vital refractions
pairing: paramedic!bucky x paramedic!reader
summary: you and bucky have always been close, close enough that everyone else noticed a spark long before you did. but after a shift leaves you both strung out, comfort blurs into something heavier, then when guilt tells him to pull away, you’re left fighting for the truth of what you did and what it meant.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut (first; not overly detailed, second; full on), fluff & angst, traumatic shift (not overly detailed), miscommunication, silent treatment, friends to something to lovers, arguments, confessions, mild dissociation (reader), bestfriend!bucky, emotionally repressed!bucky (wooow everyone act shocked), alcohol/bars, smoking, bucky smokes & it's implied reader does with him, switch!bucky, switch!reader, semi-public, making out, hair pulling (m&f!rec), dry humping, thigh humping, cumming in pants (f!rec), mean!bucky, whiny!bucky, uncut!bucky, tit worship, nipple sucking and pulling (james boobchanan barnes amirite), degradation (B wants reader to say mean things to him), the L word, lotus position, angry sex to sweet(?), missionary, clit stim, creampie, aftercare, showering together, sappy ending, no beta . . .
word count: 15.8k (i dont know either man...)
a/n: hey barbies !! it's babys first collab, and i can't be happier to be doing this with @stantastic-association !! thank you to the absolutely amazing @miraclediviner for creating this spectacular event, all the ideas, and graphics and keeping everything in check, thank you so so much mj :") and thank you to @metal-armed-muse for helping me with smart med stuff shdfsjsfh and @barnes-babydoll @phoenix-in-writing @buckytakethewheel for keeping me from going insane with this fic, although i think thats too late,, i love you all so so much, thank you for letting me be a part of this amazing and beautiful collab and group <33
just a little heads up, i'm from the uk and also not a paramedic or work in the medical field so i relied heavily on google and reddit when researching about paramedic shifts, clock ins, where ambulances sleep at night and whatnot,, if theres anything wrong i am so sorry i really tried :')
masterlist || navigation || bucky's dreamhouse m.list
✴︎ i'm just an art degree having person, i dont know shit about this im gonna be honest, but i wanted to challenge myself, so i am so sorry to the smart people in the ER, and to paramedics themselves, for anything wrong :") i'll grovel istg.
✴︎ Nat is head nurse at the ER (and readers bestie), Sam is a nurse, and Steve is Nat's partner who's energy can be felt if you look hard enough :") paramedics are basically the new avengers (Ava, Yelena and John) (im so sorry Bob..)
✴︎ this is all from reader's POV except for one small tiny bit near the beginning, but from then on, the rest is all reader and i apologise in advance:')
The call came late in the shift. The kind that settled into your bones without asking permission.
Everything that came after moved too quickly and not fast enough at the same time, muscle memory carrying you both through while something essential lagged behind. By the time you were at the ER — voices loud and assertive, arms still carrying the sting and scrape of metal, plastic and sweat — the adrenaline burned at the edges, a hum on the edge of your skin, a live wire through your fingertips, and left a cavity where certainty used to lie.
The paperwork was finished. The rig was cleaned and the building smelt like sickly-sweet antiseptic and medical supplies. A sterile zing, one you had gotten used to after a few days now burns through your insides, as if to rid you of what occurred just minutes ago. And the city outside went on, undisturbed, breathing.
It was well past evening when you finished, the sun barely had time to say goodbye, as you walked out into the parking-lot with both hands cradling your midsection, head down, hoodie up and the warm presence of Bucky beside you.
His hair was a mess from his fingers combing through incessantly. Eyes dark, jaw set and clenched with words unsaid and memories replaying, but his hand set low on your back, a radiator almost, rubbing up and down each ridge as if he was trying to remind himself that despite everything, you're still here.
"I spoke to Natasha," he spoke low, voice crackled from the tightness and silence. "She said it's best I take you home."
You stayed silent, not thinking, your brain stayed silent ever since you passed your case along, watched them try and try and try, until it was too late and now you're both stuck with a ballpoint pen that keeps skipping and fingers that wont stop twitching. Your writing was borderline unintelligible, and the pads of your palms still burn from how hard you gripped the gurney bars.
"I feel like I should be stronger than this," you huff, a mimic of a laugh that comes out tired, impatient. "I feel pathetic."
"You're not pathetic. You don't need to be strong. Not here, not right now." he responds, never letting your words hit the ground and holds his hand out. "C'mon, gets go home."
By the way his words come, the warmth that curls around them, and you, how he spoke with sureness, quickly and strong, never giving your own doubts time to release fully before they were fought back with praise, comfort. Hope squeezed your lungs together like the tightest embrace, and never let go.
Red light streaked through the windshield, spilling on the tarmac in velvet tresses, covering your faces. Bucky's car stood still with only the whirring hum of the engine to soundtrack your awkward silences. It felt full, too thick.
You sat too still, knees knocked together, hands in your lap, picking at the skin around your nails. No radio tonight. Even with an empty car, the two of you couldn't stomach some shitty three minute commercialised industry plant. Your combined sighs and incessant picking of skin will have to do.
Bucky's right hand gripped the wheel at two, thumb impatiently drumming against the fabric, and his left hand held up his head, elbow on the door.
Scraping his palm over his salt and pepper beard, he sighs.
"You did good," he says. "Really good."
Though your chest burns with the need to speak, you don't reply. You just let the soft fire creep up your sternum and lungs.
"Everything you did today was on point, no mistakes, no mishaps," He shrugs with his hand, two fingers tap on the leather. "You were perfect. You should be proud of yourself, I know I am."
A breath hitches its way from your nose, harsh and quick, a sob that stuck and makes itself known vehemently, and you grimace at the way it sounded humoured. Bucky turns his head at the sound.
"I'm sorry." Rubbing your eyes of the sleep and dirt and stress that accumulated in the corners with a deep sigh. He places his hand on your shoulder in a reassuring gesture, peeling you back from your mind and into the passenger seat of his car.
He hums, "what for."
"Everything," you whisper. Letting the word lie, you expect him to find a way to reply, to reassure and find a solution to your desolate mood. But you find yourself sitting on in the silence you made. "I did everything right. But it didn't work."
This time the silence hangs clearer. Not man-made in an attempt at gaining soft words to pillow the fall, this time it stays still and works. Both of your brains sitting in on the rapt of earlier. Resolution wasn't what either of you needed, but it comes anyway. Only this time it's jumbled and frosted, and coming from the mouth of your best friend.
"As much as I hate to say shit like this, I'm gonna have to, so — I'm sorry if i cant find the right words," Bucky rasps, calloused palm scraping against his scruff, licking his lips, and he exhales. Deep and slow, letting it all out, and you cant help the tiny voice in the back of your head from murmuring 'ah, shit, not a speech'.
"Sometimes… things don't go the way we plan. We see a solution, we see the light at the end of the dark tunnel, but suddenly theres an obstacle we didn't see, a detour kinda…" he inhales, finding his footing, and it wheezes slightly in the back of his neck. "… and sometimes… sometimes that obstacle slows you down. Or sometimes, in this case, it wraps around your legs until you can't do anything but stay."
He winces slightly, appalled by his wording, how slow it comes, how his head tingles from trying to find synonyms and meanings. A grin points the edge of your lips. "What I'm trying to say is, the outcome is never what we expect it to be. Sometimes we have this image in our head of the perfect project, but along the line your tastes change, you hate a colour, so you choose a different one. Or sometimes, you scrap the project altogether. Your angry, sad, distraught, you should feel that way, you're human. But life has it's way of putting you through shit you didn't see comin'."
Staring out onto the street, you take in his words. Clumsy as they can be, over the years of your friendship with Bucky you've gotten used to his disorder and understand how to rearrange them into something slightly comprehensible.
"I liked the second one better." You hummed, eyes still glued to the watercolour of black, white and red against the dark street.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," Nodding slowly, you turned to face him, smile still stuck to your lips. "And then you kinda referred to them as a 'project'. Very tasteful, Barnes."
He smirked lazily at your animated retort. Your words come humourless, sarcasm laced and sleepy, but they still had that sharpness you carried — that he loved. A scoffed chuckle fills the car and paints his face with smile lines and a colour, despite the red of the traffic light spilling overhead. It's contagious, and you cant fight the ache of your cheeks.
Once the light turns green, the attitude shifts. The laughter still ebbed around you both, but it felt like it was suddenly swatted away with a wave of remembrance, like you both had this need to stay composed and professional.
"I'll walk you in." He decides, shaking his head with the remnants of wit.
You run your palm over your cheek, feeling the warmth. Your eyes suddenly feel heavier, skin tighter yet so lose against your muscles you're not sure how to feel.
"You really don't have to." Slips out, lower than usual, you barely recognise your voice.
Everything feels… different. Yet the world keeps turning, his car keeps driving, streetlights still spilling against his arms, and the indicator keeps blinking with every turn.
"Please," he pleads firmly, edged with a wobble. A sound that tells you he needs this, maybe even more than you do. "Just… Please."
And you cant fight. Not him.
Not when a dull ache has been ruminating inside of your chest since the call, only to deepen and cultivate through the night.
He helps you inside. Takes your keys for you after he caught the tremor in your fingers, lets you rest against him when your knees felt too weak to hold — arm wrapped tight and securely around your shoulder, letting the hum of your buildings elevator ruminate as he presses a soft kiss against your head, whispering soft praises into your scalp, as if willing them to sink into your brain and keep.
Doing so well for me.
It's okay.
You're okay.
His hand squeezes the meat of your shoulder, a pattern of kneads against taut muscle and soft slides of his thumb against your hot collarbone. It makes you shiver in a way it never had before.
Your breath expels harshly, twitches of your lungs that quiver your ribs in his hold.
"Hey," you hear him say, hand clasping ever so slightly harder, "hey, look at me."
When you don't at first, he inhales your scent once more before he moves. Gently sliding his hand to your other shoulder, pushing you to look into his eyes as he tilts his head, his free hand finding your neck, your pulse, and caressing.
"Breathe in for me, sweetheart." He requests. You try, but the air gets trapped and sputters out. Your hands go up to push his own away, but instead they weakly circle around his wrists.
"C'mon, you got it, like this," Bucky inhales. The hand that rest on your neck finds its way to your jaw, then to your cheek, a mindless move to pull your sight from his shoes and into his eyes.
And you inhale. And exhale.
"There we go, just like that." The praise, though soft, hits you in every inch of your skin like tiny pin-pricks in each follicle. The warmth of his hand, his breath, his words, it all pulls over you like a wool blanket, like that one winter he made sure to use his break-time to check up on on you while you were sick, making sure you were warm, fed and relaxed, practically forcing a spoon into your face to get you hydrated and full of the proper nutrients, to get your eyes a little wider and joins less achy for tomorrows shift.
You both almost miss the ding when you get to your floor.
The walk to your apartment is quiet. Full. You can feel it all spill out at the edges once you shut the door and suddenly it all tips over. Contents gone, messy and everywhere.
Wires seem to get mixed up. Touches linger. Voices hush lower into murmurs and whispers.
Tension snaps like a taut rubber band, and comfort is the only thing the two of you need in that moment.
Years of friendship balling up into an combination of bodies — sweat, skin, tears, whispers and closeness you didn't realise could exist. Not with Bucky anyway.
Of course you had your fair share of quick crushes and epiphanies while he was by your side, but they all quietly dissipated with each new fling or relationship he brought into the mix. Nothing indicated reciprocation. So why stay at this bus stop when it had departed long, long ago.
Being needed felt so good.
You forgot to shut the curtains last night.
Bright morning sun filters through the panes, soaking your sleep ridden body in a glow that renders Bucky dumb. From the moment he woke up, warm from your body at his front, his arm tightly wrapped around your middle, face pressed into your hair that smelled like salt and sex, with the lingering scent of your vanilla shampoo.
Guilt hits like a sucker punch straight to the stomach, rattling up his chest, and blowing his knees, even while he was laying down. Getting up immediately, retracting himself as softly and quietly as possible, letting you bask unconsciously in whatever last night was. Whatever it became.
Putting his clothes back on his body, making sure to gather your own, throw them in your laundry basket and fold some fresher clothes for the new day at the end of your bed, he sat with a heavy feeling of remorse.
Last night was a mistake.
It shouldn't have happened. Not like that, anyway.
Too inebriated with adrenaline and 'too big' emotions; the both of you needed a vice to let it all out, and it just so happened to be each other — but Bucky can't, and won't, let himself believe that.
He insisted on walking you in.
He helped you with your keys.
He draped his arm over your shoulder, tucked you in close and whispered and pecked sweet nothings into your hair like it was just another day.
The coffee machine in your kitchen hummed as it filled your favourite mug. Bucky stared at the dark liquid as it filled the ceramic. Distant.
Silently praying the whirring wont wake you up, his brain replayed the way you looked underneath him. The way your lips felt, how you felt. Hands roaming with no destination, mapping new skin like this wasn't a fresh, quick adventure, but a finale, a place to call home, a place to familiarise.
His muscles tightened as they tingled with remembrance.
It was good. It all felt right, correct in a way nothing else he had ever felt before. But it had to have been because it was you.
Good old you, and your sullen, tired eyes that reddened around the edges with unshed tears. Back and shoulders arched into yourself, only to slowly uncover at his touch and voice. You, who always beamed each morning when your names were paired, as if it wasn't a regular, everyday occurrence, as if he didn't make sure to double — triple — check the sheet just in case he didn't read the name wrong. But how could he?
It's you.
Which is precisely why he gently makes your coffee exactly how you like it. Hands moving by their own accord, muscle memory working overtime while his brain tries to wrack around last night.
How you held onto him like you needed this, needed him. The soft whispers of his name mixed with sleepy praises breathed against his neck, shoulder and collarbone. Your hands roaming his body almost as if you knew it would end with detachment, like you wanted his skin pierced into your palms forever. How you asked him, so gently, voice laced with sleep and something so much deeper than he ever thought he'd hear from you, if he could stay, not move from his position on top of you, slowly twitching while you paced yourself back into reality with pulses that traced through his skin.
You wanted him to stay.
His warmth you craved, his weight atop of you, his skin, his presence, his body inside of you. You wanted it all.
And that's precisely why he places the mug on your bedside with a clink, careful enough not to wake you. Took one last, long look at your sleeping form. Unknowing of his internal dilemma.
And left.
The emptiness that comes after you wake up didn't deter you. You expected it, kind of.
Bucky has always been the type of person who gets into work bright and early, gets everything in check, memorise, recount, retain, as if he hasn't been doing this almost every morning for years. The routine helps him, and you know that.
The coffee was still warm, steam curling while your eyes adjusted to the creamy morning sun peeking through the window, and the first conscious thought of the morning is, 'i hope it didn't wake him'.
Friday busses are always busy, especially in the morning, but this time two of your usuals skidded past without a care of your hand waving out for them. Pure coincidence? Maybe they didn't see your hand, or maybe they're full and forgot to show it on the destination sigh.
Eventually, after your card failed once, twice, before finally going through with a huff from the driver. The road was bumpier, there were kids on their way to school way too energised this early in the day. And turns out you forgot to charge your headphones the night before.
Of course you did.
You clocked in mechanically, bones already awaiting the hours waiting to be endured. Flexing your head in a circle, ridding it of a readying strain, the building felt… off. It wasn't the kind that was spotted immediately, it was a feeling, an energy that laid itself on your shoulders like a perfectly content cat already cozying up while your back started to ache and it's claws poked.
At your locker, the hallway felt emptier, the room itself was only full with the incessant humming of the ventilation and pipes in the walls — a tune half unknown to you with the accustomed noise of yours and Bucky's lazy conversations, his body facing yours, leaning against the locker beside by his shoulder, arms and legs crossed, tired grin on his face while you ramble on about anything to keep your brain awake.
The thought crystallised. The routine, the meticulous rules he ran himself by all day, everyday, simply vanishing after twenty-four hours.
You didn't put it past him though. Last night was a lot. Mentally, physically.
As if to rid you of your doubts, you shook your head, taking a deep inhale of antiseptic and a floral zip of a Dollar Tree air freshener, masking the smell around with hopes and dreams.
The rest of the team greeted you like normal. Short waves, tight-lipped smiles, though this time, some had added a soft pat on the shoulder — a gesture you should find endearing, but it only just digs its fingers deeper into the wound.
Walker was the first to talk to you. Sat at the break table, legs up, fiddling with his watch. He looks up at the sound of your footsteps.
"Hey," He said, light like usual but it dipped like a question — interrogating — looking at you quizzically. "Aren't you supposed to be with Barnes?"
Stopping in your tracks, your boots squeaked against the linoleum. "Uh," you shake your head quickly in confusion, sputtering. "I don't know, am I?"
He scoffs amusedly, "I dunno, you two are like," he gestures, hands spread wide, interlocking his fingers once, then twice, before dropping them down onto his lap. "Y'know? So."
The sentence hangs, his voice echos quietly through the dead halls, bouncing off the walls while he waits for you to speak. But you don't. You just stand there, head tilting to the side as an open invite for more context.
So he adds in a mumble, staring back down at his watch. "Think he left already though."
"What?" The words slip out before you could try to catch them, and you flinch back minutely.
John catches on, tickled by your automatic obtrusion. He settles back with a sigh, bluffing, putting on a show of carelessness. "Left like a half hour ago—"
This time you don't even try to stop yourself from asking. "With who?"
Glancing back up, he grins, shrugging his hands up. "Check the sheet. You can even find your new partner."
Your stomach churned with the words — 'new partner'. Yet, still, anticipation flowed through your veins, and you couldn't keep moping like a puppy at the door.
"Huh."
Your head flinched back slightly, tilting to the side. Thumbing at your lip automatically, scraping across the skin in an attempt to rest yourself from picking at it.
He was on call. With Yelena.
"You okay?" a voice snapped you back. Eyes clenching shut for a moment before turning your head around to face Ava.
"Hm?" You squeak, "oh, right. No, yeah, I'm fine. Great."
Brows creasing, she crosses her arms lazily, leaning back on one foot, scanning you up and down.
You scowl. "Don't do that."
"Do what?" She asks, voice pitched innocently as a teasing smile cloaks her lips.
With a tut you turn back to the sheet, finger brushing against the paper. "That scanning thing you do with your eyes, like you can read my mind."
She pouts, hands over her heart. "So you do notice the little things, huh?"
Without looking away, you kick at her shin, chuckling softly.
She takes a peek at the sheet from beside your shoulder, humming in contemplation. "No Bucky today, huh?"
Your face pulls, "seems like it."
"Hey, it's okay," tapping your bicep with her knuckles, she tips her head back. "You're with me anyways."
Your chest eased at that. Ava was better than John. But then again, anyone is better than John. And Ava had this 'no nonsense' energy you absolutely adored and found intimidating in one giant cluster, and it sent your body tingling with readiness to get the day started.
But there was no familiarity. No comforting jabs, no inside jokes, no off-hand bets you'd always gasp at in disbelief (a smile always finding its way on your face), yet add a twenty to the pool.
"Come on," Ava clicks her tongue twice. "Better to get this started sooner than later. Let's shut that brain off, shall we?"
Shut your brain off it did. In the opposite way you had hoped.
The hours you had spent working alongside Ava, speeding down streets, rushing to a patients side, checking, working, calculating, pumping the heels of your hands against chests until your wrists ached. But along the line, once the coast was clear and the area seemed to let your body rest, you sat in the passenger seat silently, thinking.
It seemed to you like the majority of those back at the bay believed you were still shaken — rightfully so — and that little assumption had your chest scarcely easing.
You couldn't fault Bucky for leaving early, that was his routine, even during hangouts that turned into impromptu sleepovers, he'd wake up earlier than you to get ready for the day ahead, leaving you a text and a coffee in his wake.
That's what was missing. A text.
Heart picking up, thumping softly against your sternum, brows furrowed, you go for your phone and scroll through your notifications. Empty, apart from the occasional passive-aggressive instruction from the work group chat and a Facebook post from your mom (you'll get back to her later), it all seemed to be crickets from Bucky's side.
Sighing louder than you anticipated, you scroll to manually check your conversation itself.
You [7:16am]: See u at work B. You [7:16am]: Bringing u some coffee btw. Deserveddd.
Yesterday morning seemed so far away. Reading back with a feeling of nostalgia that laid tainted and blackhole-like in your stomach, staring specifically at the little pink heart he had sent back as a reaction. The last sign of reciprocation through pixels before the day would inevitably wash you both up to shore, an island where only the two of you inhabit, and made nature take it's course.
Sure you weren't bright-eyed and bushy tailed, having seen the worst of the worst in your first few years, memories and shifts you buried in your brain so deep, you couldn't even remember them if you tried. But for some reason, yesterday stuck. The patient, the technique, the van ride, the whispered prayers of loved ones while you worked in the back, moving as steadily and quickly as you could with the rocking of the cab. The aftermath. The numbers that passed through your lips like a ghost itself, and the goddamn aftermath.
Cutting the thoughts off immediately with a jolt back, and you found yourself in the back of the van. Working on autopilot, hands moving with muscle memory, the tingles of used equipment still tingling on your palms.
You cursed under your breath, how long has it been? Did you dissociate that whole time? Flexing your fingers and patting down your hips, you realise your phone is still in your pocket, thanking the universe that the patient onboard the gurney was passed out, looked after well and seemingly looked like they were making a mends after you went and triple checked them over. The minor panic subsided and was immediately by the opening of the tailgate doors, listing off every bit of information and detail your unconscious mind miraculously retained, wheeling them down and out and into the anarchy that is the ER.
Instantaneously, as you moved about the bustle of bodies, Nat's eyes caught yours from the nurses' station. Standing up, she was leant forward, her weight on her palms that stuck to the desk, focused on lab results or a patient's medical history. It was as if her body was attuned to your whereabouts, finally waking up once you rushed through.
By the time the case was handed off, finding yourself strolling back through where you had entered, the scene ahead was practically unchanged. Only now, Ava seeped into the image. Cool as can be, her body slanted with her elbow to the desk that sheltered the computers while her free hand sat confidently on her hip, attention set on the redhead in front. She had a smile on her face, one that only came when gossip was shared, mouth slightly agape, eyes rocking up and down Nat's face.
Strolling past with a rigid exhale, a breath you hadn't realised you've been holding in for how long now, a hand curls it's way around your bicep. Voice, low and velvety, speaks before you could turn.
"You know, you could power an entire state with the amount of energy you're giving off."
With a playful tut and a smile, you tilt your head to the side and cross your arms. "Hello, good afternoon to you too, Natasha and Ava."
Returning your demeanour, she speaks with a classy intonation. "Hello and good afternoon, grumps," she smirked. "Now whats up with you."
You turn and nod to Ava, eyes squinting at her laid back manner. "What did you tell her."
"I had absolutely nothing to do with this," her eyes hold defence, nodding her head back in Nat's direction, "she can just read people. And to be honest you do have this energy."
"I do not."
"Yeah you do," Nat chimes back in, now holding you still with both hands on each bicep, scanning, analysing, brows taut, eyes wandering. "Was it the shift? You did look more shaken up than usual."
Without much of a pause, your lungs inhaling deep with frustration, eyes moving to the ceiling. Ready to deflect, to push away, build a wall higher than any skyscraper in Manhattan, complete with steel walls, bulletproof and all, but it all crumbles apart as Ava hums, tracing nonexistent patterns in the corian surface.
"Barnes did switch partners this morning."
As quick as her murmur came, Nat whipped her head to face her, only to start looking back and forth between the two of you, the hold of her hands becoming tighter and tighter. "Deliberately?"
"Ava—" You warn, praying the way you speak — tired and gritted — will help camouflage it into something softer than it actually is. Only it falls on deaf ears.
She hums again, a hint of amusement in her voice, song-like. "He's with your sister today."
As much as you want to let the topic go, let it lie and mend itself with the passage of time, the casualness of your two friends still pokes and jabs at your ribs like tiny pin pricks. Each easy slide of their tones, their quips, their treating your internal dilemma as nonchalant gossip, it's just another tough poke to the side that'll most likely bruise, and you'll have to endure the growing pain in fear of being a coward.
"Lena? Really?" As Nat's attitude morphs into something akin to scepticism, you try to push the pain aside. Her voice growing higher with curiousness, a scowl curling her lip even when she tries to hold it down.
Tiredness blankets you like a storm cloud, only just about half finished with your shift, and you realise now, with the new unauthorised information shared, this shift will last a lifetime. You can already feel it in your bones, and the way you barely try to debate. "We seriously don't have to talk about this."
And it was then, every ounce of you, you had left, completely left the building.
"Talk about what?" Sam's voice felt like a strike to the already blossoming purples and yellows from Nat and Ava. You love him, honestly, he's the first person you go to when you find some good, hot gossip that's burning on the tip of your tongue, begging to be free.
And that's exactly why, to the trio's hilarity, you groan obnoxiously loud, turning away, only to turn back to your spot.
"Bucky changed his partner this morning." Nat replied, low and conspiratorial, already plotting ways to talk to her sister off he clock with unsuspecting questions that Yelena will very much see through.
With a huff, Sam leans forward, palms braced on the counters edge, "And why would he do that?"
"Okay," Ava cut through, turning herself to you, closer, hands together, pointed. "Just walk us through yesterday evening."
A sigh wracked through your body, dragging a hand down your face. "He drive me home, like you told him to," glancing at Nat, who nodded attentively, silently asking for more, "he walked me in, and I didn't wanna be alone so he stayed the night."
"And that's it?"
"Yeah, basically," you suck in a breath, "he didn't text me this morning though."
"Huh…" Nat paced in her spot, "but did you text him at all?"
The silence was enough to answer.
"Sweetheart—"
"Listen I'll do it later," stepping back to address them all, you edge closer to Ava. "I'll update you or something, it's probably just because yesterday was a lot. I'll see you guys later, come on Ava."
The room moved without disturbance. Still breathed with frenzied bodies walking, jogging, hands moving without thought. Yet Nat and Sam just watch on next to each other as you and Ava scurry out through the doors.
"I bet twenty she and Barnes fucked."
Wheezing, Sam bowed his head, shaking it. "They just walked out the damn doors. You're cold, Romanoff."
"What can i say," she smiles and saunters backwards, "I like to play dirty."
"Hey, save that shit for Steve, he's not gonna be happy when you have to add another five to the jar." He called out to her as she turned, but she didn't look back. Red hair a beacon among the pack around them, her voice picks up.
"I'll make it up to him!"
After a couple days, you let it slide. Perhaps memories, emotions, muscle aches got the better of him and he needed some quiet. But his name seemed to find another, every single goddamn shift, while yours was stuck paired with Ava (not that you minded), and your days overlapped more-so than usual. Trying to find him around the station felt worse than trying to scout a glimpse of Bigfoot. His presence felt ghostlike, almost like a memory taunting you with the scuff of boots on linoleum, a hint of his aftershave in the locker room, all sharp and clean, sending your brain miles and miles away, back to your bedroom and the pillow that still carried his air like it was made for him. His voice sometimes echoes, only murmurs, nothing intelligible, your brain cannot process the words while they grasp onto his gruffness, right where it spilled onto your neck and the hinge of your jaw, just on the soft skin where it dips into your tendons.
You can still feel the warmth of it lingering. Especially after shifts that burned in your muscles and your head unfortunately laid too deep into your side, excreting his scent like the skin of an orange, reminding you that you did, in fact, text him after the shift. But his replies after felt vacant and unenthusiastic, so again, you chalked it up to him wanting to be alone.
But you tried not to let three words from forming after that thought. 'Away from you'.
He wanted to be alone, away from you.
Late nights seemed the most vacant over those silent hours. Your apartment, a place once full of joint laughter, a warmth that permeated even when his presence lacked amongst the soft pillows and handmade throws, and soft yellow lamps, it all seemed… empty. Your phone dared to buzz against your bedside table, even though you turned it onto 'do not disturb', too nervous to hear that ding of a notification. What if it's someone else? And it always is.
Natasha, ever the observer, caught wind of this sudden change between you and Bucky too quick for your liking, and understood how deep it truly was after the first day without him — something totally not lightly mentioned by Steve over takeout. Nat had a way of sniffing things out, too smart for her own good, and throughout the years (much to your chagrin) she's just gotten better at reading you. Even when it's through short two minute glances across the ER as you wheel in a patient, body running on stale gas-station coffee and burgeoning resentment. Try as you might to keep stats clear and hands steady, your eyebrows apparently have this minuscule taut the redhead can pull twenty different meanings from, just across the bay, and they're all correct.
And then there's Sam. Who wouldn't leave her alone until she spilled something. Even when he got most of the story beforehand, the man just didn't let up until someone broke, and even then you both knew he'd just take one glance at Bucky's tight jaw and immediately guess correctly, or corner Steve when he brings Nat her lunch and he'd spill. So there was really no winning. And in the ER, your business is everyone's business.
The mawkish scent of the bay hit's your gut even before you arrive.
"Incoming!" Speaking before your body could catch up, your entire nervous system, muscles, worked while you were put on standby, praying everything that came out of your mouth was eligible. "GCS 12 and dropping, heart rate 130, BP 90 over 60. twenty four year old male, MVA at 18:27, approximately twenty minutes ago. Blunt force trauma to the chest with a suspected flail segment… obvious compound fracture of the right femur. Diminished breath sounds on the left, and cool, clammy skin. Showing signs of compensated shock."
As if sensing your apprehension, Ava cut in, composed and ready. "Two large bore IVs started with a litre of saline running, and a needle decompression performed on the left side for tension pneumothorax." She nodded, eyes sharp on your own. You reciprocated, quick and tightlipped.
Once your presence was quickly filled by staff on hand — Ava moving to take a call outside — you found yourself leaning with your back against the brick wall at the side of the building. Head tipping back with a dull thunk, exhaling, you close your eyes at the feel of the early evening breeze. Light hues of yellows and oranged curtained the sky, and you let yourself bask in it for as many seconds as you possibly could.
Gravel crunched underfoot, pace quick, but not distressed, just determined. Tilting your head to the side, the bright flash of red coming closer to you settled a weight on you, yet you couldn't help the lazy smile that grew on your face.
She hummed before you could counteract, eyeing you like a cat, up and down, with a pleased smirk on her face, the kind that reads 'I know everything just by the way you're carrying yourself'.
"Still trouble in paradise?"
Taking one quick glance at her, you suck in a breath. The tiredness of the shifts, of the silence, of the week — even though it's only been a few days — hits you in a wave through your body. "I'm fine."
A singular, amused laugh claps back, "He still hasn't texted you back?"
"Who?"
"Don't 'who' me, you owl," she takes a small step forward, leaning beside you, voice lowering just enough to be heard through the hums and whirrs of traffic. "Steve mentioned earlier that Buck's been all weird and you look one second away from snapping your molars. And stop chewing the insides of your cheeks."
You swat her hand away with a groan as she tries to squish your cheeks.
"It's nothing," you sigh, hands folding over your chest, looking away from her gaze. "You know how he gets sometimes."
"Yeah, but he's never gets like this with you,"
Rolling your neck back, you shoot her an unimpressed, flat look to say 'that didn't help one bit'.
Sucking her teeth, she tapped your shoulder with the back of her hand, eyes rolling to the back of her head.
"Listen. Whatever happened — actually happened — big or small, I'm always here. So is Steve, and unfortunately by default, so's Sam," the soft attempt at humour works. Breathing out sharply through your nose, a tight, but real, smile stretches across your lips. Finally looking at Nat in the eyes, her own smile is warm. Cosy in the way that something familiar is, the way something tainted in autumnal orange and gentle grazes can be. "Just give it a little more time, yeah? He'll come around."
You sniffle, something you instantly regret with a shake of your head and murmur, but push through anyway. "Thanks Nat."
"Anytime," she replies, "Now back to work, you've got a long day ahead of you."
The next time you're back at the ER, Steve's there. A sight you rarely ever see during work hours, only if timed perfectly — which, when you're no longer next to his best friend, is scarce. His presence, though you saw him the week before, felt like a comet sighting. An eclipse in a way.
Only now, you weren't filled with delight at the sight of the blond. Not with him talking up close in hushed murmurs with Natasha and Sam.
Before you could walk up and greet the group, the redhead spotted you, and without a word, expression, or a goodbye to the guys, she was on you. Manicured hand pulling you by the bicep, down crowded hallways, weaving through bodies like it was an Olympic sport. Her face was stern, set in stone, and no matter your half-assed protests, and jokes of "it's nice to see you too!", she made no indicator of stopping, nor giving you any warmth back.
It was like third grade all over again. When your favourite teacher suddenly got stern with you one lesson, and all resolve would come tumbling down, and from then on til you left school, they were now just a teacher, and nothing else. But Nat is your friend. Albeit, terrifying sometimes, especially when you close off back into your shell and try to work shit out yourself, even when you both know that's not how you work. But she is still your friend.
Rounding a corner, your body flung slightly off circuit, boots squeaking the linoleum, scuffing the light blue with a dark grey smudge.
The closet clicked shut. Flicking the lock shut, more for theatrics than for any real purpose, Nat stared with taut brows and a confused glower. Hands snake their way to cross over her chest, she leaned back against the door with a cool ease you can, and will never get used to.
"I love you way too much and you know that. Sam is tired of you and Bucky's silences, and that's saying something. Steve won't stop talking about how tired he looks, and his default face is unimpressed and bothered. Keeps saying he's sighing like an old dog, snapping at people, hell, he's smoking more!"
Your chest does something torturous. Caves in on itself with a sound you never thought you could make. Your body sinks into the wall opposite her, spine curved, arms crossed, a mimic of Nat's powerful stance, only for it to fall weak and wet, as you turn your head to stare at the floor while your nose tingles.
Anger, frustration and anxiety start to creep up your spine. It wouldn't have gotten so bad if you both just… talked.
"I'm worried. You two were so inseparable, and now it feels like all of us are living with two ghosts who refuse to move onto the afterlife even though you both hate the house you haunt. Steve and Sam can't get a goddamn lick out'a him, and you're here," she motions you up and down with a lazy hand, "I don't even know what you're doing. 'I'm fine', 'don't worry'… Fuck, i know i said to give him time, but at this point Sam and I are so close to pushing you both into a closet, locking the door and making you sort it out."
Silence spreads in the closed off space. The only thing you could hear was your heartbeat in your ears. Guilt spread through your veins like poison, and your stomach rolled.
"I love you. So does Steve and Sam even though they never say so. But they, we, also love Buck. And we care so much about you both, and your friendship, and we don't want this to split anything up — especially if it's over some childish bullshit, you know?" She lets her words sit for a few seconds before continuing. "So please. Spill."
The throb up your nose worsened, ascending up to an ache in the inner corners of your eyes, darkening the skin around your cheeks.
"That Thursday… a week ago or something, you know," you mumble, voice croaky and whiny, your gut clenched with how embarrassed you felt. Childish. Barely able to take your eyes off the floor, and through the blur of unshed tears you see her nod for you to continue. "It was stressful. It—I, we—"
Hands cradled your shoulders, albeit cold through your shirt, but the temperature helped to mix with your warming cheeks and flushing body, as with her soft voice when it came.
"Breathe with me, hun," she exaggerates her inhales, eyes widening until you follow shakily. "In and out, that's it. Take your time, we can work this out together."
You tried. Staggering the first few breaths, breathing too quick and short, but Natasha stayed still and quiet, letting you gather yourself in your own time. After sputtering, covering your face with the back of your hand, trying to hide yourself behind tightly shut eyelids, you finally find your footing. Humming to find your voice, whispering the first utter of the situation you've been cruelly holding tight to your chest.
"Bucky gave me a ride home," you swallow, jaw clamping shut, you breathe a couple more times, feeling the next few words in your mouth before setting them free. "… and we had sex."
"Halle-fuckin-lujah."
The confession was still fresh. Warm in the confines of the tight four walls you both occupy, but the redheads bluntness swatted the squishy texture until it rid and became something hard and natural, and something… normal. You hated it.
"Nat."
The look on her face was an accumulation of happiness, irritation, and impatience. She scoffed, almost scorned by the casualness of this secret.
"What? We've been praying for this since you two were rookies, and Sam owes me twenty," She jabs, trying to fill the tiny supply closet with a lighthearted joke, but it falls a little stiff.
She sighs, "look, I know this may seem like the end of the world, but Bucky's just," she waves her hands trying to find the words, "stupid. He's doing this shit to process his feelings and this new dynamic you two created — also, this started, what? The call on Sixth?" Her voice lowers, tentative and almost motherly.
Nat's hands stay firmly on your shoulders, not in a vice grip, soft enough to say 'you can leave if you want' but tight enough to let you know this means business and you'll want to hear what she says. Her head dips, trying to hold eye contact.
"From everything the boy's have been huffing about, he most likely feels conflicted. That was… a night," she exhales harshly, "I saw the way he looked at you while you were handling paperwork. He cares. Maybe a little too much, but fuck, he really cares."
When you look up, all you see is comfort.
"I'm not saying the way he's handling this is correct or healthy, or even remotely okay, but… It's just what he does, and it's so aggravatingly him and it's dumb."
The edge of your lip points. "He is dumb"
"The dumbest," squeezing your shoulders, she shakes you softly. "Listen, Steve and I are going out after tomorrow's shift to that bar on First — shit, what's it called… the one with the karaoke?"
You chime in, voice still croaky, whispering unevenly, "The Plum Tree?"
"That's the one," her smile broadens. "Come with us. Sam'll be there, Lena and Ava too —"
"And Bucky?"
She chuckles lightly, fidgeting, but she stays collected, like this is just a tiny bump in the road and she has all the tools to fix it. "Steve's already on it. Placed a few mentions of the name here and there, said 'beer' one too many times—"
"Are you… using subliminal messaging?"
"Potato Potahto," she dismisses with a flick of her wrist, already edging backwards to the door. "In no time it's all gonna seem like it was his idea to go out."
"Wait but what will I —"
"My love, I'm begging, do not worry," flicking the latch, she opens the door and the flood of chatter and beeps is back to dull your senses. "Everything you need and want to ask will come. Don't dwell on it, even though i know you will, but Steve and I've got it. We're smart."
"Sure you are."
"Oh, was that a little sarcasm?"
"Shut up"
The bar is livelier than you expected, even though it was a Friday and it's just started to drizzle. You arrived alone and on foot, hoping to get at least a little bit of alcohol in your system just to pump yourself up and get your confidence boosting. You opted for comfort too, a casual long-sleeve and jeans combo, though the weather called for a jacket despite the nearing warmth of the sun whenever it peaked midday. The chill never ceases to bite once her company has gone. And you have an intimation something else might sink their teeth into you later.
Warmth evaded your senses, heat from bodies; familiarity in almost every corner of the place, groups of fours or more occupied booths, whereas couples stayed put by the bar. Amber lights basked on their skin, washing everything in a dark orange that felt more intimate than it needed to be, mellow and harmonious. It felt like a joke made at your own expense.
Slipping your way through, you locked onto Sam who sat at a booth. Wooden table stained with rings of condensation and carvings from years of use, half drunk glasses and cups sat atop, ice melting, dripping onto the surface and you have half the mind to collect a bundle of coasters. The acrylic sheets of maroon that coated the seats looked worn in, and well loved.
It wasn't until you neared closer to the man you saw that beside him was Ava, and in front sat Yelena.
"And here she is."
Sam's bright voice followed through the music overhead, tickled, his smile carried through. You grin despite yourself, and took the empty spot next to Yelena as she scooted to give you room.
Scanning the table with squinted eyes, you sigh. "So was this all a ruse to get Bucky and I locked in the same room?"
Hushed mutters and mumbles of 'maybe's and 'perchance's hum across the table, and Sam completely diminishes your smug with a push of an untouched bottle. "Just drink your drink."
You have no choice but to huff out a chuckle mixed with disbelief and something akin to feeling impressed.
Taking a well needed sip, letting the coldness, the fizz, the alcohol do it's work. "Where's Nat and Steve?"
Chiming in, speech slurred slightly — not from alcohol, but from drowsiness — Yelena grumped out a sound with an elbow to the table, closed fist against cheek. "Back alley with the perpetrator. Probably on his fourth pack of the day."
You wince ephemerally, catching the slight turn of your face, but the blonde is quick to catch it and try to backtrack.
"I'm sorry. He's just been so — God, shit, I don't even know —"
Ava watches on amused, and meanwhile Sam just sips this beer, looking out behind you, like it's a regular night.
"Lena here, thinks you hate her."
The sly lilt of Ava's teasing has you perking up in your seat. Tilting your head in question, eyes widening. Your hand mindlessly moving an inch closer to her as if to comfort. "Lena, please, I don't hate you."
"Good! Because really, I had no say in the matter," she mumbled into her cup, taking a gulp. "It was like babysitting an thirteen-year-old emo kid who had his first heartbreak. Sad. Made my arms hurt."
"Poor boys been sulking for a week."
You hum unamused at Ava, sarcasm dripping from your lips as you take another sip. "I wonder who's fault that might be."
"Oh, he knows." Sam quips, sarcasm filled the words he spoke, but the truth remained clear and deep. Glancing back and forth between you and the space over your shoulder, he straightens. Nodding to himself, to you, with a tight smile, trying to make light but you saw the hardness inside of it.
Taking another sip, a hand slides over your shoulder, making you lock up, only for a voice, ever so familiar and velvety, to murmur beside your ear like this was a stakeout. Clandestinely working with the grace of a spy. "He's outside. Talk to him."
You wince into your drink, groaning into the spout as you swallow. "Nat, come on—"
"Talk to him," she declares. Eyes widening, voice dropping with seriousness you only ever heard when she was on the clock, "or I swear I will drag you outside myself."
You scrunch your face with a huff, pushing yourself out of your seat with a squeak. "I hate you."
Without as much as a glance back, hearing the softness in your words despite the bite, she slips into your spot. "You so love me," she smiles. "And you'll love me more after this!"
The smoking area smells like old ash and rain. Bucky’s leaning against the farthest wall, covered by the smallest of awnings, watching the rain fall with his arms crossed, legs stretched out with a kind of composure that jabs you in the chest.
There's a warm light above him, a curved fixture that spotlights over him, making him like some kind of divine presence. The smoke he exhales trails off above him, dancing around his head and it makes you think of a halo.
You should hate him.
Your chests grows tighter as you just stand and watch him, all casual, all him with no audience. After not seeing him after a week, it felt torturous how your body immediately reacted. Emotions ended up manifesting to physical aches, tightening in your biceps and gut. Besides that, the worst part, it seems the little dog in your brain — the one that latches onto familiarity like a chew toy, holding it in your locked jaw, growling at anyone who dares to take — remembers that night like it was yesterday.
The tightening in your gut coincided with another feeling. It coiled and dragged, too sensitive and delicate, your breath hitched when you felt the first wave wash down and spill in your underwear.
A cigarette hangs from his lips barely halfway done before he sees you, silhouetted by the light of the frosted windows and outdoor lights, and holds it in his fingers.
“Nuh-uh, nope,” he mumbles the second he notices you. “I'm not doing this right now.”
A sigh slips out, small and steadying. You could already feel your eyelids drooping from tiredness.
From knowing how this will go. From being in his presence again. From the week you've had. You couldn't count all the possibilities on one hand, so you push it down and decide to make Nat and the group at least a little bit proud, and rip the bandage off.
"Too late," you draw out, inching closer slowly, testing the waters. The playful hint you always kept for him slipping out, but you catch it quickly before you could finish. "We have to, or all of them back there are handcuffing us together for the next week."
Silence.
You don't expect him to talk immediately, but there's something about this particular stillness that makes your gut tense more.
You let the rain, moved from a drizzle to a downpour, orchestrate the moment.
"Bucky, why didn't you just talk to me."
The quiet stays, though now you understand he wants to fill it. It pulls harder and hits thicker after you speak. And you can see his chest move inwards on a breath.
With a ruffle of his jacket as he shrugs briefly, a scratch of the back of his neck, an awkward, a smoke, and breathy chuckle he does when he doesn't quite know what to say. So you let him stew, like how he did to you before, only this time a minute of your withdrawal feels like years to him.
"I'm a coward."
"Not good enough."
You almost flinch at the harshness of your voice. Almost cower in on yourself and apologise, but you stand down. You stopped just in front of him, close enough that he can see the tiny movements of your face, the tightness of your jaw, and the stare of your eyes, how the honey coloured lamp above him colours your irises, but far enough that theres an obvious space between the two of you — there is now a distance, and he should notice and want to fix.
"Okay," he sighs, minutely amused, "but it's the truth."
"Okay, so, I'll reword," shuffling in your spot, your arms tighten over your chest like a physical barrier. An added wall to the stretch, and you can just about see his restraint start to fray. "Why did you shut me out for an entire week without a word?"
He chuckles again, breath and smoke swirling in front of him as he flicks the cigarette out into the rain.
"Sweetheart—"
“See, because from where I’m standing, you fucked me and then decided I was too fragile to deal with the aftermath.”
You don't shout, but the truth comes louder than expected and you're both glad no one else occupies the space with you.
"No," he straightens, jaw clicking, “I took advantage of you.”
This time you chuckle, “that's bullshit, and you know it.”
“You were shaking.” He replies, voice unshaken and fair.
“So were you!" You counteract louder and frustrated. As you lick your lips you check yourself, lowering your voice back to something that holds structure. But Bucky knows you, knows you completely and, as of recently, wholly. The watches the space between your brows crinkle and the way your right cheek hollows as you scrape your teeth against it. "We'd just worked a long shift, Bucky, and a really shitty one at that. That doesn’t make us incapable of… of consent. Of wanting something.”
“You weren’t thinking clearly.”
A groan almost slides up your throat. Tipping your head back with your eyes closed, drawing in a breath that tastes too much like warm rain and earth, and the fatally addictive scent of his aftershave and cigarettes that sunk into the fabric of his clothes and skin.
“You don’t get to say that,” you mutter, stepping closer. “You don’t get to strip me of my agency because it makes you feel better about bailing.”
"I didn't bail," His hands curl into fists at his sides, only for him to hold them up, palms out. Another barrier. “I’m trying to not be the kind of guy who—”
“Who what?” you interrupt. “Who fucks his coworker and, what? Regrets it?”
"Oh?" His eyes flash, widening a fraction and he just about stutters on his words. “Oh, 'coworker' now? Are you kidding me?”
“Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?” He steps closer, never minding the space, the makeshift restrictions you both created wordlessly, his eyes dark, voice low. “You’re the one who keeps saying it like that word didn’t mean something different two weeks ago.”
“That is not what I meant." You could laugh. Annunciating each word carefully, feet planted to your spot, tipping your head like it was the only part of you that wanted to be closer to him.
“Sure sounds like it.” His jaw tightens again, ready to bite. “Funny how it’s ‘coworker’ when you’re mad, but — oh, when you were pulling me in by the shirt—”
"You're fucking mean." You swallow, eyebrows furrowing deep as anger flares hotter.
“Yeah?” He asks, stepping closer, voice rising, rough around the edges. “Say it again. If that’s all I am to you, say it to my face.”
Your pulse thunders, anger buzzing so loud it makes your hands shake. “You’re such an asshole.”
His eyes flick to your mouth, dark and heated. “Then why are you standing right here?”
You scoff incredulously, still unwilling to move, standing ground like a stubborn horse.
"Get in my face."
Something in you snaps. Tiny, but it snaps nonetheless. You tip your head back, hand wiping down from your eyes to your neck, anger sparking hot, you almost shout. "Oh, Jesus Christ —"
"Just me, sweetheart, and I'm serious," he steps closer than ever, repeating the same line again like a mantra, a demand for something, a plea of sorts, but you don't want to dig too deep into it. "Get in my face."
So you do. One step forward, boots knocking on his own, chest to chest, air exhaled becomes his, and suddenly you feel warm and clammy.
Your eyebrows tighten as you look up to him. His perfect eyebrows, the harsh crinkle of crows feet beside his eyes, those azureous pools that maliciously make your stomach flip even know. They warmed in the golden lamplight, almost a sea foam green.
His pupils flickered then, and it all snapped.
His hand fists in your jacket and he hauls you in, mouth crashing against yours with zero finesse and all intent. It’s rough and hungry, all teeth and pressure and pent-up frustration finally given somewhere to go. His kiss tastes like tobacco and anger and it ached underneath.
You make a sound you don’t recognize and grab him back just as hard, fingers digging into his shoulders like you’re trying to anchor him there, merely to plant onto his neck. Bucky kisses you deeper, sloppier, like he’s furious at the distance he created that ever existed at all.
His teeth scrape your lip. You bite back, breathless and unyielding.
"You," you murmur against his lips breathlessly, "you are so mean."
But he doesn't stop. The hands that had crumpled into your clothes rummaged up to your face, cupping your cheeks with a soft reverence that spread molten through your entire body, forcing another noise from you that he swallowed entirely. They tangled into your hair, keeping you in, holding you steady.
"I know, I know," he whispered back, lips never letting up, hands cradling you gently, one back to your cheek while his other held you by the nape of your neck. "I'm the fuckin' worst."
Nodding in agreement, you hum, your own hands finding purchase back on his shoulders and down his front, smoothing down his chest.
His soft lips mapped with earnest obedience, slipping away without a notice or protest from you. Pecking the edge of your lips, to your cheeks and temple, before moving downwards, slow and steady, memorising the way you feel, sound and taste as he licks, nips and sucks at the skin of your jaw and neck.
"Awful… just," a broken, breathless sigh leaves your mouth as he grazes the soft spot just beneath the hinge of your jaw, making you ball your fists into his front. "God, the worst."
Bucky grunts, feeling a heat accumulate where you both begin to ache, and he finds himself already in too deep to care, and his lips find yours again, bruising.
The brick crumbles and catches against your back as you both writhe, hands with no destination cling onto any surface and inch of clothing, your fists clench around his shirt, creasing the fabric, trying to pull him closer into you as possible.
Without preamble, Bucky's knee knocks into your own, hastily pushing them apart with a grunt into your mouth to which you steal gratefully, the vibration lingers on your lips and tongue. This dance the two of you follow, a new creation of the nights lingering need and unabashed desire, all made up on the go, seems to fall together so perfectly, even the clumsy shoves and hums and touches hard enough to leave tiny yellowed bruises seem so purposeful.
His fingers trail down your body and through your belt loops, keeping you secure in his palms as he pushes you down, just a slight crook to your knees atop of his thigh with a groan. Splitting from your lips, his breath strokes your ear.
"C'mon, that's it," he praises as your hips grind, denim on denim, "take it out on me, right here."
Your fists ball tighter, and a whimper falls from your slacked jaw from a strong mix of arousal, annoyance, forgiveness and punishment.
It's not him. Well not fully. It's his thigh, his thigh that's covered by denim, against you, who's also covered. The barriers of thick cloth makes your head thunk back onto the wall, but your hips never stop their movements, nor can they stop with Bucky's strong grip guiding them to and fro. The warmth of them tightens your chest, and your hands fall to them, holding his forearms, his wrists — to keep you steady, grounded, or to just touch some semblance of his skin.
You watch his eyes through heavy lids, staring down at where you frot, how you arch into him instinctively, how your nails dig into his skin without remorse.
"You're such… an asshole." You pant shakily, and he finally looks up. When he does so his grip tightens, making you grind into him, hips to hips, harder, slower, than before, and you can feel the obvious hardness of his cock tented beneath his zipper against your hip.
"I know."
You scoff weakly, "I didn't even wanna be out here."
"Understandable."
"I hate you." You bite. It's sleepy under the haze of lingering nicotine and liquid courage, but the nip is there, nonetheless. And the worst thing is, he smiles. Something that makes your heart flip inside of your chest, cracking beneath your ribs, thumping so hard, you lick your lips and clench your jaw.
"That's good to know, sweetheart," he huffs, smirk wobbling for half a second before correcting itself. "Fuck, say it again."
"I fucking hate you," you repeat, harsher than before, cutting to his chest but it feels good all the same. His arms move faster, bucking his knee up as he whispers approval in the heady air around you and against your sticky skin.
You move your hips in time, missing the short but momentous touch of his clothed cock against your hip. The note of you doing something to him, making him turned on — this turned on — brings a whole new wave of wetness to pool in your panties and ache to your already stimulated clit.
"The worst person ever… leaving me like that." You're half-gone and just about ready to cum. Thighs trembling around his own, hands shaking against his shirt, and your teeth chatter from the excess adrenaline.
Completely forgetting where you were.
As his name whispered past your lips, escaped by a sharp exhale against his neck, your movements were suddenly halted. Bucky's hands had moved you up, just enough for you to miss the friction, to drive you to the edge, and have it tingle and linger.
"Buck," you started, a hiss between your teeth as your nails dug into his skin. "Bucky, what the fuck?"
He sighs, unmoving from your temple. "You deserve better,"
"Jesus Christ, Barnes."
"I'm serious," one hand moves from your belt loop, tangling itself within your hair, keeping you close — scared of you running, of watching him undo himself in front of you. You feel him exhale shakily. "Not… Not in your jeans in the middle of some alley. I want you to cum on my cock again."
With a wobbly, breathless chuckle, you shake your head. Disbelief washing through you. "Bucky."
"Please sweetheart," his tone lingers on whiny, pleading, a complete contrast of his earlier disposition. His hands held tighter, fingertips digging deep enough for your ribs to stutter. "Please, I wanna feel you again."
The trembling of his breath, his body softly reeling against yours with leftover adrenaline, you couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt against your chest. For what, you have no clue — it's stupid, really — so you shove it down, exactly like you have for the last few days.
His gentle pleas lodged deep inside of you, pinging a new ache in your abdomen, making you feel cruel and hot.
"With the week you've put me through, I deserve this shit," pushing your hips back down, you're so glad Bucky had the gall to move one of his hands away, giving you less strength to fight against, less weight to push, and you find yourself stationed back against the thick plain of his thigh. "You started it, right here, so you finish it, Bucky," a strangled choke breaks from his lips, the hand that stayed stationed to your hip readying.
"Make me cum in this alley, and you can finish where we left off last week," you whisper. Meanwhile, Bucky stays still like your words lodged him into place, sifting through his brain, so you give him a little nudge with your own knee against his tent. Just a split second of boiling bliss, before you moved it away. "Deal?"
He wheezes. An unfortunate sound, sweet yet sharp and it reminds you of all the cigarettes he smokes, and the ones you'd share on nights where shifts hung tight and heavy on your shoulders, where you would lose track of how many beers you drank and laugh a little too loud on the fire escape. And though it's only been about a week, you missed it ever so badly.
But in that moment, the pious hums were gone, and left was the Bucky Barnes you'd only ever imagined when he'd invite the latest girl he was seeing on a night out with you and your friends — the Bucky who liked to chase and challenge, the one who had the kind of hunger in his eye that would glint insurgently. Even when the attitude wasn't directed at you at those times, it still sparked a light up your spine. And it was wholeheartedly and perfectly worse now it was for you, and only you.
Smirking, he glanced away for a split second. Back to the door where anyone could walk in to see your position, and he shrugged. "Deal."
The drags, starting slow, almost teasing with how measured and deliberate they were, drawing out the pleasure in long stretches, quickly accumulated into short bursts of need and attention.
Pulls turned to grinds. Tiny jolts of your hips on his lap, moving yourself in his hold as much as you could as he pushed.
Slick puddled, wet and sloppy between your thighs and words felt like water in your hands. Slipping from the crevices that was your lips in quick, unintelligible mumbles and whispers. Your eyes glossed over, unfocused, rolling up to look at the sky as if you were ready to ascend straight to heaven.
Your hold tightens, nails leaving deep, dark red punctures in his arms while you work yourself over the edge. Gasping, grinding slower with the help of Bucky, his breath glues to your neck with praise so sweet it just about prolongs the feeling of ecstasy.
"That's it, good girl," he draws out, holding you down, letting your senses fire up as pleasure ebbs into overstimulation. "So beautiful. So good for me, God, you're beautiful."
He whispers against you, around you, letting the breeze of the night carry them against your flushed cheeks as you come to. Bottom lip pulled between your teeth, eyes slacked but they stared unto his face as he slowed down to a stop.
You looked wrecked.
You were wrecked.
"You…" catching your breath, your mouth opened, never wandering your gaze from his face that now looked down on you with wonder. "You brought your car… right?"
He nods. Lips parting, only to close, wet and red.
"Deals a deal," You tap on his wrist twice with a smile, one too sweet for the moment shines on your face and fills your cheeks, eyes glinting with leftover pleasure. "Let's go to my place. "
The drive home felt like déjà vu. Quiet and loaded all the same, now its filled with a different kind of adrenaline. It wasn't a mystery this time, the universe wasn't pulling cards with a hand over its eyes, now it was clearer.
Anticipation thrummed through the vibrations of the engine. Words seemed too much and not enough, both of you too worried about scaring off the other, even though you both knew that this was it. Permanently and irrevocably.
The elevator ride wasn't filled with soft spoken words and comfort, this time it felt telepathic. Leaning against the handrail on the further wall, watching the red light counting floors flicker by, while in the corner of your eye you could see him looking. Watching you feign casualness with a soft smile on his face. You wanted to slap it off him, and kiss it better all at once.
Once you got to your floor, to your door, all reserve fell through the cracks in the floor boards.
Lips finding yours in a breathless mess, moving you blindly until your back hit the wall, holding your head in his hands like something precious, because to him you are, and he's not making any mistakes ever again. Humming into the touch, he takes the opportunity to run his tongue across your lip, before deciding to jump the gun. One hand moved backwards, finding the same position from back in the alleyway. The hand that rest on your cheek stroked with a loving calmness that contrasted to the way his mouth had you, and how his other hand — now threaded through your hair — pulled, causing your mouth to open with a gasped moan. He dove in.
His hands move with a sharp purpose. Sliding through the opening of your jacket, it slipped and hit the ground with a clink of the zipper, his own following, and his palms smoothed over your face once more before grazing down. Curling lightly over your neck, squeezing at the sides just enough to have you feeling light and desperate.
You tugged him closer, moving back into your home while you both became a messy bundle of hands. Touching and groping with fervour.
Bucky didn't let you get so far, pushing you back by your hips and pulling your shirt up and over your head, leaving you in just your bra and jeans.
"I missed you." He muttered as he kissed up your cheek and down your jaw. A sentiment slipped out before he could stop and inspect it. As if to divert your attention, he cups your breasts, nipping and licking at your neck.
You arch your back at the feeling. His jaw scraping raw against you, the heat of his mouth, the marks you'll see in the morning. The way he squeezes your chest just right, pinching your nipples over the fabric, making you arch into his hold.
Coasting your hands down to his jeans, you cup his crotch, palming leisurely as you feel it twitch under the thick denim.
"Fuck, don't do that," Bucky groans loudly as his hips jerk into your touch. "Please, baby."
"But you look so pretty." You whisper back, dragging your palm over him once more before holding his hips.
"You're trouble."
His hands don't let up their grip, holding, massaging, until he sneaks a hand behind you and unclips your bra with precision you file into the back of your mind for later. You push his shirt up. He helps you, tugging it off, while you slip out of your bra and quickly unbutton your jeans.
"Oh, Jesus Christ." Bucky pauses for a moment, caught in a trance, watching you unzip your fly and slip out of your pants and underwear. Watching your breasts, the way your hair covers your face messily, all before snapping out of it when your arms extend outwards to unbutton his jeans.
You giggle softly under your breath at his exclamation, and how his fingers start to fumble over yours as you both try to get his pants off.
"You okay, Buck?" You tease, staring up at him, pushing his pants down his thighs. Its then you find yourself on your knees, helping him untangle his feet from the legs.
Lips parted in harsh breaths, ears tinted pink, chest wobbling as he tries to steady himself. Bucky is conflicted between two scenarios: Watching you take him in your mouth, have you choke so beautifully around his cock, see how you look with your eyes and nose all red while you swallow around him, taking all his load. Or take you to bed.
As much as he wants to, even when people find he's such a selfless man. Bucky often finds himself in moments of weakness, a reminder that he is a part of the male species. But this time, he chooses the latter. "Sweetheart, c'mere."
With hands finding your face again, he doesn't miss the gentle confusion that washes your features. Your hands stuck on each of his thighs as he tries to hold you up, shushing your protests quickly.
"I wanna fuck you, on your bed," he clarifies, stroking your face, "I would take you on the floor, right here, but I don't think you're neighbours would appreciate that. And I wanna do this proper." He chuckles lightly with a wonky smile, thumbs tracking over the apples of your cheeks again as you whine but comply.
Once you stand at full height, he runs his big hands down your body. Cupping your breasts once again, thumbs circling your nipples as your breathing picks up, watching them harden, before giving them a lazy pinch as he trails lower and lower, down your waist, circling to your back, and finally resting at your ass. He massaged playfully, pulling you closer to his chest.
You sigh theatrically, "You're such a mean man, Bucky."
"Am I?" Tilting his head, he pouts, "talk to me, sweetheart. How am I mean?"
"First of all, you — Oh!" With one last squeeze of your ass, his hands lowered, and gripped onto the backs of your legs to hoist you up. Without a word he moved down the hall, leaving your clothes to wrinkle on the hardwood floor beside your front door. "Bucky!"
"C'mon, tell me," with his hands still on your ass, he bounced you up, making you both fall into soft laughter and sighs with a minute relief as you both grazed each other. His voice dipped breathy and low, "I'm curious, baby, don't leave me like this."
His brows dipped dramatically, smiling wide as he glanced into your eyes, trying to find your room without looking (as if he doesn't know the floor plan like the back of his hand).
"For one," you start, fingers tugging on the fuzz at the nape of his neck, making his cheeks blush, teeth to bite into his bottom lip and dick stir against you. "Leaving me all by my lonesome, all goddamn week."
Turning you both around, he pushes the door open with his back, and kicks it to with his foot.
"Lonesome," he repeated, hiding his face in your neck and scraping his teeth, "you poor, poor thing."
Your room, a disastrous mess of you. Sleep clothes stay screwed up on the floor, bottles of perfume and makeup you wear on the rare occasion you get to go out, or on random nights when you want to try something new, laid haphazardly on your desk with colourful puffs of dust coating the surface like watercolour. Your bed, Bucky's destination, was cleaned ever so quickly with a tug of your duvet and quick turn and press of your pillows just to pretend and make yourself believe you have your shit together.
"I am a poor, poor thing, Bucky," you grin, carding through his hair and pulling him back with a moan, "so you better make it up to me."
"Oh, I think I will."
Kneeling against the edge of the mattress, his knee dips, settling you down against the pillows. He follows, blanketing your torso, licking kisses down to your collarbone, easing his body down until his tongue reaches the expanse of your sternum.
"Keep talkin', sweetheart, I'm not gonna stop until I don't understand a single word that come out'a your mouth," one of his hands holds your chin, making you stare into his eyes. The blue, once vast and freeing, were now swallowed by the darkness of his pupils, leaving a ring as dark as the ocean, deep and tenacious. "Got it?"
You nod quickly, adamantly, and before you could register, Bucky licked up the middle of your chest in a broad stripe. He moves, sucking kisses around the top of your left breast, nipping into the skin, leaving soft bruises and red marks, a trail running around until he finally circles your nipple with the wet tip of his tongue.
Whispering a curse, your legs open wider and hips buck up trying to find any way to release the tension throbbing against the gusset of your panties. As he suckles, he breathes out moans, sounds that release like sighs to your wet skin, making you shiver. His free hand moves to copy on your neglected nipple, pinching, rolling between his thumb and forefinger, tugging off, before repeating.
"Teasing me, an-and," your jaw slacks as he switches sides, slipping his thumb over your wet, bullied nipple while he sucks and grunts on your other, sending vibrations through your body. "Fuck, you — oh…"
With his body over yours, his hips met your own, still covered, now in ruined, wet cloth. He lurched his hips against yours, looking for some semblance of relief as he nipped your breasts.
Unlatching with a soft pop, he pushes the mounds together, squeezing them in his grip as his hips dragged at their own rhythm. Shaky, messy, twitching at every flick down and against your sopping core. "What was that?"
"Fuck you." You bite, hands coming up to push into your eyes.
"Soon, sweetheart," he hums, dragging his tongue out to lick from one tit to the other, dragging lazily while he squished them together, leaving a sloppy trail of spit. "Patience."
A singular laugh pierces out with a shake to your chest. Your hand runs up the front of Bucky's hair, and you pull his face up.
"Patience?" You probe, staring into his watery eyes like that one pull of his hair undid his mask in just one second. His lips spit stained, kissed red and full, a string of dribble still connected him to your slick breasts.
When he stayed silent, gulped heavily, and ground his hips into yours, pushing his luck, you let go of his head and pushed his body back by his shoulders.
He stayed sat upright on his haunches, trying to catch any crumb of power, but you kept pushing until his back hit the mattress, head whipping down making the frame creak, and he watched you straddle his lap with a light grin.
You moved quickly, as if at any moment a spell would break and you'd wake up in this exact bed, only for it to be empty and cold. Fingers curling over the waistband of his boxers, silently admiring the mess he made of the front and the silhouette of his thick cock straining. Tugging without preamble. Once they got to his thighs, down to his knees, Bucky launched.
"Fuck!" You squeaked at the surprise attack, barely enough time to fully appreciate the heavy smack he made against his abdomen, or the veins that trailed down his shaft to his balls, the aching red tip that peeked out under blushing skin, wet and sticky, so needy.
Because his hands worked faster. He was always better than you at work, even though whenever you'd tell him, he'd either wave his hand and grumble or put it over your mouth and tell you to 'shut up'. But his hands always worked faster. He memorised, took notes, and when in a new environment, he made sure to understand, appreciate and work.
Understand, appreciate and work was absolutely what he did.
Your underwear was gone with a rip of the waistband, surprised they even lasted this long, sticking to your slit from cum and arousal.
Warm on your waist, pulling you forward, Bucky began to direct your body. The other snakes to your back, right between your shoulder blades where he could hold you close. His eyes bore into yours while sliding from your torso, to the curve of your hip, until it fists and kneads down your ass again. The pulsing of his fingers pushes your hips forward and into the slick heat of his cock.
"Still mean, aren't I?" Pulling from your ass with a quick, stinging slap, he holds his weeping cock in his fist, sighing with relief as he slides his hands up and down the shaft, slicking it up with his own pre, right in front of your cunt. "Tell me I'm such an asshole. Tell me you hate me for fucking you so good."
Your walls clamp around nothing, aching uncomfortably with emptiness as you whine and shift your hips closer. Your head tips forward, holding your arms around his neck and hiding your face into his collar as he slowly, achingly makes love to his hand.
"Say that you hate me and I'll let you have him," he whispers so quietly, so softly it makes your bones feel like jelly. The saliva pooling in his mouth clicks around the words, something you've always hated on others but in this moment you cant help but feel the burning desire to lick it all from his tongue and swallow it for yourself.
He nudges your head up with his shoulder, making you look up at him with a tired gaze, sleepy with need so thick it hurts, eyes dark and settling into the skin underneath. God, he hasn't seen anything so beautiful in his life.
To wake you up further, he sets his hips so the tip grazes over your clit. The shock is immediate, burning, vicious, it almost feels delirious. How your entire body jolts in short shakes, how your hands tighten around his neck, how you coat him. The sounds you both create, syrupy and sweet, mixed with the ever light taps his tip makes as he drags himself through your mess. And your chorus of moans and sighs, all while he keeps composure — tries to.
"C'mon, baby, say it," he jerks up, slipping between your lips. Hardly hiding his neediness and desperation. "Tell me, God, please just fuckin' tell me."
You have half the mind to leave him like this. Wet, shaking, pleading at his knees for you like a man praying for forgiveness, like you hold a sword to his shoulders. He deserves to wait, to beg, and whimper — needing to hear your words, hear you reprimand and berate him for what he did.
But there's a quiet voice in your head that asks: what's a week next to years of friendship?
Your hips tip up, catching the head of his cock in your entrance, and the words on your lips feel odd and quiet.
You mean them.
"I love you,"
The burn reaches every corner of your body as you slip. Taking him all. All of him. Of Bucky. Your coworker, your partner, your best friend. Inside of you, held snug and tight in your walls, twitching against your cervix, as your body greets him again.
Your breaths mingle as you share gasps and skin.
"I love you so much, that I hate…" you strain, inhaling deep and hard, swallowing back the feeling of anxiety and his length all the way in the back of your throat. "I hate that you left me, and made me guess, and — and made everyone stress the fuck out."
You don't feel the tears until he starts wiping them away from your face, cooing gently, kissing away the salty tracks.
"I'm sorry."
You sniffle, causing your walls to clamp messily around his erection. He groans under his breath, holding your hip while moving your hair away from your eyes.
The feeling of his thickness and the attention on your face and emotions has your hips canting in his hold. Grinding down and against him, clit grazing the hair of his abdomen, making sure your body remembers him completely. "Never do it again."
"Never," he shakes his head, still wiping away the tiny trails welling in the corners of your eyes, kissing your lids, breathing in your scent. He holds onto your hips tighter, following your lead, your rhythm as you find it, and starts to shift his own to your beat.
"Not — never in a million years," his head cranes back on a grunt in his throat, and he lets go of your hip, moving his arm behind him, holding your sheets, and himself from behind. He lets you move. "Make me pay for it… for the rest of our lives, and I'd — fuck, baby — I'll thank you, forever."
As your hips grinded, Bucky's eyes never faltered off yours (as badly as he wanted to watch the way your pussy swallows his cock). His hand stayed on the side of your face, moving down, just enough to cup your jaw when he felt your gaze slipping away.
Grinding, the slick sounds of your exertion got louder, your walls aching around him, his breath coming out in tight, long pants, you slowly started easing into confidence. Tipping your hips up every time you eased forward, short inches at first, letting him know you're ready to take him, until you start to ride.
Hips rocking off his, bouncing on his lap, taking his length over and over again. You could feel him deep in your belly, making himself home. And through your frosty eyes, you saw him gaze on you like you were another being.
As you locked sights, his hips pushed up into yours at every touch down, chasing you. To retaliate, you moved your head to the side and took his thumb into your mouth, humming around the digit.
He scoffed, huffed a laugh out, and pressed it to your tongue.
"You feel so good baby," he breathed, pressing up into you, chasing a speed you cant get. "Takin' me so good. Missed this pussy so bad, sweetheart. She miss me, too?"
Of course she did. You wanted to scream at him, strangle him for asking such a dumb question. But the only thing you could do was nod, moan and suck around his finger.
"Is my girl getting tired?"
Despite your previous words, you do hate him. All these nicknames, now with a little addition. An ownership.
His.
You hate him in the way that he know exactly how to push your buttons and get you going in the same order, even after just one play, because your cunt traitorously clamps around him.
Moaning, his eyebrows dip, and his hips drive up again and again.
"Yeah? Sleepy thing, aren't you?" it's with that, he leans forward. Hand back on your ass, as you're being laid down onto your back.
You want to fight back, to push him back down and take and take until your body burn and tears flood your face. But you can barely hold on.
Legs dropping open around his hips, cock still sheathed inside. And he's still so goddamn attentive, even when he speaks with sarcasm.
"I hate you," you shake your head and grumble, "fuckin' asshole."
His cock stuttered inside you, and you could've sworn you felt his balls tighten. But all was lost once his hips started moving. Smacking against yours, wet trails of fluids dripping and splatting on skin, it was all too perfect.
His girth leaving and entering in quick succession, leaving your whole body tightening, right on the edge of hysteria — unable to breathe or know if you want to laugh, cry, or both.
"You wanna cum so bad, sweetheart, i can feel it," he clasped at your hips, digging into you while he held you down and close, keeping you still while he works. "Speak."
"Fuck, yes! Fuck," You wailed into the sheets below you. Your cunt clamping down so tight, it hurt. "Bucky, please."
He didn't let up.
"Please what?" He panted, fingers tight on your skin.
Your mouth falls open in a silent moan, coming out breathy. "Please touch me. Please, please."
There was no need for spit. With the amount of cum you had created, from the exact moment you saw him in the alley at the bar to now, spit wasn't needed at all. But the thought of more of him being close to your pretty pussy, the fact he didn't get to know what you tasted like tonight, couldn't see how his saliva mixed into you so pretty. He had to drop a fat string of spit from where he sat, still fucking into you deep and hard, and chase the dribble with his thumb.
Wiping circles over your neglected bundle with the accumulated stickiness, watching how it frothed and bubbled, how a ring of cream settled at the base of his cock as you brace.
Jaw slacking with pants and whines, body fastening as every second closer to finishing comes. Bucky notices how you seem to quiet down, how you start focusing on the pleasure at hand. The drilling of his cock, his thumb bullying your clit so perfectly, it only toppled over, finally, to the sweet release when his body folded over yours, breathing sweet nothings into the corners of your mouth, where he kissed and sighed and grunted, until you shook in his embrace.
Molten, white hot, and wet. He took you in his arms, easing off your clit, keeping his pelvis to yours to bring more relief to the nerves, while he wrapped himself around you and held you close as you both finished.
Your hands fell to his skin as he filled you up. Heavy breaths slippery on your jaw, cock and balls twitching with each burst inside of you. You gripped onto his ass with each twitch, keeping him in, holding on, wanting it all to last.
It took a while for your heavy breaths and jelly-like limbs to subside.
"Wow." You don't know who made the noise, but with Bucky's face still hidden in your neck, kissing soft pecks, rustling his beard, you're pretty sure it was all you.
"I'm sorry."
Laughing softly, accidentally squeezing his half-hard cock, you pull him up to look at him. You're both fucked out. Ugly in the most beautiful ways. And it's this time you both laugh.
"Thank you for apologising," you whisper, "but I don't think I can forgive you. Not yet anyway."
He nods, the smile that was on his face before, eases into something slightly more serious. Sadder, but understanding. "Of course."
Easing up, Bucky makes no mistake in taking care of you. Picking you up, carrying you down the hall like absolutely nothing, sitting you at the toilet, cleaning you with a warm rag and making you pee, despite your protests in him being there, watching.
"Sweetheart I've seen everything," he replies, standing in front of you, cupping your jaw. "I'm seein' everything now, too."
You don't really know how it slipped your mind that you were both still naked in that moment, but it felt… strange. In a good way.
Showering with him felt harmonious. As with his touch, cleaning you all over, reverent, not lustful. Careful. He looked and worked with determination, lips pouted and brows taut, making sure your hair was thoroughly washed out of the products before shutting off the water and plopping a towel over your head, only to then start to messily rub it around. Something he would do on beach days years ago.
Laughing comes easy, same with the teasing and groans of displeasure.
"Bucky! Come on, you'll tangle my hair!" You whine from under the sheet, flicking it up and slapping his hands away with a grin and squint. His smile is wide. Bigger than you remember it ever being, all as he watches you dry your hair in comfortable silence.
"I meant what I said by the way." You say after a while, watching him from the mirror.
He hums, snapping out of the trance you put him in by just being.
"When we… I said 'I love you'," you pause for any indication, "I meant it."
Coming up behind you, arms slinging tight around your waist, holding you close. He automatically kisses your temple as he rests his chin on your shoulder. "I know."
Looking at him through the glass with your brows furrowed. "You know?"
Bucky shrugs casually. "Sweetheart, we say it all the time."
You refrain from sighing loudly, so you turn in his hold. Naked chest to naked chest and his arms stay secured, lazily draped on your sides.
"Yeah but this time its…" you gesture broadly, "different."
He smiles, breathlessly staring into your eyes, like he needed to memorise the colour and swirls of your irises. "Different."
You didn't need to clarify if it was good or bad. Didn't need to tell him anything, because when Bucky looked at you, he understood every minuscule detail your body was trying to explain.
Different isn't so bad after all. And when it's something you get to enjoy with your best friend, it's actually a lovely feeling.
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