed you?"
"Many times."
Your hand flew to your mouth. "Oh my god."
"Just yesterday you kissed me goodbye like five times because you kept forgetting things and having to come back inside."
"What else? What else have we done? Have we—" You lowered your voice to a whisper. "—held hands?"
"We live together."
The machine monitoring your heart started beeping faster. "We what?"
"We share an apartment… have for three months now. We meal prep on Sundays—"
"That's so domestic!" You clutched his hand tighter. "Oh my god, am I living my dream? Is this real life?"
"Very real life."
"Prove it. Tell me something only my boyfriend would know."
Bucky thought for a moment, his smile going soft. "You talk in your sleep, usually about work, but sometimes you just say random stuff. Last week you had a full conversation whether cats understand democracy. You also steal all the blankets and I have to burrito wrap you to get any covers. And when you're really tired, you make me play with your hair until you fall asleep."
Your eyes were getting watery again. "That sounds nice."
"It is nice, the best part of my day."
"Even the blanket stealing?"
"Even that."
A nurse peeked in, smiling at the scene. "How's our patient doing?"
"She's very high," Bucky said.
"I'm in love," you corrected, squeezing his hand. "With him, this pretty man. He says he's my boyfriend but I think he might be a hallucination because he's too perfect."
The nurse laughed. "He's been here since they brought you in, hasn't left your side."
"Really?" You looked up at Bucky with wonder.
"Really," he confirmed.
The nursed checked your vitals, adjusted your IV and gave you some ice chips to suck on. "The anesthesia should wear off in another hour or so. You'll probably be pretty tired though."
After she left, you went back to staring at Bucky. "Can I ask you a question?"
"Anything."
"If we're dating, can I kiss you?"
His smile could've powered the sun. "You don't have to ask for permission, sweetheart. But maybe wait until you're a little less loopy?"
"What if I forget? What if the drugs wear off and I forget that I'm allowed to kiss you and I just pine forever?"
"Then I'll remind you. Like I do every morning."
"Every morning," you repeated dreamily. "We have mornings together. Plural mornings."
"So many mornings." You yawned suddenly, the exhaustion hitting you. Bucky stood and adjusted your bed so you could lie back more comfortably. "Get some rest, baby."
"Will you stay?"
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Promise?"
"Promise." He settled back into the chair, but kept hold of your hand.
"Bucky?"
"Yeah?"
"When I wake up and I'm not high anymore, will you still be this pretty?"
He brought your joined hands up and kissed your knuckles, his eyes crinkling with tat smile you'd apparently been cataloging in a folder for months. "Guess you'll have to wait and see."
"Can't wait," you mumbled, eyes already drifting closed. "Gonna wake up with the prettiest boyfriend in the world."
"Get some sleep, sweetheart."
"Okay, but just so you know—" you forced your eyes open one more time to look at him. "—if we really are dating, then I'm the luckiest person alive."
"Funny, I was thinking the same thing."
You fell asleep with his hand in yours, the steady beep of the monitors, and a smile on your face.
Two hours later.
You woke up slowly, the fog clearing from your brain. Everything came back in pieces—the surgery, the recovery room, and oh god, Bucky. Your boyfriend Bucky. Who you'd apparently hit on while high.
He was still there, slouched in the in the uncomfortable hospital chair, scrolling through his phone. When he noticed you were awake, his whole face lit up.
"Hey," he said softly. "Welcome back, how you feeling?"
"Mortified," you croaked. "Please tell me I didn't say anything too embarrassing."
His grin was evil. "Define too embarrassing."
"Bucky—"
"You told me I should be arrested for having blue eyes. You asked if I sparkled in the sunlight. You said you had a crush on me and then apologized because you didn't want to disrespect my relationship."
You covered your face with both hands. "Oh my god."
"Oh and you called my face 'loopy'". He was definitely laughing now. "And you said you'd call in sick to work just to stare at me all day."
"I hate you."
"No you don't. You love me, you told me so multiple times, very emphatically." He stood and came to bed, gently pulling your hands away from your face. "For the record, I recorded about five minutes of it."
"You what?!"
"For posterity." His eyes were sparkling with mischief. "And for the next time you try to say I'm not pretty."
"I didn't—I don't—" You couldn't even form a defense. "You are pretty."
"So you keep telling me." He leaned down and kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips. "Feeling better?"
"Physically, yes. Emotionally, destroyed."
"Well the good news is the surgery went great. The bad news is I'm definitely showing that video at our wedding."
"Bucky!"
But you were smiling, and so was he, and honestly? You'd embarrass yourself a hundred times over if it meant waking up to that face. Even if you already knew you were allowed to kiss it.
sabrinacarpenter yesss officially a new york girly
yourusername i think i’m tired already
user1 who even is she
user2 why does sabrina comment on her post?
user3 she’s probably just a non-famous friend
notes: hi!! this is my first time ever using tumblr and i’m so excited about it!!! i’m still trying to adjust to everything so really sorry if there are any mistakes! i appreciate any advice! also, english is not my first language so don’t expect the best english ever hahahah
i hope you enjoy the story!! i’ll try to update as fast as i can
Summary: The New Avengers start a full-on investigation when you and Bucky look a little too comfortable in your ''fake'' relationship.
Warnings: thunderbolts, fake dating trope (kinda), a lot of bickering and chaos, thunderbolts groupchat (!!!), a little suggestiveness, some russian (courtesy of google translate, so probably not 100% accurate)
A/N: this is definitely not my best work, it's just for fun :) nobody can stop me from carrying on the legacy of silly avengers tower fics. btw i giggled at how perfect that third photo is for this story. enjoy x
Word Count: 2,257
...
The assignment was supposed to be simple.
Valentina had announced her new idea like she'd been reading the weather report, strategically disguising her immorality with diplomacy. ''You have to appear to be dating to the public. It's good for optics.''
She doesn't add I don't care if it makes you uncomfortable, because that part is implied. She doesn't add do it or I'll make you regret the day you were born, because that part is implied too.
You and Bucky had stared at each other for a long beat, neither of you thrilled, sighing in synchrony before begrudgingly agreeing. You knew better than to argue with Valentina when she has her mind set.
You spent the last few weeks performing the part like soldiers on cue, sharing calculated smiles during press conferences, Bucky subtly but effectively leaning into you in front of the photographers, the choreography of a relationship that only exists on paper.
The change was easy to miss, at first. A fleeting look that held too much meaning, relentless teasing during sparring sessions, Bucky's hand lingering on your back just a second too long while guiding you through the Watchtower. Both of you had noticed it, of course, but refused to admit it aloud, too stubborn to face the truth.
The team noticed, too. You knew they did, even without peeking into their phones, because certain actions carried certain questions.
John, especially, had been watching a little too closely, catching your laughter echoing down the hall or the moments when Bucky's hand landed on your knee while you told a story. Bob had been quiet but observant, the corners of his mouth twitching in delight when your interactions strayed from strictly professional. Alexei… well, he lacked Bob's subtlety, his gaze often piercing through you with that wide-eyed curiosity that made Bucky stiffen in irritation.
Weeks have passed, the small moments having grown, imperceptibly but unmistakably, into an obvious pattern. Inside jokes on the Quinjet. Protective touches when navigating unstable terrain. A proximity Bucky usually doesn't allow anyone.
It was during one of the peaceful evenings, when the team had retreated to their quarters after a long day of training exercises, that it all began to stir. You and Bucky had gone to your room again, ostensibly to ''review mission intel'', though the way he had guided you to the door with a brush of his hand suggested otherwise.
''They are absolutely doing it.''
''That is not confirmed.''
''It is confirmed. I am confirming it.''
You don't turn around. Bucky definitely hears it too, but he keeps walking, the picture of stoicism.
From the hallway, you can hear the faint buzzing of phones, the unmistakable notification chime of a new groupchat message.
Mission Shipwatch they had called it, the team's space to dissect, speculate, and overanalyze every small interaction between the two of you. Obviously, you and Bucky weren't in it.
Messages flow in quick succession, each member contributing observations and suspicions.
Mission Shipwatch 🕵️♀️ (PRIVATE DO NOT ADD BARNES)
Captain Discount: Did you see the way he touched her arm?
RED GUARDIAN: YES!!!!! he touch her like… lover 💦
former child assassin: DAD PLEASE STOP USING THAT EMOJI.
Captain Discount: He opened the door for Y/N earlier.
former child assassin: Okay?
Captain Discount: And HELD IT.
former child assassin: That is a simple act of chivalry, Walker. You do not do this?
former child assassin: This is why your family left you.
RED GUARDIAN: i ship them.
Ghost: I am not a willing participant of this groupchat, but I did see this earlier today. 🔗[Photo]
RED GUARDIAN: CAUGHT RED-HANDED HAHAHAHAH.
Captain Discount: Well... That is pretty damning evidence.
former child assassin: THEY HOLD HANDS NOW???
bob: They look lovely together :)
...
Bucky hates when you patch him up.
Not because he doesn't trust you, but because he doesn't know where to look when you're right in front of him, his skin crawling with a bashfulness he hasn't felt since 1943.
Right now is no different. He's sitting on the edge of your bed, shirt discarded somewhere on the floor, a deep gash across his stomach that you're carefully disinfecting. He smiles sheepishly when you give him a look that says don't you dare downplay this. His breathing is shallow, but it's not because of the wound. You're kneeling between his legs, cotton pad in one hand, needle kit open beside you.
''Hold still,'' you mutter, even though he already is, ridiculously so. It's almost suspicious how obedient he becomes around you.
His voice is low. ''You're mad.''
''I should be mad,'' you say, threading the needle. ''You let a guy with a boning knife get close enough to do this.''
''He wasn't supposed to have a boning knife.''
You roll your eyes. ''Shocking twist.''
His mouth twitches like he wants to smile, but the door suddenly bursts open with all the grace of a landslide.
Your heads snap up.
John Walker stands frozen in the doorway like he's just walked in on a murder. Or something much, much worse.
You're kneeling in front of Bucky, your hands on his bare stomach. His chest is flushed, his breathing heavy. It… looks bad.
Very bad.
John blinks. ''Oh my god. Okay. Wow.''
You immediately lift your hands like you're being arrested. ''Walker, this is not what it looks like. I'm just patching him up.''
Bucky closes his eyes like he's praying for death to come take him.
John is already backing away, scrambling for his phone. ''This is not what Val meant when she said to pretend to be dating.''
''Jonathan, get your ass back in here. Don't you dare take—'' You stare at him, betrayed, after being temporarily blinded by the flash of his phone. ''I know you did not just take a picture.''
He's already halfway down the hall, sprinting toward the elevator. ''It's for evidence! The people need to know!''
''What people? Hey, who's ''people''? Walker!'' You step into the hallway just in time to see him frantically pressing the button to the 91st floor, and the elevator doors closing pitifully slow.
''I hate this team,'' Bucky announces, deadpan.
Mission Shipwatch 🕵️♀️ (PRIVATE DO NOT ADD BARNES)
Captain Discount: EMERGENCY. CODE RED.
Captain Discount: LOOK WHAT I JUST SAW.
Captain Discount: 🔗[Photo]
former child assassin: OH. I NEED TO BLEACH MY EYES.
Ghost: The one time I open this groupchat, Bucky and Y/N are fornicating on my screen.
RED GUARDIAN: YA ZNAL ETO!!! I KNEW IT!!! THEY ARE DOING THE BOOMBAYAH.
former child assassin: Oh my god.
Captain Discount: Y/N SAID SHE WAS ''JUST PATCHING HIM UP''.
bob: Oh no! Is Bucky okay? :(
former child assassin: I would never have believed you if you had not caught this on camera.
bob: Maybe Y/N really was patching Bucky up.
bob: He does look like he's in pain in the picture.
Ghost: Oh wow. Who's going to tell him?
Captain Discount: Not it.
RED GUARDIAN: HAHAHAH NEVINOVNYY. INNOCENT BOY.
former child assassin: Bob, it's not pain that Bucky was feeling.
bob: Huh?
bob: Oh.
bob: o_o
Ghost: Here's an idea. Maybe you guys shouldn't jump to conclusions.
RED GUARDIAN: NO! WE JUMP. WE LEAP. LIKE SIBERIAN MOUNTAIN GOAT.
Captain Discount: Uh oh.
Captain Discount: I can hear Y/N and Bucky.
Captain Discount: They're coming after me.
Captain Discount: GUYS HELP.
Captain Discount: GUYS???
Captain Discount: pls senf helpdhksbpppppppppp
...
Mission Shipwatch 🕵️♀️ (PRIVATE DO NOT ADD BARNES)
Captain Discount: They're doing it again. Door closed. That's like the fifth time this week.
bob: Y/N said they were just going to prep for the next mission.
former child assassin: They are either kissing or plotting murder. Maybe both.
RED GUARDIAN: i tell you, barnes is smitten like little puppy. he follows her with eyes like lovesick idiot 😍
Captain Discount: Pics or it didn't happen.
Ghost: We are not spying on them like creeps.
former child assassin: No, we are not. John is.
Captain Discount: No thanks. Not after last time.
Captain Discount: Thanks for backing me up, by the way.
Captain Discount: I enjoyed being put into an armlock by Y/N.
former child assassin: Eh. Most action you've gotten in months.
bob: Maybe they just became friends?
Ghost: No one likes being around Bucky that much.
Captain Discount: THAT'S WHAT I'M SAYING.
RED GUARDIAN: he smiled at her yesterday. ZIMNIY SOLDAT. THE WINTER SOLDIER SMILED.
former child assassin: And she brushed hair out of his face.
Captain Discount: She WHAT?
bob: It was cute :)
Captain Discount: Adding this to the spreadsheet.
Ghost: You have a spreadsheet?
Captain Discount: Don't judge me.
Ghost: Too late.
...
It's 2:17 a.m. The tower is silent. The only movement is you and Bucky, swaying in the dim kitchen light like two idiots who forgot they're supposed to be emotionally repressed.
There's no music to guide you, but Bucky has one hand on your waist, the other loosely holding your hand. His hair is a mess, your shirt is wrinkled, and he's smiling. Actually smiling.
He twirls you lazily, and you bump into the counter and laugh quietly. ''The kitchen's small,'' he mutters, rubbing your hip soothingly.
You jump and whip your heads around when you hear a loud crunch.
John Walker is standing there, barely hidden behind a pillar like a man who has never stalked anyone convincingly in his life. He's holding your bag of chips under one arm and his phone in the other. His eyes are wide like he's witnessed yet another homicide.
''Jonathan,'' you say sternly, putting on your best don't you dare face.
''Don't you 'Jonathan' me,'' John whisper-yells. ''Bucky doesn't dance. You don't smile. This is unprecedented. This is history.''
''You're being a tad dramatic,'' you laugh nervously.
''Oh, am I?'' John says, holding up his phone. ''Because I have visual evidence of emotion.'' You all stare at each other blankly for a long moment, and then John bolts out of the kitchen like a toddler about to tell the teacher someone said a bad word.
You groan. ''He's sending it to the groupchat, isn't he?''
Bucky sighs. ''Yep.''
Mission Shipwatch 🕵️♀️ (PRIVATE DO NOT ADD BARNES)
Captain Discount: WAKE UP. WAKE UP.
Captain Discount: THIS IS NOT A DRILL.
Captain Discount: THE PROPHECY HAS COME TRUE.
Captain Discount: 🔗[Photo]
RED GUARDIAN: HOLY MOTHER OF BABUSHKA.
former child assassin: IS BARNES SMILING??? I DIDN'T KNOW HE HAD THIS MANY TEETH.
Ghost: I don't know why or how I've become invested in this, but I just spit out my water.
bob: I feel guilty. They probably kept it quiet for a reason :(
RED GUARDIAN: INTERVENTION.
RED GUARDIAN: SEYCHAS.
RED GUARDIAN: NOW.
Captain Discount: EVERYBODY TO THE LIVING ROOM.
Captain Discount: YOU BETTER NOT LEAVE ME STRANDED AGAIN.
Ghost: I'm bringing popcorn.
RED GUARDIAN: i'm bringing camera, cuz i am historian first and foremost 😎
bob: I'm bringing good vibes :D
former child assassin: Bob, we're all waiting for you.
bob: WAIT YOU'RE ALL THERE ALREADY???
bob: DON'T START WITHOUT ME PLSPLSPLS.
bob: THIS ELEVATOR IS TAKING SO LONG.
Five minutes later, you and Bucky walk into the living room to the New Avengers arranged in a semicircle like a very poorly organized intervention.
Yelena clears her throat. ''Sit.''
You don't sit.
John scoffs. ''Fine. Have it your way.'' He points dramatically at the screen where the team has projected the photo he took mere moments ago like crime evidence. ''Explain this.''
''Y'know, we were there. The photo is unnecessary,'' Bucky grumbles.
''Right. This happened five minutes ago,'' you point out.
Alexei slams his fist over his heart. ''But this is love! I know love when I see it!''
John points at you like he's pointing at a war criminal (he is, by the way). ''You two brood. You don't giggle or dance.''
''I was not giggling,'' you protest, offended.
''Don't gaslight me, woman. You were. You're hiding something.''
Everyone nods like this is an airtight, scientific conclusion.
You exchange a look with Bucky that says ''do we tell them?''.
He sighs in resignation.
You take a deep breath.
''Okay, fine,'' you say. ''We're dating.''
For a moment, the room goes completely still like the air has been punched out of it, before the entire team erupts at once. It's a tidal wave of gasps, accusations, triumphant ''I knew it!''s, and stunned disbelief, every voice overlapping and getting louder by the second.
When the team finally calms, Yelena is the first to speak up. ''Real dating disguised as fake dating disguised as real dating— My head hurts,'' she mutters, rubbing her temples.
Bucky clears his throat, reluctantly clarifying the situation. ''It started out fake. Then it became real. A few weeks ago.''
''A few weeks— And you didn't tell us?'' Yelena gasps.
You gesture broadly. ''No, we didn't. This. This is why.''
''I'm really happy for you guys,'' Bob says cheerfully.
Alexei wipes a, likely imaginary, tear from his cheek. ''My children... they grow up so fast.''
''Dad, Bucky is significantly older than you.''
John blows air out of his mouth. ''Wow. Didn't see this coming.''
You squint. ''We literally caught you all stalking us.''
Ava snorts. ''Not successfully.''
Alexei claps his hands together, energized. ''We have to celebrate!''
''No, we don't,'' Bucky groans, but they're already fighting over the champagne Valentina keeps in the fridge for ''special occasions''.
Bucky bumps his shoulder into yours when the others aren't looking. ''Told you they'd lose their minds.''
You smile. ''Are we going to tell them they accidentally added you to the groupchat and we've been reading along this whole time?''
You hear a scandalized gasp behind you.
''WHAT?''
...
general tag list
@buckysgirl-12
thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕
steve harrington x reader fanfiction | fratboy!steve | platonic!stobin (i promise) | mentions of cheating (but it's not real cheating) | mean!steve, playboy!steve | sort of friends to enemies to fwb to lovers | slowish burn | angst | hurt ... eventual comfort
warnings: sexual acts, vomiting, cheating mentions, exhibitionism???
words: 6k
summary: When you find out your college roommate/friend robin buckley's boyfriend, steve harrington— who you thought beat all stereotypical frat boy odds— is cheating on her, you find it hard to understand why she still wants to be with him. But there is more than meets the eye. You aren't sure if you want to be roped into it.
a/n: this is way out of my comfort zone... but im craving angst
masterlist | Rules/Playlist
chapter 1
The Pi Kappa Alpha house is already loud from the sidewalk.
Bass rattles the windows, the sound so loud it feels physical, like it presses against your ribs. Someone’s laughing too hard somewhere near the door, and the air smells like cigarette smoke and cheap beer and the sweetness of spilled something-you-can’t-identify drying on warm concrete. The porch light flickers, throwing everything into a hazy yellow glow that makes the night feel softer than it really is.
There’s a line wrapped around the front of the house—girls in oversized sweaters slipping off their shoulders, boys pretending not to shiver in denim jackets, everyone buzzing with the anticipation of being let inside. You and Robin don’t stop. You never do.
Eddie Munson is stationed at the door like a gargoyle.
He’s leaning against the frame, boot propped up behind him, leather jacket worn and cracked like it’s lived a hundred lives already. A cigarette is tucked behind his ear, unlit for once, and his grin is sharp and waiting, like he’s been bored until this exact moment.
“Well,” he drawls, pushing himself upright, eyes lighting up when he sees you, “hello, beautiful ladies.”
Robin sighs like she’s known this was coming all day. You just tilt your head, amused despite yourself.
“To what do we owe the pleasure?” Eddie adds, sweeping an exaggerated bow.
You and Robin exchange a look—hers playful, yours cautious, already bracing for whatever comes next.
“Staying out of trouble tonight, Munson?” Robin asks, folding her arms.
Eddie clutches his chest. “What’s the fun in that, sweetheart?” Then his eyes slide to you, slow and deliberate, grin turning mischievous. “How’re you doin’ tonight?”
You chuckle, rolling your eyes, heat creeping into your cheeks even though you tell yourself there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Robin hooks her arm through yours, tugging you closer like she’s protecting you from a predator.
“Nuh-uh,” she says firmly. “Stop trying to hit on my roommate. She has standards.”
Eddie makes an exaggerated noise of pain, blowing a raspberry. “Wow. Betrayed. Absolutely betrayed.” He gestures toward the door with a lazy flick of his wrist. “If you’re lookin’ for Harrington, he’s inside waitin’ for you.”
Then, because he can’t help himself, he turns back to you, eyes bright. “Save me a dance, sweetheart?”
Eddie Munson, well you weren’t sure about his story. A troubled man, ex-junkie drug dealer, and a huge flirt. He was best friends with Steve Harrington, and because of that honor, he was like Pike’s honorary mascot. You saw him more at the fraternity house than most of their actual members. You had no idea if he was even a college student. You were pretty certain he lives in his van and parks it around campus. But sometimes, he convinces Steve to let his band, Corroded Coffin, play at their parties, but tonight it seems he was on bouncer duty.
“In your dreams, Munson,” you say, and you don’t miss the way your mouth curves upward when you do.
Robin laughs, triumphant, and pulls you inside before Eddie can respond.
The house swallows you whole.
Heat hits first—bodies packed too tightly, air thick and damp, the kind that sticks to your skin almost immediately. Music pulses through the floor, something heavy on synth and bass, loud enough that conversation becomes a series of leaned-in mouths and shouted words. The walls are plastered with old posters and banners you’ve seen a hundred times, but tonight they look warped and unreal under dim lights and cheap colored bulbs.
You step carefully, sneakers sticking slightly to the floor. Beer. Definitely beer.
You make a mental note—again—of how the Pike house is normally full of furniture. Couches, chairs, tables. Tonight, it’s all gone. You imagine it shoved upstairs, crammed into bedrooms that are strictly off-limits during parties unless you’re a girlfriend or someone important.
You are allowed upstairs. Technically. Thanks to Robin, but you rarely go up there except to bypass the bathroom line downstairs.
She navigates the crowd with purpose, fingers laced through yours, tugging you along like she’s afraid you’ll get lost. You don’t mind. You like this—being an observer, watching the way people move when they think no one’s paying attention. The way couples cling to each other like life rafts. The way frat boys puff up, loud and careless, like the world has never told them no.
And then Robin stops.
Her entire body seems to brighten, posture shifting, smile blooming as she spots him across the room.
Steve Harrington.
He’s near the kitchen, surrounded by people, solo cup in hand, looking infuriatingly at ease. His hair is perfect, like it always is, soft and intentional without looking like he tried. He’s laughing at something one of the guys says, head tipped back slightly, and for a moment you understand why people orbit him so easily.
Social chair. Future president. Pike royalty.
Robin tugs you forward, crosses the room, quickly coming up to her boyfriend.
Their greeting is familiar. Robin wraps her arms around him, pressing herself into his space like she belongs there. Steve smiles down at her and presses a quick kiss to her cheek—not rushed, not sloppy. Gentle.
You’ve always thought it was charming.
Most couples here are a mess of limbs and mouths, hands everywhere, dry humping against walls without a shred of shame. But Steve is different with Robin. He keeps a steady hand at her back. He asks if she’s okay. He doesn’t make her perform affection for an audience.
They don’t do PDA.
When you really think about it—when you let yourself linger on the thought—you realize you’ve only ever seen them kiss on the lips once. And even then, it barely lasted a second, like something private that accidentally happened in public.
Still, Robin looks at him like he’s everything.
She talks about him constantly. How sweet he is. How he cares so deeply about the people that are close to him. How he’s smart, but pretends he isn’t. How loyal he is. You always listen, nodding and smiling.
You hate that you notice the thing that doesn’t quite fit.
Because something is off.
It’s small. Easy to ignore. But you’ve seen it before—in the moments when Robin’s attention is elsewhere. The way Steve’s gaze lingers on you just a beat too long. The strange curve of his smile when your eyes meet, like he’s amused by something you’re not in on.
It always makes you shift on your feet, suddenly aware of yourself in a way you don’t like.
Like now.
Robin pulls back from him, still smiling, still talking, and Steve’s arm settles around her shoulders automatically, his palm never actually touching her. It’s always closed in a safe fist. But his eyes are already on you. He takes a slow sip of his drink, gaze steady, unreadable.
“Hey,” he says, voice smooth and easy.
“Hey,” you reply, matching him without thinking.
His eyes flick over you—quick but thorough—and then he turns back to Robin like nothing happened.
“Why were you so late?” he asks her. “The boys were asking about you.”
Robin exhales. “Sorry. I had to finish a paper.”
Which is true. Unfortunately.
You picture the library—dim lights, stacks of books, Robin scribbling furiously beside you while you stared at a blank page like it was mocking you. Same assignment. Same major. Absolute hell. Your own paper is due in three days, still barely an idea, but tonight had felt like a necessary escape.
Steve hums sympathetically. “English major problems.”
“You have no idea,” Robin says.
You nod quietly, and Steve looks at you again.
“You here to do some people watching?” he asks.
You blink, surprised he notices, or maybe he remembers the passing comment you made once to Robin. “Actually, I might try to find someone to make out with tonight.”
Something shifts in his expression. Jjust slightly. A small smile, private, like it’s meant for him alone.
Robin laughs. “The essay is that bad, huh?”
You shrug, averting your eyes from Steve’s heady, half-lidded gaze towards you. You’re only imagining it.
Then someone calls his name from across the room. Steve squeezes Robin’s shoulder before stepping away. Steve turns, already half-moving, and as he slips past you his hand presses briefly into the small of your back. It has to be an accident. It has to be. It isn’t enough to make a scene. Just a light, steady touch that sends a shiver skittering up your spine despite yourself.
He doesn’t look at you.
But you feel him all the same—the warmth of his palm through your shirt, the way his presence lingers a second too long. He smells like clean soap and something faintly citrusy beneath the beer, a sharp, bright note that cuts through the heavy, stale air of the party. It’s stupid how intimate it feels, how your body reacts before your mind can catch up.
And then he’s gone, swallowed by the crowd like he was never really yours to notice in the first place.
Robin watches him go, fond and open, like she doesn’t doubt a thing.
You turn toward the drink table, heart doing something inconvenient and heavy, and tell yourself, for the third time since arriving, that it doesn’t mean anything.
Robin gets the drinks.
Or—more accurately—Robin takes charge of the situation, leaning over the folding table with the coolers beneath it, shouting something at a frat boy you don’t recognize, already fishing for cups before he can answer. You hover close, watching her movements with idle fascination. She does everything with confidence, like she’s never once worried about being in the way. Like she belongs in rooms like this.
The drinks are warm and sweet and too strong. You barely taste the alcohol over the sugar, but it settles heavy and pleasant in your stomach anyway.
Before you can even take a second sip, Robin’s face changes.
Her eyes light up, head snapping toward the speakers like she’s been summoned. The opening notes of a song spill through the room—something fast, familiar, impossible to ignore—and she grins, already reaching for you.
“Oh—come on,” she says, grabbing your wrist.
You barely have time to protest before she’s dragging you through the crowd, weaving between bodies with practiced ease. Your cup sloshes dangerously, a few drops spilling over your fingers, but Robin doesn’t slow down. She pulls you straight into the thick of it—the dance floor packed shoulder to shoulder, heat rising in waves, lights flashing just erratically enough to make everything feel unreal.
The music is loud enough that it rattles your teeth.
Robin turns to face you, laughing, hair already slipping loose from its perfect shape. She dances close—closer than necessary—hands settling on your waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You follow her lead, letting the rhythm take over, the alcohol smoothing out the parts of you that usually hesitate.
You dance together easily. In the way that girls do when they don’t really want to dance with anyone else, but want to have fun.
Her hands slide over your hips, your back. Yours find her shoulders, then her waist, fingers curling into fabric. You move in sync, bodies brushing, laughing when you bump into someone else. It feels carefree. Safe.
And then you notice him.
Steve is still near the kitchen, drink in hand, talking to a group of people you don’t know well enough to name. He looks relaxed, nodding along, smiling at the right moments. But every so often—just enough that you start to doubt yourself—his gaze flicks toward the dance floor.
Toward you.
You catch it out of the corner of your eye. His expression tightening for half a second, something dark flashing across his face. It’s gone before you can really understand it, replaced by that easygoing look he wears like armor.
You tell yourself you imagined it.
Still, the thought lingers, prickling at the back of your neck.
“Why doesn’t Steve ever dance with you?” you ask suddenly.
The words come out unfiltered, carried away by the music and the alcohol and the closeness of Robin’s hands.
“What?” she shouts, leaning in.
You raise your voice, heart thudding for no reason you can explain. “Why doesn’t your boyfriend ever dance with you?”
Robin blinks.
Just once. Quick. Like she wasn’t expecting the question.
Then she laughs, bright and effortless, waving it off like it’s nothing. “Steve isn’t a dancer,” she says. “Besides,” she squeezes your waist playfully, spinning you just a little closer “Why would I give up my best dance partner?”
You smile back, but something in your chest doesn’t quite settle.
You tip the rest of your drink back, the burn sharp and welcome, and when you look up again your eyes drift automatically toward the kitchen.
Steve is looking at you.
Not Robin. You.
Your throat tightens. You swallow, breaking eye contact first, leaning in close to Robin’s ear.
“I think he wants to dance with you now,” you shout.
Robin’s eyes crease as she follows your gaze. She tilts her head, studying him for a moment, something thoughtful crossing her face. Then she sighs, shoulders dropping just slightly.
“Be right back,” she says.
She presses a quick, affectionate squeeze to your arm before slipping away into the crowd.
You watch her go, watch the way she approaches Steve, the way he immediately turns his body toward her. They start talking. Their faces serious, gestures small but deliberate. It doesn’t look like flirting. It looks like a discussion. Something heavier than the music thumping around them.
You look away before you can read too much into it.
Your cup is empty.
You decide to get another drink.
The walk back to the table feels longer this time, the crowd thicker, the noise more pressing. As you wait for someone to notice you, you realize—vaguely, distantly—that you don’t actually know that much about Steve and Robin.
Not really.
You know the basics. High school sweethearts. Same small town somewhere in Indiana. They came to college together, already a unit, already established. Robin is polished in a way that feels intentional—long brown hair always curled and glossy, makeup perfectly done even on days when she swears she “didn’t try.” Her clothes fit her like they were chosen with care, tailored just enough to look effortless.
You assume it has something to do with her father.
A state representative. A name people recognize. You imagine dinners with the right people, careful manners learned young. Robin never talks much about her family, but you can see it in the way she carries herself. Classy. Composed. Always in control.
Steve is the same in a different way.
Perfectly put together. Clean lines. Neat clothes. Money that doesn’t need to be announced because it’s already obvious. Pike legacy. His last name carries weight here—his father’s donations probably paid for half the building you’re standing in. You wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a plaque somewhere with his name on it.
But there’s one thing Robin talks about more than anything else when it comes to Steve.
He doesn’t know what he wants.
He’s stressed. Lost. Panicking quietly about declaring a major this year, about expectations he’s never questioned but suddenly can’t meet. For all the polish, all the confidence he projects, that part of him feels strangely unfinished.
You fill your cup, lost in thought, and tell yourself it’s none of your business.
Still—your eyes drift back to where Steve and Robin are standing.
And you can’t help but look.
Steve throws back the rest of his drink like it personally offended him.
You notice it because it’s sudden, the casual ease gone, replaced by something sharp and restless. He tilts the cup up, drains it in one go, jaw tight, throat working as he swallows. He says something to Robin you can’t hear over the music, then turns and pushes into the crowd without waiting for her response.
Robin groans.
It’s quiet, but you see it clearly, the way she tips her head back, eyes closing for just a second like she’s counting to ten. Her shoulders sag, posture losing some of its polish, and then she’s scanning the room. Searching. Her gaze flicks over faces until it lands on you.
She exhales and makes her way over, weaving through bodies with less enthusiasm than before. When she reaches you, there’s an apologetic smile already pulling at her mouth, like she’s practiced this expression.
“Hey,” she says, leaning close so you can hear her. “I’m so sorry, but I have to do… uh—” she gestures vaguely with her hand “Girlfriend duties. Talk to some people with Steve.”
You nod, already bracing for it.
“Will you be okay?” she asks. “Do you want Steve to get Eddie to take you back?”
You shake your head immediately, smiling to soften it. “No, I’ll be fine,” you say. “Might try to find some guy to make out with now.”
You wink.
Robin laughs, big and relieved, like you’ve just taken something heavy off her shoulders. “Okay!” she says. “No more than an hour. I promise.”
She grabs two beers from a passing tray, presses one briefly into your hand, then hip-bumps you affectionately before disappearing back into the crowd.
You watch her go.
She finds Steve near the far side of the room. He’s talking to a blonde girl with a tight perm and a laugh that carries even over the music. Robin steps right into his space, familiar, easy. Steve turns immediately, attention snapping back into place, and he wraps an arm around her shoulders with deliberate ease.
Something in your chest loosens.
You tell yourself you imagined the tension earlier. The looks. The strange heaviness. This is what normal looks like. Robin tucked into his side, Steve nodding along as she talks, his hand resting securely against her arm. He must’ve just been upset she wasn’t hanging out with him earlier. That’s all. Maybe he wanted her attention and didn’t know how to ask for it without sulking.
It makes sense.
Then Steve lifts his beer.
He takes a sip, eyes half on the conversation, half somewhere else. As Robin talks to the blonde girl, animated and charming, Steve’s head tilts slightly—like he’s listening for something beneath the noise. His gaze drifts, unfocused at first, tracing the ceiling, the floor, the blur of bodies moving around him.
And then his eyes land on you.
Not dramatically. Not obviously.
Just enough.
Your stomach drops.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t look away right away either. His expression is unreadable—flat, thoughtful, distant in a way that makes your skin prickle. Like you’ve interrupted something private just by existing in his line of sight.
You gulp.
Immediately, you pivot, turning your body away too fast to be casual. You move toward the edge of the room, claiming a corner near the wall where the lights don’t reach as brightly. You nurse your drink, taking slow sips, eyes fixed anywhere but him.
Your heart beats a little too hard.
He must really dislike Robin hanging out with you, you think.
That has to be it.
By the time you realize you’ve talked to three different boys, you also realize you don’t remember a single one of their names.
They blur together in your head—too loud, too close, all leaning in with the same practiced confidence. One of them keeps touching your arm like it’s punctuation. Another smells aggressively like cologne. The third is trying to explain something about his econ class like it’s meant to impress you.
You smile. You nod. You laugh when you’re supposed to.
And then you excuse yourself.
You slip away while one of them is mid-sentence, threading through the crowd with purpose until the noise dulls just enough to feel manageable. You find a narrow hallway tucked away from the main room—dim, quiet except for the distant thump of music vibrating through the walls.
You lean back against the cool plaster, exhaling.
Your drink is mostly melted ice now. You cradle it anyway, grounding yourself with the condensation slicking your fingers. The hallway smells faintly like cleaning supplies and old carpet, a strange relief after the sweat and beer and bodies.
You close your eyes for just a second.
“Fucking unbelievable—”
The voice cuts itself off abruptly.
You open your eyes.
Steve Harrington stands a few feet away, frozen mid-step like he didn’t expect anyone else to be here. His expression shifts quickly—from irritation to something guarded, something carefully neutral.
He clears his throat.
The light in the hallway is low, but not low enough to miss details. You notice them immediately, whether you want to or not. The striped polo stretched across his shoulders. Tight Levi’s sitting low on his hips. White Nikes scuffed just enough to look worn-in. There’s a thin chain around his neck that catches the light when he moves, glinting softly against his skin.
His eyes look darker here, glossy under the dim bulb. You can see the small moles scattered across his face, details you’ve never been close enough to notice before.
His gaze flicks over you. There is no rush in it.
“Sorry,” he mutters, like he’s intruded somehow.
“Don’t be,” you say too quickly, the words tumbling out before you’ve thought them through.
There’s a pause.
It stretches, heavy and strange, filled with the distant echo of music and the sound of your own breathing. You become acutely aware of how close he is. How this is—technically—the first time you’ve ever been alone with him.
It’s unsettling.
It’s awkward.
“Everything… okay?” you ask.
Your voice sounds smaller than you meant it to.
Steve’s jaw flexes. He looks away for a moment, staring down the hallway like the answer might be written on the wall.
“Oh—yeah,” he says slowly. “It’s just…” He glances back at you, cautious, measuring. Then he lets out a long sigh, dragging a hand through his hair. “Relationship shit.”
You tilt your head, studying him. It doesn’t match what you know—or think you know. Robin is always talking about him, always doting, always smiling like nothing in the world could touch them.
“Oh?” you say absently. “Sorry—that’s not meant to pry…”
He chuckles, low and brief, and shifts to lean against the wall across from you. He doesn’t crowd your space, but the hallway suddenly feels much smaller. He’s still facing you.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “It’s not that serious.” He shrugs. “Robin is just… picky.”
“About what?” you ask, laughing softly.
Steve’s mouth curves into a smirk, slow and deliberate. “Again,” he says, “relationship shit.”
You nod like you understand, even though you don’t. Not really.
“Right,” you say, lifting your cup and taking a sip, mostly to give yourself something to do.
His expression shifts.
It’s subtle, but you catch it—the way his eyes sharpen, something darker settling there. Something assessing. You hate that you’re standing directly in the line of it, like you’ve wandered somewhere you weren’t supposed to be.
“Let’s just say,” he continues, voice dropping, “I’m really impatient.”
You swallow.
The hallway feels warmer all of a sudden. Or maybe it’s just you. You feel strangely exposed, like you’re laid out on an examination table under his scrutiny, every small movement suddenly too noticeable.
Before you can think of another question, before you can decide whether you even want to, Steve pushes off the wall.
He gives you one last smirk.
Then he’s gone.
No goodbye. No explanation.
Just disappearing back into the noise, probably to find Robin again, leaving you alone in the hallway with a half-melted drink and a feeling you don’t quite have a name for yet.
By hour three, you are past the point of polite drunk and deep into the kind that feels like floating.
The music pulses through your ribs. The room blurs at the edges. You’re back on the dance floor with a boy you’re pretty sure you took algebra with freshman year, though his name has slipped cleanly out of your brain like it was never there at all. He smells like beer and cologne and warm skin, and his hands are bold, familiar in a way that feels easy to give into when you don’t want to think too hard.
You press back against him, laughing when he says something you don’t quite catch. His mouth finds the curve of your neck, breath hot, careless. You let it. Let yourself be held. Let yourself be wanted in a way that doesn’t require anything complicated.
You haven’t seen Robin in a while. Just once, maybe thirty minutes ago—her and Steve standing too close near the kitchen, talking in low, intense voices. It looked serious. Heavy. You almost went over. Almost asked if everything was okay.
Almost went home with Eddie instead.
But then this boy had said hello, and God, you must be really drunk if you can’t even remember his name.
The alcohol finally catches up to you all at once, a warm rush that settles in your stomach and sinks lower. You suddenly, desperately need to pee.
You pull away, scanning for the main bathroom. The line is absurd, snaking down the wall, full of annoyed faces and crossed legs. Fifteen minutes, at least.
You don’t have fifteen minutes.
So you head for the stairs.
Two freshmen pledges stand at the bottom like they’re guarding a palace instead of a frat house. They look you over, slow and appraising.
“Password?” one asks.
Oh. Right. The password.
Your brain stutters. “I’m— I’m friends with Robin Buckley,” you say, and then stall, because she definitely told you the password and you definitely don’t remember it.
Apparently that’s enough.
They step aside, and as you pass them, you hear one of them mutter, “Damn. Harrington’s getting kind of greedy tonight, isn’t he?”
You don’t know what he means, and you don’t stop to ask.
Upstairs feels like a different world.
The music dulls to a distant heartbeat. The air is cooler, cleaner. The hallway is lined with framed composites and plaques—Pike history displayed neatly for anyone who cares to look. Rows of smiling boys in navy suits. Greek Week medals. Philanthropy awards. Polished letters and old paddles hung like relics.
You slip into the empty bathroom and take a minute longer than you need, letting the quiet settle your spinning head.
When you come out, your eyes drift to the newest composite photo. You don’t mean to look for him. You just do.
Steve’s smile is wide and bright there, hair shorter, curls softer, like he hasn’t yet learned how to make himself look so untouchable. He looks younger. Kinder.
Girls are always telling Robin how hot her boyfriend is. Robin always laughs, always agrees. Once she even asked you what you thought.
You’d shrugged. He’s cute.
That was it.
You turn away, suddenly tired, suddenly missing your roommate. You’re ready to go back downstairs, to find Robin and tell her you’re heading out. The boy from algebra has probably already disappeared into someone else’s dorm by now.
It’s been a while since your last hookup anyway.
Then you hear it.
A soft voice down the hall. “Steve…”
You stop.
One door stands open.
Steve’s.
Oh. They must have come upstairs, you think. If the door’s open, it can’t be anything too serious. Right?
You walk toward it, ready to peek in, ready to tell Robin you’re going home.
And then you see.
Steve is inside.
Not alone.
He’s standing up, leaning against his desk. His shirt is gone. His hair is mussed, curls falling into his eyes. He looks undone in a way you’ve never seen before, breath unsteady, body tilted like he’s caught in something intense and consuming.
And in kneeled in front of him—
Not Robin.
The blonde girl with the perm.
His hand is in her hair, fingers curled tight, intimate and unmistakable. His other one clutches the desk, knuckles white. The girl's head bobs, and Steve’s grip guides her. “Fuck… yes… just like that…”
Your brain goes quiet.
For a second, everything freezes—the hallway, the music, your own breath in your chest. Your drunken haze snaps into a terrible, aching clarity.
Then Steve makes a soft, broken sound—half laugh, half breath—and his eyes fly open.
They land on you.
His face goes blank first. Hard. Calculating.
And then he smiles.
A slow, ugly smirk spreads across his mouth, and in that moment, any charm he ever had drains straight out of him. All you can see is what he is now.
A cheater.
A liar.
And he doesn’t even look ashamed.
He makes another quiet, filthy whine, almost like he’s amused you’re here to witness it.
You don’t stay long enough to see anything else.
You spin around, heart in your throat, and run.
Down the hallway. Past the awards. Past the perfect framed smiles.
You nearly collide with the pledges as you take the stairs two at a time, slipping back into the noise and heat and chaos below, heart pounding, stomach twisting, everything in you screaming to get as far away as possible.
You burst out the front door like you’re escaping a fire.
Cold night air slams into you, sharp and bracing, stealing what little breath you have left. You bend forward instinctively, hands braced against your knees, dragging in lungful after lungful that never seem to go far enough. Your chest burns. Your head swims. The thump of bass and laughter leaks through the walls behind you, muffled and distant now, like the party belongs to some other life you’ve already left behind.
You don’t know what to do.
Find Robin. Tell her. Make a scene.
The thoughts tumble over one another, frantic and useless. You can’t imagine standing in that crowded house and saying the words out loud. You can’t picture Robin’s face if you did. It would humiliate her. It would set something precious on fire and watch it burn in front of everyone.
But you also can’t lie.
The idea of looking her in the eye later—of hearing her talk about Steve the way she always does, with that quiet, devoted affection—makes your stomach twist violently. You’ve seen something you can’t unsee. You know something you can’t pretend away.
Your breath starts coming too fast, too shallow. The world tilts. You press a hand flat against your chest like you might be able to steady your heart there, like you can physically hold yourself together. The edges of your vision blur, dark spots flickering.
“Hey, sweetheart. What’s wrong?”
A warm hand lands between your shoulder blades, solid and real, grounding you just enough that you don’t completely fold in on yourself.
You blink hard, forcing your eyes to focus. Through the watery haze you make out Eddie Munson crouched in front of you, curls wild, eyes full of concern. He looks like he’s afraid you might topple over if he lets go.
“Where’s Robin?” you manage. Your voice comes out wrecked, barely recognizable as your own.
Eddie frowns. “I dunno. You want me to find her? She might be with Steve—”
Your stomach flips violently.
You barely have time to turn before you lurch forward, the contents of your gut coming up in a hot, miserable rush.
“Oh… whoa, whoa,” Eddie says, quick and gentle, rubbing your back, holding your hair away from your face. “Hey, hey… easy. Did you have too much to drink? I can go get Steve, he can—”
“No!”
The word tears out of you, sharp and cracked. You straighten slowly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, breath ragged.
“No,” you say again, shaking your head. “Steve is… occupied.”
Eddie freezes.
“Occupied?” he repeats, carefully, like he’s afraid to hear the answer. “What do you mean, occupied?”
You lift your gaze to the second story of the house. One window glows faintly behind drawn curtains, a quiet, damning little square of light.
Eddie follows your eyes.
A slow, weary sigh leaves him, and he drags a hand down his face.
And that’s when you see it.
That look.
The one people get when something they were never supposed to know has just been dragged into the open.
Your stomach turns all over again.
He knows.
You take a step back, shaking, something sour and furious crawling up your throat. “You knew,” you whisper. “You knew.”
Eddie straightens, hands settling on his hips like he’s bracing for a blow. “You—” he swallows. “You didn’t tell anyone, right? What you saw?”
“You mean did I tell Robin?” you shoot back, anger cutting clean through the shock.
“Tell me what?”
Robin’s voice comes from behind you, bright and breathless and heartbreakingly normal.
You turn. She’s walking toward you, cheeks flushed from dancing, hair a little mussed, smiling like the night hasn’t just cracked wide open. “I was looking all over for you,” she says. “I thought maybe you went home with—” Her smile falters when she sees your face. “What’s wrong?”
Eddie licks his lips, scratching the back of his neck. “She saw Steve.”
Robin blinks. “Okay…?”
“Buckley,” Eddie says quietly. “She saw him. Upstairs.”
Robin’s eyes go wide.
Her gaze snaps to you, searching your face for confirmation, for something you can’t give her.
You feel like you’re drowning in whatever unspoken understanding is passing between them, like they’re speaking in a language you don’t know, a truth you were never meant to be part of.
Robin’s expression changes. Softens.
“Eddie,” she says gently, “can you drive her back to the dorm? Please?”
“What the hell is going on?” you burst out. “Why is everyone acting like—”
“Come on,” Eddie says, reaching for you. “Let’s get you some food and get you home.”
You step back.
“Robin,” you say, your voice shaking but loud, “Steve is up there with another girl. He’s cheating on you.”
Her eyes shine, glassy in the porch light.
“I know,” she says quietly.
You stare at her. “What?”
“I know what he’s doing,” she says. “Please. Just go with Eddie.”
“Robin—”
Her voice snaps, sudden and sharp. “Just stay out of it, okay? It’s not your business. If you think I need a shoulder to cry on, I don’t. So just drop it. And go.”
And somehow, that hurts more than anything else.
You look between them, chest tight, pulse roaring in your ears.
“Screw you both,” you spit, and then you turn and storm away.
You hear Eddie calling your name. Robin too—sharp and urgent—but you don’t slow down. Your eyes burn with frustrated tears, and you refuse to let either of them see them fall.
The night swallows you as soon as you hit the sidewalk.
The walk to your dorm isn’t far, not really, but it feels longer when the adrenaline fades and the alcohol creeps back in. The pavement wobbles under your feet. Your stomach still churns, sour and unsettled. The cold air bites at your skin, and for a brief, miserable moment, you wish you’d been less angry. Wish you’d let Eddie drive you.
You wrap your arms around yourself and keep walking.
God, Steve Harrington is a prick.
The thought hits hard and clean, slicing through everything else. You hate him now. Truly, deeply hate him, in a way that makes your jaw ache from clenching it.
And suddenly everything starts to click.
He wasn’t just naturally flirty. He wasn’t harmless, or charming, or casually kind. He had been flirting with you. With you. Right in front of Robin.
Every memory comes rushing back all at once—the way his hand lingered at the small of your back, the brush of his fingers against your arm, the looks that lasted too long, the curved smiles that felt private. None of it seems accidental anymore. It feels deliberate. Calculated.
Your skin crawls, like you’ve been brushed by something diseased, something you can’t scrub off fast enough.
You reach your dorm on shaky legs and push inside, grateful for the quiet, the dim hallway lights, the absence of everyone else. Robin isn’t there.
Of course she isn’t.
You slam the door shut behind you.
You don’t bother changing. Don’t bother washing your face or brushing your teeth or doing anything that might make this feel smaller. You stumble to your bed and fall face-first into it, exhaustion crashing over you in one heavy wave.
And there, in the dark, with your cheek pressed into the pillow, you finally let yourself go to sleep.
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