“no stop”
“oh no i didn’t mean to do that”
“wRONG LAYER”
“wait go back”
“what line is that?!”
“cAN YOU– [irritated noises]”
“oh you…bastard”
“what..layer is that on??”
Pairing: Congressman! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Warnings: 18+ just in case. Fluff. Slight Angst. Eventual Smut.
Summary: Bucky agrees to a discreet cleaning service to tend to his apartment while he’s away. He never expected the care of someone he’d never met to become the gentlest part of his daily life.
Word Count: 8.1k
Previous Chapter - Masterlist
They didn’t see each other again. Not right away. Which was fine. As it should be.
So she nearly dropped the bag of lentils when she walked into the kitchen one Thursday and found him there. Leaning against the counter, glass of water in hand, a folder tucked under his arm. Suit pants, no jacket. Just a white undershirt that fit like it was stitched with malicious intent.
She froze. When did he enter?
“Good afternoon, sir,” she said finally, hoping her voice didn’t betray anything. Hoping her eyes hadn’t lingered on his chest more than intended.
He looked up. Blinked, like he wasn’t expecting to be greeted.
“Hey- um,” he shifted slightly, the folder under his arm creasing as he moved. “Don’t mind me. Things ended earlier today.”
“Oh.” She opened a cabinet and made a show of putting in the lentils, as if it required serious attention.
“I, uh-” He hesitated, cleared his throat. “I’ll go work on this and let you be. If you need anything, let me know.”
Then he gave her a nod. Casual, like they hadn’t stood frozen in the kitchen weeks ago while Maroon 5 declared things that were very much not workplace appropriate.
She smiled politely and nodded back. “Of course, sir.”
He walked down the hallway to the closed room at the back. The one she never touched, never even dusted the doorknob. The sound of it clicking shut broke the tension like a match snapping between fingers. She finally exhaled.
The next week, it happened again. Tuesday this time. He was already home when she arrived, lounging at the kitchen island, flipping through a file and halfway through a cup of coffee.
Then Thursday again.
Then Tuesday, two weeks later.
He never asked her to change anything. Never gave directions or tried to chat. He just… stayed there, while she worked in the kitchen. Then retired to the closed room.
She tried not to notice how often his eyes followed her movements when he thought she wouldn’t catch him. Tried not to notice how she started tidying slower when he was near.
He found himself adjusting his schedule. A suddenly rescheduled meeting, a constituent call that could be taken from home, or a bill review that started conveniently early. He’d arrive, shed his jacket, and gravitate towards the kitchen, a glass of water, a cup of coffee or a sandwich, his silent excuse. He’d sit on a stool at the island, ostensibly engrossed in his work, but his peripheral vision was constantly on her.
He didn't replay her dance in the kitchen more than he should. Of course he didn't. But the memory would sometimes surface, and then a quick and private smile would set at the corner of his lips before he consciously smoothed it away. He’d catch himself with a sharp, internal reprimand. Don’t be an idiot. She’s working. But her presence, the scent of jasmine and something else, something warm and alive, was a something he hadn't known he desperately needed in there. It was the antithesis of the sterile, silent apartment he usually returned to.
He’d watch her hands. The way they moved, efficient yet surprisingly gentle. How she wiped down the counters, not with a harsh scrub, but a soft, circular motion. How she folded the dish towels with almost meditative care. Sometimes, she’d hum a low tune, barely audible, and he’d find himself unconsciously slowing his breathing, matching her rhythm.
She, in turn, became accustomed to his presence. The initial jolt of surprise changed into a low awareness. She’d still offer a polite, “Good afternoon, sir,” but her voice held less tension, her shoulders a fraction less stiff. She learned the cadence of his movements: the soft thud of his briefcase, the quiet scrape of the stool as he sat, the rustle of papers. She found herself instinctively leaving him space, not just physically, but in the flow of her work. She’d clean around him, her movements fluid and unobtrusive, a silent dance of shared space.
One Tuesday, she was wiping down the stovetop, her back to him, when she heard the soft click of his pen. “Poppy seeds,” he murmured, so low she almost missed it.
She paused, her hand still on the rag. “Sir?”
He cleared his throat, not looking up from his file. “The cake. You said they were poppy seeds.”
A warmth spread through her chest. “Yes,” she said, turning slightly, a small, unbidden smile touching her lips. “That’s right.”
He nodded, a barely perceptible dip of his head. He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.
She opened the spice cabinet and paused. There, between the usual jars of cinnamon and sugar, was a new addition.
Not a crinkled bag, not a sample-sized pouch, but a full glass jar, filled to the brim with tiny dark poppy seeds.
He’d meant it.
He really liked the cake.
She smiled a little, almost despite herself, and started gathering the rest of the ingredients: flour, sugar, lemons. She laid everything out on the counter, fully aware of him sitting somewhere behind her. His attention wasn’t loud, but she felt it, like warmth against the back of her neck.
She tied on her apron, tugged the knot tightly at her waist, and moved on autopilot: dry ingredients into a bowl, whisk in hand, eyes fixed on the ingredients, she didn’t need the recipe. The plan was to get the cake in the oven so she could clean the rest of the apartment while it baked.
She was just reaching for the oil bottle when a voice spoke up behind her, low and closer than she expected.
“Oil instead of butter?”
She startled. A soft gasp escaped her lips, her free hand flying to her chest as she spun around.
The bowl nearly slipped from her other hand.
He stood just behind her, a little too close.
His eyes were wide with immediate regret, his posture pulled slightly inward.
“Shit, sorry,” he said, holding up his hands slightly, like he hadn’t meant to corner her. “Didn’t mean to sneak up.”
His voice had softened a little. He looked… apologetic. Maybe a little sheepish. She nodded, still trying to calm her breathing.
“I just-” He rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze flicking toward the counter, “Noticed the oil,” he said, gesturing toward the bottle. “My ma used to bake like that. Butter was expensive to waste in baking, so she stuck with oil. Especially during the lean years.”
He nodded slightly toward the jar of poppy seeds, a faint smile on his lips, soft with something older. “No fancy stuff like that, though.”
That surprised her, hearing him say it so casually. She wouldn’t have expected him to talk about his mother.
She watched him for a second, her heartbeat starting to level out.
“The oil keeps it soft for longer,” she offered, “Even when it’s cold.”
He nodded. “Makes sense.”
Then he stepped back, like he realized how close he’d gotten, and she turned back to her work, still feeling the heat of the moment under her skin.
----
Days turned into weeks. He started asking for small variations, what if, instead of lemon, she made the cake with tangerine, for example? So she reworked a tangerine recipe she liked, adjusted it to include the seeds, and experimented with a glaze.
He’d try it quietly, give a thoughtful nod, and sometimes leave the empty plate drying in the sink with a neatly folded napkin beside it. The “sir” began to feel weird each time she said it. One Thursday, she was at the sink, washing dishes, the sound of running water filling the space between them.
Then he spoke from the kitchen island. “You know,” he said, “you don’t have to call me ‘sir’.” Her hands paused in the water. She turned her head, half-expecting him to be flipping through papers again, but he wasn’t. He was watching her. Calm. Open. With something gentle behind his eyes. “It’s… James,” he added, with a small, almost hesitant smile. “Or- uh- Bucky. Whatever you prefer.”
She blinked. Water dripped from her fingertips. That line between them, the formality she’d never dared step over, cracked with a couple of words. A slow smile spread across her face. Real and warm. “Okay,” she said quietly. “James.”
He nodded, like that settled something. Then, without fanfare, he returned to his file.
It felt easier. Lighter. Like a window had just been opened, and neither of them needed to hold their breath anymore.
----
That ease, however, was short-lived. One afternoon, the doorbell rang, a sharp, insistent noise that cut through the quiet of the apartment. Bucky’s head snapped up from his file, with annoyance painted across his face. He wasn’t expecting anyone.
He pushed off the stool and headed for the door, shifting his posture subtly. He tensed before opening. Who let him get inside the building?
“Barnes! You old hermit, finally caught you at home!”
The voice was loud, theatrical. Congressman Thorne stepped inside before he was invited, already mid-monologue. His smile never quite reached his eyes.
He scanned the apartment. Then his gaze landed on her, just coming out of the bathroom, cleaning caddy in hand. The look he gave her was brief but assessing before he turned to Bucky again.
Bucky forced a tight chuckle. “Congressman Thorne. To what do I owe the… unexpected pleasure?”
As he saw the man keeping his gaze on her, he gestured vaguely in her direction, with a dismissive flick of the wrist. “Don’t mind her. Just the cleaning service.” He didn’t meet her eyes.
Thorne gave her a cursory nod, then clapped Bucky’s shoulder like they were old friends. “Pleasure? Barnes, I’m counting votes. That infrastructure bill I’m pushing? It’s tight. I figured a face-to-face, off-the-record chat might sway the scales better than a dozen ignored emails.”
He made himself at home on the couch, pulling out a tablet without waiting for permission.
She retreated to the kitchen, quiet and professional. But even behind the wall, Thorne’s booming voice can be heard easily, a grating contrast to Bucky’s low, measured responses. She unpacked the caddy, mentally sorting the next steps, laundry, folding, and prep for ironing next visit. Her hands kept moving. Her ears kept straining.
Ten minutes in, Thorne’s voice rose again. “Honestly, Barnes, you’re a terrible host. You’ve got me working hard here and haven’t even offered a man a damn coffee. What kind of hospitality is this?”
Bucky’s jaw tensed. He cursed himself silently. Right. Coffee. Basic manners. He started toward the kitchen, unsure. “Right, uh, coffee. I can-”
“Nonsense,” Thorne cut in, laughing like he found Bucky’s domestic instinct adorable. “That’s what the service is for.”
Bucky tried, “Technically, she just cleans, does laundry-”
“She’s paid. If you’re home, she serves the household. That’s how this works.” Then, louder: “Dear, you in the kitchen, I know you can hear me. Be a gem and make a decent cup of coffee, would you?”
Bucky stilled.
The audacity hit him like a slap. The way Thorne spoke to her, as if she were some kind of lowly servant. This was his home. But politics had taught him what was worth a confrontation… and what wasn’t. Not here. Not with this man.
She appeared at the doorway, her face blank, her apron off, and in a composed posture. Professional to the letter. Her gaze flicked to Bucky -just a second- but he saw the hint of something swirling beneath her surface.
“Would you also like a coffee, sir?” she asked, her voice perfectly smooth. No cracks. No tells.
Bucky hesitated.
He wanted to say, Don’t. He wanted to look Thorne in the eye and tell him to get his own damn drink. But Thorne was already smirking, relaxed, as if this were the natural order of things.
“Just for the congressman, thank you,” Bucky said at last.
His voice was clipped. Cold. He didn’t look at her again, not because he didn’t want to, but because looking would give too much away.
And for now, appearances were everything.
----
She turned, her back to them, and walked into the kitchen. The dismissive tone from Thorne stung with a sharp, unexpected prick. It wasn’t just the words, but the casual way he’d said them, as if she were indeed furniture, or a particularly well-trained dog. Just the cleaning service. Bucky’s voice echoed in her head, cold and precise.
It stung, perhaps, because the company’s policy of no-interaction had always acted as a shield, protecting her from these kinds of situations. It gave her anonymity, distance, some kind of armor. It had allowed her to move through expensive spaces like a ghost, unnoticed and untouched by the power dynamics, the inherent imbalance. But now that thin veil was gone.
She reached for the coffee maker with steady hands that didn’t feel steady. Let’s be real, she told herself. She was the service. No matter that he’d told her to drop the “sir.” No matter that he’d sat at the kitchen island, talking about recipes, this and that, or told her about his ma like it was something personal.
They weren’t friends. They never were.
She got paid to scrub his bathroom and make some meals. And she’d do well to remember that.
Whatever idea she’d gotten in her head, whatever hopeful daydreams had before sleep, counting the days until she could go back to the apartment, wondering if he would be there, clearly, it was just that. A daydream. A foolish, unprofessional fantasy that didn’t belong in the real world.
Her fingers pressed the coffee grounds down harder than needed. The machine hissed to life.
She would make the coffee.
She would serve it.
And she’d remember her place.
----
She finished in silence. No more humming, no soft steps between rooms, no pause by the spice rack where she sometimes lingered. Just movement, efficient and mechanical. She served the coffee without a word, with her eyes fixed on the mug, never meeting either man’s gaze. Then she disappeared down the hall to finish folding the last of the laundry.
When she returned, her coat was already draped over one arm, her bag on her shoulder. There was no service exit, no discreet hallway to slip through unseen. If she wanted to leave, she had to pass through the living room. She walked toward the door, deliberately trying to pass unnoticed.
Bucky looked up just before she reached it. His gaze met hers, uncertain, flickering with something he didn’t have the freedom to say, not in front of Thorne, who followed the moment with curiosity behind his smirk.
She paused by the door and bowed her head slightly. “I’m retiring for the afternoon, sir.” Her voice was polite. Professional. Not cold, but distant.
Bucky managed a stiff nod, caught between the heat crawling up his neck and the weight of Thorne’s eyes, amused and appraising. “Of course,” he said quietly.
She nodded once and stepped out, the door clicking closed behind her.
Thorne, either as a joke or out of malice, leaned back with a casual smirk on his face. “Careful, Barnes,” he said, voice light but laced with something sour. “Give them too much leeway and next thing you know, the press runs a juicy Congressman & the Maid piece. Happens all the time, salacious headlines. Real messy.”
He chuckled at his own comment, a low, unpleasant sound.
Bucky’s jaw clenched, the muscle in his cheek twitching once, hard. He wanted to lash out, to wipe that smug smirk off Thorne’s face. But his short time in this new world had taught him a brutal kind of self-control.
He took a slow breath, forcing the anger down, replacing it with a cool, almost icy politeness.
“Thorne,” he said, his voice low, devoid of any warmth, “I assure you, my staff is entirely professional.” He leaned forward slightly, eyes locked on the other man. “Perhaps we should focus on the bill, unless you’ve exhausted your arguments for it?” He didn't raise his voice, but the steel in his tone was unmistakable. His eyes held a warning that went beyond mere political decorum.
Thorne’s grin faltered. Not entirely, men like him didn’t shed arrogance that easily, but enough. He cleared his throat and looked down at his tablet.
“Right. Infrastructure,” he muttered. “Where were we…”
----
The next week, when he got home, he noticed she hadn’t been in the apartment. He found himself pacing, wondering if the company had reassigned her. The jasmine scent was gone, replaced by a generic, sterile cleaner. The food in the fridge was bland, pre-packaged. He hated it.
On Tuesday, he made sure he was home. He waited, restless, until he heard the familiar click of the door. When she walked into the living room, she was already wearing her apron, tied tight, and her hair pulled back so severely it looked painful. Her movements were clipped and precise, almost robotic. Her voice, when she offered a stiff, "Good afternoon, sir," was devoid of any warmth. Back to square one. Or worse.
She avoided the kitchen, gravitating towards the living room and the bedroom, cleaning surfaces meticulously even though they were already gleaming, like she was hoping he’d vanish.
He made noise. Poured himself water. Flipped a page too loudly. Nothing.
So he waited. She'd have to clean the kitchen eventually. Cook. Without other chores to do, she had no other option but to go there.
Finally, she moved towards the kitchen. She started with the sink, exaggeratedly slowly, as if trying to prolong the task, to avoid facing him. Then she worked around him like he was part of the furniture, not worth even a glance.
He couldn't take it anymore. He pushed off the stool, and the scrape of the wood against the tile was loud in the sudden silence. She flinched, tensing her shoulders. He approached her slowly, not close enough to crowd her, but close enough that she couldn’t pretend anymore. His hands hung loosely at his sides.
"Is something wrong?" he asked, his voice soft and gentle, a stark contrast to the rigid professionalism she exuded.
She kept her back to him, shrugging her shoulders tightly. "Nothing, sir," she said in almost a whisper. "Just trying to keep things professional."
He didn't like it. Not one bit.
The warmth they'd cultivated, the smiles, all had been shattered, replaced by this cold, distant politeness. This version of her felt like losing something he hadn’t realized he’d started to hope for. He wanted to reach out, to tell her it was okay, that Thorne was an ass, that she didn't have to put up this wall. But he didn't know how to do it. Technically, she wasn't doing anything wrong.
"Is this about the visit?" he asked, unable to stop himself. "Did I offend you?"
She finally turned around, her face carefully blank, but her eyes had something he couldn't quite decipher. "Oh no, you didn't offend me, sir," she said, her voice still clipped, formal. "But I was reminded of my place, so I think it's better-"
"You are not a thing," he cut her off, his voice sharper than he intended, a sudden surge of frustration breaking through his carefully constructed composure. He took a step closer, his hands clenching at his sides. "I- I like to talk to you when we have the opportunity. It's a fucking household, not a museum. And you are part of it. I'm not well-versed in acting in front of politicians yet, but something like that won't happen again."
Her eyes widened slightly. She wasn’t expecting that.
She looked down, voice barely above a whisper. “It was just coffee. And he was right. I’m supposed to attend to you if you’re present.”
His jaw worked. He stepped in closer, voice lower now. “But things can be asked politely. You know that.”
She didn’t reply right away. Just nodded once, tight and hesitantly.
----
He didn’t press. Not right away.
He gave her space, but his presence on the days he was there was more watchful.
The next Tuesday, when she arrived, he was already in the kitchen. A mug of steaming coffee in his hand.
He lifted it slightly in her direction, a silent offer.
She hesitated. Her eyes flicked from the mug to his face, then back. It was such a simple gesture, but it felt heavier than it looked. She shook her head, barely a movement.
He nodded once, said nothing, and set the second mug down on the counter near her, just within reach. Then he turned back to his file.
Later that day, she was bracing her shoulder against the heavy living room couch, trying to move it aside to vacuum underneath. It was always the worst part, the awkward angle, the stubborn weight. She grunted under her breath.
Then a shadow passed over her. She looked up to find him standing beside her, vibranium arm catching the afternoon light.
He didn’t say a word, just bent down, gripping the base of the couch effortlessly with his metal fingers. With a single, fluid motion, he lifted it, balancing the three-seater as if it were made of cardboard, and gave her an expectant look.
Her lips parted, just slightly. The effortless power of that action was… impressive.
She felt heat rise up her neck. A flutter in her chest that hadn’t happened in years.
Pinning like a teenager, she thought, horrified.
But she nodded, accepting his help, and ducked her head to guide the vacuum beneath. Her hands felt clumsy. Her movements suddenly became self-conscious under his gaze.
He held the couch until she finished, then set it down with the same unbothered precision.
After that, it became a routine.
He didn’t hover, but when something needed lifting, a box of files, a window stuck in its frame, the dining table for a deep clean, he was there. No offer. No announcement. Just a silent, strong presence, anticipating her needs.
And she… stopped resisting.
Stopped pretending she didn’t notice the way the air shifted when he was near. How the apartment, so sterile at first, now felt like it pulsed with something warm. Something shared.
Her voice softened. Her posture relaxed.
The “sir” grew rarer, falling away altogether on the quieter days.
Once, while drying a plate, she’d murmured, “Thanks, James,” without even thinking.
He hadn’t said anything. Just gave a small nod, but he didn’t stop smiling for the rest of the afternoon.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, they found their way back to the warmth that had been cracked by that visit.
Not quite the same as before.
But almost.
----
The storm started mid-afternoon. The rain tapped against the windows in a relentless assault. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed, then faded into nothing.
Bucky was in the backroom, had been all day. The phantom pain in his arm became a bitch. The humidity always did it, a dull ache that burned at the nerves, a ghost limb screaming for attention, leaving him short-tempered and sweating. He’d removed his arm hours ago, tired of the involuntary twitching, the useless reflex of a limb that wasn't there. The scar tissue pulled against the metal, irritated and angry.
So he sat in silence, in the quiet of the closed room, with the prosthesis resting on the desk.
When she arrived, he didn’t call out.
Didn’t greet her, didn’t make the usual noise so she’d know he was around.
She, meanwhile, started her routine oblivious of his ordeal. She moved through the apartment humming a low tune as she dusted the living room shelves. Then, a faint sound from the back of the apartment, a muffled sneeze. Her hand paused mid-air.
Oh.
So he was there after all. Her brow furrowed.
He hadn’t said anything. Not even a “hey.” Not a sound all the time she was there. Maybe he was on a call. Maybe he was resting. Or maybe -her stomach twisted a little- she’d done something wrong. Said something too familiar. Took too long to clean under the couch. Looked at him too long when he moved past her last Thursday, with that black henley she had never seen before. Oh god, was she that obvious and made him uncomfortable?
She slapped herself mentally for spiraling and pretending things that really weren't granted. He was her fucking boss, and he didn’t even have to be there to begin with. Less had the obligation to greet her. So, a little dejected, she sighed and continued with her work, more carefully after that. Didn’t hum again. Moved quietly.
On the other side of the closed door, Bucky sat in his chair, rubbing at the edge of the scar near his collarbone, eyes closed, jaw clenched. He could hear her. He could picture exactly where she was standing. The sound of her footsteps was familiar now, and he liked to hear them.
He tried to suppress the impulse to open the door. He felt like shit, surely looked like it, and, even if he showed his vibranium arm in the open now, he still was a little unsure about showing himself without it. Showing himself to her without it. It felt too vulnerable.
He pressed his forehead against the wooden rim of the desk, waiting for her to pass, waiting for the familiar sounds to move further away, leaving him in his solitary, aching silence.
----
The storm had deepened within the afternoon, and the rain came in sheets now, harder and meaner, wind shoving against the windows like fists. The power hadn’t been cut completely, but the lights flickered once, twice, then held. The apartment, already shadowed by the heavy clouds, plunged into a deeper, oppressive gloom.
From inside the back room, Bucky sat hunched in his chair, arm still off, trying not to grind his teeth against the phantom stabs twisting through his shoulder. He hated how much space the pain took in his mind. He hated more that she was out there, somewhere in the apartment, and he was hiding.
He heard the vacuum running faintly from the hallway, then the soft scrape as she unplugged it and dragged it toward the living room.
A moment later, the power went off.
Then, came a loud clatter.
A dull, painful thunk, then a sharp gasp, bitten off.
Bucky’s eyes snapped open. The pain in his arm, for a split second, was forgotten. He felt like an idiot, being enclosed in here, hiding from her, while she was out there, alone in the dark. He pushed himself out of the chair, ignoring the protest from his aching shoulder.
The second yelp was softer, a low, frustrated sound, like someone cursing through clenched teeth.
He fumbled for the doorknob and pulled the door open.
The hallway was cast in soft gray light. She was on her knees, not far from the vacuum, cradling her left arm tightly to her chest. A spray bottle rolled lazily in a circle beside her. One of the TV rack doors had been flung open, she must’ve hit it.
“Are you okay?” he asked, concerned.
She froze, then looked up, surprised. He was next to her in a blink, in a plain black T-shirt and one arm. Her eyes didn’t linger on the missing limb. She didn’t gawk. She didn’t show a flicker of surprise, only distress in her wide eyes.
“I didn’t think -sorry- I didn’t mean to make a fuss,” she said quickly.
“You didn’t,” he cut in. “Did you fall?”
She shifted slightly, clearly wincing. “Tripped on the damn cord. Tried to catch myself on the doorframe. Didn’t see the rack edge until it was in my elbow.”
He was already kneeling in front of her, balancing easily despite the lack of his prosthesis. The closeness startled her. It felt treacherously good, the kind of proximity she shouldn’t want. His cologne floated faintly between them, clean and warm, a scent she’d noticed before but never this close. The worry in his face didn’t help either.
Her voice was quieter now. “You weren’t out all day. I thought- never mind.”
His eyes dropped to her arm. Red was blooming through the sleeve, not pouring, but enough to make his stomach clench. A dark, angry stain spreading against the pale fabric.
“You’re bleeding,” he muttered, more to himself. “Shit.”
“Just a scrape.” She tried to sound dismissive, but her voice trembled.
“I’ve had scrapes. That’s not a scrape.” His voice was firm with resolve, leaving no room for argument. “Come on. Sit.” He gestured toward the couch, then rose and offered her his hand.
She hesitated. “You sure you’re okay to-”
“I’m not the one who fell.”
She took it. Her fingers were cool against his palm, a feather-light touch. He gently led her toward the couch and helped her sit. The room smelled faintly of the lemon polish.
“I’ll get the kit,” he muttered, already turning around.
She nodded, not looking at him.
When he returned, seeing her sitting there, quiet, holding herself like she didn’t want to be a burden, and again, it affected him more than he expected.
He knelt, setting the kit beside him, and met her eyes.
“Let me?” he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper, his gaze looking for permission.
She nodded, and he reached for her arm, careful, cautious.
“Roll up your sleeve?” he asked, his thumb gently nudging the fabric.
She tried, but winced. He took over, gently tugging the fabric back, revealing the bright scrape blooming just above the elbow. Angry, some broken skin. Already starting to swell.
He hissed softly through his teeth. His brow furrowed in concentration as he picked up a small bottle of antiseptic from the kit. He tried to twist the cap, but his fingers fumbled weirdly with the smooth plastic. He rotated it, pressed down, twisted again, a low grunt of frustration escaping him. The cap refused to budge.
Clearly, it was a more challenging task with one hand.
He leaned into it, tensing his shoulders, a faint sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead despite the cool air. The fucking pain was killing him.
She watched him, feeling ridiculous and useless, sitting there, holding her arm. It was just a scrape. And the poor man was trying his best without a limb.
“Here, let me,” she said softly, reaching out her uninjured hand towards the bottle.
He shook his head, a quick, jerky motion. “Don’t move the arm.” His gaze was still fixed on the stubborn cap, his jaw clenched.
“You’re not considering the safety cap,” she explained gently, a small, almost imperceptible smile touching her lips. “It’s not about force, you have to push down the cap, then swirl it. They’re for little children, not to open them easily.”
He paused, with his hand still on the bottle, tilting his head slightly as he considered her words. Then he looked up at her, with a flicker of something -perhaps mild embarrassment- in his eyes. He seemed to think for a beat, then a faint, almost shy smile touched his lips.
“Alright, let’s do teamwork, then,” he said, meeting her gaze. “You hold it, I uncap. Then I grab the cotton, you pour some of this thing on it, and I apply it.” He held the bottle out to her, his hand steady despite the tremors of pain.
She took the bottle, brushing his fingers in the process. Then she pressed down on the cap, twisted, and with a soft pop, it opened. She handed it back to him.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice quiet, a little breathless. “It’s… a little too much fuss for a scratch.” She gestured vaguely at her elbow, then at the first aid kit.
He shook his head, already reaching for a sterile cotton pad. “Call me old-fashioned, but I can’t let you do this alone.” His gaze, when it met hers, was firm. “In fact, why don’t you go home early? Don’t cook. I’ll order something.” His brow furrowed with concern. “It’s going to swell more if you’re moving around.”
She felt a warmth spread through her chest, a surprising wave of gratitude. “That’s very sweet of you, James,” she said, using his name softly, almost instinctively. “But I still have to do one more house before going home. And it’d be easier to take the bus from here instead of from the one near my place.”
He frowned, a deep line appearing between his brows. Somehow… he hadn’t thought about the other homes. Not once. Not really.
“But the rain-” he started, gesturing vaguely towards the drumming against the windows.
“The company doesn’t care about the rain or a scratch on my elbow,” she pointed out, a faint, wry smile touching her lips. “Neither does the client, who expects his home to be clean when he gets there.”
It was unreasonable, he knew, to fuss like that, to even be that naive as to suggest she skip work because she’d tripped or the weather was bad. But still, something inside him bristled at the idea of her going house to house in wet clothes, hurt and tired. He remembered her ma going to work sick after his father died. The world just kept spinning. He didn’t like it. He wanted her at home, resting and comfortable.
“You’re right,” he said finally, dragging a hand through his hair with a sigh. “I’m sorry. Wasn’t my place to say that.”
Still, he added -softer this time, more stubborn than apologetic- “But I don’t want you cooking today.”
“I promise I’m more than capable of cooking with a scraped elbow-” she began, trying to sound reassuring.
At that moment, the stabbing pain in his shoulder peaked, a sharp, white-hot agony that made him wince before he could mask it. His jaw clenched, his eyes squeezed shut for a fleeting second, a low, guttural sound escaping his lips.
Then he looked down and away, like it embarrassed him to have shown that to her.
She stilled.
“…Are you okay?” she asked quietly.
Bucky’s jaw clenched. “I’m fine.”
It was immediate, practiced, too quick to be convincing. He didn’t meet her eyes as he started to close the first aid kit, fumbling a little with the flap.
“You were fussing over a scrape and a bruise,” she said, voice gentle but pointed. “So I can fuss too about you.”
That made him pause.
He stilled, the flap of the kit half-fastened in his hand. His eyes lifted slowly and met hers. For a moment, he just looked at her, as if weighing something, measuring the weight of truth in his mouth. Finally, he exhaled through his nose, low and tired.
“It’s the arm,” he muttered. “Or more precisely, the absence of it.”
She didn’t speak, just gave a single slow nod, like she understood.
He glanced down at his shoulder, where the shirt hung awkwardly loose. “Phantom pain,” he added. “It’s- bad when it’s humid. The nerves light up like they’re still alive. Like the arm is still there, burning.”
Her voice stayed quiet, even. “Do you have medication for that? Nerve blocks or something?”
He huffed a humorless sound. “My metabolism burns most of it off before it can even do anything. Painkillers don’t stick. Tried a few things. Never lasted.”
She seemed to absorb that, dropping her gaze briefly to his arm, not the absence of it, but the place where it used to be. Then she looked up again.
“…Have you tried acupuncture?”
He blinked, caught off-guard. “Needles?”
She gave a tiny shrug. “Sometimes it works for nerve pain.”
“I figured they’d snap before they broke the skin,” he muttered, almost to himself.
A beat passed. Then he tilted his head slightly, studying her. “You seem to know a little about this.”
Her fingers twitched at her apron, and she flicked her eyes away. “My, uh… my ex had a leg prosthesis. Below the knee.”
Soft. Not embarrassed, just cautious. Like she wasn’t sure if that was something she should say aloud.
Bucky’s gaze didn’t move from her. “Did he have it- the phantom pain, too?”
She nodded. “Mostly at night. Or when it was cold. He used to get this-” she gestured vaguely toward her own leg, “burning feeling. Said it was like the limb still wanted to move.”
“Yeah,” Bucky murmured. “Sounds about right.”
They stood there in silence for a long moment. The thunder outside cracked again, distant but deep. The apartment dimmed slightly with the passing of a cloud, and the overhead light flickered once.
Neither of them moved.
"Um- I don’t want to overstep,” she said, brushing her fingers nervously in her apron. Would he take it the wrong way? Was it too personal, too close to something she had no right to offer? She took a slow breath anyway. “But… have you ever tried guided meditation?”
He blinked at her. His shoulders sagged a little as he exhaled, dropping his gaze. “No,” he said after a pause. Just that.
Her pulse spiked. This was past her job, and maybe he’d hear more in it than she meant to admit. “Want to give it a try?” she asked gently. “I used to… you know. When it got really bad, I’d sit with him and do it.” She swallowed. “It helped. Sometimes.”
His eyes lifted at that. There was something unreadable in them. Surprise, maybe. Doubt. A little curiosity.
The idea sounded like bullshit. Bucky had been poked, prodded, sedated, reprogrammed, hypnotized, and rewired. He didn’t trust anything that had to do with closing his eyes and letting go. But she was here, just offering to sit with him and try something that could help. And maybe, with her voice... it would be different.
He let out a small breath, almost a laugh. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
She smiled softly. “Exactly.”
He rubbed his scarred shoulder with the heel of his palm. “So, how does it work?”
“Well,” she said, smoothing the front of her apron again, “you sit somewhere comfortable. Or lie down. And I just… talk you through breathing. Where to put your thoughts. How to let go of the ones that hurt.”
Bucky tilted his head, uncertain. “Sounds like a sham.”
“Most good things do,” she murmured.
That earned her a quiet huff from him, but it wasn’t annoyed, it was closer to amused. “Alright,” he said gruffly. “Let’s try it.”
“You’ll want a pillow,” she added.
----
Bucky lay down on the couch, slowly, and the leather creaked beneath him, stretching with his weight. He exhaled through his nose, trying not to wince as he shifted his body to a position that wouldn’t tug at the scarred edge of his shoulder. She sat on the floor beside him, but a little behind, with her legs folded under her, just out of his line of sight. It was intentional, she knew some people felt self-conscious if they were being watched during moments like this.
“Close your eyes,” she said softly, voice low and even.
He didn’t move.
“I can tell you’re not doing it,” she added, just as gently, with the faintest thread of a smile under the words.
He sighed, long and slow, and let a reluctant, muttered, “Fine,” slip past his lips.
She let the quiet stretch for a second before her voice came again, firmer now. “It won’t work if you don’t cooperate. Are you sure you want to try this?”
“Yeah,” he said, and it was a little hoarse. “I just- sorry. Please. Continue.”
Another pause.
“Alright,” she said, her voice a soft murmur, “Just breathe with me. Deep breath in.”
Bucky did a shallow, tight intake of air that rattled slightly in his chest.
“No,” she said gently, “deeper than that. Like you’re breathing in clean air for the first time. Fill your stomach first, then your chest. All the way up.”
He tried again, and this time the breath was full, slow, and even. A long, shuddering exhale followed it.
“That’s it. Now, start by noticing the places where your body touches the couch. Your shoulders, your back, your heels. Feel your weight sinking into it… like gravity’s pulling just a little stronger today.”
She waited.
“Now breathe in again through your nose, slow and deep. Hold it for three counts. One… two… three… and let it go, nice and slow, like you’re letting air out of a balloon. Try again.”
She listened as he did, matching her pace. His breathing slowed almost despite himself. The air around them felt stiller. A faint twitch ran through the corner of his mouth, not quite a frown, not quite a release.
“Let your jaw unclench. Relax your forehead. Let your arms go heavy. Even the phantom one, try to let it feel heavy, too. Let it drift.”
His throat bobbed once, the faintest shiver running through his body as the muscles along his back loosened. He exhaled again, deeper this time.
“Imagine the pain as static. White noise. Just a sound your mind’s gotten used to tuning into. Now, picture turning the volume down. Little by little.”
He did.
“Now, focus on your breathing again. Let it be the only thing. In through the nose… hold… and out. That’s it.”
Outside, the rain still tapped against the windows, but he didn’t notice it anymore. Somewhere between her voice and the imagined weightlessness, the pain dulled. Not gone, not erased, but quieted. Something to acknowledge and release, not to fight. His jaw, which had been clenched tight since he couldn’t remember, loosened.. His hand stopped twitching. For a few minutes, there was just her voice.
Nothing else.
He didn't realize how tired he was until her voice seemed to wrap around him. His thoughts, usually a relentless, paranoid carousel, began to slow. The faces, the missions, the memories, they were still there, but they were no longer screaming for his attention. They were just… thoughts. Something he could observe and let go.
After what felt like a long time, the words slowed, then stopped.
He lay there for another minute. He felt… spent. Drained. But the pain, for the first time in what felt like forever, was no longer in the driver’s seat. It was a passenger, silent and dormant, and for the first time since that day, he felt like he could breathe without being controlled by it.
----
She understood. Maybe not the exact feel of his pain, but its depth. She'd seen it before, in Lance. Some days it was so bad he couldn’t speak, didn’t want to eat, couldn’t be touched. And Bucky… well, what he'd endured went beyond a battlefield. Sometimes, pain came with shame. And shame came with silence. Especially for men like him. Soldiers. Survivors. Men are taught to never flinch, never fall. That was why he was locked in that room.
She let the silence stretch for a moment longer. Then her voice came back, soft but purposeful.
“Alright. I want you to picture something now. A forest path. You're alone. No pressure, no eyes on you. Just your steps, and the sound of leaves underfoot. Everything smells like damp moss, like pine. Sunlight filters through the branches.”
Her words rolled slowly, like a gentle current, wrapping around his consciousness.
“The further you walk, the quieter everything gets. No traffic. No voices. Just birds, wind, and your breath.”
She shifted slightly, the fabric of her pants rustling faintly as she adjusted her seat behind him.
“You find a stream. Clear, slow water. You follow it, and it leads you to a lake, hidden between trees. The kind no one’s mapped. Like it’s been waiting just for you.”
Bucky’s chest rose, held, and exhaled.
“No one’s there. You’re not in a rush. The sun's warm. The water, even warmer.”
A pause.
“You undress. Not because you’re supposed to, but because you want to. The air is soft. The breeze is kind. You step into the lake, slowly. It welcomes you.”
She smiled faintly, voice lowering into a kind of hush.
“Float. Let the water hold you up. You don’t have to carry anything. Not your weight. Not your name. Not the pain.”
Her voice hitched barely, but kept going.
“The surface cradles you. The sun kisses your face, your chest. Even the places that ache. It sees everything, and still... it’s gentle with you.”
She heard his breath deepen. Knew he was still there, still listening. Still floating. So she said no more. Let the quiet swell again, only leaving the sound of her breathing near his shoulder.
Let the water do the rest.
----
After another long moment of silence, her voice returned, a little more solid now. “Alright, James. When you’re ready, you can come back now. The path is always there.”
He blinked, a slow, deliberate motion. Then pushed himself upright, the leather couch groaning beneath him. He ran a hand over his face, clumsy with the weight of whatever he’d just emerged from. He felt disoriented, like he’d just woken from a long, deep sleep he hadn’t known he needed. He looked at her, his expression was a mix of awe and bewilderment.
“Well,” he said, his voice a low, raspy whisper. “I’ll be damned.”
She rose, unfolding her legs and brushing her palms on her apron. She didn’t quite meet his eyes. “It can be… surprising, the first time.”
He shook his head, a faint, almost amused smile on his lips. “Surprising? That’s… that’s not the word I’d use. I haven’t felt that quiet in my head in a long, long time.” The honesty in his voice was a little unsettling, even to him. It felt like a confession.
She busied herself with the scattered items on the floor, picking up the spray bottle she had dropped. “It’s just about retraining the brain,” she said, a little too quickly. “Giving it a new focus. Giving those nerve signals something else to respond to.”
But he didn’t believe that. Not really.
It wasn’t just “science,” he thought, watching her. It was you. Her voice in the dark. He hadn’t simply followed a path, he had followed her, trusted her to walk through the minefield of his mind without triggering anything fatal. And she had. She had been gentle. She had been kind. She gave him a place to rest. He realized, with a jolt, that he trusted her. The kind of trust he had only felt toward very few people after he became the Soldat.
He watched her, a knot of feelings threading in his chest. “Thank you,” he said, the words feeling too small, too inadequate for what she had just given him. “For… this.”
She felt the heat of his gaze, the weight of his sincerity. The answer rose to her lips -anytime- but the voice in her head, the one built of rent bills and ruined dreams and every reality check she’d ever swallowed, cut in. He's your boss. Don't be a fool.
Still, the wall didn’t go up all the way.
She turned around, meeting his tired gaze. A small, genuine smile graced her lips. “You’re welcome,” she said softly, the words filled with a warmth that had nothing to do with her job. “It’s- I’m glad it helped.”
She held his gaze for a moment longer than she should have before she took a step back, brushing the frame of the doorway with her fingers. “I’ll let you rest,” she added, not quite breaking the spell, but weakening it enough for both to breathe.
“Thanks for the elbow,” she added, “Guess we’re even.” She then tugged the vacuum behind her, retreating toward the laundry room. Fast, like she knew if she remained a second longer, she might say something she couldn’t take back.
Bucky sat there, still half-slouched on the couch, feeling his body heavy. He leaned forward, draping his right arm loosely across his knee.
He’d closed his eyes. Let her inside his head.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that without force, without drugs, without protocol.
And she hadn't asked for anything in return.
No agenda.
She had just… helped.
He leaned back into the couch, exhaling slowly, his eyes drawn toward the hallway she’d gone down. He wasn’t used to kindness. Not the real kind. Not the kind that asked for nothing.
If he was honest with himself, something had changed. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t want to run from it.
He let his head tip back against the cushion and stared at the ceiling for a long time.
Pairing: Congressman! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Warnings: 18+ just in case. Fluff. Slight Angst. Eventual Smut.
Summary: Bucky agrees to a discreet cleaning service to tend to his apartment while he’s away. He never expected the care of someone he’d never met to become the gentlest part of his daily life.
I just love this image. Bob is in a robe, socks and slippers and chilling in the Avengers tower reading a book with a milkshake and fries beside him. He looks happier and healthier than ever. The Thunderbolts are taking such good care of my boy I want to cry 😭
titsay
vaporwave
jbbartram-illu
andulkaphoto
