chapter summary: You were Bucky's neighbor while he was a congressman and staying in New York. When Valentina announces them as the New Avengers, Bucky and the team go with him to pack up his apartment. But then you show up, calling him "James."
word count: 13.9k+ (26.3k+ in total)
pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader
notes: thank you to Thunderbolts* for reviving my bucky obsession. this is my first time writing for him, and i have a feeling my characterization is a little off, but just roll with it. also, i realized like halfway through writing that bucky as a congressman most likely lived in DC not NYC, so... let's just assume he also had a nice place in new york, okay?
there are 2 parts to this oneshot, thanks to tumblr's word limit
warnings/tags: the Thunderbolts are a happy family, fluff, like so much fluff, neighbor!reader, jessica jones, matt murdock, mentions of wilson fisk, references to season 3 of jessica jones, slight violence, slight angst, allusions to mental health struggles (depression and slight ptsd), slowwww burnnnn, protective!thunderbolts, this is part 2 - go read part 1
part 1
You were perched on one of the stools in the common area, scrolling idly through your phone, when the elevator chimed softly. Glancing up, you watched as two men stepped out, dressed casually—clearly comfortable here despite it being their first visit.
Bucky appeared almost instantly from the hallway, breaking into a rare, warm smile. “Sam.”
Sam grinned broadly, stepping forward to hug him briefly. “Good to see you, Buck.”
Bucky nodded, stepping back slightly. “Glad you could finally stop by.”
Sam looked around, impressed. “Place looks nice—bigger than I remember.”
Joaquín lingered nearby, smiling warmly at Bucky. “Hey, man. Been a while.”
“Joaquín,” Bucky greeted easily, shaking his hand. “Glad you came.”
Yelena and Ava stood near the kitchen, observing quietly. Alexei hovered curiously behind them, eyes bright with excitement. “Captain America!” Alexei boomed suddenly, making Sam turn in surprise. “It is honor to finally meet!”
Sam raised an amused eyebrow, shaking Alexei’s hand firmly. “Alexei, right?”
Alexei beamed proudly. “Correct! Red Guardian—at your service.”
Yelena rolled her eyes. “Relax, Alexei.”
Sam chuckled lightly, extending a hand toward Yelena. “Sam Wilson.”
She shook his hand briefly, expression guarded but polite. “Yelena Belova.”
Bucky turned slightly, catching sight of you lingering quietly by the counter. “Oh—Sam, Joaquín. This is Y/N. She lives here too.”
You stepped forward, offering a friendly smile. “Nice to meet you both.”
Sam shook your hand warmly. “Pleasure’s mine, Y/N.”
Joaquín smiled brightly, nodding. “Hey—nice to meet another normal person around here.”
You laughed softly. “Normal might be stretching it, but thanks.”
He chuckled, clearly at ease. “Trust me, compared to these guys, we're practically civilians.”
You smiled warmly. “Fair enough.”
John entered quietly, standing somewhat apart from the group, clearly hesitant. Sam’s gaze found him quickly, expression sobering slightly. “John.”
John gave a brief, cautious nod. “Sam.”
The tension was palpable. You glanced at Bucky, who was watching closely, clearly prepared to intervene if needed. Ava moved subtly nearer to John, arms crossed protectively. After a moment, Sam softened, offering John a small nod. “Good to see you doing better.”
Bucky exhaled quietly, visibly relieved. He glanced at Sam again. “Let me give you two a quick tour.”
Joaquín turned to you, gesturing casually around. “So, what's it like living here?”
You smiled easily. “Honestly? It’s chaos, but it grows on you.”
He laughed. “I can imagine. At least you got some good tech around here, right?”
You grinned. “Definitely. The engineering lab they set up is incredible. State-of-the-art everything.”
Joaquín’s eyes lit up. “Seriously? I'd love to see that.”
You nodded enthusiastically. “I can show you.”
“Great,” Joaquín said eagerly. “Lead the way.”
As you walked toward the hallway, Bucky’s eyes lingered briefly on your retreating figures. Sam noticed his friend’s slightly tightened expression, raising an amused eyebrow. “Buck?”
Bucky sighed, gesturing down the hall. “Let’s just start the damn tour.”
Sam chuckled quietly, shaking his head as he followed. “Whatever you say.”
---
You led Joaquín into the lab, flipping the lights on as you stepped inside. “Wow,” Joaquín breathed, clearly impressed. “This is nice.”
“It’s pretty amazing,” you agreed, moving to the nearest workstation. “Not that anyone else here uses it much, but it’s great for me.”
He examined a few tools thoughtfully, smiling. “So, you’re an engineer? That’s gotta come in handy around here.”
“More than you'd think,” you said with a laugh. “Last week I resurrected a toaster, and now I’m officially Alexei’s hero.”
He grinned broadly. “I can believe that. You know, before I got wrapped up in all this, I was working on aircraft maintenance. Engineering’s kinda my thing too.”
Your expression brightened. “No kidding? Civilian or military?”
“Military,” he replied, leaning comfortably against the counter. “Air Force. Spent a lot of time with jets and tech. Now it’s mostly wings and drones.”
“That’s impressive,” you admitted, genuinely intrigued. “I’ve never worked on anything airborne. Mostly household electronics and some experimental stuff here and there.”
Joaquín tilted his head curiously. “Experimental? Sounds intriguing.”
You laughed quietly. “Less glamorous than it sounds. Usually just prototypes that don’t get funded.”
He shrugged lightly. “Still impressive. Honestly, it’s just nice to meet someone who gets it. Most people’s eyes glaze over when I start talking about aviation.”
“Oh, trust me, I get that,” you said dryly. “One mention of circuit diagrams and half the team finds an excuse to run.”
Joaquín chuckled. “Exactly.”
The lab door opened quietly behind you, and you turned slightly to see Bucky standing there, expression neutral. “Hey,” he said evenly, eyes flicking between the two of you. “Showing off the lab?”
You nodded brightly. “Yeah, Joaquín’s an engineer too. Aircraft tech.”
Joaquín smiled warmly. “Yeah. But your setup here puts my workshop to shame.”
Bucky nodded slowly. “Glad you like it.” A brief silence stretched slightly, Bucky’s gaze lingering thoughtfully between you both.
“Well,” Joaquín said easily, breaking the tension, “I should probably see where Sam wandered off to. Thanks for the tour, Y/N.”
“Anytime,” you said genuinely, smiling at him. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too,” Joaquín said warmly, nodding politely at Bucky as he left.
Bucky lingered quietly near the door, eyes softening once you were alone. “You two get along well.”
You nodded, oblivious to his cautious tone. “Yeah, he's nice. It’s refreshing to talk to someone who understands tech.”
Bucky nodded slowly, stepping closer. “Right.”
You finally caught the subtle shift in his expression, raising your eyebrows curiously. “Something wrong?”
He hesitated, then sighed softly, shaking his head. “No. It’s nothing.”
“James,” you said gently, smiling softly, “you’re a terrible liar.”
“Of course I am,” you reassured quietly, gently touching his arm. “You’re here, aren’t you?”
He relaxed slightly under your touch, the tension leaving his shoulders. “Yeah. Just didn’t expect to feel so... territorial.”
You laughed softly, eyes warm. “Territorial?”
He rolled his eyes, smiling sheepishly. “Forget it.”
“No way,” you teased lightly, nudging him gently. “You’re jealous.”
He scoffed quietly, though his eyes softened with quiet affection. “Maybe a little cautious.”
“Relax, James,” you murmured softly. “I promise I won’t abandon you for someone else who likes circuit diagrams.”
He smiled faintly, shaking his head. “Thanks. Real reassuring.”
You laughed softly, leaning lightly against him. “Come on. Let’s go find the others before Alexei tries recruiting Sam into his toast cult.”
Bucky chuckled quietly, tension finally easing fully. “We should hurry, then. Sam’s terrible at saying no.”
You smiled warmly, gently guiding him out of the lab. “Lucky you’ve got me around, then.”
He glanced sideways at you, expression softening again. “Yeah. Lucky me.”
---
You were sitting cross-legged on the couch, sketching some circuit diagrams on your tablet when the lights suddenly flickered, dimmed, and then went dark. A second later, the backup power kicked in with soft emergency lighting. "What the hell?" Bucky muttered from the kitchen, already setting down his glass.
You sighed, setting your tablet aside. "Probably a power surge again."
Before you could move, a muffled pounding echoed down the hall, followed by Alexei’s voice booming loudly through the walls. "We are trapped! Someone save us!"
You exchanged a quick glance with Bucky, both instantly recognizing the voice. Bucky groaned quietly. "The elevator."
You grabbed your phone, hurrying down the hall with Bucky close behind. Ava and Yelena were already standing outside the stalled elevator doors, both looking equally unimpressed. "You two okay in there?" Ava asked calmly, arms crossed.
John’s annoyed voice came through clearly. "We’re fine, just stuck. Alexei is—"
"I am perfectly calm!" Alexei interrupted frantically. "No panic. Red Guardian does not panic."
Yelena rolled her eyes, clearly amused. "Sure sounds like panic."
"You are hearing wrong," Alexei said stubbornly. "I am calm. But maybe hurry. Very calm, though."
John sighed deeply, clearly losing patience. "Just get us out, please."
Ava exchanged an amused glance with Yelena, smirking faintly. "Tempting to leave them in there, honestly. Might finally get some peace and quiet."
"Do not even joke!" Alexei shouted, banging the elevator doors again. "Yelena, let us out right now!"
Yelena raised her eyebrows, unimpressed. "And if I don’t?"
Alexei paused, voice stern and overly dramatic. "Then you are grounded."
She sighed deeply, pressing her forehead into her hand. "I'm not a child, dad."
You laughed softly, glancing at Bucky. "I better fix this before Alexei actually has a meltdown."
"Please do," Bucky said dryly, shaking his head. "I don't wanna be the one explaining to Valentina why our elevator is destroyed from the inside."
You smiled softly, already moving toward the stairs. "I'll reset the panel manually. Give me five minutes."
"I'll go with you," Bucky offered instantly, falling into step beside you.
You didn’t protest, quietly appreciating the company as you both descended the stairwell to the maintenance panel in the basement. Once there, you quickly knelt in front of the box, pulling your small screwdriver from your back pocket and opening the casing.
Bucky watched quietly from just behind you, arms crossed comfortably. "You sure you got this?"
You smirked faintly, eyes still on the wiring. "Not my first rodeo, Barnes."
He chuckled softly, amusement coloring his voice. "Never doubted you, doll."
Your hands froze briefly at the unexpected nickname, warmth flooding your cheeks. You silently thanked the dim lighting for hiding your reaction as you quickly refocused, finishing the reset. A soft hum filled the room as the power returned fully, bright lights flickering on overhead. You stood slowly, brushing your hands off casually. "All fixed."
Bucky nodded, clearly impressed. "Nice work."
The two of you headed back up the stairs just in time to see Alexei practically tumble out of the now-functioning elevator, dramatically gasping for air. "Freedom!" Alexei declared loudly, embracing a very annoyed John, who quickly shrugged him off.
"Personal space, man," John muttered irritably, shaking his head and quickly escaping down the hall.
Alexei beamed at you, placing a grateful hand on your shoulder. "Y/N, you are savior. I owe you life debt."
You laughed gently, shaking your head. "No need for life debts. Just try not to break the elevator again."
"No promises," Ava said dryly, smirking faintly as she walked off, Yelena trailing after her with an amused expression.
Alexei sighed dramatically, clearly offended. "One small elevator issue, and suddenly everyone is critic."
Bucky smiled faintly, glancing sideways at you as the others dispersed. "Thanks again, doll."
You flushed slightly once more, ducking your head a little, but managed a soft smile. "Anytime." If Bucky noticed your reaction, he didn’t show it, simply lingering quietly beside you as the hallway slowly emptied, leaving you both comfortably alone.
---
You hadn’t meant to overhear Ava and Yelena’s conversation, but while going to the kitchen at midnight for water, you heard them talking by the windows.
“I don’t know,” Ava sighed softly. “I guess I just haven’t celebrated since…you know.”
“Since your dad died?” Yelena offered quietly.
“Yeah,” Ava said quietly. “After everything happened with my powers, SHIELD never exactly prioritized cake and candles.”
You paused in the doorway, your chest tightening slightly. Silently, you stepped back down the hall, deciding your thirst could wait.
---
“So why exactly did you have me dig up old SHIELD records?” Jessica asked dryly over the phone.
“Because I knew you could,” you replied cheerfully, mixing the cake batter. “And because you secretly love being helpful.”
“I secretly love getting paid,” Jessica retorted. “But you’re lucky I like you.”
You smiled softly, holding the phone to your shoulder. “Thanks, Jess. Seriously.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Jessica sighed. “You better save me a slice.”
“Promise,” you laughed. “Bye, Jess.”
As you hung up and set the phone aside, Bob quietly entered the kitchen. He looked distracted, eyes a bit distant. “Hey, Bob,” you said warmly. “Want to help?”
Bob blinked, startled out of his thoughts. “Oh—sure. What are we making?”
“Chocolate blood-orange cake for Ava’s birthday,” you replied, pushing a bowl toward him. “Can you brown the butter?”
“Uh,” Bob hesitated slightly, staring at the bowl. “I’ve never done that before.”
“It’s easy,” you reassured gently, smiling. “Just melt it slow and stir it till it gets golden. Think you can handle that?”
Bob nodded slowly, picking up the bowl and heading to the stove. “Yeah, I think so.”
The two of you worked quietly side by side for a few moments before you glanced at him carefully. “Everything okay, Bob?”
He hesitated before speaking softly. “You know, I’ve actually never celebrated a birthday before, either.”
Your hands stilled briefly. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “Never really had the chance, I guess.”
Your heart squeezed gently at his quiet confession. You casually continued mixing batter, speaking lightly. “Well, what kind of cake would you want, if you ever did celebrate?”
Bob’s face brightened slightly, thoughtful. “I’ve always wanted to try carrot cake. It sounds weird, putting vegetables in dessert.”
You laughed gently, warmth filling your chest. “Carrot cake’s amazing. Maybe we can make one sometime.”
Bob glanced up shyly, smiling softly. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
You nodded gently, smiling back at him. “Deal.”
---
A couple of hours later, the cake was finished and sitting on the counter. You were carefully arranging a few candles when Yelena wandered into the kitchen. “What’s this?” she asked curiously, eyeing the cake.
“It’s for Ava,” you explained softly, voice quiet. “Her birthday is today.”
Yelena blinked, clearly startled. “How did you know that?”
“I overheard,” you admitted sheepishly. “And I… might’ve got a friend to confirm.”
Yelena stared for a moment, expression softening slowly. “She’s gonna love this.”
“I hope so,” you murmured quietly.
Just then, Bucky stepped in, pausing briefly to glance between you both. “Something going on?”
“It’s Ava’s birthday,” Yelena supplied helpfully. “Y/N made a cake.”
Bucky’s expression softened noticeably, eyes lingering warmly on you. “That was thoughtful.”
You smiled softly, warmth spreading through you at his quiet praise. “She deserves it.”
John appeared in the doorway, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Did I hear someone mention cake?”
Yelena smirked lightly. “You always hear cake.”
Alexei lumbered loudly into the room behind John. “Cake? What is occasion?”
“It’s Ava’s birthday,” you explained again, smiling at Alexei’s immediate enthusiasm.
“Birthday!” Alexei declared dramatically. “Where is Ava? We must sing!”
“No,” Ava said immediately, standing in the doorway with a startled look. “Absolutely no singing.”
“No singing,” Ava repeated firmly, though a faint smile tugged at her lips as she saw the cake. “Did you make this?”
You smiled gently, nodding. “Chocolate blood-orange. Hope you like it.”
Ava stared for a quiet moment, clearly touched. “I—I haven’t had a birthday cake since… well, ever, really.”
“Then it’s overdue,” Bucky murmured softly, giving her a warm nod.
Bob stepped forward shyly, offering Ava a plate and fork. “Happy birthday, Ava.”
She smiled softly, accepting the plate gently. “Thanks, Bob.”
“Alright,” John interrupted gruffly. “Enough feelings, let’s eat cake.”
Yelena smirked dryly, cutting slices quickly. “Patience was never your strength, Walker.”
You handed Bucky a piece, your fingers brushing his briefly. His gaze softened noticeably as he smiled gently down at you. “You’re amazing, sweetheart,” he murmured softly.
Your cheeks warmed, but you smiled brightly back. “Thanks, James.”
Alexei suddenly raised his slice high. “To Ava, may her powers never explode building!” Everyone paused, staring blankly. “What?” Alexei frowned defensively. “Is sincere wish.”
Ava laughed quietly, shaking her head. “I’ll take it.”
You smiled warmly, quietly stepping closer to Bucky, who casually leaned into your side. Your eyes met briefly, sharing a quiet, gentle understanding. As laughter and conversation filled the kitchen, Ava caught your eye from across the room, her smile softly grateful. You simply nodded gently in return.
---
You sat quietly on the sidelines, legs crossed comfortably beneath you as you carefully adjusted the wiring inside the small drone you'd been tinkering with all morning. Your fingers moved methodically, gently tightening screws and reconnecting circuits, oblivious to the occasional shouts and scuffles from the team's sparring session across the gym.
Yelena swiftly dodged a strike from Ava, spinning gracefully out of reach. "You're getting sloppy, Ghost."
Ava smirked beneath her breath, phasing out briefly to appear suddenly behind Yelena. "Says you."
John leaned against the wall, arms crossed, observing closely. "They're holding back."
"You say that about everything," John muttered dryly.
Bob hovered uncertainly nearby, clearly hesitant to jump into the sparring circle. Bucky, quietly observing the team from the opposite side of the gym, caught his eye and nodded reassuringly. "You’ve got this, Bob. Just take it slow."
Bob nodded gratefully, stepping in to face Ava, who quickly softened her stance slightly, giving him a friendly, encouraging nod. You glanced up briefly, smiling at the subtle support within the group. It was comforting—watching them grow closer, slowly learning to trust and rely on one another.
Turning your attention back to the drone, you didn't notice at first when Ava swept Bob off balance, sending him stumbling toward the sidelines—directly toward you. "Watch it!" John shouted sharply.
You looked up just in time to see Bob's startled face as he tried desperately to regain his footing. Quickly, you scooted backward, narrowly avoiding collision. He crashed onto the mat in front of you, looking thoroughly embarrassed. "I'm so sorry, Y/N," Bob stammered quickly, scrambling upright. "You okay?"
You gave him a reassuring smile. "No worries—didn't even touch me."
Bucky was already beside you, concern clear in his eyes. "You okay, doll?"
Your breath caught briefly at the nickname, cheeks warming slightly despite your best effort to remain calm. You nodded, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "Yeah, I'm fine."
Bucky studied your face closely, clearly making sure you meant it, before offering Bob a friendly clap on the shoulder. "Let's maybe keep the collisions to a minimum?"
Bob chuckled weakly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, definitely."
As the team resumed training, Bucky lingered a moment longer beside you, casually glancing down at the drone still in your hands. "How's it coming along?"
You relaxed visibly, appreciating the return to safer ground. "Almost fixed. Just some minor tweaks left."
He nodded approvingly. "Nice work."
You smiled softly, glancing up to meet his gentle eyes. "Thanks, James."
Bucky held your gaze for a quiet moment, lips curving slightly. "Always, doll." As he stepped back toward the sparring mats, your heartbeat slowly returned to normal. You quietly resumed your repairs, fingers steadier now despite the lingering warmth in your chest.
---
The street fair was bustling, music drifting lazily through the air mixed with the hum of excited voices. Alexei led the charge, loudly exclaiming his amazement at every food stand and carnival game they passed. “You see this?” Alexei shouted gleefully, pointing to a funnel cake stall. “They fry cake here!”
“Yes, Alexei,” Yelena replied dryly, glancing at you with mild exasperation. “It’s a fair. They fry everything.”
You laughed softly, bumping her shoulder gently. “He’s just having fun.”
John grimaced, “I’m not eating that shit.”
Alexei gasped, in something similar to betrayal. "Walker! Fried cake is delicacy!"
"It's just batter and oil," John muttered. "No thanks."
Bob eyed the funnel cake curiously. "I wanna try some."
Alexei immediately brightened again, clapping him firmly on the shoulder. "Bob understands culture."
Ava glanced at Yelena. "How many sugar crashes do you think we'll have to deal with later?"
Yelena sighed dramatically. "Too many."
You laughed quietly, bumping lightly into Bucky’s shoulder as you walked. "Enjoying yourself, James?"
He smiled faintly, hands tucked into his pockets. "Honestly? Yeah. Reminds me a bit of Coney Island in the 40s."
"That where you and Steve went?" you asked gently, eyes softening as you glanced at him.
He nodded, a nostalgic grin tugging at his lips. "Yeah. Steve was always trying to win prizes—never succeeded, though. Skinny punk couldn't hit a target to save his life."
You chuckled softly, nudging him again. "And you?"
He gave a modest shrug, eyes sparkling faintly. "I might've won a few times."
"Oh?" You raised an eyebrow teasingly. "You planning to show off those sharpshooter skills tonight?"
He smirked playfully. "Maybe."
Just then, Alexei pointed dramatically toward a colorful booth filled with stuffed animals. "Look, they have shooting games! Barnes, test your skills!"
Yelena rolled her eyes. "Alexei, it's rigged."
"Nonsense," Alexei declared confidently. "Barnes is assassin! He cannot miss."
Bucky sighed lightly, glancing sideways at you. "Looks like I don't have a choice now."
You laughed softly, gently nudging him forward. "Go on, then."
He stepped up to the booth, taking the air rifle the attendant handed him and aiming casually at the small targets.
Alexei crowded close, practically vibrating with excitement. "Shoot the little ducks, Barnes!"
"Thanks for the tip," Bucky muttered dryly. You watched quietly, smiling softly as Bucky effortlessly hit each target. Alexei cheered loudly, clapping him roughly on the back.
Bucky turned, eyes catching yours as he pointed casually to a small stuffed bear. "That one." The attendant handed it over, and Bucky held it out toward you, lips twitching slightly. "Here you go, doll."
You felt your cheeks warm faintly as you accepted the bear, trying to ignore your quickening pulse. "Thanks, James."
He shrugged lightly, smiling softly at you. "Anytime."
Yelena raised an eyebrow knowingly, catching Ava’s amused glance. "Interesting," Ava murmured quietly, smirking slightly.
"Very," Yelena agreed dryly.
John rolled his eyes, clearly unimpressed. "You two gonna stand there all night?"
You laughed softly, stepping closer beside Bucky. "Guess we better catch up."
Bucky smiled faintly, gently guiding you forward with a hand lightly placed at your lower back. "Wouldn't want them to leave us behind."
"No," you murmured playfully, hugging the bear gently. "Definitely not."
---
Once awake, you slowly sat up in bed, before putting your feet down on the floor. “Shit!” You yelped, your socked feet now soaking wet. You furrowed your brows, squinting at the floor in curiosity. You tapped your foot against the floor as water splashed. “Oh no,” you muttered, immediately scrambling upright. Quickly moving out into the hall, you found the rest of the team already emerging from their rooms, similarly confused and irritated.
"What the hell happened?" John groaned, glaring down at the inch of water covering the entire floor.
John scowled, clearly offended. "No, Alexei, I didn’t flood the damn tower."
Yelena sighed dramatically, glancing around the drenched hallway. "Great start to the day."
"Looks like a pipe burst," you assessed quickly, already looking around. "We need to shut off the main valve."
Bob glanced at you uncertainly. "Do you know how?"
"Yeah," you replied, nodding firmly. "I just need to reach the access panel up there." You pointed upward to a panel high above your heads, near the ceiling.
"Do we have a ladder?" Ava asked calmly.
"No," Bucky said, frowning slightly. "Why would we have a ladder?"
"Everyone should have a ladder," you said matter-of-factly, mildly frustrated. "Emergencies happen, James."
Bucky shook his head, clearly suppressing a smile at your indignation. "Noted."
"Alright," you sighed heavily, glancing around the group. "Someone has to lift me."
Alexei immediately stepped forward, grinning broadly. "I will lift Y/N—very strong shoulders!"
"Yeah, and you're also a walking earthquake," Yelena said flatly. "You'll drop her."
Alexei deflated slightly. "Unfair accusation."
Bucky sighed softly, stepping closer to you. "I'll lift you."
You glanced at him, biting your lip. "You sure?"
He raised an eyebrow lightly. "I think I can handle it, doll."
Your cheeks warmed slightly at the casual nickname, but you quickly nodded. "Okay. Just, um… stand still."
He chuckled lightly, kneeling down so you could carefully climb onto his shoulders. "Hold on tight," he murmured, gently gripping your thighs to steady you as he stood up smoothly. Your pulse quickened as you balanced carefully on his shoulders, gripping the panel above your head. "You good?" Bucky asked, glancing upward.
"Yep," you said quickly, clearing your throat. "Just keep steady."
"Don't worry," he reassured quietly. "Not gonna drop you."
"Better not," you muttered teasingly, focusing your attention on the panel as you carefully pried it open.
"How long will this take?" John called impatiently from the doorway.
"Not long," you replied firmly, carefully reaching inside. "Just need a minute."
You paused briefly, glancing down at Bucky beneath you. "Can you shift just a little to the left?"
He moved slightly, carefully holding you steady. "Better?"
"Yeah," you murmured softly, fingers quickly adjusting the valve. "Almost got it." After a moment, you heard the quiet hiss as water flow finally stopped. "Done!"
Bucky carefully knelt down again, letting you gently climb off his shoulders. "Nice work," he said quietly, lips tugging into a faint smile.
You laughed lightly, smoothing your clothes. "Team effort."
Bob glanced around the still-flooded hallway. "So, what now?"
Ava sighed softly, crossing her arms. "Now we mop."
Alexei groaned dramatically, shaking his head. "I am not made for mopping."
"Too bad," Yelena said dryly, handing him a mop she'd retrieved from the closet. "Everyone cleans."
You glanced at Bucky, smiling softly. "Thanks for the lift."
"Anytime, sweetheart," he replied casually, already grabbing towels to help clean.
Your heart skipped slightly at the nickname, but you quickly turned away to hide your warm cheeks. "Let’s go," you called firmly, grabbing a mop. "The sooner we clean, the sooner we dry off."
Alexei grumbled quietly under his breath, reluctantly accepting his fate. "Life was simpler in Russia. Less mopping."
John rolled his eyes, already working. "Cry me a river."
"Ha!" Alexei pointed triumphantly. "Good joke."
You shook your head lightly, glancing over your shoulder to see Bucky already watching you quietly, his lips curved into a small, private smile. You smiled back gently before quickly focusing again on the task at hand, ignoring the lingering warmth in your cheeks.
---
You adjusted the front of your outfit, smoothing down your clothes as you stepped into the living room. Yelena glanced up from her phone, arching an eyebrow. "You look nice," she commented mildly. "Special occasion?"
"Um," you hesitated, fiddling with the strap of your bag. "Something like that."
Bucky walked into the room, eyes immediately landing on you and widening just a bit before he masked his reaction. "Hey," he said softly, stepping closer. "Going somewhere?"
"Oh, yeah," you said quickly, heart speeding up slightly under his careful gaze. "I—uh, I've got a date."
Bucky's expression shifted slightly, becoming harder to read. "A date?"
"No—wait," you said quickly, eyes widening as you realized your slip-up. "No, not a date date—it's Jessica. I'm going out with Jessica."
Yelena raised her eyebrows further, clearly entertained. "Jessica, your friend the private investigator?"
"Yeah," you sighed, already feeling your cheeks burn. "Just a friend. Totally just friends. I mean, my friend Jessica. She helped me find out when Ava's birthday was, so I promised I'd take her out somewhere nice."
Bucky tilted his head, clearly still processing. "Right, so... not a date."
You shook your head emphatically. "Nope. Just dinner with Jessica—as a thank you. Completely platonic."
"Sounds fun," Yelena said dryly, clearly enjoying your discomfort.
You shot her a quick glare before turning back to Bucky. "She wanted a fancy restaurant, so I just—got a little dressed up."
"Right," you said weakly, smoothing down your clothes again. "Anyway, I should probably go."
Bucky nodded, stepping back slightly. "Have a good time, doll."
Your heart skipped slightly at the nickname, and you offered him a small smile. "Thanks, James."
As soon as you were out of the room, Yelena glanced pointedly at Bucky, eyebrows raised. "What?" Bucky muttered, moving toward the kitchen.
"Nothing," Yelena replied lightly, lips twitching into a smirk. "Just enjoying the show."
Bucky shot her a glare. "There's no show."
"If you say so," Yelena hummed, clearly unconvinced.
Bucky sighed deeply, shaking his head. "Mind your business, Yelena."
She shrugged casually, returning to her phone. "Whatever you say, Barnes."
---
Jessica was already at the table when you got there, in her normal leather jacket, jeans, and combat boots. You raised an eyebrow as you sat down. “I’m shocked they even let you in.”
Jessica shrugged carelessly. "I told them my date was fancy enough for both of us."
You rolled your eyes, picking up the menu. "Charming. You know, you could've at least pretended to try."
"Not really my style," Jessica muttered, flipping casually through the menu. She frowned, scanning the pages. "Where the hell are the burgers?"
You glanced up, blinking. "Jess, did you even read the menu before you made me book this place?"
"I skimmed it," she said defensively, eyes narrowing at the fancy script. "They seriously don't have burgers?"
The waiter approached, smiling politely. "Have we decided, ladies?"
"Yeah," Jessica said flatly, slapping her menu shut. "I'll take a burger. Medium rare. Fries too."
The waiter stared blankly at her. You smiled apologetically. "Sorry—she hasn't read the menu. Could you give us another minute?" He nodded politely, retreating.
Jessica scowled. "Why don't they have burgers? What kind of restaurant is this?"
"The kind where people don't wear combat boots," you teased lightly. "Why exactly did you pick this place?"
Jessica ignored your question, her eyes suddenly narrowing as she spotted someone over your shoulder. "Shit. Hold that thought. I gotta take care of something."
"Jess?" You raised an eyebrow suspiciously. "What's going on?"
She stood quickly, eyes locked across the restaurant. "You think I actually wanted a fancy dinner date? I'm working."
You groaned, laughing softly. "Of course you are. I should've known better."
"Stay put," Jessica said firmly. "I'll be right back."
You leaned back, sighing dramatically as she walked off. "Yeah, sure. I'll just sit here alone like a weirdo."
---
Jessica returned after fifteen minutes, sliding casually back into her chair. "All good?" you asked dryly, sipping your drink.
"Yeah, got what I needed," she replied, grinning faintly. "Turns out fancy restaurants attract fancy assholes."
"You couldn't have warned me?" You sighed, setting your glass down. "We could've just grabbed pizza."
Jessica shrugged lightly. "Figured you deserved something classy. But now I'm bored. Let’s go to a bar."
You laughed, shaking your head. "You're hopeless."
Jessica smirked, standing quickly. "Come on, princess. Time to slum it with the peasants."
You rolled your eyes affectionately, grabbing your purse. "You're lucky I love you."
Jessica snorted, guiding you toward the exit. "Yeah, yeah."
---
The bar Jessica chose was predictably dim, loud, and comfortably familiar. She gestured toward a booth in the back, already heading to the counter. "Sit. I'll get us drinks."
You slid into the booth, sighing in relief as you sank into the worn leather. A few minutes later, Jessica slid two beers onto the table, dropping heavily onto the seat opposite you.
"Cheers," she said dryly, lifting her glass. "To your terrible taste in men."
You scoffed, clicking your glass against hers. "Shut up."
Jessica smirked knowingly. "Seriously though, how's living with America's favorite metal-armed politician?"
"James isn't a politician anymore," you muttered, avoiding her eyes. "And it's... fine."
Jessica snorted, taking a swig of her beer. "Fine? That's it?"
You shrugged, picking at the label of your bottle. "What do you want me to say? It's not like anything's happening."
"Uh-huh," Jessica said flatly, giving you a knowing look. "You're a shitty liar, you know that, right?"
"I am not," you protested weakly. "Seriously, Jess, nothing's going on."
She rolled her eyes. "Right, because moving in with your hot, former congressman neighbor and living with the Avengers is totally normal."
You groaned softly. "It's just temporary."
Jessica raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Temporary, like how you told me letting me crash on your couch was temporary?"
"That was different," you said defensively, pointing your beer bottle at her. "You were a very stubborn squatter."
Jessica smirked, unbothered. "Yeah, but Barnes is probably way easier to live with."
"He's..." You hesitated, sipping your beer again. "He's actually really nice."
She shrugged, leaning back casually. "Just seems interesting, that's all. Pretty convenient he just happened to have room in a fucking skyscraper for you."
"It's a tower," you corrected mildly. "And it was just luck. Fisk bought our building."
"Right," Jessica drawled, watching you closely. "So, it's totally innocent."
"Yes," you insisted firmly. "Completely innocent."
Jessica stared at you a long moment, narrowing her eyes slightly. "You're blushing."
"I am not," you protested weakly, pressing your cool hands against your heated cheeks. "It's just warm in here."
"Uh-huh," Jessica said dryly, taking another long drink. "Just don't come crying to me when your heart gets stomped."
"You're so encouraging," you muttered sarcastically.
"It's what I'm here for," Jessica retorted lightly, finishing her beer. She glanced at your half-empty bottle. "You good?"
You sighed, leaning your chin on your hand. "Yeah, fine."
Jessica chuckled quietly, flagging down a waitress. "Two more."
---
After three beers, your cheeks were flushed and your voice was noticeably louder. Jessica, still perfectly sober, watched you carefully with a mildly amused expression.
"And you know what else?" you said, jabbing your finger at the table dramatically. "He calls me doll, Jess. Doll! Who even does that?"
Jessica raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained. "Barnes does, apparently."
"And sweetheart," you continued, leaning in conspiratorially. "He calls me sweetheart, too. And you know what I do?"
"What?" Jessica asked patiently, lips twitching.
"Nothing!" you exclaimed, slumping back in your seat dramatically. "I just stand there like an idiot. Every. Single. Time."
Jessica snorted softly. "Sounds like you got it bad."
You sighed heavily, resting your head on your folded arms. "I'm doomed, Jess. Totally doomed."
"Relax, drama queen," Jessica said dryly. "You could always just tell him."
You lifted your head, staring at her as if she'd grown another head. "Tell him? Are you insane?"
Jessica shrugged lightly. "Maybe. But at least you'd know."
"And risk everything?" you groaned dramatically, burying your face again. "No way. I'd rather suffer in silence."
"Clearly," Jessica muttered, signaling for the waitress again. "Maybe lay off the beer, though. You're spilling your guts more than usual."
You waved her off dismissively. "I'm fine. I'm great."
"You're wasted," Jessica corrected bluntly.
"No," you argued stubbornly, pushing yourself upright. "I'm just—relaxed."
Jessica snorted, shaking her head. "Whatever you say."
"I just don't get it," you mumbled, tracing circles on the table. "He's so sweet and caring, and he has no right looking that good all the time."
Jessica sighed deeply. "Jesus Christ."
"And his eyes," you continued dreamily. "Did I tell you about his eyes?"
"Multiple times," Jessica muttered dryly. "Blue and soulful, got it."
"Exactly," you said emphatically, pointing at her again. "So unfair."
Jessica rolled her eyes affectionately. "Maybe next time I'll just leave you at home."
"You wouldn't dare," you gasped dramatically.
"Watch me," Jessica said flatly. "But seriously—you're pathetic."
"I know," you groaned softly. "But he's so perfect."
Jessica raised an eyebrow skeptically. "I highly doubt that."
"Well, he's perfect for me," you corrected, smiling faintly. "He fixes stuff, Jess. Like, actual household things. And he carried all my boxes. And—and he makes sure I eat when I'm working. Do you have any idea how sweet that is?"
Jessica's expression softened just slightly. "Yeah. Sounds like he's decent."
"More than decent," you mumbled sleepily. "He's James."
Jessica sighed quietly, nudging you gently. "Okay, princess. Time to go."
"No," you protested weakly. "I'm comfy."
"You're gonna regret this tomorrow," Jessica muttered, carefully pulling you to your feet.
You stumbled slightly, clutching onto her jacket. "Jess?"
"Yeah?"
"You're my best friend," you murmured softly. "You know that, right?"
Jessica rolled her eyes affectionately, guiding you toward the door. "Yeah, I know. Love you too, dumbass."
You sighed contentedly, leaning heavily on her shoulder. "Good."
---
When you finally reached the tower, Jessica practically dragged you into the elevator. You leaned heavily against the wall, eyes half-closed. Jessica took your phone, quickly texting Bucky before pocketing it again. You hummed sleepily, eyes fluttering shut. "You okay there, lightweight?" Jessica teased lightly.
"M'fine," you mumbled, yawning. "Just tired."
"Clearly," Jessica muttered dryly.
The elevator doors opened, revealing Bucky waiting quietly in the lobby. His eyes softened immediately as he took in your sleepy form. "You alright, doll?" he asked softly, stepping forward.
You smiled lazily, eyes half-open. "Hi, James."
"Hey," he replied gently, lips tugging into a small smile. He glanced at Jessica. "Is she okay?"
Jessica nodded casually. "Yeah, she’s fine. Just drunk."
Bucky raised an eyebrow. "How drunk?"
Jessica shrugged lightly. "Phase three."
Bucky looked at her, mildly confused. "Phase three?"
"She has phases," Jessica explained dryly. "Phase one—chatty, talks way too much about things no one asked about. Phase two—lovey, tells you how amazing you are, how much she loves and appreciates you. Phase three—sleepy." Jessica glanced back at you pointedly. "You're lucky; phase two was over before we got here."
You hummed softly, blinking slowly. "Love you, Jess."
Jessica sighed affectionately, rolling her eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Love you too, dumbass."
Bucky smiled faintly, clearly amused. "Thanks for getting her home safe."
Jessica shrugged lightly. "No big deal. But she's your problem now."
You leaned against Bucky’s side, head resting against his shoulder sleepily. "James?"
"Yeah, doll?" he murmured softly.
"I'm really tired," you mumbled into his sleeve.
He chuckled quietly, carefully wrapping an arm around your shoulders to steady you. "Let's get you upstairs."
Jessica watched quietly, raising an eyebrow as the elevator doors closed. "Take care of her, Barnes."
Bucky glanced at her, nodding sincerely. "Always."
The elevator ride was quiet, your breathing even and slow. When the doors opened, Bucky gently guided you down the hall to your room. "Need help getting undressed?" he asked quietly, opening your door.
You stumbled lightly into the room, making your way clumsily toward your bed. Without hesitation, you fell face-first onto the mattress, sighing dramatically. "Fuck the dress," you muttered, voice muffled by your pillow.
Bucky laughed softly, moving to carefully pull your shoes off and set them aside. He grabbed a blanket, gently laying it over you. "Night, sweetheart," he whispered softly.
You hummed quietly, already drifting. "G’night, James." He paused briefly at your door, watching quietly for a moment before turning off the lights and gently closing it behind him.
---
You sat at the kitchen island the next morning, your hoodie pulled over your head as you sat hunched over.
Bucky walked in, pausing briefly to take in your slumped figure. He suppressed a smile. "Mornin’, doll. How you feeling?"
"Like shit," you muttered, forehead pressed firmly against your palm. "I used to handle way more than three beers in college. Apparently, having a real job ruined me."
Bucky chuckled softly, gently placing a glass of water and two ibuprofen tablets in front of you. "Drink this. It'll help."
"Thanks, James," you sighed weakly, downing the pills with a grimace. "I'm pathetic."
"Only a little," Yelena chimed in dryly, entering the kitchen and pouring herself coffee. "But we still love you."
"Thanks, Lena," you mumbled sarcastically. "Very comforting."
Alexei suddenly burst into the room, slamming a giant pickle jar onto the counter in front of you, making you flinch at the sound. "Here, Y/N!" Alexei declared proudly. "Drink pickle juice! Is best Russian remedy for hangover."
You stared blankly at the massive jar. "Uh—thanks, Alexei, but I think I'll pass."
"Drink," Alexei insisted, unscrewing the lid and pushing it closer. "Will fix headache immediately."
Yelena raised an eyebrow skeptically. "That’s disgusting."
"Is not disgusting," Alexei protested indignantly. "Is traditional Russian medicine."
"You also told us vodka was traditional medicine," Yelena pointed out, sipping her coffee. "Not everything Russian is healthy."
Bucky watched the exchange with mild amusement. "He's not wrong, though. Pickle juice does help."
You shot him a skeptical look. "Whose side are you on?"
Alexei nudged the jar toward you again. "Drink, Y/N. You feel better."
You grimaced, gently pushing it away. "Really appreciate it, Alexei, but I’ll stick to water."
Alexei sighed heavily, shaking his head. "Americans. No respect for tradition."
Yelena smirked lightly. "At least we have taste buds."
Alexei scoffed dramatically, lifting the jar and taking a large gulp of pickle juice himself, then smacked his lips loudly. "Delicious."
You groaned softly, leaning your head against your folded arms. "That's it, I'm going back to bed."
Bucky gently squeezed your shoulder, voice warm and quiet. "Good call, doll. Get some rest."
Your heart fluttered softly, but you nodded slowly, pulling your hoodie tighter. "Thanks, James."
"Anytime," he murmured softly as you shuffled out, carefully avoiding Alexei’s pickle jar.
---
There were no records of Bob’s birthday anywhere—you even had Jessica check. So, you decided that any day was better than nothing and started making a carrot cake. You stood in the kitchen, glancing over your shoulder at the recipe on your tablet. Muttering softly to yourself, you scanned the ingredients.
"Okay... flour, sugar, carrots..." you paused, frowning. "Nutmeg. Where’s the nutmeg?" You opened several cabinets, groaning softly when you saw the tiny jar on the top shelf, clearly out of your reach. "Really?" you muttered, standing on your tiptoes. You reached upward, stretching as far as you could, your shirt riding up slightly as you leaned.
Before you could climb onto the counter, a firm, gentle hand landed lightly on your hip, steadying you. Your breath caught slightly, heart skipping. "Careful, doll," Bucky murmured softly behind you. "Let me get it."
You slowly lowered back onto your heels, pulse racing as his warmth lingered at your side. "Thanks, James."
He reached easily over your head, grabbing the spice jar. As he moved to hand it to you, his gaze caught briefly on your exposed side, brows furrowing slightly as he noticed the faint, jagged scar. He went quiet, eyes serious. "What's that from?"
Your heart skipped again, this time anxiously. You quickly pulled your shirt down, cheeks warming slightly. "Oh, just an old scar. No big deal."
Bucky's eyes narrowed slightly, concern deepening. "Doesn't look like 'no big deal.' What happened?"
You hesitated, setting the jar down carefully on the counter. "It's... complicated."
He stepped closer, voice gentle and low. "I’ve got time."
You sighed softly, avoiding his eyes as you stirred the batter slowly. "A few years ago, Jessica had a sister. Trish. She wasn't... well."
Bucky watched you carefully, staying silent to let you continue.
"One night, Trish snapped," you murmured softly. "She thought she was doing something good, but she attacked me. She stabbed me."
Bucky stilled completely, tension radiating softly from him. "Jesus."
You shrugged weakly, eyes still down. "Jess stopped her before it got worse. Trish is locked up now, but the scar... it stuck around."
He exhaled slowly, clearly processing. After a quiet moment, he carefully rested his hand on your shoulder, gently turning you toward him.
"Are you okay?" he asked softly, his voice rough with concern.
You nodded, forcing a faint smile. "It was years ago. I’m okay, James. Really."
He studied your face carefully, thumb brushing gently along your shoulder. "You ever want to talk about it more, I'm here."
Your heart warmed softly, and you gently touched his hand, squeezing lightly. "Thanks. I appreciate it."
He nodded slowly, pulling his hand back but staying close. "You know," he murmured lightly, smiling faintly, "you don't have to keep everything bottled up."
You chuckled softly, raising an eyebrow playfully. "Says you."
He smirked, shaking his head. "Fair point. Still applies to you."
You smiled softly, sighing quietly. "Maybe someday."
He nodded gently, expression softening again. "I'll wait."
Your chest tightened gently, warmth spreading through you. "Thanks, James."
"Anytime, doll," he murmured quietly, stepping back slowly. "Need help finishing this cake?"
You relaxed visibly, grateful for the shift in topic. "Absolutely. Can you grate carrots without losing fingers?"
He chuckled quietly, already moving toward the carrots. "Think I'll manage." You smiled softly, the quiet comfort of his presence easing the tension still lingering inside you.
---
A couple of hours later, you placed the freshly frosted carrot cake on the kitchen counter, carefully arranging a small group of candles on top. You stepped back, examining your handiwork.
"Looks great," Bucky said gently from behind you, smiling warmly. "Bob’s gonna love it."
You smiled softly, nudging his side lightly with your elbow. "Couldn't have done it without you, James."
Alexei barreled into the kitchen, eyes immediately lighting up at the sight. "Cake is ready! Time for birthday celebration!"
"Is it really his birthday?" John asked skeptically, leaning against the fridge.
"No records," you admitted with a shrug. "So today seemed as good as any."
Ava raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Works for me."
Yelena carefully placed paper plates on the counter, glancing at the cake appreciatively. "Nice work, Y/N."
"Thanks, Yelena," you replied warmly.
Bob stepped hesitantly into the kitchen, eyes widening when he saw the cake and candles. "What's all this?"
Alexei threw an enthusiastic arm around Bob’s shoulders, pulling him forward. "Happy Birthday, Bob! Today, you become man!"
Bob chuckled nervously, blushing faintly. "But—it’s not really my birthday."
"We know," Ava said calmly, offering a small smile. "But it doesn't matter. We're celebrating anyway."
Bob’s expression softened, clearly touched. "Wow. I've never had a birthday party before."
"Well," you said gently, lighting the candles carefully. "You do now."
Bob swallowed, smiling shyly. "Thank you."
Bucky stepped forward, gently clapping Bob on the back. "Alright, make a wish."
Bob hesitated briefly, glancing around at the team gathered around him—faces soft and supportive. Finally, he leaned in, blowing out the candles quickly. Everyone broke into cheers—Alexei loudest of all, clapping enthusiastically.
"What did you wish for?" Alexei demanded brightly.
Bob laughed softly, shaking his head. "Can’t tell you, Alexei. Then it won't come true."
You laughed softly, glancing around at the group—relaxed, smiling, sharing cake. Quietly, your heart warmed. After finishing his slice, Bob smiled shyly, clearing his throat softly. "Thanks, everyone. I mean it. This was really nice."
"You're welcome," you replied warmly, gently touching his arm. "You deserve it, Bob."
He flushed faintly, clearly touched. "Thanks, Y/N."
As everyone chatted, slowly drifting toward the living room, Bucky lingered by your side, quietly gathering the dirty dishes.
"You did a good thing," he murmured softly, voice gentle.
You smiled softly, heart fluttering at his praise. "Bob deserves good things."
You glanced down, cheeks warming slightly. "Thanks, James."
"Anytime," he said gently, brushing your arm lightly with his metal fingers as he moved past. "Come on—let's join the others before Alexei breaks into birthday karaoke."
You laughed softly, shaking your head. "God forbid." Bucky chuckled quietly, staying close beside you as you walked toward the living room, warmth settling softly in your chest.
---
Bucky stood quietly by the large windows in the tower's common area, eyes fixed on the city skyline. Sam leaned casually against the nearby wall, arms crossed as he watched him carefully. "You know this whole 'New Avengers' thing is messed up, right?" Sam finally said, breaking the silence.
Bucky sighed heavily, nodding slowly. "Yeah. Trust me, I'm not comfortable with it either."
Sam shifted slightly, eyes narrowed. "So why go along with it? Valentina can't control everything."
Bucky shook his head, his gaze hardening. "Right now, Sam, she pretty much can. Believe me, if I saw another way out, I'd take it."
Sam sighed, pushing himself away from the wall. "Still doesn't sit right with me, man."
Bucky turned to face him, expression weary. "Doesn't sit right with me either. But the minute there's an opening, we'll figure something out."
"Better be soon," Sam warned softly, raising an eyebrow. "Because you know she won't stop at this."
"I know," Bucky muttered. "I know."
Before either of them could speak again, you passed quietly through the room, glancing briefly in their direction. Bucky’s posture immediately relaxed, a soft smile forming instinctively as he called out gently, "Hey, doll. You need anything?"
Your cheeks warmed slightly, but you smiled back softly. "No, I'm good, James. Just heading upstairs."
"Alright," he said warmly. "Let me know."
As you left, Sam stared at Bucky, eyebrows raised incredulously. "Doll? Really?"
Bucky shot him a look, mildly annoyed. "What?"
Sam chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Come on, Buck. You seriously haven't made a move yet?"
"No, it's really not," Sam countered, amused. "Dude, I've seen you flirt with my sister. You're not shy."
Bucky rolled his eyes. "This is different."
"How?" Sam asked, clearly entertained.
Bucky glanced toward the empty hallway, expression softening considerably. "Because this matters."
Sam raised his eyebrows knowingly. "Then maybe you should do something about it."
Bucky sighed heavily, shaking his head slightly. "Yeah. Maybe."
Sam chuckled, lightly clapping Bucky on the shoulder as he passed. "Better do it soon, Barnes. Before someone else beats you to it."
Bucky watched him leave, letting out a long breath before muttering quietly to himself, "Yeah. I know."
---
It was late evening, the common room lights turned low, the city beyond the windows glittering quietly. Most of the team had already retreated to their rooms, leaving the space comfortably silent. You padded softly into the room, carrying a small plate with a slice of leftover carrot cake, glancing up when you spotted Bucky sitting quietly on the couch, his eyes distant.
"Hey," you said softly, settling comfortably next to him, knees brushing lightly. "Didn't realize anyone else was still awake."
Bucky’s gaze softened instantly as he turned to you. "Couldn't sleep. Too much on my mind."
You nodded, taking a small bite of your cake. Without thinking, you offered him the next bite—something that had become routine over the past weeks. He leaned forward easily, accepting the forkful without hesitation.
"Thanks, doll," he murmured, swallowing and smiling faintly.
The familiar nickname fluttered warmly in your chest. You nudged his knee gently with your own. "You're welcome, James."
He studied you for a moment, his expression turning curious. "Why do you always call me that?"
You raised an eyebrow, smiling softly. "James?"
He nodded, shifting slightly so he faced you better. "Yeah. Everyone else calls me Bucky."
You paused thoughtfully, glancing down at your plate with a faint, embarrassed smile. "Oh. Um, it's a bit embarrassing."
Bucky tilted his head, intrigued now. "Now you gotta tell me."
You laughed softly, leaning back against the cushions as you met his gentle eyes. "Well, when I found out I was getting a new neighbor—" you sighed playfully, shaking your head, "Jessica might've, you know, looked into you a little."
Bucky raised an amused eyebrow. "Looked into me?"
"Yeah," you admitted sheepishly, smiling. "She said your real name was James. So when I finally met you in the hallway, it just sort of... came out. After that, it felt weird to switch to Bucky."
He chuckled quietly, eyes crinkling warmly. "So, your friend stalked me."
"Investigated," you corrected teasingly. "She prefers that term."
"Right," he said dryly, lips tugging into a smile. "And all this time, you never thought to switch to Bucky?"
You shrugged lightly, bumping his shoulder gently with your own. "I like James better. It feels... real, you know?"
His gaze softened noticeably, voice dropping slightly. "Yeah. I know."
You held his gaze for a long moment, neither of you looking away. The silence was comfortable but charged, something shifting gently in the quiet between you. You hesitated, feeling your pulse quicken slightly.
"You okay?" you asked softly, breaking the silence.
Bucky exhaled slowly, leaning closer just slightly, his knee pressing gently against yours. "Better now."
You smiled softly, cheeks warming as you carefully looked away, setting your empty plate down on the table. "You're sweet."
He nudged your shoulder gently, voice quiet. "Don’t let the others hear you say that."
You laughed quietly, nudging him back. "Secret's safe with me."
"Good," he murmured, voice warm and gentle, lingering comfortably beside you. "Wouldn't want them getting ideas."
You glanced at him again, smile faint but sincere. "Oh, I think they already have plenty of ideas, James."
He chuckled softly, shaking his head lightly. "Yeah, probably."
You leaned slightly closer, voice quiet but playful. "Is it really so bad?"
His gaze softened again, a quiet intensity flickering briefly in his eyes. "No," he admitted gently. "Not at all." Your smile grew warmer as you settled comfortably against him, both of you content to let the quiet stretch easily between you, the warmth of his presence finally enough for now.
---
Early morning sunlight spilled through the kitchen windows, warming your shoulders as you quietly stirred your coffee. A bowl of cereal sat half-forgotten in front of you as your eyes lingered absently on the countertop. Just down the hall, faintly, you heard the familiar upbeat tune drifting into the kitchen.
"It's Patsy! It's Patsy! I really wanna be your friend..."
You froze for a second, breath catching as the cheerful song tugged uncomfortably at the edges of your memories. You shook your head slightly, trying to refocus on your coffee as your pulse quickened slightly.
Just then, you felt Bucky’s presence enter the kitchen. You didn’t look up, but you felt his quiet gaze settle on you. A moment later, you heard him step toward the living room.
"Hey, Alexei?" Bucky's voice carried gently but firmly down the hall. "Maybe try something else. Have you ever seen The Office?"
Alexei let out a thoughtful hum, clearly intrigued. "Is it funny?"
"Yeah," Bucky answered calmly. "I think you'll like it." You heard the channel change, the familiar jingle quickly replaced with a new, more welcome sound—the opening notes of a different, much lighter comedy.
You exhaled softly, shoulders easing as you stared down at your coffee mug again. Bucky quietly reentered the kitchen, pausing just long enough to pour himself a cup of coffee before sliding onto the stool beside you. He didn’t say anything, giving you the space you needed, but he stayed close, his presence quietly reassuring.
Slowly, you reached over, silently slipping your hand into his—finding his metal one—and gently squeezing his fingers.
Bucky went still for a second, looking down at your joined hands before his fingers gently curled around yours in response, his thumb softly brushing against your knuckles.
You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.
---
You had already left for work when Bucky walked into the kitchen. The rest of the team was already there, and when they saw him they suddenly went silent. Bucky stopped abruptly, coffee cup halfway to his mouth, eyes narrowing slightly. "What?" he asked cautiously, looking around at the team's carefully neutral expressions.
"Nothing," John said quickly, looking away a bit too casually. "Just having breakfast."
Ava silently studied her cereal, avoiding eye contact. Alexei grinned a little too widely, nodding enthusiastically.
"Yes, breakfast," Alexei echoed cheerfully, shoveling a spoonful of cereal into his mouth. "Very delicious."
Bucky stared at them for a long moment, clearly unconvinced. "You're all acting weird."
Bob shifted uncomfortably, glancing around. "Uh, nope. Just... eating breakfast. Like John said."
Yelena finally sighed loudly, throwing down her spoon in frustration. "Oh, for God's sake, I'm tired of your bullshit, Bucky."
He blinked at her in surprise. "Excuse me?"
Yelena crossed her arms, glaring at him. "You know how many times I've wanted to lock the two of you on the balcony and have you fend for yourselves? Watching you dance around each other is physically painful."
Bucky stared at her, eyes widening slightly. "What are you talking about?"
"Don't play dumb," John muttered, clearly losing patience. "We've all seen it."
Bob nodded quickly, looking relieved someone finally said it. "It's true. You and Y/N—it's obvious."
Alexei slammed his palm on the table dramatically. "Painfully obvious!"
Bucky sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Guys, seriously—"
"No," Yelena cut him off sharply. "Stop avoiding this. You like her. She likes you. Do something about it before I lose my mind."
Bucky narrowed his eyes slightly. "And this is your business because…?"
"Because we're all tired of watching you stare longingly like a sad puppy," Ava said dryly.
John nodded in agreement, leaning back comfortably. "Honestly, it's starting to get pathetic."
Bucky raised his eyebrows, looking slightly offended. "Thanks."
"You're welcome," Yelena shot back flatly. "Someone had to say it."
Bob smiled gently, offering an encouraging look. "We just want you both to be happy."
Alexei nodded enthusiastically again. "Exactly. Y/N is perfect for you—smart, pretty, excellent baker. You must not waste this opportunity, Barnes!"
Bucky exhaled sharply, clearly flustered. "I'm not—I'm not wasting anything."
Yelena raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Then why haven't you made a move?"
Bucky shook his head lightly, finally sipping his coffee. "Just keep your noses out of it, okay?"
Yelena smirked faintly. "Only if you finally do something."
He sighed deeply, rolling his eyes slightly. "Noted."
"Good," she replied lightly, returning calmly to her cereal. "Glad we had this talk."
Bucky glanced around the room once more, exhaling tiredly. "Yeah. Great talk."
---
Later that evening, you stepped into the gym area, glancing around uncertainly. Yelena stood near the mats, adjusting a sleek, black wristband. “You’re sure you need me for this?” you asked skeptically, setting your bag down.
“Relax,” Yelena said smoothly, smiling innocently. “I just need to test some new tech on someone who isn’t… super.”
“Thanks,” you muttered dryly. “Love being the baseline.”
Across the room, you noticed Ava and John lounging on benches, trying way too hard to look casual. Alexei leaned against the wall, pretending to stretch.
Your eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why is everyone here?”
John shrugged, suddenly fascinated by his shoes. “Just hanging out.”
“Right,” you said, clearly unconvinced.
Bucky entered just then, stopping abruptly when he saw you. His eyes flickered quickly to Yelena, clearly suspicious. “What’s going on?”
Yelena waved him off dismissively. “Testing my wristband on a non-superhuman.”
Bucky glanced back at you, visibly concerned. “Is that safe?”
You rolled your eyes, laughing softly. “Relax, James. It’s just a wristband. Worst case, it buzzes.” Bucky didn’t look convinced but leaned back against the wall beside Ava, eyes tracking you carefully.
“Ready?” Yelena asked, arching an eyebrow at you.
You nodded hesitantly. “I guess.”
Yelena moved easily into a fighting stance. You mimicked her—far less gracefully—raising your hands awkwardly. “Just… go easy on me?”
Yelena smiled, feigning innocence. “Always.”
She tapped the wristband, and a soft glow lit along her fingertips. You barely had a moment to register it before she moved forward. Her punch was deliberately slow; you raised your arms instinctively to block—but then something happened. The wristband emitted a faint pulse, and suddenly Yelena’s fist moved much faster. “Whoa!” you yelped, stumbling back.
Yelena pulled her punch instantly, concern flickering in her eyes. “You good?”
You nodded quickly. “Fine. Just… unexpected.”
“You’re doing great,” Ava said encouragingly, biting back a smirk. Bucky’s eyes narrowed further, suspicion deepening.
You resumed your stance again, carefully watching Yelena. She moved forward again, slower this time. You braced yourself, prepared—but once again, the wristband pulsed unexpectedly. You ducked awkwardly, losing your footing completely.
Before you hit the ground, strong arms caught you firmly, steadying you against a broad chest. Your breath hitched sharply as you looked up into Bucky’s concerned face.
“You okay, doll?” he murmured softly, voice low enough only you could hear.
Your cheeks flushed hotly, heart suddenly racing. “Yeah,” you whispered breathlessly. “I’m—I’m good.”
Neither of you moved for a long moment, eyes locked, entirely too close. You felt your pulse hammering in your chest, certain he could feel it too.
Nearby, Yelena cleared her throat deliberately. Bucky blinked, finally helping you back onto your feet. He didn’t step back immediately, lingering just a little too close. “Maybe call it quits for today?”
Yelena smirked faintly, clearly satisfied. “Yeah, probably a good idea.”
You glanced down awkwardly, cheeks still burning. “Thanks for the save, James.”
His eyes softened, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Anytime.”
You turned away quickly, grabbing your things. As you walked toward the exit, you caught Ava shooting Yelena a pointed look, clearly suppressing laughter. “Subtle,” you heard Bucky mutter dryly behind you, making your face burn even hotter.
“I have no idea what you mean,” Yelena replied innocently, already removing the wristband. You shook your head, fighting back a shy smile as you quickly slipped out of the gym.
---
The team, other than Bob, had gone out on a simple arms deal, leaving the Watchtower to you and Bob tonight. You taught him how to make tiramisu before settling on the couch showing him Modern Family.
"Phil's my favorite," Bob admitted shyly, smiling warmly. "He's just so... earnest."
You chuckled softly. "Yeah, he's got that charming dad energy."
Bob's smile brightened. "Exactly."
Your phone buzzed suddenly on the table, Jessica’s name lighting up the screen. You reached for it casually, answering without really looking. "Hey Jess—"
"Are they gone?" Jessica cut in sharply, voice tense.
You frowned, instantly alert. "The team? Yeah, they're out on an arms deal—wait, how do you even know—"
"It’s a set-up," Jessica interrupted quickly. "There’s no arms deal. Fisk arranged it."
You sat up abruptly, heart pounding. "Fisk?"
"He has cops on the way to the tower right now," Jessica said urgently. "They're coming for you. He knows you have that hard drive. He knows you've seen the files."
Your throat tightened. "Wait, Jess—"
"Get out, Y/N," Jessica hissed. "Right now—"
The line abruptly cut out, the room plunging suddenly into total darkness. "Bob," you whispered sharply, panic rising, "power's out."
Bob sat forward quickly, clearly alert. "What's going on?"
"We're in trouble," you whispered urgently, standing quickly. "Fisk's men are coming here. We have to get out."
Bob followed you immediately, eyes wide but determined. "Okay—what do we do?"
"We need to signal the team," you said quickly, moving carefully toward the windows. "Or Jessica—someone." Before you reached the window, you heard a heavy thud from the stairwell. Footsteps echoed loudly, many footsteps, moving quickly.
"They're already here," Bob breathed nervously.
You grabbed his arm tightly. "We need to move. Now."
Quietly, you both hurried toward the hallway, staying close to the walls. Voices sounded from behind, harsh and commanding. "Find the engineer," one barked. "Fisk wants her dealt with."
Bob glanced at you nervously, his voice shaking slightly. "Y/N—"
You squeezed his arm reassuringly. "We got this."
Together, you moved swiftly down the hall, heading toward the emergency stairwell. Suddenly, the door slammed open, two officers appearing with flashlights blazing. "There!" one shouted sharply.
You stumbled back, heart racing. Bob stepped quickly in front of you, blocking their line of sight. "Get behind me," Bob whispered urgently.
The officers approached, weapons raised. "Move aside, kid."
Bob stood firm, hands trembling slightly at his sides. "Leave her alone."
The officer laughed cruelly, stepping forward aggressively. "Or what?"
Bob’s eyes flickered uncertainly, glancing back at you. You nodded slightly, heart pounding, offering him silent reassurance. Bob swallowed, turning back slowly. "Or this," he whispered softly.
Suddenly, a powerful surge of energy erupted from his hands, throwing the officers backward violently. They crashed into the far wall, sliding limply to the ground. You stared, stunned. "Bob—holy shit."
Bob stared down at his shaking hands, eyes wide. "I—I haven't done that since—"
You grabbed his arm gently, pulling him forward. "We have to go."
You moved quickly toward the stairs again, pulse racing in your ears. Footsteps echoed behind you, more officers quickly closing in. "Keep moving!" you whispered sharply.
Gunfire erupted suddenly, bullets narrowly missing as you both scrambled toward cover. You ducked behind the corner wall, breath ragged. Bob pressed close beside you, panic clear on his face. "What now?" he gasped quietly.
You exhaled sharply, mind racing. "We gotta fight."
Bob swallowed nervously, nodding firmly. "Okay."
You both moved out simultaneously, Bob’s powers surging forward again, throwing several officers down the hallway. You grabbed a metal pipe that had been knocked loose, swinging desperately at the nearest attacker. You felt a sharp, painful blow graze your temple, warmth trickling down your cheek. You stumbled back slightly, vision briefly swimming.
"Y/N!" Bob shouted, rushing to your side.
"I'm okay," you gasped, steadying yourself. "Keep going!"
---
Outside, across the city at the docks, the team stood impatiently by empty shipping containers. Yelena narrowed her eyes suspiciously.
"This is too easy," she muttered sharply.
Bucky's phone rang sharply, Jessica’s name on the screen.
"Hey dumbass," Jessica snapped urgently, "it's a goddamn setup. Fisk sent you out there as a distraction. He's got cops hitting the tower. Y/N's in trouble."
Bucky’s expression shifted instantly, panic flaring. "Shit." He spun toward the team, voice harsh. "We have to go—now. It's a setup."
Yelena swore sharply, already sprinting back toward the car. "Move!"
---
At the tower, you and Bob had retreated deeper into the building, ducking into the main conference room. You leaned heavily against the door, breathing ragged. Blood dripped slowly from your temple, staining your collar. Bob watched you anxiously. "You're hurt."
You waved him off weakly, wincing slightly. "It's fine. Just—"
The door shuddered violently, officers pounding loudly. You jumped back, heart hammering. "Y/N," Bob whispered softly, voice shaking. "I'm sorry."
You stared at him gently, stepping closer. "Don't be. You were amazing."
The door splintered abruptly, officers spilling aggressively into the room. You raised the pipe weakly, stepping protectively in front of Bob. "Leave him alone," you hissed sharply. "He's not part of this."
"Fisk only wants you," one officer sneered cruelly, raising his weapon. Suddenly, a series of heavy thuds sounded from the hall, punctuated by muffled shouts and crashes. The officer turned sharply, gun wavering uncertainly.
You smiled faintly, relief flooding you.
"What the—" he muttered uncertainly. The door burst open again, a figure moving swiftly in the darkness, metal arm catching the faint moonlight. Officers crumpled swiftly, dropping heavily to the ground.
Bucky stepped forward quickly, eyes wild with concern. "Y/N?"
You exhaled shakily, stumbling forward. "James."
He caught you instantly, arms tightening protectively. "You're bleeding."
"I'm okay," you whispered weakly, gripping his arm. "Bob—"
"I'm fine," Bob assured quickly, voice shaking slightly. "Thanks for coming."
Yelena stepped swiftly through the door, kicking one of the downed officers sharply. "Suki. Fisk really went all out."
Bucky's grip tightened around you, voice rough with tension. "We're getting you both out of here."
You leaned heavily into him, relief overwhelming you. "Thank you."
He gently touched your bloodied temple, eyes dark with worry. "Always, doll."
You smiled faintly, heart easing at his quiet reassurance. Alexei and Ava quickly cleared the hallway, making sure the threat was gone. John stood quietly by the doorway, nodding firmly. "All clear," John said evenly.
Bucky carefully guided you toward the hall, arm secure around your waist. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up."
You nodded slowly, leaning heavily into his reassuring warmth. "Yeah. Okay."
He pressed gently closer, voice quiet and fiercely protective. "You're safe now. I promise."
You exhaled softly, relief finally easing the tight knot in your chest. "I know, James."
Bob followed closely behind, eyes wide but calm. "Thank you all."
Yelena smiled gently, nudging him warmly. "You did good, Bob."
Alexei clapped him heartily on the back. "Yes! Bob is hero tonight."
Bob smiled shyly, flushing slightly. "Thanks."
Bucky kept you close, refusing to let go even as you stepped into the elevator. You leaned softly into him, finally safe.
---
You sat quietly on the edge of your bed, trying to stay perfectly still while Bucky gently cleaned the cut on your temple. His touch was careful, almost hesitant, as though afraid he'd hurt you more. "Sorry," he murmured softly when you winced slightly. His eyes softened further. "I'm almost done."
"It's fine," you said quietly, offering a faint smile. "I'm tougher than I look."
He chuckled softly, carefully applying a small bandage over the wound. "Believe me, I know."
He sat back slightly, his eyes still assessing your face for any further injury. He paused, reaching out to gently brush his thumb over your bruised cheekbone. His jaw tightened slightly, a flash of anger flickering in his gaze. "I should've been here," he muttered quietly, clearly frustrated. "I should've known something wasn't right."
You reached up, lightly taking his hand in yours, giving it a gentle squeeze. "James, it's not your fault. Fisk knew exactly what he was doing."
He exhaled heavily, turning his hand to intertwine your fingers gently. "Maybe. But it won't happen again. Not on my watch."
Your heart fluttered quietly at the conviction in his voice. You gently squeezed his hand again. "I know." He sat beside you quietly, the silence comfortably warm. You glanced toward the closed bedroom door, thinking briefly of Bob. "Bob was amazing tonight," you murmured softly. "He really stepped up."
Bucky smiled faintly, nodding. "Yeah, he did. He's tougher than any of us gave him credit for."
You chuckled gently. "Guess we both surprised you tonight, huh?"
His eyes softened noticeably, his thumb gently brushing along your knuckles. "You've been surprising me since the day we met."
Your cheeks warmed slightly, and you looked down, smiling softly. "That's a good thing, right?"
He chuckled quietly, nudging your shoulder lightly with his own. "Definitely a good thing."
The silence settled again, comfortable and gentle. You hesitated briefly before softly breaking it again. "When Jessica called me, I was so scared," you admitted quietly, glancing up at him slowly. "Not just for me, but for Bob too. Fisk doesn't care who gets hurt as long as he gets what he wants."
Bucky's grip tightened slightly around your hand, voice rough and protective. "We'll handle Fisk. He won't touch you again."
"I trust you," you whispered softly, holding his gaze firmly. "I trust you with everything, James."
His eyes widened slightly, a brief flash of vulnerability crossing his face. Carefully, he raised his free hand, cupping your cheek gently. "I promise," he murmured firmly. "I won't let you down."
You smiled warmly, leaning slightly into his touch. "You haven't yet."
His thumb brushed softly over your skin, gaze lingering gently on your face. Slowly, he leaned closer, his forehead lightly resting against yours. Your breath hitched quietly, heart suddenly pounding. "James?" you whispered softly.
"Yeah?" he murmured, voice rough and low.
Your pulse hammered in your chest, nerves and anticipation mingling warmly. "Are you going to kiss me, or do I have to do it first?"
He smiled faintly, lips brushing gently against yours. "Don't rush me, doll. I'm getting there."
You chuckled softly, warmth flooding your chest. "Sorry. Please continue."
He laughed softly against your lips, finally closing the distance fully. The kiss was gentle but firm, his metal hand carefully cupping your cheek, his other hand tightly intertwined with yours.
After a moment, he pulled back slightly, lips still just inches from yours. "I've been wanting to do that for way too long."
You smiled warmly, heart racing softly. "Me too."
He kissed you again, softer this time, lingering gently. When he finally drew back, he rested his forehead lightly against yours once more, exhaling softly. "You should get some rest," he murmured gently, voice full of warmth. "You've had a hell of a night."
"Stay," you whispered softly, heart fluttering nervously. "Please?"
You shifted further onto the bed, and he carefully moved beside you, pulling you gently against his chest. You sighed softly, relaxing fully against him, feeling safer than you had in days. "Goodnight, James," you murmured quietly, eyes fluttering closed.
He pressed a soft kiss against your forehead, voice warm and protective. "Goodnight, doll." You drifted easily to sleep, secure and peaceful, his steady heartbeat beneath your cheek.
---
The next morning, you woke slowly, blinking softly in the bright sunlight streaming through your windows. Bucky’s steady breathing was warm against your hair, his arm wrapped securely around your waist. You shifted slightly, turning carefully to face him, your movement waking him gently.
"Morning," you murmured softly, smiling shyly.
He blinked slowly, lips curving gently into a sleepy smile. "Morning, sweetheart. Sleep okay?"
"Better than I have in weeks," you admitted quietly, snuggling gently against his chest.
"Good," he murmured softly, holding you closer. "Me too."
A sudden loud knock sounded sharply on your door, startling you both. "Hey!" Yelena called loudly from the hallway. "We have breakfast. You two done making googly eyes yet?"
Bucky groaned softly, dropping his forehead lightly against your shoulder. "I’m gonna kill her."
You laughed softly, gently kissing his cheek. "It's fine. She means well."
He raised his head, smirking faintly. "She’s a menace."
"You adore her," you teased lightly, nudging him gently.
"Don’t tell her that," he muttered dryly, reluctantly sitting up.
You smiled softly, reaching out to gently take his hand again. "Thank you. For staying."
His gaze softened warmly, fingers gently squeezing yours. "Always."
Another knock sounded impatiently. "If you two aren't out in five minutes, Alexei will eat all the waffles!"
Bucky sighed heavily, shaking his head as he stood, gently tugging you up with him. "Duty calls."
You chuckled lightly, leaning comfortably against him as you walked toward the door. "It's never boring, at least."
He smiled gently, glancing down at you fondly. "Definitely not."
You both stepped out into the hallway, met immediately by Yelena’s amused gaze. "Finally," she drawled dryly, smirking faintly. "We thought you’d never emerge."
"You're hilarious," Bucky muttered sarcastically, gently guiding you past her.
She raised an eyebrow knowingly, falling into step beside you. "Glad you finally took my advice, Barnes."
He rolled his eyes slightly, voice flat. "Yeah, thanks, Yelena. Couldn’t have done it without you."
"You're welcome," she replied smugly, clearly pleased.
You laughed softly, gently squeezing his hand reassuringly. "Come on. Let's get waffles before Alexei actually eats them all."
Bucky chuckled softly, relaxing further as the three of you stepped into the lively kitchen. Alexei greeted you enthusiastically, mouth already stuffed full of waffles. "Y/N! Barnes!" Alexei boomed cheerfully, crumbs flying. "Waffles today—excellent cooking from Bob!"
Bob smiled shyly from the stove. "Morning."
"Morning," you replied warmly, moving closer to him. "You okay?"
He nodded gently, offering a faint smile. "Better now."
"Good," you murmured softly, nudging him gently. "Thanks for breakfast."
He flushed slightly, ducking his head. "Least I could do."
Bucky stepped beside you again, his hand gently resting at the small of your back. "How you holding up, Bob?"
Bob smiled shyly, clearly grateful. "Pretty good, actually. Thanks."
Alexei loudly interrupted again, waving a waffle around dramatically. "Bob is a true warrior! We must celebrate properly."
John sighed tiredly from his spot at the counter, sipping his coffee. "It's eight in the morning, Alexei. Give it a rest."
Alexei scoffed indignantly. "Never too early for celebration."
Yelena rolled her eyes softly, sliding gracefully onto a stool. "It's definitely too early for you."
You laughed quietly, leaning warmly into Bucky’s side as the team bantered playfully around you. Bucky gently squeezed your waist, voice soft and warm. "You okay?"
You nodded gently, smiling up at him. "Perfect."
He smiled faintly, eyes softening warmly as he pressed a gentle kiss to your temple. "Good."
Around you, the lively kitchen buzzed happily, warm sunlight pouring gently through the windows. For the first time in a long time, everything felt safe, comfortable, and perfectly right.
Until the elevator dinged.
You glanced toward it, eyebrows furrowing slightly as the doors slid open. Jessica stepped out, scanning the room sharply until her gaze landed firmly on you. Her eyes immediately narrowed, her shoulders visibly relaxing as she stalked quickly forward.
"Jesus Christ, Y/N," Jessica snapped, ignoring everyone else entirely. "You couldn’t answer your phone? I've been calling you for hours."
You winced slightly. "I'm sorry, Jess. It was… a long night."
Jessica’s eyes narrowed even further as she took in the bandage on your temple. "Clearly. Are you okay?"
"I’m okay," you said quickly. "Just a bit bruised."
Bucky stepped slightly closer, hand still resting protectively on your lower back. Jessica’s gaze instantly flickered toward him, expression shifting into something sharply assessing. "You let her get hurt?" Jessica asked coldly, eyes locked on Bucky.
He frowned slightly, jaw tightening. "We got back as fast as we could."
Jessica stared him down. "Not fast enough."
"Jess," you cut in gently, touching her arm softly. "They saved me—and Bob. Fisk caught us off guard, not them."
Jessica’s expression eased a fraction, eyes flickering to you again. "Bob?"
Bob waved awkwardly from behind Alexei. "Hi."
Jessica blinked once, clearly unimpressed. "Him?"
"He’s tougher than he looks," you assured gently. "He had my back."
Bob smiled shyly, straightening slightly. "I did my best."
Jessica exhaled sharply, clearly still irritated. "Fine."
Yelena leaned casually against the counter, smirking faintly. "You must be Jessica. We've heard so much."
Jessica’s eyes flickered toward Yelena, unimpressed. "Funny. I haven't heard anything about you."
Yelena’s smile widened slightly. "Yelena. Nice to finally meet you."
Jessica hummed dryly, eyes narrowing again. "You're the one who thought it was a good idea to let Y/N spar with your weird glow-stick bracelet?"
Yelena shrugged innocently. "It was a controlled environment."
Jessica sighed heavily, clearly still annoyed. "Yeah, well, next time maybe text or something. I thought you died." Bucky tensed slightly beside you. Jessica instantly caught it, eyes narrowing at him again. "Relax, Barnes. If she was dead, you'd know."
"Appreciate the reassurance," Bucky muttered dryly.
You smiled warmly, nudging her again gently. "Thanks for checking up on me."
Jessica rolled her eyes softly, finally softening fully. "Always."
She paused briefly, glancing pointedly at Bucky’s hand still gently resting against your back. Her gaze snapped sharply up to meet yours, one eyebrow arching in silent question. Your cheeks warmed slightly, but you held her gaze calmly. "We’ll talk about it later."
Bucky cleared his throat slightly, clearly uncomfortable. "Coffee?"
Jessica stared flatly at him. "You offering?"
Bucky sighed lightly. "Seems polite."
She continued her staring before replying, “you wouldn’t happen to have whiskey? Or bourbon?”
Bucky blinked once. “It’s eight in the morning.”
Jessica raised an eyebrow, unbothered. “Exactly.”
Alexei brightened immediately, waving his hand enthusiastically. “We have bourbon! Come, Jessica, we celebrate your bravery!”
Jessica eyed Alexei skeptically. “Celebrate?”
“Your successful rescue mission!” Alexei announced loudly, grabbing the bottle from the cabinet. “And also your magnificent arrival. Very dramatic. We drink to your courage!”
Jessica glanced at you flatly. “This guy serious?”
You laughed softly, shrugging lightly. “He’s always serious.”
Jessica sighed deeply, but accepted the glass Alexei eagerly poured. “Fine. But only because I just spent all night thinking you were dead.”
“Thanks, Jess,” you murmured softly, leaning against Bucky’s shoulder gently.
Bob smiled shyly at Jessica, still lingering nervously by the stove. “Would you like a waffle?”
Jessica blinked at him, expression unreadable. “You cooked?”
He nodded quickly. “Yeah. Sort of a tradition after... stressful situations.”
Jessica hesitated briefly before nodding slowly. “Sure. I like traditions.”
Bob smiled brightly, quickly handing her a plate. “Hope you like it.”
Jessica took a bite, eyebrows raising slightly in surprise. “Not bad.”
Bob flushed slightly, clearly pleased. “Thanks.”
John eyed Jessica cautiously, arms folded. “So you’re the private investigator?”
Jessica glanced at him dryly. “And you’re the disgraced ex-Captain America?”
John’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Walker’s fine.”
She shrugged lightly. “Jones.”
Ava smirked faintly from beside Yelena. “You have a way with people.”
Jessica shot Ava a flat look. “So do you, Ghost.”
Ava raised an eyebrow, slightly impressed. “You’ve done your homework.”
Jessica hummed quietly, sipping her bourbon again. “Comes with the territory.”
Alexei clapped Jessica heartily on the back, making her cough slightly. “You are impressive woman, Jones. Private detective, rescuer, fighter—like Y/N. She fixes everything!”
Jessica glanced at you dryly. “Yeah, she’s annoyingly competent.”
You smiled softly, gently squeezing Bucky’s hand, voice warm and teasing. “You love me.”
Jessica sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes affectionately. “Unfortunately.”
Bucky chuckled quietly, relaxing further beside you. “Glad we agree.”
Jessica eyed him sharply, feigning annoyance. “Careful, Barnes. You’re not off my shit-list yet.”
“Duly noted,” Bucky murmured dryly.
Yelena smirked again, clearly amused. “I think I like you, Jessica.”
Jessica shot her a mild glare. “Please don’t.”
Alexei beamed proudly, raising his glass cheerfully. “A toast! To new friendships, surviving Fisk’s men, and waffles!”
Jessica sighed heavily, but raised her glass resignedly. “Sure. To waffles.”
You laughed softly, raising your own coffee mug gently. “To waffles.”
Bucky smiled faintly, gently squeezing your waist. “To waffles.”
The rest of the team echoed the toast warmly, Alexei cheerfully pouring another round of bourbon despite Jessica’s mild protests. Jessica leaned closer, voice low as she glanced meaningfully between you and Bucky. “Seriously, details. You’re telling me everything later.”
You smiled shyly, leaning further into Bucky’s warmth. “Promise.”
She hummed quietly, finally softening again as she took another sip. “Good.”
Grace : How was your day, Rocky?
Rocky: Yeah, fine, it's anti-bullying week at school.
Grace : Oh? And what does that mean?
Rocky: It means I can't bully anyone for a whole week.
Grace : "Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves."
Stratt: ...
Stratt: What a stupid fucking quote.
Stratt: I'm killing way more than two people, idiot.
another one of the big differences between book eva and movie eva was that in the movie she was just seen as this large authority figure who can do as she pleases whereas in the book... she breaks numerous laws, had a trial but literally went *nah*, has probably gone to jail after grace left and so much more. very chaotic
So I finally finished reading Project Hail Mary for the first time after seeing the movie and it's so good!!!
I love both equally for different reasons. I love the movie because it explores the friendship between Grace and Rocky and how much Grace sacrifices to save Rocky. I love the book because it explores Grace in more detail and how he didn't want to go but ended up making friends for a life time. And also how much more detail it has about the science and maths stuff.
i feel i would recommend someone who hasn't read the book to watch the movie to get them interested in the story and Rocky and then to read the book.
hehe i just bought the book of project hail mary and it's SOOO GOOD. my favourite part was when he was trying to remember why he liked kids so much and was like ' i don't like where this is going'
delicate* - Bucky arrives at the Compound after spending months in Wakanda to get rid of his conditioning. He thought Tony would be the least inviting one, not you. But apparently not acknowledging anyone's existence is just the way you are—but Bucky's never been one to quit.
cosmic love - You and Bucky's relationship continues to grow, even under the watchful annoying eyes of your teammates.
imperfect for you - Planning a superhero wedding isn't easy, especially with a hyper teenager and persistent teammates.
post-thunderbolts*
electric touch* - You technically aren't a member of the New Avengers, but you live at the Watchtower and help the team out during missions. The most interesting part? Bucky seems to have a crush on you, the quiet, brooding, mysterious woman.
be my, be my baby* - Now that the team knows you and Bucky are married, they learn very quickly about your strange marriage.
crème brûlée? - The team learns what happens when they disobey you, and how far you will go just to see them squirm.
additional works
boo, bitch - When Tony announces a costume contest, you and Bucky are at the whims of Peter who wants to do anything to win the contest.
have yourself a merry little christmas - Peter figures out that you have never celebrated Christmas, and that Bucky hasn't celebrated since the war. He deems that unacceptable.
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ › bucky moves into your spare room expecting nothing more than four walls and a place to sleep. instead, he finds floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, sticky note conversations, late-night takeout, and a girl who always puts herself last.
ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ › roommate!bucky x female reader
ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ › roommates trope, post tfatws, sticky note communication, friends to lovers, roommates to lovers, slow burn, domestic fluff, many many hot dog mentions, anxiety, work stress/burnout, author has mini geek speak moments, anthropology reader, emotional intimacy, quiet romance, self-doubt, mild emotional hurt/comfort, sticky note love language, reader insecurity, loneliness, not beta read we die like men.
ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ › 11.3k
ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ › and they were roommates.... oh my god they were roommates
The number sits in his phone for three days before he uses it.
Three days of bad apartments and worse brokers. Places with paper-thin walls and windows that looked directly into brick. Places that smelled like mildew and old cigarettes. Places so expensive they made his jaw lock before the realtor even finished speaking.
He tells himself he's only looking because he has to. Not because he misses hearing another person in the next room. Not because going back to the apartment in Brooklyn every night feels too much like walking into a museum exhibit dedicated to a man he doesn't know how to be anymore.
Louisiana had almost made sense for a second.
He can still picture the dock at sunset, the water catching orange light, the sound of Sam's nephews shouting somewhere down the road. He can still hear Sam leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, pretending not to look too concerned.
“You could stay here for a while,” Sam had said.
“No.”
“You don't even gotta stay with me. The VA's offering assistance out here now. They can help you get your own place.”
“No.”
Sam had looked at him for a long second then, the kind of look people get right before they decide whether or not to push.
“You know, accepting help doesn't mean you're weak.”
Bucky had laughed once under his breath, sharp and humorless. “Not taking charity.”
“It ain't charity.”
“Feels like it.”
Sam had sighed through his nose, digging through a kitchen drawer before pulling out a scrap of paper with a number scribbled across it.
“I know somebody in New York. Friend of mine has a spare room.”
Bucky remembers immediately opening his mouth to refuse, Sam had beaten him to it.
“You won't be coddled or given the sugar treatment,” he said. “You'll pay rent, keep your mess clean, same as anywhere else. I bet you'll like it too.”
That had been the only reason Bucky took the number at all.
Now, three days later, he stares at it again from the edge of a too-small hotel bed in Queens. The room hums around him. Old air conditioner rattling in the window. Pipes knocking somewhere in the walls. The smell of industrial detergent trapped in the sheets.
He types the message before he can talk himself out of it.
Sam Wilson gave me your number. He said you had a room for rent.
The response comes less than ten minutes later, not much text, no small talk. Just a picture. The room is simple. Bigger than he expected. A bed frame without a mattress, a dresser by the wall, a window overlooking the street below. Hardwood floors. Clean lines. Nothing flashy.
Underneath the picture is the address and rent amount. Reasonable, more than reasonable, honestly.
Then another message.
He told me you'd message. If you're interested, you can come look at it tomorrow. I work late tonight.
What would probably seem forward to others Bucky sees as efficient, Sam's recommendation is starting to make sense now. The building is in Brooklyn, far enough from the center of everything to be quiet but not isolated. The brick outside is old, the kind that has survived decades without anybody bothering to make it prettier.
There is a sticky note taped to the front door when he gets there.
Spare key is under the plant. Let yourself in.
He stares at the note for a second longer than he needs to. Something about it feels strangely normal. The kind of thing people do when they trust that the world isn't always waiting to hurt them.
The apartment is quiet when he steps inside, his shoes echoing off the walls. It's not empty per say, just still.
There are a pair of sneakers and loafers by the door lined up neatly on a tray. A light jacket tossed over the back of the couch, s mug sitting in the sink, a blanket folded over the armrest like somebody had smoothed it down before rushing out the door.
The place is nice. Not too fancy, not overly cluttered. There are soft colors everywhere. Cream walls. Warm wood floors. A kitchen with magnets on the fridge and a bowl of fruit on the counter. It feels lived in in small ways, like somebody exists here just hardly.
The bedroom at the end of the hall is bigger than he expected. Master bedroom with a bathroom attached, an amenity he hadn't lived with in too many years to count. Enough room for his duffel bags and the few boxes he still carries from place to place without unpacking.
But it isn't the room that makes him stop.
It's the hallway.
Bookshelves run from floor to ceiling along both sides of it, turning the narrow stretch between the living room and bedrooms into something else entirely. There are hundreds of books. Maybe more. Old hardcovers with cracked spines. Paperbacks with folded corners. New glossy editions wedged beside books that look older than he is.
His eyes catch on familiar titles. The Great Gatsby, A Farewell to Arms, The Hobbit. A worn copy of The Catcher in the Rye sits crooked on a shelf near the middle. Some of the older books have faded cloth covers, titles nearly rubbed away with time. He reaches out before he can stop himself, fingertips brushing the spine of one that looks like it has been opened a hundred times.
It reassures him in a way he can't explain. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, he can picture himself somewhere without immediately wanting to leave.
He pulls his phone out.
Nice place. I'll take it if it's still up for offer.
The reply comes before he even reaches the kitchen.
It's all yours. Lease is on the kitchen counter. Bring your stuff in whenever. I won't be back until late again.
He looks over at the stack of papers sitting beside the fruit bowl. A little strange and fast, maybe. But he isn't complaining. The lease is simple. Month to month, rent due on the first. No smoking inside, clean up after yourself. No coffee grounds down the drain.
That last one almost makes him smile.
He signs his name at the bottom then he goes back downstairs to start bringing his things in. Which, after a century of life, turns out to be less than he thought it'd be. It only takes him three days to move in.
Three days of hauling boxes up narrow stairs and carrying duffel bags that feel heavier than they should. Three days of unpacking only half of his things because there isn't much point in settling too deeply into anywhere anymore.
He never sees you once.
The first night, he hears the front door unlock sometime after midnight, quiet footsteps, the soft rustle of a jacket being hung up. Cabinet doors opening and closing in the kitchen. He stands frozen in the doorway of his room for a second, listening.
Then he hears the bathroom door shut down the hall and waits for some awkward introduction that never comes. By the time he wakes up the next morning, you're gone again.
There is a sticky note on the fridge.
Working late all week. Feel free to use anything in the kitchen except the leftover Chinese food. Learned that lesson already.
He pulls the note off the fridge after reading it, folding it once before sticking it in the pocket of his sweatshirt without really knowing why.
The second note comes two days later, left beside the coffee maker.
Heading upstate for work tomorrow. Back Friday night.
Then another on the kitchen counter.
If the sink in the kitchen makes that awful screeching noise again, jiggle the cold water handle.
It's strange, living with someone he has never met.
You exist in pieces to him. A mug left drying by the sink, a pair of shoes by the door one night and gone again by morning, a blanket folded on the couch in a different way than he remembers leaving it.
The faint smell of shampoo lingering in the hallway bathroom after he knows you've been home.
Sometimes he catches the sound of you moving around at night. The creak of floorboards in the hall. The soft thud of something being set on the kitchen counter. Once, half asleep, he hears quiet music drifting from somewhere in the apartment before it disappears again.
You are becoming something blurry around the edges, more presence than person, a ghost.
Not that he's one to complain. The arrangement works and for the first few weeks, he mostly keeps to his room anyway. He gets used to the attached bathroom. The way the pipes knock whenever somebody runs hot water. The patch of afternoon sun that lands across the floor by the window around three o'clock every day.
He unpacks slowly. One shirt at a time, one book at a time. He leaves most of his things in boxes because it feels safer that way. Temporary. Like if he has to leave suddenly, he can.
He still goes out most nights, he doesn't cook much.
The kitchen feels too personal somehow, like crossing into territory that belongs more to you than him. So he eats at diners, cheap takeout places, little delis with too-bright lights and menus that haven't changed in twenty years.
Eventually he starts stopping at the same hot dog stand three blocks from the apartment. The guy who runs it is older. Loud, talks too much, calls everyone sweetheart regardless of age or gender. The first time Bucky goes there, the guy takes one look at him and says, “You look like you need two hot dogs and a nap.”
By the third visit, he doesn't even have to order.
“Mustard, onions, no kraut,” the guy says, already reaching for the buns. “And a Coke.”
“You're getting too comfortable,” Bucky tells him.
“You keep showing up, that's on you.”
He reminds Bucky of Sam if Sam were louder and somehow even more annoying.
The guy asks questions constantly.
You got a girl? No. Job? Sort of. Why do you always look like somebody just kicked your dog?
Bucky never answers half of them, still, he keeps coming back. Mostly because the hot dogs are decent. Partly because it is nice, sometimes, to have somebody expect you to show up somewhere.
Back at the apartment, another sticky note waits for him on the kitchen counter.
Sorry for basically haunting the place. Work has been insane lately.
He stares at it for a second, then longer than that. A ghost with good handwriting, at least now he knows you know it too.
The first time he sees you, it feels a little like walking into the wrong apartment.
He comes back later than usual, the city already washed in blue evening light, a paper tray from the hot dog stand balanced in one hand and a soda in the other. The apartment door sticks a little when he pushes it open.
He hears your voice before he sees you. It's soft, firm yet an edge of exhaustion to it.
“You can tell them whatever you want, but I'm not driving six hours for a meeting that could've been an email.”
He stops just inside the doorway.
You're standing by the living room windows with your back to him, one arm folded across your middle, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder.
For a second, he just stares. Because he had almost forgotten, not completely, but enough. Enough that your existence had turned into sticky notes and moving shadows in the hallway. Coffee mugs in the sink. A coat that appeared on the hook by the door and disappeared again before morning.
He had built you into something abstract in his head.
Not a real person.
Certainly not a woman.
Not because Sam had said otherwise. Sam hadn't said much at all.
Just because there had been nothing obvious about you in the apartment. No perfume bottles cluttering the bathroom counter. No makeup bags. No floral blankets or pastel throw pillows or whatever other lazy stereotypes his brain had apparently reached for without him realizing it.
The place is sparse, practical. Books and soft lighting and a single plant by the window that looks one missed watering away from death. He mentally scolds himself for the assumptions.
You don't turn around right away, you're still talking and Bucky begins to wonder if he should walk out. Keep to the ghostly sticky notes and mugs in the sink.
“Yeah, well, that's not my problem,” you say into the phone, quieter now. “I sent everything over already.”
Then your eyes flick toward the entryway. Toward him.
You freeze.
It happens so quickly he almost misses it. The slight widening of your eyes. The way your mouth parts for a second before you catch yourself. It's clear you hadn't expected to see him either.
“Hold on,” you murmur into the phone.
For a second, neither of you says anything.
You are not what he expected either. You're standing barefoot on the hardwood floor with your heels kicked off next to you, hair a little messy like you've been running your hands through it all day and a suitskirt that's been smoothed down one too many times.
There are tired shadows under your eyes that make you look… real. Not like the blurry version of you he'd made up from scraps. He realizes, distantly, that this is probably the first time you've really seen him too. Not just the sound of boots in the hallway or the evidence of him in the sink.
The metal arm. The size of him. The way he takes up space without meaning to.
You recover first.
“Sorry,” you say, pulling the phone away from your mouth. “I didn't know you were coming home.”
“Yeah.”Brilliant move.
You blink at him once, then glance down at the hot dog tray in his hand. “Hope that's not dinner.”
He looks down too. “It was the plan.”
You huff a laugh through your nose, small and tired. “You eat like a divorced dad.”
He doesn't know why that almost makes him smile. Into the phone, you say, “I have to call you back,” before hanging up without waiting for an answer.
The apartment goes quiet, not awkward exactly. Well it's a little awkward but it's more unfamiliar than anything. Up close, he notices things he couldn't piece together from the notes. You look younger than he expected. Softer too, somehow. Not fragile, just... warm around the edges, like somebody people trust without thinking about it.
“Sorry about that,” you say, gesturing vaguely with your phone. “Work call, you know. I, uh... didn't expect it to go like this.”
There's something awkward in the air still, that strange lingering feeling of two people trying to fit reality over the outline they'd already made of each other.
“Don't worry about it.”
You shift your phone into one hand and hold the other out toward him.
“I don't think we've actually been properly introduced.” You say, offering your name. He looks down at your hand for a second before taking it carefully.
“No. I don't think we have.” His hand slips from yours after only a moment. “I'm Bucky.”
“I know. I suppose that's mainly my fault.” You give him a small apologetic smile. “I'm sorry. My job is very… time demanding and that won't really be changing anytime soon. But I'm glad to meet you, Bucky.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Good to meet you too.”
Silence settles between you again, not uncomfortable, just unsure. Then both of you speak at once.
“So what do you do?”
“How are you liking the place?”
You stop. He stops.
“Sorry,” he says, motioning for you to go first.
“I was just asking how you're liking the place.” Your arms fold loosely over yourself again. “Have you settled in well?”
“Oh, yeah.” He nods once. “Place is great. Thank you.”
And it is.
He likes the quiet. The neighborhood. The bookshelves. The fact that the apartment feels like somewhere a person could stay for a while without being swallowed by it.
You smile a little at his answer. “Good.”
More silence, then you clear your throat slightly.
“And you? Were gonna say...?”
“Oh.” He glances down for a second like he'd forgotten his own question. “I was just wondering what you do... that's so...” He makes a vague motion with one hand. “Time demanding.”
“Oh. Right.” You shift your weight against the windowsill. “I work in the anthropology division at the American Museum of Natural History.”
He blinks once. “Wow.”
You laugh softly at the look on his face.
“That sounds awesome.”
“It used to be,” you say with a wry little smile. “Now it's mostly a thousand phone calls and endless trips upstate to deal with the collections.”
He leans back slightly against the doorframe.
“If you work down there, why live in Brooklyn?” he asks. “Nasty commute.”
You glance around the apartment like you haven't looked at it properly in a while.
“I got this place before I got that job,” you say. “And I liked it.” Then, quieter, “Still like it.”
Your eyes move briefly toward the hallway. Toward the bookshelves, the kitchen, the little corners of the apartment that feel soft even when no one's in them.
“That's actually why I wanted a roommate,” you admit. “I love this place, and I want it to be loved, but...” You shrug one shoulder. “I just don't have the time to do that.”
Something in his chest shifts a little at that, because he understands. More than he wants to. What it feels like to care about something and still not know how to be present for it.
“Well,” he says, voice quieter now, “I'll... I'll do my best.”
You smile then, not the tired, polite kind you've been giving him all evening. Something warmer. Something that catches him off guard a little, like maybe you believe him.
“I'm sorry I've basically been living here like some weird cryptid,” you say. “Work's been insane.”
“You leave good notes.”
The second the words leave his mouth, he wants them back.
Your eyebrows lift. “That's maybe the weirdest compliment I've ever gotten.”
You open your mouth, like you're about to say something else, then your phone rings. The sound cuts through the room sharply. You look down at the screen and make a face.
“Sorry,” you say, already answering it. “I have to take this.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
You offer him one last apologetic smile before turning and disappearing down the hallway toward your bedroom.
A second later he hears your door close softly, then your voice again through the wall. Professional, calm and little tired. He stands in the entryway for another minute after that, hot dog gone cold in his hand. The apartment feels different now, smaller somehow. Not because there is less space. Just because now, finally, you are real.
The apartment feels different after he meets you.
Not immediately and nothing dramatic.
You still leave before sunrise some mornings, slipping out with your bag over your shoulder and your hair still damp from the shower. You still come home long after dark, moving quietly through the apartment like you're trying not to wake someone even when he isn't asleep.
But now there is shape to your absence. Before, the apartment had just been quiet, now it feels empty. Bucky notices things he shouldn't. Whether your shoes are by the door, whether the light under your bedroom door is on.
The difference between the sound of the upstairs neighbors moving furniture and the sound of you dropping your keys onto the kitchen counter.
He lingers in the kitchen longer now too. Sometimes with coffee growing cold in his hands while he leans against the counter pretending not to listen for the front door. Sometimes he catches himself glancing toward the hallway whenever the building creaks.
You still leave notes. One waits for him on the fridge Tuesday morning, tucked beneath a magnet shaped like a pear.
Upstate again. Back Thursday night. There's soup in the fridge if it hasn't gone bad.
He stares at it for a second, then longer than that. Before he can overthink it, he grabs a pen from the junk drawer and flips the note over.
Soup is still alive. I think.
He leaves it on the counter and immediately regrets it. Wondering if it's too weird, or too familiar. But when he gets back from a walk later that night, the note is gone.
Thursday comes, then Thursday night. He is standing in the kitchen making coffee he doesn't need when he hears the front door unlock. You walk in looking exhausted. Hair messy, tote bag slipping off your shoulder, coat half falling down your arms.
You stop when you see him.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
Your eyes land on the counter and you laugh. It's quiet, tired around the edges, but real.
“Soup still alive?” you ask.
“Barely.”
You drop your bag onto a chair.
“Well.” You glance toward the fridge. “Soup can't technically expire if you're brave enough.”
Bucky blinks, you smile a little wider and something warm settles low in his chest.
After that, the notes become something else. Not just reminders but conversations. You leave one on the coffee maker.
Radiator makes weird banging noises around midnight. Ignore it unless it sounds haunted.
He leaves one by the fruit bowl the next morning.
Upstairs neighbors were fighting at 2 a.m. Pretty sure someone threw a lamp.
Another day:
Please water the plant by the window before it starts holding a grudge.
He forgets. Two days later, there is another note waiting beside the drooping leaves.
You had one job.
Bucky snorts to himself, then digs out a pen.
Sorry. It does kinda look like one bad day away from death.
You leave back:
So do I.
He folds that note into the pocket of his jacket and carries it around for three days. Slowly, without either of you meaning for it to happen, the notes stop being practical.
One afternoon he comes home to find one waiting by the sink.
New coffee filters are under the sink. Also, if you ate my leftover pad thai I forgive you because it was probably bad anyway.
He smiles before he can stop himself, then writes back underneath it.
Didn't eat it. Thought about it though.
The next morning there is another note sitting beside the coffee pot.
I appreciate your honesty in this difficult time.
And just like that, the apartment doesn't feel quite so empty anymore.
As great as everything else is, Bucky gets tired of hot dogs eventually.
Not completely. He still goes to the stand a few times a week, still listens to the guy behind the cart talk too loud and ask too many questions, but after a while the thought of another hot dog starts to make him feel vaguely ill.
So one night he cooks, nothing complicated. Just pasta.
Too much of it, because he has never quite figured out how to cook for one person and because some part of him has started thinking in twos without permission.
The apartment smells different afterward, warmer. Like garlic and tomato sauce and something softer underneath it.
He leaves you a bowl in the fridge with a note stuck to the top.
Made too much. There's pasta in the fridge if you want it.
You don't come home until after midnight. He's already in bed when he hears the faint sounds of you moving around in the kitchen.
The fridge opening, a plate clinking against the counter. Silence. Then the microwave.
The next morning, he wakes up to a note sitting beside the coffee maker.
This is the first non-takeout meal I've had in two weeks. Marry me?
He stares at it for an embarrassing amount of time. Long enough that his coffee goes cold. Long enough that he folds the note once, then again, before sliding it into the drawer beside his bed with the others.
After that, you start seeing each other more. Not on purpose exactly. Just in the little spaces between everything else. Six in the morning in the kitchen while the city outside is still gray and quiet.
You standing in one of his sweatshirts that got mixed up in the laundry over leggings, blinking sleepily into your coffee cup while he leans against the counter waiting for toast to pop up.
Passing each other in the hallway at night. Your shoulder brushing his as you move around each other in the narrow space between the dining room and kitchen.
Once, on a rainy Thursday, you both end up home at the same time. You sit on opposite ends of the couch, you with your laptop balanced on your knees, him with a book open in his lap.
The television hums quietly in the background, something neither of you is actually watching. At some point, without looking up from your screen, you stretch your legs out until your socked feet bump lightly against his thigh.
You don't move them away. Neither does he and slowly, you become easier around each other. You stop apologizing every time you leave dishes in the sink. He stops retreating to his room the second he hears you come home.
One night he brings back burgers and fries from a diner down the street.
You appear in the kitchen halfway through, hair damp from the shower, looking at his takeout bag like it personally offended you that he didn't ask if you wanted anything.
“Rude,” you say.
“You weren't home yet.”
“You could've texted.”
He tears the bag open and slides the fries toward you. You grin immediately and steal three before he even sits down.
“You're lucky you're cute,” he mutters.
You freeze for half a second, then keep eating like you didn't hear him. He fixes the sink handle one weekend after it starts making that awful screeching noise every time you turn it.
You come home to find him under the sink with a wrench in one hand and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
“What are you doing?”
“Fixing it.”
You lean in the doorway watching him for a second. “You know, normal people usually just call maintenance.”
“Normal people don't have metal arms.”
That makes you laugh. “Fair point.”
Then one evening he comes home and finds you asleep on the couch. The apartment is dark except for the lamp in the corner, there are papers everywhere. Open folders spread across the coffee table. A legal pad on the floor. Your laptop still glowing beside you, your glasses sit crooked on your face, one hand is still wrapped loosely around a pen.
You look exhausted. Like you've simply run out of steam halfway through existing. He stands there for a second longer than he means to, then quietly sets his keys down.
He grabs the blanket folded over the arm of the couch and drapes it carefully over you.
You stir a little, brows furrowing, but you don't wake up. His hand lingers for half a second near your shoulder before he pulls it back. Then he turns off the kitchen light and disappears down the hallway.
The next morning, the blanket is folded neatly over the back of the couch again. And beside the coffee maker, there is a note.
Thanks for the blanket.
Below it, in smaller handwriting:
That was very disgustingly nice of you.
A few nights later, Bucky wakes up thirsty. The apartment is dark except for the light over the stove.
He can hear pages turning before he even reaches the kitchen.
You're sitting at the table in one of your giant sweatshirts, laptop open, papers spread out around you in messy little stacks. There are sticky notes stuck to the edge of your screen, a half-drunk cup of coffee by your elbow, and your glasses are slipping down your nose again.
You don't notice him at first. Your mouth is moving slightly while you read through something under your breath.
He leans against the doorway. “Do you ever sleep?”
You jump a little in your seat, then you look up at him and huff out a tired laugh.
“Sometimes.”
“You sure?”
“Not particularly.”
He moves farther into the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cabinet. “You know it's two in the morning, right?”
You glance down at your laptop clock. “Oh.”
“You didn't know?”
“I thought it was maybe midnight.”
He shakes his head a little as he fills his glass. “What are you even doing?”
You look down at the folders spread around you and for a second, you seem like you're deciding whether or not to tell him. Then you let out a breath.
“I'm… up for a promotion.”
Bucky looks over at you. “What kind?”
“A curator position.”
He leans back against the counter. “At the museum?”
You nod.
“In the anthropology division.” Your fingers start absently straightening the edge of one of your papers. “If I got it, I'd oversee acquisitions, exhibits, research trips. Most of the collections work too.”
As you talk, something about you changes, your shoulders loosen and your face softens. There is something brighter in your voice than he's heard before. You look almost younger like this, less tired, more like the version of you that exists underneath all the stress and late nights and rushed mornings.
“That sounds...” He shakes his head once. “That sounds awesome.”
“It would be.” You smile a little, staring down at your notes. “I mean, it would be everything.”
You glance around at the papers spread across the table. “I've wanted it for years.”
Then, just as quickly, you pull back from it. You shrug one shoulder like it doesn't matter as much as it clearly does.
“But it's probably unrealistic anyway.”
Bucky frowns. “Why?”
You laugh softly to yourself.
“Because you don't just get the job to be a curator at the American Museum of Natural History,” you say. “It's something holy that gets bestowed upon you with the anointed oil they gave Queen Elizabeth II.”
That gets a surprised laugh out of him. You smile faintly, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes.
“It's just wishful thinking,” you say quietly. “Then you die trying.”
He hates how fast you do that. How quickly you take something you want and turn it into something impossible before anyone else can.
He sets his glass down on the counter. “That sounds like exactly the kind of job you'd be good at.”
You look up at him, really look at him. Like you're waiting for the joke, but there isn't one.
“You know that, right?” he says. “The way you talk about it.”
Your expression shifts a little, because most people do not usually say things to you that plainly. You look down at your hands.
“I don't know,” you say after a second.
“Yeah, you do.”
The kitchen goes quiet, the radiator knocks somewhere in the wall. You sit there with your hands wrapped around your coffee cup, staring at him like he has said something far more important than he meant to.
Then you smile. “Thanks, Buck.”
And for some reason, it feels like being handed something fragile.
A few days later, Bucky finds himself standing in the hallway again.
It happens more often now. He'll be on his way to the kitchen or coming back from the shower and suddenly stop in front of the bookshelves like he forgot where he was going.
The shelves are uneven in places.
Some rows are organized by author, others by size or color or absolutely no logic at all. There are books stacked sideways on top of other books, faded bookmarks sticking out between pages, cracked spines and bent corners and little slips of paper tucked into random places.
It feels lived in, it feels like you.
He stands there for a minute, eyes tracing over the titles. Then he grabs a sticky note from the kitchen and presses it onto the edge of one of the shelves.
You actually read all of these?
He forgets about it after that. Until later that night when he gets home and notices something tucked into the spine of a book halfway down the shelf.
He pulls it free.
Used to. A lot. Some are mine, some were my dad's, some I found secondhand. I used to collect old editions too before work swallowed my entire personality.
He reads it twice. Then, without really meaning to, he starts paying closer attention. Not just to the titles, to the books themselves.
There are old clothbound covers with gold lettering worn thin at the edges. Tiny notes scribbled in pencil in the margins. Bookstore stamps from places all over the city. One copy of a novel has a dried flower pressed between the pages.
Some of them are old enough that even he remembers when they were new. One night he pauses in front of a shelf near the living room and pulls out a familiar green book.
The cover is faded, the spine is worn soft from use. He turns it over in his hands, then glances down at the copyright page. 1942. He stares for a second, then reaches for another sticky note.
You have a 1942 copy of The Hobbit.
The response is waiting for him when he wakes up the next morning, tucked beneath his coffee mug.
I know. Found it in a shop upstate for twenty dollars because the owner didn't know what he had. Second greatest moment of my life.
He smiles despite himself, and there is another note beneath it.
You can read whatever you want, by the way. And if there are books you like, you can add them.
He stands there in the kitchen holding that note a little longer than he should. Because nobody has said something like that to him in a very long time. To make yourself at home, that there's room for you here. It's such a small thing, just books, just shelves.
But it feels like more than that. That night he pulls one of the older novels from the shelf and reads half of it sitting on the couch while rain taps softly against the windows.
A few days later, when he finishes it, he leaves it on the coffee table. When he comes back from a walk the next morning, there is a sticky note tucked inside the front cover.
Well?
He snorts quietly to himself and grabs a pen.
Liked it. Ending was more depressing than I remember.
The next day:
That's because you have bad taste and no appreciation for tragedy.
He leaves another book out after that, then another. And you start leaving notes inside all of them. Little questions in the margins. Favorite character? Did you cry? Be honest, did you skip the boring parts? And without really realizing it, the shelves stop feeling like just yours.
They start feeling like something the two of you are building together.
One evening Bucky comes back from a walk and stops in the hallway without meaning to. Something looks different. It takes him a second to realize what it is. Wedged between two thick hardcovers near the end of the second shelf is one of his books, old and worn.
A history book about the forties that he'd unpacked weeks ago and left sitting on the edge of the end table next to the couch because he never knew where to put it. Now it's there between the others like it has always belonged.
Like you made room for it without asking. He reaches out and pulls it from the shelf. Inside the front cover, there's a sticky note with your handwriting:
Thought this looked lonely.
Something in his chest aches a little. Because it's such a small thing, nobody has made space for him somewhere in a very long time, but it shifts something inside of him. Something warm and soft blooming beneath his ribs as he slides the book back onto the shelf.
After that, you start spending more actual time together. Not just in passing, not just in notes and hallway conversations. Real time. He brings home takeout and the two of you end up sitting cross-legged on the living room floor because neither of you feels like cleaning off the coffee table.
You steal pieces of chicken off his plate. He lets you. You start walking to get coffee together on mornings you're both free, slow and sleepy and still half wrapped in hoodies.
Sometimes you don't talk much, sometimes you talk about everything. The museum. His nightmares. Books. Childhoods. Things that happened too long ago and things that happened yesterday.
One afternoon he comes back from the hot dog stand carrying two paper trays instead of one. You're in the kitchen when he gets home.
“You got me one?”
“You looked tired.”
You smile at him in a way that feels dangerous.
The hot dog guy notices eventually.
“Where's the pretty museum girl?” he asks one day while handing Bucky his usual order.
Bucky frowns. “Who?”
“The roommate you said you have.” The guy grins. “I wanna meet her.”
“No. Not happening.”
The guy laughs. “Oh, so that's what we're doing now.”
Bucky grabs the food and leaves before he can say anything else. You notice his mood immediately when he gets back.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Mm.”
You take the hot dog from his hand. “You have a very specific face when you're annoyed, you know.”
He mutters something under his breath that makes you smile. That night the two of you are sitting on the floor in front of the couch, books spread around you, some old movie playing in the background.
Bucky glances over at the shelf. “You said finding that copy of The Hobbit was the second greatest moment of your life.”
You look up from your book. “Yeah.”
“So what was the first?”
You smile immediately.
“There was this used bookstore in Queens,” you say. “I was seventeen. They had this old locked case near the register and inside was the first book from a vintage set of The Canterbury Tales.”
He watches your face change as you talk.
“The cover was all cracked leather and gold leaf and completely falling apart. It was beautiful.”
You tuck your legs up closer to yourself.
“I used all the money I had to buy it.”
“And then?”
“And then I spent the next ten years trying to find the rest.” You laugh softly. “That was kind of it. That was the start of the whole problem.”
“You found all of them?”
“Almost.” You shake your head. “Never found the last one.”
There's something quietly sad in the way you say it. Like it's less about the book and more about what it meant to give up looking. Bucky watches the way your face slowly changes, something in the edge of your eyes shifting until you're looking at the floor. It hurts, and it makes him think that he would do anything to see you smile.
In a weak attempt he pushes the last of his fries to you, claiming they're too salty for him. You both know they're not but the small quirk of the corner of your mouth makes it worth it. The rest of the night passes in between condiements and bubbled laughter at the QVC channel, listening in to the televised conversations like they're the next hit reality show.
After a few days Bucky notices the calendar in the kitchen. Not because he is looking for anything in particular. Just because he is waiting for the coffee to finish brewing and his eyes drift to the wall.
The square for next Thursday is crowded with your handwriting.
Your own birthday is written last. Small enough that it almost disappears between everything else. Something about that sits badly in his chest. Because of course it does. Because even on your birthday, you have managed to make yourself the least important thing on the list.
He knows immediately you're going to forget it.
And you do. The morning of, you're rushing around the apartment before sunrise with one shoe on and your phone wedged between your ear and shoulder.
“I already sent the file,” you say into the phone, trying to shove your arm through the sleeve of your coat. “No, I know, but if they wanted changes they should've said that yesterday—”
Your bag slips off your shoulder and your keys hit the floor making you curse under your breath. Bucky is standing in the kitchen holding a mug of coffee when he says it.
“Happy birthday.”
You stop and blink at him.
“Oh,” you say after a second. “Right.”
You laugh softly, but it sounds tired. “I completely forgot.”
Then the person on the phone says your name and you hurry out the door with a quick apology before he can say anything else. It bothers him more than it should because birthdays are supposed to mean something. Yours especially.
So after you leave, he decides to do something about it. He remembers the bakery on the corner had a strawberry shortcake in the display case. Just something small, nothing flashy, whipped cream and strawberries layered across the top.
It reminds him of you somehow. Soft-looking and sweet to the core. He buys candles too. Then he spends the rest of the afternoon searching for the perfect gift. It takes him a few blocks of wandering around to think of what to get, but when it hits him he knew he found his mission.
He spends hours going from used bookstore to used bookstore. By the sixth one, he's almost ready to give up. Then, in a dusty little shop that smells like old paper and mildew, he finds it. Old leather cover, gold embossing faded at the edges a slight water stain on the back. Perfect.
That night, the apartment is dark except for the kitchen light. Bucky stands awkwardly by the counter with the cake in front of him, candles lit, the wrapped gift sitting beside it.
He has no idea what he's doing. But there's no going back now.
The front door opens a little after ten. You walk in looking exhausted, shoulders slumped, shoes dragging. Your hair falling out of whatever messy attempt you made to keep it back this morning. You stop dead when you see him. Then the cake lit with candles, the small box beside it.
Bucky shrugs one shoulder like he suddenly regrets all of it.
“You forgot your birthday,” he says.
You stare at him for a second too long. Nobody has done something like this for you in a very long time. Maybe ever. You don't look like you know what to do with being cared for.
“Bucky...” is all you manage.
He gets flustered immediately.
“It's not a big deal,” he says quickly, motioning vaguely toward the cake. “I just...” He looks down for a second. “Figured somebody should celebrate you.”
The look on your face almost undoes him. You set your bag down slowly and walk over.
“You got me a cake?”
“Yeah.”
“With candles?”
He glances at the little crooked row of them.
“That's usually how birthdays work.”
You laugh then. A little watery around the edges. You walk farther into the kitchen like you're afraid if you move too quickly the whole thing will disappear.
The candles flicker softly between you.
“You didn't have to do this,” you say quietly.
“I know.”
“But you did anyway. Why?”
He doesn't know what to say to that. So he just shrugs again.
You look down at the cake then back up at him.
“Okay,” you say softly. “Then I guess I should make a wish.”
You lean down and hover there for just a moment, the golden glow of the flames casting a light across your face that highlights features he doesn't think he's ever seen. A small beauty mark tucked under your eyebrow, a slight jagged silver scar down the bridge of your nose. He'll never not see them now, a gift of his own he thinks. You close your eyes and hum quietly to yourself before letting out a short breath to blow out the candles.
The apartment goes dark for a second after the smoke curls up into the air. He flicks the stove light on, then Bucky reaches for the wrapped book beside him and holds it out awkwardly.
“And this is... also a thing.”
You blink. “You got me a present?”
“You don't have to sound so surprised.”
You take it from him carefully, with a growing smirk on your face. The paper crinkles softly beneath your fingers as you unwrap it. Then you go still. Completely still. He watches your eyes move over the cover. The old leather, the faded gold lettering.
Your fingers hover over it like you're afraid touching it too hard will make it disappear.
“The last one,” you whisper. Your voice sounds a little broken around the edges. “The last volume of The Canterbury Tales.”
Bucky shifts awkwardly on his feet as you look up at him. Your face is fallen with a joy he's never seen, as if he just hung the moon and painted the stars.
You shake your head in disbelief. “Where did you even—”
“Just found it.” He shrugs.
“Bucky.”
“Took a couple bookstores. Made a deal with the owner once I found it, he was an old history buff on WW2 so…” he admits.
You look up at him then. And there is something in your face he has never seen directed at him before. Something soft, something overwhelming as a clear line starts to well at your eyes. You clutch the book to your chest like you don't know what else to do with it.
"Thank you, Bucky," you whisper, shaky lip tucked betwen your teeth.
A warm silence blooms between you two and Bucky is stuck under your stare, watching the soft dialtion of your pupils. Entranced by them he didn't even notice you had gotten so close, not until he felt the gentle brush of your lips against his cheek.
Words have never failed him like now, stuck and jumbled in the back of his throat only to come out like a garbled hum.
“What'd you wish for?” Bucky asks abrutly as he starts pulling the candles out one by one.
You smile a little, wiping quickly beneath one eye.
“Can't tell you,” you say. “State secrets now.”
He snorts quietly and grabs two spoons from the drawer. You end up on the couch sharing the cake straight from the container, knees brushing every so often in the small space between you. The television is on, though neither of you is paying attention to it. You eat strawberries off the top first and work your way down and Bucky follows suit.
You stay on the couch long after the cake is gone.
The empty container sits forgotten on the coffee table, two spoons abandoned beside it. The book never leaves your lap. At some point, you curl your legs up beneath you and start telling him about the first time you found one of the volumes. How you were seventeen and awkward and had spent an hour pretending to browse because you were too nervous to ask the owner to unlock the glass case.
Bucky laughs.
“So you've always been weird about books.”
“That's rich coming from a hundred-year-old man who still reads history books for fun.”
“Those are different.”
“They're really not.”
You grin when you say it. That soft, sleepy grin he thinks he could spend years chasing. Eventually the conversation drifts. To old bookstores, to the hot dog guy, to Sam, then to terrible movies. You insist he has never properly experienced bad cinema until he has seen Attack of the 50 Foot Woman.
He insists there is no way it can be as ridiculous as you are making it sound. Twenty minutes in, he realizes you were underselling it. By the middle of the movie, you're both laughing. Not polite little laughs either, real ones. The kind that make your stomach hurt and your eyes water and force you to pause because neither of you can hear the dialogue over the sound of the other person losing it.
He can't remember the last time he laughed like this.
By the time the movie is ending, your head is tipped against the back of the couch and your eyes are half closed.
He notices you fighting sleep before you do.
“You're falling asleep.”
“No, I'm not.” You yawn immediately after saying it.
He smiles. “You absolutely are.”
You make a soft noise of protest, but it doesn't have much conviction behind it.And a few minutes later, when he glances over again, you're out completely. Your head has tipped against his shoulder at some point, one hand still loosely wrapped around the book in your lap.
For a second, he just sits there. Listening to the sound of your breathing, the soft hum of the television, the city outside the windows. Then he carefully takes the book from your hands and sets it on the coffee table. He slips one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back.
You stir a little when he lifts you, brows furrowing for a second before you settle again against him.
“Buck?” you mumble sleepily.
“I got you.”
You make another quiet sound and let your head fall against his chest as he carries you down the hallway and into your room. The bedside lamp is still on, there are clothes draped over the chair in the corner and papers stacked haphazardly on your desk, everything is so utterly you.
He sets you down carefully on the bed and pulls the blankets up around you. You don't wake up, not really, you just shift a little beneath the covers and settle. He brushes a piece of hair back from your face and his hand lingers there for a second longer than it should.
Something overcomes him and he leans down, and presses a kiss to your forehead.
“Happy birthday,” he whispers.
As he walked out of you room he saw the book on the table, with a gentle hand he picked it up, brushing a thumb over the pages as he walks down the hall. The rest of the set is on the second highest shelf, lined up together. He slides in the last edition, eyeing the aligned spines with a ghost of a smile before walking off to his room.
The call comes on a Tuesday.
Bucky knows because you walk into the apartment looking vaguely shell-shocked, still clutching your phone in one hand.
You don't even make it all the way into the kitchen before blurting it out. “I got an interview.”
He looks up from where he's sitting at the table. “What?”
“For the curator position.” You blink at him like you still don't believe it yourself. “Next week.”
For a second, all he sees is the excitement on your face. Bright and hopeful, then it disappears almost as quickly as it came.
“Oh,” you say quietly. “Oh no.”
The spiral starts immediately after that. By the end of the week, the apartment is covered in notes. Practice questions taped to the bathroom mirror, flashcards on the kitchen counter, museum reports spread across the couch cushions.
You pace while talking to yourself, you stop sleeping, you definitely stop eating properly. The night before the interview, Bucky finds you sitting cross-legged on the living room floor in sweatpants and one of his old shirts, papers spread around you in uneven piles.
Your glasses are slipping down your nose and your hair is a mess. You look like you're about ten minutes away from a complete breakdown.
“You okay?” he asks, already knowing the answer.
“No,” you say immediately.
He sits down across from you. “What's wrong?”
You stare down at the papers in your lap. “What if I embarrass myself?”
“You won't.”
“What if they ask me something I don't know?”
“You'll know it.”
“What if I freeze?”
“You won't.”
You glare at him a little. “You don't know that.”
He leans back against the couch.
“I know you.”
That quiets you for a second.
Only for a second. Then you start rambling after that. About the anthropology wing. About acquisitions. About field research and exhibit planning and the exact kind of curator you would want to be if anyone ever actually gave you the chance. You talk about preserving history, about wanting people to care. About how every object in the museum used to belong to someone. How every piece of history was once just somebody's normal day.
Bucky listens every time. He listens while you talk yourself into circles. Listens while you explain all the reasons you think you aren't good enough for this.
“I didn't go to the right schools,” you say finally. “I don't know the right people. Everyone else interviewing for this is probably smarter than me and more qualified and—”
“They're gonna be lucky if they get you.”
You stop and the apartment goes quiet around you, scattered notes and pages from your journal fluttering in the air current. Bucky looks at you from across the floor, expression calm like he hasn't just said something that cracked you open right down the middle.
“You mean that?” you ask softly.
“Yeah.” He doesn't even hesitate. “I do.”
You stare at him for a second. Then you move before you can think too hard about it. You lean across the space between you and kiss him. It's quick and impulsive, your hand catches against his shoulder and your mouth brushes his once, soft and startled.
Then you freeze.
“Oh my God,” you whisper, pulling back immediately. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—”
Bucky cuts you off by kissing you again, this time slower. Deliberate. His hand comes up to cup your face and suddenly the whole world narrows down to the warmth of his mouth and the way he is holding you like you're something precious.
You melt into it, your hand tangles in the front of his shirt and a soft hum slipping past your lips against his as his thumb brushes softly along your cheek.
When you finally pull apart, both of you look a little stunned. Like neither of you knows what to do with the fact that this has been here all along.
“Okay,” you say softly.
“Okay,” he echoes.
After that, the air between you changes, not in some huge dramatic way. Just softer. He starts brushing his hand against your back when he passes you in the kitchen. You lean against his shoulder on the couch without thinking about it. He kisses your forehead when you leave for work. You steal his hoodies and stop pretending they're yours.
Sometimes you fall asleep together on the couch with the television still on and your legs tangled beneath the blanket. Somewhere in the middle of all of it, Bucky realizes he's stopped thinking of the apartment as somewhere he lives.
Now it just feels like home.
Bucky tries to wake up before you the morning of the interview.
He fails.
By the time he walks into the kitchen, you're already there in nice clothes, standing in front of the coffee maker with your arms crossed and that thousand-yard stare people get right before something important. You look beautiful, terrified and a little bit sick. Your hair is done. Your makeup is subtle. There is a necklace at your throat he thinks he's seen maybe twice before.
You don't notice him at first. You're staring at the coffee pot like if you look away it'll stop working.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
You blink. “No.”
He smiles a little. “You're gonna do great.”
You snort quietly and reach for your mug. “You legally have to say that because you live with me.”
“No,” he says. “I have to say it because it's true.”
That makes you look down for a second as you take a sip of coffee.
“Still feels like I'm gonna throw up.”
“You'll throw up after,” he says. “Like a professional.”
That earns him a small laugh. By the time you're ready to leave, you're standing by the front door shoving things into your bag with shaky hands.
“Keys,” you mutter to yourself. “Wallet. Phone. Museum badge—”
“Hey.”
You look up. Bucky steps closer and reaches for the necklace at your throat.
“It's crooked.”
“Oh.”
His fingers brush softly against your skin as he straightens it and your breath catches a little. So does his. For a second, neither of you says anything. Then he leans down and kisses you. It's quick and soft but it leaves your cheeks warm when he pulls away.
“You got this,” he says.
You nod once then you're gone.
The whole day, Bucky is restless. He tells himself he isn't waiting for you but he definitely is. He tries reading, and ends up readin gthe same page three times. He almost goes to the hot dog stand twice. He paces around the apartment, reorganizes the fridge for no reason, checks the clock so many times it starts to feel personal.
By the time the front door finally opens that night, he looks up so fast it nearly gives him away. You walk in looking different immediately. Not upset exactly, just strange and quiet. Very quiet. Like your thoughts are somewhere else entirely.
He assumes that means you got it. That you're in shock, that you're already halfway out the door toward whatever comes next.
“Hey,” he says carefully from the couch. “How'd it go?”
You stop in the doorway. You still have your bag over your shoulder, coat still on. You look at him for a second before letting out a slow breath.
“I didn't get it.”
The words land strangely between you, it makes Bucky sits up a little straighter.
“Oh.”
You laugh softly, but there isn't much humor in it. “Yeah. They said they wanted to move in a different direction.”
He doesn't know what to say to that. Because he knows how badly you wanted it, knows how much time and sleep and pieces of yourself you've poured into this thing.
But then you shrug one shoulder.
“But...” You look down for a second. “They gave me a raise.”
He blinks, surpised. “Okay.”
“And they're opening a new assistant position to ‘lessen my workload.’”
That takes him a second to process.
“So...” He leans forward a little. “You still got something?”
“I guess.” You look exhausted more than anything. “I don't know if I'm supposed to be happy or devastated.”
Bucky nods slowly.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I get that.”
Because he does. Because sometimes life gives you something almost-good and you don't know what to do with that. He watches you for another second, then he stands.
“Come on.”
You look up. “What?”
“Let's go get hot dogs.”
You stare at him for a second. Then, finally, you smile.
“Okay.”
The hot dog guy takes one look at the two of you and immediately points his tongs in your direction.
“Uh oh,” he says. “This feels emotional.”
You laugh for the first time all day. Real laughter. Bucky feels something unclench in his chest at the sound of it.
“Don't encourage him,” he mutters.
“Too late,” the guy says. “I like her.”
Bucky rolls his eyes and you smile into your sleeve. He pays before you can argue about it, and when you open your mouth to protest, he just gives you a look.
“You had a bad day.”
“So?”
“So let me buy you a hot dog.”
You don't fight him after that.
On the walk back, you stop for ice cream too. Now you're both carrying melting cones down the sidewalk, the city quieter around you than usual. Streetlights glow gold against the pavement. Somewhere in the distance, somebody is playing music with their windows open.
It feels a little like being kids. Or maybe just people who don't know exactly where their lives are going yet. It warms your chest either way. You walk beside him in comfortable silence for a while.
“Hey, Buck?”
“Yeah?”
“You ever hear that whole ‘rejection is just redirection' thing?”
He glances over at you. “...No?”
You laugh softly under your breath. “It's just this thing people say.”
“Okay.” He nods once.
“But that's not what I was getting at.”
He waits as you look down at your ice cream for a second before looking back up at him.
“You know on my birthday you told me to make a wish?”
“Yeah?”
Your smile is smaller now.
"I think it just came true.”
He frowns a little. “You… wished to get passed up on the promotion?”
“No,” you say with a breath of laughter. “No.”
You look at him then, really look at him.
“I wished...” Your voice goes quiet. “That I could spend more time with you.”
Everything in him goes still.
The city. The sidewalk, the half-melted ice cream in his hand. All of it. For a second, neither of you moves. Then Bucky smiles, small at first then bigger.
He ducks his head, shaking it a little.
“State secrets, huh?” he teases softly.
You blush immediately. “Shut up.”
But you're smiling too. You slip your arm through his as you keep walking and Bucky thinks maybe this is what happiness feels like. Small and warm and a little sticky from melted ice cream.
A week later, you come home before sunset.
Bucky is in the kitchen making coffee when he hears the front door open.
“You're home early,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. You lean against the doorway with your bag still hanging off one shoulder.
“I know. Weird, right?”
He smiles a little. “You get fired?”
“Not yet.” You step farther into the kitchen. “I actually have tomorrow afternoon off.”
“Wow.”
“I know,” you say again. “I'm trying not to be overwhelmed by all the free time.”
He laughs quietly and you watch him for a second, seemingly contemplating.
“Do you wanna come by the museum?”
He looks up. “The museum?”
“Yeah.” You shrug one shoulder, suddenly looking a little shy about it. “I could show you around. My favorite exhibits and stuff.”
He tries to act casual. “Sure.”
But secretly, he's thrilled. Because this is your world. He's seen pieces of it before in papers spread across the table and half-finished stories told at two in the morning, but this is different. This is you handing him something important.
The next afternoon, he meets you outside the American Museum of Natural History.
You're waiting near the steps in your work clothes with your ID badge around your neck. You look different now, more awake than he has seen you in weeks, more comfortable.
Like this place fits around you in a way most things don't.
You smile the second you spot him.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
You take him inside to see the old fossils first. You tell him which dinosaur skeletons kids always lose their minds over and which exhibits people walk right past even though they're some of the coolest things in the building.
You talk with your hands when you're excited.
You move quickly from one thing to the next, almost tripping over your own thoughts because there is so much you want to show him.
“And this one,” you say, pointing toward an old display case, “people never pay attention to, but it's one of my favorites.”
Inside are old tools and worn pieces of pottery. Tiny, simple things. You tell him where they came from, who used them, how old they are. Every exhibit comes with a story.
Bucky spends half the time looking at the displays and the other half looking at you. Because you light up here. Your voice gets faster, your smile gets bigger, you stop apologizing for caring too much. It's the happiest he has ever seen you.
At one point, you take him into the giant blue whale room. The enormous whale hangs suspended overhead, casting soft shadows across the floor below. You tilt your head back to look up at it.
“Every museum employee has a designated crying-under-the-whale moment at least once,” you say.
Bucky looks over at you. “Yours probably happened after a meeting.”
You scoff. “No. Mine happened because somebody mislabeled a Bronze Age artifact.”
He laughs harder than he should an you grin.
“I'm serious. It was humiliating.”
“You cried over a label?”
“I care deeply about accuracy.”
“You're insane.”
“Maybe,” you say, smiling up at the whale. “But I'm right.”
He shakes his head, still laughing quietly, standing there beneath the whale with you smiling beside him, he thinks he has never seen anything more beautiful. Eventually, you take him into the Milky Way exhibit.
The room is dark and cool, lit only by thousands of projected stars stretching across the ceiling and walls. Soft bands of white and blue curve overhead, and everything echoes slightly. Your footsteps, his breathing, the sound of the door shutting quietly behind you.
You lead him to one of the benches in the center of the room and sit together. For a while, neither of you says anything. The quiet feels different here. Not empty but peaceful. Bucky leans back and looks up at the stars overhead.
They're beautiful.
But not as beautiful as the look on your face when you stare up at them.
“I used to come here when I first got the job,” you say softly.
He looks over at you, your eyes stay fixed on the ceiling.
“I'd get so stressed and overwhelmed and convinced I wasn't cut out for it.” You smile faintly to yourself. “So I'd come sit in here.”
You lean back a little farther against the bench.
“It helped me remember how small I am.” A pause. “How insignificant everything is.”
You glance over at him. He looks down at his hands for a second before looking back up.
“You're probably the most important thing...” He swallows a little. “To me.”
The room goes quiet again. You blush immediately and turn your face back toward the stars and Bucky does too. For a second. Then he looks back at you, the way the light from the projections catches in your eyes and across your face. It softens every edge of you.
You turn toward him slightly, feeling the gaze from him.
“It's pretty, huh?”
He smiles.
“Yeah...”
But he isn't looking at the stars, you realize after a second, and the mood shifts. Like all the air between you changes. He leans in first this time, a soft breath fans across your face before you meet him halfway. The kiss is slow and gentle, the kind that feels like something settling into place. Your hand finds his without thinking about it, his thumb brushes softly across your knuckles.
When he pulls back, you're both smiling a little and he looks up at the stars again, then back at you.
“What are you gonna do now?”
You blink. “With what?”
“No promotion on the horizon. New assistant to keep you free. What's the future have in hold now?”
You let out a quiet breath, thinking.
“You know,” you say, “I have no idea.”
You lean your head against his shoulder. “For as long as I've been doing this, all I've ever wanted was that job.”
He tilts his head lightly against yours. “What do you want now?”
You look up at him and smile softly.
“You.” Then, after a second, "and a hot dog.”
He laughs and the sound echoes quietly through the stars, you both lean into each other, and suddenly the future doesn't feel so frightening. Because whatever it looks like now, you'll be in it together.
isabellebear (vol 2) @isabellebearvolume2 - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
