pairings: pre civil war!bucky x fem!reader, congressman!bucky x mom!reader
summary: your life is forever changed after a tender night with your quiet, traumatised neighbour in bucharest. years later, you're living in brooklyn with your five year old daughter and run into congressman barnes. he's everything you remembered and more, and now he wants to be part of yours and jamie's lives.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, plot with porn, angst, fluff, mentions of nightmares, a lot of plum pie, slooow burn, tender soft sex, then not tender sex, accidental pregnancy, explicit detailed smut, protected and unprotected pnv, slight dom!bucky, praise kink, dirty talk (bucky is a bit feral), pregnancy/breeding kink, body worship, oral (f!receiving), fingering, a lil spanking, multiple orgasms (f!receiving), reader cries during, love confessions, very few physical details of reader, reader's daughter has blue eyes and dark hair, no use of y/n (i'm trying something new), timeline inconsistencies (i tried tho), partly proofread, let me know if i missed anythingggg
word count: 19k (no but seriously can someone tell me to chill)
authors note: 2 fics for the price of 1! partly inspired by this post, partly inspired by @metal-armed-muse's second chances fic (dad congressman barnes has me weak in the knees). i needed a break from man on your mind and this just appeared like the sun through rainclouds (though it definitely put me in the trenches i won't lie). this is written from reader's pov, but might do some bucky pov blurbs if y'all are interested! reminder that i am a new writer so my style & formatting is ever evolving - ai will never be used in this household. please like, reblog, and comment :)
song inspo: river - zinadelphia
I’m somewhere in between
The things that I’ve lost
And the things I’ll gain from losing
Either way I will leave something behind
But I’m dying to do something different this time
June 2016 - Bucharest, Romania
Sleep had become a rare commodity the past couple weeks.
The group of guy backpackers staying below you refused to turn their music down after eleven—if anything, they turned it up louder to spite you—and you could hear them fucking the poor girls who made the mistake of going home with them after the pub. Every night. Fortunately for you, the guys had awful stamina and they were finished within five minutes. This wouldn’t normally be a big deal, if you hadn’t ‘lost’ your headphones three days after you moved in to the short-term stay apartment—you were ninety-nine percent certain one of them had broken in to your room and stolen them, but you had no proof.
Sleep would welcome you for a few hours before the screaming across the hall started. The first time the deep, throaty screams made their way through your paper thin walls, you startled awake so violently you jumped out of bed and twisted your ankle. You limped out of your apartment—if you could call it that—with a Romanian dictionary held high as your weapon, your socked feet quiet on the concrete floor. It wasn’t hard to find the source of the screaming—the aftermath of a nightmare, heavy breathing and sobbing, was crystal clear through the door opposite yours.
It was on day four of being woken up by your neighbours nightmares when you finally saw him. You were running late for your first class of the day, arms full of marked papers and keys hanging from your mouth as you opened your door, when you caught movement in your periphery. He was climbing up the stairs silently, his head titled towards the ground with a cap on top of his long dark hair, obstructing the view of his face. The first thing you noticed was the size of him—he was tall and broad, big muscles still noticeable under layers of clothes. The second thing you noticed was his gloved hands—an odd sight in the Bucharest warmth—one of them holding a bag of plums.
Plum guy. You had seen him while out on your daily morning walks, buying plums at one of the fruit vendors down the street. You had no idea that the gentle giant you watched make quiet conversation with the vendor was the man whose sobbing and whimpering had your heart clenching at three every morning.
The keys in your mouth dropped on top of the paper stack, the small jingle and thud making the man tense, his eyes darting to you—standing in your doorway staring at him. You quickly looked away, grabbing your keys and locking your door.
He was opening his own door when you crossed the short distance to the stairs—and to him, given that his door was right next to the stairs. He turned his head slightly, a gloved hand clenched tight on the doorknob.
You smiled softly as you walked closer to him. “Bună dimineaţa,” you said quietly. He tracked your movements closely, offering you a brief nod before he disappeared inside his apartment. Not a talker, then.
Later that night—or technically early the next morning—you were bent over the small kitchen table, struggling to read your student’s handwriting. You had just over a week left teaching English to Romanian middle-graders, and then you would be on a flight back home to the States.
You were trying to rub the red ink off your hand when the first gasp echoed from across the small hallway. You looked towards the apartment door on instinct, halting your movements and waiting for another noise. It came a few seconds later—a loud gasp that sounded like someone was struggling to breathe. Then a pained shout, in what you were almost certain was Russian. The shouting turned into whimpered pleas within minutes. You felt tears well behind your eyes listening to the man across from you have another nightmare. Your heart bleed for a man you didn’t know, didn’t even know his name. You only knew he spoke gently to fruit vendors and bought fresh plums everyday.
Call it sleep deprivation, homesickness, or basic empathy, but you felt deeply enough to come up with a plan—to offer the hurting man some kindness. You finished marking papers as quietly as you could before you fell into bed, barely audible sniffling sending you to sleep with a heavy heart.
In the morning you thought strategically about how you would approach him. Knocking on his door empty handed made no sense, and following him around the fruit market seemed an even worse idea. But, like him, you wanted to buy plums. And, it made sense to buy them on your usual morning walk.
You left earlier than you normally would, wanting to be at the market before him so it didn’t look like you were stalking him. You were making idle chit-chat with the vendor, asking what traits constituted a ‘good’ plum—half of you was interested, the other half was stalling in the hopes that plum guy would show.
Conscious that you were in the way of paying customers, you turned to leave and found your neighbour standing two metres away, watching you apprehensively. How long had he been there?
“Bună!” You greeted him with a kind smile, a little louder now that you were outside. His eyes narrowed slightly, giving you a once over as he studied your body language. Despite how hard you worked on your Romanian pronunciation, your American accent came through strong and you knew he noticed it.
Another brief nod was your reply. You tried to not let your disappointment show but his eyes darted to your shoulders, watching them deflate.
“Morning.” Oh. You were not expecting that.
You were expecting the American accent even less.
He spoke quietly, his voice rough from lack of use. He stepped to the left, turning his body slightly to let you pass. It was progress at least—you would take the simple greeting as a win.
You saw him again later that day. You were stomping up the stairs cursing to yourself, more papers to grade overflowing your arms and a takeout bag dangerously close to slipping from your fingers. You tripped on the last step, the takeout dropping on the floor and spilling right in front of your neighbours door—half of the papers in your arms following shortly after.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” You exclaimed louder than you intended, pissed that your dinner was now all over the floor—some of your students work now stained with pho.
You bent down slowly, gently lowering the rest of the papers on the clean ground next to your ruined dinner. You didn’t notice the door in front of you opening—the sight of boots next to your mess making you flinch. You jerked your head up to find your neighbour watching you carefully, the side of his mouth twitching in faint amusement. You flushed red, embarrassed by the mess you’d made and flustered from seeing him without his baseball cap. He was handsome.
“Shit, I—sorry, I’m in the way. I’ll just, uh…” You stumbled over your words, feeling suddenly intimidated by him.
He squatted down to where you were crouched awkwardly, your arms still holding the pile of papers. He looked down at the mess of pho and essays, his eyes assessing the damage.
He picked up a soggy paper, a stray noodle sliding down the page. He read the page slowly, noticing the name and age in barely legible scribbles. He let out a quiet huff, his blue eyes flicking to your shocked ones. “Might have to give out a few automatic passes.”
He spoke first. He’s looking at you with amusement swirling in his gorgeous blue eyes, and he spoke to you first—even more, he made a joke.
You let out a breathy laugh, leaning closer to see what students name was written at the top. “He struggles more than anyone else in the class, giving him a pass may cause suspicion…” You trailed off with a small, teasing smile.
He placed the ruined essay back on the mess, his movements gentle.
He stood to his full height, nodding towards the stack in your hands. “You should put those inside. I’ll clean this up.” He moved back towards his door to let you pass.
You stood back up and hesitated, biting your lip as you looked down at the mess. “No, this is my fault. I’ll sort it out.”
“You should put those down first. Don’t wanna ruin more of your student’s work.” A muscle in his cheek twitched, like he was holding back a smile.
“Right, yeah, that’s smart.” You stepped over the mess and walked the few steps to your door, fumbling with the keys in your bag. You glanced over your shoulder as you opened the door, seeing plum guy crouched down and picking up papers gently. You shook your head fondly at the sight—of course he would clean it up anyway.
You entered the small apartment, making your way over to the dingy kitchen table and dropping the stack of papers and your bag onto it. You closed your eyes and took a couple breaths, shaking off the nervousness seeing your neighbours face properly had caused.
He’s just a guy. A handsome, tormented, gentle guy—whose name you still don’t know.
In the time it took to give yourself a pep talk, plum guy had finished collecting the papers and was standing in your doorframe. He cleared his throat softly causing you to turn around quickly. His eyes roamed around your small apartment while yours focused on him—he made the doorframe look small, his shoulders just as wide and his head close to touching the top.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you said as you walked towards him.
His eyes met yours, soft and hesitant. “I know.”
He looked down at the papers in his hands, extending them towards you. You offered him a grateful smile as you grabbed them. “Thank you, I appreciate it.”
He stuffed his hands in his front pockets, shrugging his shoulders at your gratitude. “It’s fine,” he murmured, his eyes scanning you and the apartment—looking for any hidden threats.
He took a step back, nodding his head once in goodbye.
You blurted your name out quickly, not wanting to miss the first chance you’ve had to properly connect with the man.
He tilted his head towards the ground, a strand of hair falling in front of his face. His eyes darted side to side, like he was thinking. Hard.
Finally, he lifted his head but kept his eyes downcast. “…Bucky.”
Your eyebrows lifted a fraction of an inch, surprised by the unusual name. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Bucky.” His eyes met yours again, more sure this time.
“Likewise,” he muttered before leaving your apartment, closing the door softly behind him.
You felt a small smile take over your face as you stood still, watching the space he just occupied. Progress.
Half an hour later you were bent over the drying essays, determined to make sense of the smudged scribbles when two sharp knocks sounded against your door.
You furrowed your brows, not sure why anyone would be knocking on your door—the only person who knew you lived here was your neighbour, Bucky. You shot up from your chair quickly—it must be him.
You opened your door a second too late, just catching his door across the small hall closing behind him. You looked down to the floor, surprise knocking you breathless for a moment. There on the concrete at your feet was a bowl of soup, steam rising from it. You picked it up slowly, your heart doing flips in your chest. Bucky had made you soup. He had cleaned up your mess outside his door, and had made you soup to replace your ruined dinner.
That night you found yourself silently crying along with him, the sounds of his nightmare causing you physical pain. What had happened to him?
It was Saturday afternoon and you were pacing the length of your apartment, trying to hype yourself up. Bucky’s clean bowl was resting in your palms, feeling like a loaded gun. You had a plan—to return the bowl and try make conversation, maybe even get him to laugh. That would be nice, right? For him to laugh, for you to hear something from him that wasn’t sounds of agony in the middle of the night.
You raised your hand hesitantly to his door, giving it two soft knocks. You waited patiently, straining to hear any movement behind the door. A minute passed and nothing. You tried again, knocking with more confidence this time. Thirty seconds passed and you were shifting on your feet, starting to feel disheartened.
“Bucky,” you called softly. “I—sorry for disturbing you, I just wanted to return your bowl—from the other night?” It came out as a question, your confidence fading and you started to feel silly. Obviously the guy wanted to be left alone.
You turned to leave when the door in front of you opened, Bucky’s large frame obstructing your view of his apartment. He was without his baseball cap again and his hair was damp, like he had just stepped out of the shower. He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and jeans like usual, gloves covering his hands. His eyebrows were raised slightly at you standing in front of him, nervously biting your lip with his cheap bowl in your hands.
You extended the bowl towards him. “Thank you, for the soup the other night. I…wasn’t expecting it. Beats the granola bar that’s been sitting in my bag for weeks.” You chuckled awkwardly.
He grabbed the bowl with a quiet nod.
“And, thank you again for cleaning up the mess I made. You really didn’t need to.”
“It’s fine. You don’t need to worry about it.” His voice was deep, still rough from lack of use. You found it comforting—you wanted to hear more.
You took a breath to steel your nerves, plastering on what you hoped was a disarming smile.
“I was planning on baking a plum pie this afternoon.” You started, watching as a confused expression took over his face. “My mom’s recipe—I used to bake with her, and I’ve been feeling homesick lately so…” You trailed off, hoping the lie wasn’t obvious.
Your mom didn’t bake plum pies, and the last time you baked with her was when you were nine—you ended up in tears with little burns on your hands.
“Would you…would you like some? Or want to join me?”
His surprise at your invitation was evident, though it was quickly replaced with suspicion.
“…Why?”
“You like plums, right? I saw you down at the market.” He was still looking at you skeptically, his big arms now crossed over his chest. Your voice wavered slightly, “think of it as a thank you gift, for your help the other day.”
He sighed at you thanking him again.
“…Fine. I’ll come over in a couple hours.”
Bucky looked abnormally large sitting at your small kitchen table. His shoulders were tense, his gloved hands clutched together tightly in his lap, his eyes darting around the small space absorbing every detail he could. His brows furrowed at your suitcase on the other side of the room, your clothes spilling out next to the bed.
You followed his line of sight, an embarrassed chuckle escaping you. “Sorry for the mess, this is just a temporary situation. I wasn’t expecting to be living out of my suitcase, still.”
His eyes flicked back to yours in interest. “Temporary?”
You turned back to the dirty dishes, needing something to do with your hands when he’s looking at you like that. Like he wants to know more about you.
“Yeah, I was meant to fly back home a couple weeks ago, but the school I’m teaching at asked me to stay until school finished for the year—they offered to pay for the flight transfer.” You shrugged lightly.
He shifted slightly, the small chair squeaking and straining beneath his weight. “Home?”
You noticed he didn’t talk much and when he did it was in small sentences. Though he was asking you questions now, and you took that as more progress.
“The States—Philadelphia, to be exact.” You took a breath before asking him, “where’s home for you?”
He was silent for a minute before quietly muttering, “Brooklyn.”
You turned to him, flashing him a bright smile you couldn’t tame. “Oh cool, my parents are planning on moving there in a couple months! Any non-touristy places they should check out?”
He hesitated again. “It’s—uh, it’s been a while since I was last…home.” He wasn’t looking at you anymore, instead staring intently at his clenched hands. You took the hint that he didn’t want to talk about it anymore.
You bent down to check on the pie in the oven, sighing in relief that it didn’t look like an absolute disaster.
Turning back to Bucky you tried to think of anything else to talk about, wanting to know more about the quiet man.
“The pie should be ready in a few minutes. Do you want to…watch something, maybe? While we eat.”
His response was a small nod.
You walked over to grab your laptop off your bed. You sat down on the chair across from Bucky, noticing how he leaned away from you and put his hands in his lap.
“Anything in particular you want to watch?” You briefly glanced at him as you scrolled through the streaming apps.
“Dealers choice,” he hummed quietly.
You picked A New Hope, deeming it an acceptable movie to watch while eating pie with your neighbour.
Bucky waited until you took your first bite of pie before he inhaled his slice in less than a minute. You let out a small laugh at the sight of him—hunched over in the small chair, shovelling the pie in his mouth like he hadn’t eaten for days.
He looked up at you sheepishly when he heard you laugh.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, mouth full of plum and pastry.
“No, don’t apologise—I take it as a compliment,” you smiled at him, licking your fork clean. His eyes tracked the movement carefully, causing your smile to turn to a small smirk. He looked back down to his empty plate quickly, his shoulders tense after being caught staring.
You stood up and grabbed his plate, cutting a much larger slice of pie for him. He offered you a bashful smile as you put the plate in front of him.
“Thanks…it’s, uh, pretty good.”
Your body rushed with warmth at his compliment, your cheeks flushing and a small smile now permanent on your face.
“I’m glad.”
He ate the second piece at a normal pace, only half interested in watching the movie playing from your laptop on the table. You caught his eyes watching you every few minutes but it didn’t put you on edge. From the few times you’ve interacted with him you gathered he’s a cautious, suspicious guy—the occasional staring didn’t bother you.
Suddenly, the floor started to shake below you—the telltale sign that the backpackers had started partying early. Their music was more bass than anything, making everything in your apartment vibrate slightly. You rolled your eyes and sighed in annoyance—you knew it was going to be a long night.
Bucky stood up and grabbed your empty plates, walking over to the sink to wash them. You opened your mouth to stop him, to tell him you’ll sort it out. He shut you up with a sharp look and shake of his head.
“That happen often? The…music?” He asked, his head tilting towards the floor.
You let out a small scoff. “Yeah, basically every night. This isn’t even the worst of it.”
He grunted in response, displeased.
“You don’t hear it from your apartment?”
“I do, it’s just not this bad. Becomes background noise after a bit.” He let out a bitter chuckle. “It’s fucking awful music.”
You laughed at that. “Right?! I’m pretty sure they’re aspiring DJ’s…all I know is that I hate them.” He let out a deep laugh that sent a thrill through your body. God help you, you wanted to hear it again.
“What music do you like?” You tried to ask casually.
He paused, deliberating his answer. “I like…older music, jazz. Not a fan of the modern stuff.”
That didn’t surprise you at all.
You hummed in response. “Yeah, I get that. My grandma made sure I listened to all the classics—I have a soft spot for Sinatra, among others.”
“Huh,” was all he offered. He started walking towards the door, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
“This was…nice. I—um, I enjoyed your company. Pie was good, too.”
You giggled at his nervousness—there was something so charming about this big guy being awkward.
“Yeah, me too. We should do it again, before I go home.”
He hesitated opening the door. “When’s your flight?”
“Friday morning.”
“Monday after work. I’ll bring the plums.”
Later that night, you made the unsafe decision to take an after midnight stroll around Bucharest, choosing to potentially put your life in danger than listen to the gut wrenching sounds of Bucky’s nightmare. It was a bad one—you tried burrowing your head in all the pillows and blankets you had, but you could still hear the harrowing screams and cries. Potentially being mugged seemed a lot more appealing in that moment.
Bucky knocked on your door an hour after you got home on Monday, with plums in his hand and a request that you teach him the plum pie recipe.
“Oh Bucky, it’s really not that special. Any recipe you find on the internet will be just as good!” And you knew that was true, because your recipe was the first result when you googled ‘plum pie recipe’.
“I want to know your one. Promise I won’t get in the way.” His eyes were almost pleading, and you hated the way your heart clenched at his kicked puppy expression. You could see the exhaustion lining his eyes, how his torturous, sleepless nights were taking a toll on him. Your eyes burned with tears just looking at him.
That’s how you ended up hiding in your bathroom, staring unblinking at your phone screen trying to commit the plum pie recipe to memory.
He didn’t get in the way, just like he promised. But you could feel him hovering over your shoulder, his eyes solely focused on your hands as you made the pie. His rapt attention made you stumble a few times, completely forgetting steps and measurements.
He still didn’t talk much, only offering small grunts and hums when you explained techniques and made the occasional awkward—trying to be funny—comment.
You sat closer to him at the table this time, cheering internally when he didn’t lean away or move his chair further from you.
You let out a breathy chuckle as a thought crossed your mind.
“What?” Bucky asked curiously.
“Nothing, just had a thought.” You shook your head with a small smile, pushing around a large chunk of plum with your fork.
“Do you not get those often?”
You gasped in shocked delight, not expecting him to make a lighthearted dig at you. You looked up from your plate at him, seeing his blue eyes twinkling and an almost smirk tugging his mouth.
“Wow,” you dragged out. “And to think, I was just starting to like you…” You teased him back.
He huffed out a small laugh.
“M’sorry, couldn’t help it. What were you thinking about?” He shovelled more pie in his mouth, waiting for your response.
“You remind me of a cat.”
“What?” He laughed out, his mouth full of pie.
“You’re like a cat. Aloof, wary of people, ready to run out the nearest exit.” You spoke softly, not wanting him to perceive your words as an attack. “But, with a bit of patience and treats,” you nodded towards the pie, “you start to become curious…even trust a little, maybe. It’s not a perfect analogy—it was just a thought.”
He looked at you with a strange expression on his face—something achingly tender, with a mix of disbelief and sorrow. He didn’t answer for a minute, just watched you like he still couldn’t figure you out.
“What kind of cat would I be?”
“A black cat, for sure.”
You saw him two more times before Thursday afternoon. The first time he joined you on your morning walk around the neighbourhood, the both of you silent—basking in each other’s company and enjoying the quiet summer morning. The second time was late on Tuesday night, when you finally had enough of the backpackers bullshit and were banging on their door demanding they shut the fuck up. Bucky was there within a minute of you shouting, gently pulling you away from the door where two sleazy backpackers were leering at you.
“It’s not worth it,” he said your name softly.
“Fucking assholes,” you seethed. “I know they stole my headphones, Bucky!”
You were no match for his strength as he carried you up the stairs, your legs thrashing uselessly. “They were expensive,” you whined like a pouting toddler.
Saying goodbye to your students on Thursday was by no means easy. Even though you only taught there for a few months as part of your gap year, the kids had dug their way into your heart and left you in tears when they hugged you goodbye.
You recovered by the time Bucky knocked on your door in the late afternoon, plums in one hand and a small bunch of wildflowers in the other. You were frozen, staring at him with what you were sure was a lovestruck expression on your face.
He held the flowers out for you to grab, your hand brushing his gloved one in the process. He quickly pulled his hand back at your touch, running it through his hair as he looked everywhere but you.
“For your last day,” he said, like that explained everything. “Sorry, they’re nothing, uh, special—they were the only ones the florist had left…” He shrugged his shoulders, his eyes fixed on a spot over your shoulder.
You snapped out of your smitten daze, a soft giggle leaving you at his nervousness. He looked at you then, his shoulders relaxing.
“They’re perfect.”
You opened the door wider for him to come in, walking to the kitchen to put the flowers in a glass of water while he closed the door behind him.
You turned your head sideways, shooting him a teasing look. “You know…they’re going to die in a couple days. I won’t be here to look after them.”
You watched in fascination as a flush climbed up his neck, painting his cheeks red.
He rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a nervous huff. “I didn’t think about that.”
“You can always break in after I’ve left, grab them for yourself before the pricks downstairs steal them.”
“We don’t want that happening,” he chuckled, putting the plums on the counter next to you. “I’m starting to see why you hate them so much.”
“You’re only seeing it now? They’ve been my number one enemies since I moved in.” You grumbled bitterly.
You rolled your shoulders back with a sigh—you didn’t want your bitterness clouding your last night with Bucky.
“Okay, let’s change the subject,” you clapped your hands together, turning to face Bucky fully. “I’m thinking one last plum pie, and maybe we can finish that movie we were watching the other night?”
“Whatever you want.”
An hour later you were both sat at the small table, the half-eaten pie between you and Bucky barely paying attention to the movie, again. His eyes were fixated on your packed suitcase and duffel bag next to the bed. He looked…sad, mournful even. There was a small crease between his furrowed brows, the sides of his mouth downturned, and he hadn’t eaten much in the last few minutes.
“Hey,” you started, voice low and soft. “You okay?”
He whipped his head back to you, his glassy eyes meeting yours for a second. “Yeah,” his voice broke faintly. He cleared his throat, looking down at the pie.
“I’m…gonna miss you.”
You sucked in a breath, the emotion in his voice making your throat feel tight. Tears pricked behind your eyes as you looked at the man in front of you. You wished you could take away all his pain, all his sadness.
You gently laid a hand on his arm, your eyes darting between his for any signs of unease—the only other time the two of you had touched was when he dragged you away from the backpackers door. His arm was solid and cold through his long-sleeve, almost unnaturally hard. His shocked eyes looked into yours as your thumb rubbed his sleeve faintly.
“I’m going to miss you, too.”
You removed your hand and looked back at the movie, a single tear slipping down your cheek.
Tension hung thick in the air, causing you to clear your throat and try relieve some of the tightness in your chest.
“You kinda look like him,” you said to Bucky, nodding towards your laptop—a close up shot of Luke Skywalker on the screen.
“Yeah, I can see it,” you continued, turning your face to see him already looking at you. “If you cut your hair short, shave the beard…” You trailed off, your eyes catching on a bit of plum on his chin.
You raised a hand without thinking, your attention transfixed on the piece of fruit and his pink lips an inch above. His stubble faintly pricked your thumb, your touch featherlight as you swiped the bit of plum away. A small gasp caught in his throat, his chin leaning towards your touch unconsciously.
Your eyes couldn’t leave his lips, a faint purple tint to them from the pie.
“You really like plums.”
“They’re meant to help with memory,” he murmured, distracted.
That caught your attention, your eyes darting up to his in question. He let out a deep exhale, the air brushing against your hand.
“I had an accident…a few years back. Can’t remember much from before, it’s—uh, it’s coming back in bits and pieces.” Your heart clenched painfully, the sorrow for his lost life bleeding through his eyes.
“Is that—,” you swallowed against the lump in your throat. “Is that what your nightmares are? Memories coming back?” You asked gently, your thumb rubbing soothing circles on his chin.
His eyes widened in panic. “You—you know about the nightmares?”
You moved your hand from his chin, your fingers brushing against his cheek as you pushed a loose strand behind his ear. His body involuntarily shivered from your gentle touch.
“Yeah…I’ve known since my first night here,” you whispered. “The walls are pretty thin.”
His eyes dropped to his lap in shame. “God, I am so sorry,” he rasped out your name, his deep voice thick with emotion.
You cupped his face with both your hands, tilting his head up until his eyes met yours. “Never apologise for your pain, Bucky.” The anguish and self-hatred you saw in his eyes made yours tear up. “Can I—would it be okay if I hugged you?”
He stared at you for a long moment, then finally gave you a nod.
You stood up slowly with Bucky following your lead. You looked into his eyes once more, checking he was still comfortable with this, before stepping forward and winding your arms around his waist, your palms resting lightly on his back. He sucked in a sharp breath at the touch, his muscles going stiff under your hands. You gently rested your cheek against his chest, his heart beating fast beneath your ear. He didn’t reciprocate the hug for a moment, his arms hovering at his side like he didn’t know what to do.
“Breathe,” you whispered into his shirt. He took a few shuddering breaths in and out then raised his right arm slowly, hesitantly draping it over your shoulder. You felt some of the tension leave his body as he sunk into your embrace. His gloved hand instinctively traveled from your shoulder to the middle of your back, pulling you closer into his warmth—surprising you both.
“Sorry,” his voice was quiet, a slight tremble lacing through. “It’s…been a long time, since I last…hugged someone.” His voice cracked at the end and your heart broke into a million pieces.
You hugged him tighter, your hands clutching the back of his shirt—tethering him to you. A small sound slipped out of you, something between a gasp and a pained whimper. The lump in your throat grew bigger, spreading down your chest and sitting heavy on your heart.
He rested his chin on the top of your head, so gently you barely noticed it at first. He let out a staggering breath and then rested the weight of his head on yours fully, purposely. He moved slightly, his nose brushing against your hair as he inhaled deeply. His arm around you tightened, pulling you tight against his strong body.
“…I can’t believe you’re real.”
You croaked out a watery laugh against his chest. Fuck, he had no clue what he was doing to you—that you were going to be leaving half of your heart behind when you got on that flight in the morning.
You pulled away from him an inch, moving your hands from his back to cup his face gently. You looked into his glistening blue eyes before looking down at his lips, watching as his tongue peaked out to wet them.
“Can I kiss you?”
He leaned in slowly, brushing his lips on yours hesitantly. He sucked in a sharp breath before pressing his lips to yours firmly. You let him set the pace, letting him know he was the one in control here. His hand moved from your back to your waist, pulling you up into his chest as he deepened the kiss. A whimper caught in your throat when his tongue swept along your bottom lip, your mouth opening for him immediately. His chest rumbled with a low moan, his kisses growing more desperate. Your hand slipped from it’s place cupping his jaw, trailing along his skin before tangling in the long hair at the nape of his neck. He let out a whimper at the feeling, breaking the kiss and taking in deep breaths.
“You okay?” You asked softly.
His breathy chuckle brushed against your lips. “Yeah, more than okay.”
He kissed you again, more sure this time. Both your hands tangled in his hair, gently tugging his scalp as you kissed him with just as much desperation. His stubble scratched against your skin as he moved his lips, kissing along your jaw and making you gasp. The noise encouraged him, his kisses gaining more confidence, making their way down your neck. You titled your head back, granting him more access. He kissed and licked all over your neck, gently biting down on a spot under your ear making you release a moan. He focused on the spot, sucking and biting as you let out more moans and gasps. His hand on your waist gripped tighter, his fingers digging slightly as he pulled you flush to his body. That’s when you felt it—hard and unmistakable, pressing against your lower stomach.
You broke away from the kiss, watching his eyes flutter open to look into yours. You moved a hand from his hair, brushing your thumb against his jaw.
“Let me help you feel good.”
He swallowed audibly, his eyes leaving yours to glance at his left arm hanging stiffly at his side. You watched an internal struggle play out on his face, his darting eyes exposing his overthinking mind.
“We’ll only do what you’re comfortable with,” you said softly.
He let out a small, disbelieving chuckle before kissing you again—his mouth both achingly tender and bruisingly desperate against your own.
“Did you fall from heaven?” He whispered against your lips, walking backwards and pulling you towards the bed without breaking the kiss.
You giggled and rolled your eyes at him. “Shut up,” you mumbled.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled you onto his lap, your knees on either side of his thighs. He took his hand off of your waist and ripped the glove off with his left hand. He brought his hand up to your face, tracing your bottom lip with his thumb and gazing at you reverently. You let out a little gasp, not expecting him to initiate skin to skin contact first. He leaned in to kiss you again, hungrily claiming your mouth with his. He moved his bare hand down to your hip, slipping tentative fingers under the hem of your shirt and brushing your skin—igniting your nerves and sending shivers along your body. His hand cupped your waist under your shirt, pressing your hips down ’til they were flush with his.
He let out a wrecked moan from the contact, his hips jerking against yours involuntarily. You rolled your hips experimentally, relishing when he let out a deep groan—his body vibrating beneath yours. You rolled your hips faster, spurred on by his noises and his bulge pressing deliciously against your jeans. He broke away from your mouth, dropping his head to your shoulder.
“Shit, I’m not gonna last long if—if you keep doing that.” He sounded ruined. A needy whine tore out of you, your need for Bucky overwhelming you. You ground down on him harder, the ball of desire in your core slicking your underwear and making you greedy. He moaned out your name, clutching your hip to stop your movements. He lifted his head off your shoulder, his glazed eyes meeting your own.
“Do you have a condom?” He asked, panting already.
You jumped off his lap, opening your suitcase in a rush to find a condom. You found the open—but unused—box at the bottom, grabbing a couple before joining him on the bed again. He rolled you onto your back, hovering over you with a small smirk on his face.
“Eager, are we?”
You nodded quickly in response, grabbing his face and pulling him down into a needy kiss. He gripped the hem of your shirt and slowly pulled it up and off your body, pausing to stare at your clothed breasts. He kissed down your neck, lavishing your collarbones and chest in tender, hungry kisses.
“God, you’re a work of art.” He mumbled into your skin. Your heart swelled in response, unexpected tears pricking behind your eyes. No guy has ever said anything like that to you, it’s normally ‘you’re hot’ or they don’t compliment you at all.
“Take off your pants,” he muttered. He removed himself from your body, standing at the foot of the bed to take his own jeans off, your eyes widening at the impressive bulge in his boxers. You felt more wetness gather in your core, preparing you for what was to come.
You eagerly pushed your jeans down, kicking them off your feet. He climbed back over you, holding his body up with his left arm next to your head. His right hand trailed down your torso slowly, stopping at the wet patch of your panties. He pressed down on it, pulling a desperate whimper from you, your hips rolling up to his touch. He pulled your underwear down your legs one-handed, throwing them somewhere behind him.
He pulled his boxers down to his knees, grabbing one of the foil squares on the bed next to you and ripping it open with his teeth. He rolled the condom down his cock, gasping from the sensitivity.
He leaned down to kiss you tenderly. “Still wanna do this?” He asked breathlessly.
“Please, Bucky.” You whimpered.
With his mouth on yours, he lined himself up and pushed in slowly. You both gasped at the feeling—he was the biggest you’ve had and you couldn’t control your walls clenching down on him. A pained moan tore from his chest as you gripped him tight, your hands winding through his hair and tugging the dark strands.
He mumbled curses, taking deep breaths to calm himself. He pushed in more, and you let out a sound you’d never heard before—the stretch of him sending you to another world. He started off with slow thrusts, letting you adjust to his size.
“More,” you moaned against his mouth. He picked up the pace, hitting the spot that had your back arching and stars forming behind your eyes. You clenched down on him hard, his hips stuttering and head dropping onto your chest at the feeling.
“Christ, shit—I’m not gonna last long.” He whimpered, his thrusts starting to lose rhythm. He moved his hand to your centre, finding your throbbing bundle of nerves and rubbing firm circles. Your eyes rolled back at the feeling, the fire in your core spreading through your veins.
Bucky thrusted a few more times before coming, your name slipping from his lips in a half moan, half whimper. He continued thrusting into you, his release long and overwhelming. He doubled his efforts on your clit, sending you over the edge with a sharp gasp of his name. It wasn’t an all-consuming, white hot pleasure but it was good. Warm, like golden sun rays spreading through your body.
He laid his head on your chest, the both of you panting after your releases. You raked a hand through his hair, rubbing soothing circles on his scalp. He shuddered at the feeling, tears slipping from his eyes and wetting your chest.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“For what?”
“For making me feel human.”
You woke up before six the next morning, finding cold sheets next to you where Bucky once was. Sitting on the small kitchen table was your stolen headphones, a ripped piece of paper with chicken scratch handwriting next to them.
You were right
- Bucky
A week later you were at your parents place in Philly, sitting on the floor in their lounge sorting their stuff into boxes for donation or storage. Your mom turned the TV up louder, drawing your attention to the breaking news story. There on the screen was a video of the man officials suspected bombed the United Nations—James Buchanan Barnes, the Winter Soldier. Bucky.
Oh, shit.
Present day - Brooklyn, New York
The referee’s whistle shrieked loudly, piercing your ears and signalling the end of the soccer game. You had little time to prepare for the blur of messy dark braids and mud sprinting towards you, colliding with your legs and making you stumble back.
“I did it, mama! I didn’t let a single goal in!”
“I saw, peanut—I am so proud of you!” You squatted down and hugged your daughter tightly. “Did you have fun?”
She bounced in your arms, nodding vigorously. You pulled back, seeing the beaming grin on her face—proudly displaying the small gap in her top front teeth. She lost her first tooth the week before and she was ecstatic when the tooth fairy visited her—she tried to stay up two hours past her bedtime to ‘catch’ the tooth fairy, but fortunately for you she was out like a log long before you went to sleep.
“Can we get ice cream? Pretty please?” She asked, her blue eyes wide and bottom lip jutted out in a small pout—the puppy dog expression pulling on your heart strings.
You stood up, combing the loose strands back from her face and wiping a smudge of mud off her forehead.
“Hmm, how about we go home first and get cleaned up?” The both of you headed towards the field’s exit, waving goodbye to her teammates and their parents.
She rolled her eyes. “But home is far away, the ice cream store is closer!” Where she got her attitude from, you had no idea. Well, you did—while she was the spitting image of her father, her personality was a mirror of your own.
“You have a great point, Jamie. But—” you leaned towards her and took an audible sniff of her hair, dramatically taking a big step back and holding your nose. “—you’re stinky. We need to get you cleaned up for the public’s sake.”
She let out a high-pitched giggle, a familiar smile gracing your face at the sound. It was the most beautiful sound—your daughters joy was all that mattered to you. It meant you were doing something right.
“Okay,” she dragged out. “Does that mean I get two scoops?”
“What?! Two scoops? You won’t be able to sleep after that, bug.”
The two of you made your way down the street, walking the normal ten minute route back home. She continued to try her luck, trying to guilt trip you into giving her more sugar and you were close to breaking once—when her big eyes glistened with tears—but you held strong even when your heart tugged. God, what you would do for those baby blues.
You were halfway home when a group of men in suits stepped out of the cafe ten metres ahead of you. They were taking up the whole sidewalk, laughing obnoxiously and all exuding alpha male energy. You pulled Jamie closer to you out of instinct, your eyes scanning for an open gap in the group of men when something—someone—caught your eye.
He looked…older, more refined. His hair was slightly shorter, the once styled strands tousled—likely from him running his hands through his hair. His suit was tailored to him perfectly, the faded blue and dark grey combination making his heavy stubble stand out. He held his head high, his shoulders rolled back in a quietly domineering stance. He looked confident, comfortable even.
You stopped in your tracks, your heart beating wildly in your chest. The world around you faded, your attention focused solely on him as he shook his head with a small laugh, a faint smile curving his lips.
Bucky Barnes, in the flesh.
Shit. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Jamie’s little hand tugged on yours, confused as to why you stopped walking.
“Mama?”
You sucked in a sharp breath, reality crashing down on you—along with a bucket of anxiety and fear.
You tightened your grip on her hand, spinning the both of you around and hurrying in the direction you came from.
“What’s wrong? Where are we going?” Jamie asked in her sweet small voice.
You brushed a hand over her head, tucking loose strands behind her hair. “Nothing’s wrong, peanut. I just—you were right, it makes sense to get ice cream now!”
She instantly perked up, her little feet walking faster than you—dragging you towards the store.
“Finally! Can I get two scoops?”
You nodded in a daze, your mind racing. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you want, honey.”
Had he seen you? Had he seen Jamie?
You spent countless sleepless nights tossing and turning over the past five years, playing out millions of different scenarios. You had numerous scripts drafted in your head, what you would say to him—how you would tell him he had a child, a daughter. But seeing him a few feet away from you, alive and well—and so fucking handsome—your mind went blank.
It wasn’t the right time, you told yourself. Other people were around—you couldn’t put Jamie in that situation.
Trying to get a sugar crazed Jamie to bathe was like trying to tame a sticky-fingered tornado. She jumped over furniture, slid between your legs, and slipped through crevices like she was boneless. You were starting to regret enrolling her in taekwondo classes.
“The hell? How are you moving like that?” You flopped on the couch in defeat, the pounding in your head exacerbated from chasing her around the apartment.
You blinked and suddenly a jar was shoved in your face, half full of crumpled dollar notes, glittery pink and purple letters spelling out ‘swear jar’ on the white label.
“You said a swear word!”
You pounced on her, securing your arms around her waist and pulling her tight against you. You blew raspberries on her face and neck, holding her tighter as she squirmed.
“Let me go!” She squealed through giggles, trying to wriggle out of your arms.
“Not a chance, peanut.”
After her bedtime routine that took twice as long with the sugar in her system, you sunk into the couch with a glass of wine in one hand and your phone in the other.
Your phone shook slightly in your grip, anxiety pinching your chest. The last time you looked up Bucky on the internet was over a year ago; you found out he was saving the world alongside Captain America and had been pardoned of his crimes from when he was the Winter Soldier. It was hard to process—that the gentle man you had spent a tender night with in Bucharest, the man that was Jamie’s father, was off saving the world when the world had been anything but kind to him.
But now, you knew he was in the same city—the same borough—as you, and you couldn’t keep running from the truth.
Ever since that night you’ve felt an ache in your bones, like you had left a part of yourself behind in that shitty apartment. You missed him, but you were so confused. After the UN bombing you tried to find out everything you could about him, and when the two pink lines appeared clear as day on the pregnancy test you knew you had to tell him. But, he had disappeared—gone off the face of the earth and you had no ways to contact him. You thought he had died.
Then the blip happened. Jamie and you came back to find a world that had changed—that had forgotten about you. Your apartment in Philly had new residents, all your belongings gone—you had taken Jamie for a walk in the park and then suddenly five years had passed when you blinked. You moved to Brooklyn to live with your parents while you rebuilt your life, and keeping Jamie safe in a world that was torn apart was all that mattered. The Avengers had brought back half of the world, and that’s when you found out Bucky was alive—his face plastered on the TV screen along with dozens of other superheroes. You didn’t know how to reach out and you didn’t know if you wanted to—you and Jamie were just finding your footing and you didn’t want anything to jeopardise that. And truthfully, you were scared.
When Jamie asked about her dad you told her that you had lost contact when the blip happened, and that you were looking for him. You told her he was once in the army and fought for your country, that he took down bad guys like it was nothing. She occasionally asked, “have you found daddy yet?” and your heart broke every time you looked into her bright, hopeful eyes—the exact same shade of blue that you had fallen for over plum pie.
Taking a long swig of wine, you typed his name into google—your thumb shaking as you hit the search button.
And there he was.
Congressman James ‘Bucky’ Barnes. Representative for Brooklyn.
A memory from two weeks prior surfaced, when you were slumped over your home desk—trying not to panic over the next months budget. Jamie had begged to join a swim club, even with her already busy schedule of school, soccer, and taekwondo. You were starting to struggle on your teacher’s salary, but you couldn’t say no to her. You wanted to provide her with everything she wanted and more.
You were barely paying attention to your mom on the phone, gossiping about brunch with her book club friends earlier that day.
“You’ll never guess who we saw—that new Congressman, the handsome one. You know, I heard that he’s single…”
You sighed at her tone, knowing what she was suggesting. “Great, I’ll make sure to tell dad he’s got competition.”
“Oh, hush! That’s not what I was implying and you know it.” You dropped your head onto the desk with a groan. “It’s about time you put yourself out there, give dating a go again. You never know who you’ll meet.”
“Mom, I’m busy—“
“We’re worried about you, honey. All you do is work and take care of Jamie—who takes care of you?”
“I don’t need anyone to take care of me, thank you very much. Jamie and I are happy on our own.” You mumbled, a headache starting to pound against your temple.
There was a pause on her end, and you braced yourself for what was coming.
“…Have you—has there been any updates on Jamie’s father?”
“No—look, sorry, I’m busy with school stuff. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” You ended the call without waiting for your mom’s goodbye, guilt gripping your chest like it always does when someone brings him up.
Little did you both know, the congressman she was gushing about was Jamie’s father.
You gulped down the rest of your wine, saving the number for his office in your phone.
“What the fuck.” You muttered, your voice echoing in the quiet apartment. You had no clue what you were going to do.
Jamie’s giggles could be heard from across the grocery store, bringing an unconscious smile to your face. She was with your mom in the bakery section, giving her opinion on what her grandpa’s birthday cake should be. You could already picture the awestruck expression on her face—no doubt her nose was pressed against the glass with wide eyes taking in all the baked goods.
You were in the fruit and vegetables section, gathering ingredients for your plum pie. It had become a tradition without meaning to—baking the pie for your loved ones on special occasions, or even when they just needed comfort. It was a staple in your kitchen now, you had even altered the recipe throughout the years, truly making it your own.
In the weeks after you left Bucharest, you would find yourself making it when you missed him. When you couldn’t get to sleep at night, the sounds of his nightmares echoing in your mind, you were in the kitchen making the goddamn pie. And then when your pregnancy cravings kicked in, all you wanted was that stupid pie. And him. But you couldn’t have him, so the sugar filled pastry would have to do.
Walking through the section, you felt your phone sitting heavy in your pocket, weighed down by the numerous email drafts in your inbox and his office number in your contacts.
You were focused on selecting the right apples—Jamie was seriously picky with them—when a deep voice called out your name. A low, gravelly, familiar voice—one that you hadn’t heard in years.
You turned around and there he was, standing a few feet away, wearing a similar suit to when you saw him outside the cafe. His hair was just as messy, dark strands swooping on his cheeks, making his blue eyes look even more electric, intense. You watched as they widened in surprise, an awed smile overtaking his face. He took a small step towards you and you resisted the urge to take one back, your brain struggling to comprehend that Bucky was right in front of you.
“It really is you.” He spoke softly, dazed.
You blinked.
This wasn’t how this was supposed to happen. You were meant to meet at a cafe, or a park—a safe, common ground. Not at your local grocery store after five pm on a Friday, your hair frizzy from a long day at work and running around after your daughter.
“Bucky, hi,” you mumbled, still in shock.
“You—you look great, beautiful.” He shook his head as if in disbelief, his eyes trailing up and down your figure.
Your nerves lit up in response, your body begging you to step closer—to close the gap between you and the man you had spent the past five years yearning for.
“How are you? Are you still teaching?” Your breath caught in your throat—he remembered. He remembered you, and he remembered the brief conversation you’d had about teaching during your gap year.
Then, as if fate had orchestrated this whole interaction, your daughter came skipping over, a big giddy grin on her face.
“Look, mama! Nana said I could get Pop the Captain America cake for his birthday!”
Bucky watched closely as Jamie crashed into your legs, your hand instinctively rubbing her back in soothing circles—more for you than her. You watched his eyes drift over her, starting at her messy dark braids, then taking in her taekwondo uniform, finally ending on her crocs—covered in princess and Captain America charms.
She peered into the basket in your hands. “Oooh! Are you making plum pie tonight?!” You think the whole store heard her yell.
Bucky’s eyes shot up to yours, a stunned and confused expression on his face. He looked speechless.
Jamie turned around, finally noticing the other adult in front of her. You watched the infectious grin take over her face, proudly showing off her missing tooth. She waved to Bucky. “Hi!”
You had taught her the importance of stranger danger—well, as much as you could teach a five year old—but her kindness was built into her DNA, she couldn’t help smiling at and greeting every stranger she met.
Bucky was still speechless, his wide eyes looking into your daughters—seeing the same blue you imagined he saw in the mirror. He let out a stunned breath, his body swaying slightly like the rug had been pulled out from under him—because it had. You knew he knew.
“Sorry, hun. I don’t know what you feed her, but I’ve never seen a kid run that fast.” Your mom panted as she joined the accidental family reunion, the Captain America cake in her hands. She looked at the man in front of you, doing a visual double take as she recognised him.
“Oh! Congressman Barnes, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” She stuck her hand out to Bucky, shooting you a side-eye that screamed “what the fuck aren’t you telling me.” Bucky shook her hand absentmindedly, his eyes not leaving Jamie for a split second.
You were stood frozen, unable to think. Both your mom’s and Jamie’s eyes were watching you curiously. Why weren’t you saying anything?
Bucky finally looked away from Jamie, his confused yet hopeful eyes meeting your panicked ones. He opened and closed his mouth a couple times, at a loss for words. He licked them nervously then tried again.
“…Is she—“
His voice brought you back to earth, back to your body.
“It was really great seeing you, Bucky—I hope you’re well! We’re running late—like super late, so we need to get going.” You grabbed one of Jamie’s hands tightly, using it to pull her with you and to ground yourself. Your mom hesitantly followed, her eyes darting between you and Bucky—suspicion written clearly on her face. “We’ll—I’ll see you later!” You said to him over your shoulder, scurrying towards the checkout as fast as you could.
Your hands shook as you bagged your groceries, barely noticing that you had only gotten half of what was on your list. You took in a deep lungful of air once the three of you were outside.
Your mom called your name softly yet sternly. “What was that in there? How do you know—did you call him Bucky?”
You sighed, exasperated. “Mom, it’s nothing—“
“No, that was not nothing! You’re acting strange—what’s going on?”
“Please, just drop it!” You nodded towards Jamie next to you, completely oblivious to your inner turmoil. “We’ll talk about it later, promise.”
She narrowed her eyes at you but ultimately let it go.
The next morning you were rushing around the lounge, struggling to get Jamie into her soccer kit as she zoomed through the apartment.
“Jesus—just sit still, peanut. Don’t you wanna go play with your friends?” She nodded eagerly, stopping her mad dash around the place so you could get her shirt on. She didn’t stay still for long though, running back into her room with one sock on. “How do you always have so much energy?” You muttered to yourself.
Three heavy raps sounded against your front door. You knew who it was immediately—who else would be knocking at your door before nine am on a Saturday.
Your heartbeat hammered in your throat as you walked to the door slowly, trying to delay the inevitable. You took a deep breath in and grasped the doorknob, stopping for a second to collect yourself.
You opened the door and were greeted by the sight of Bucky, looking devastatingly handsome in a blue t-shirt and black leather jacket. It should be criminal to look that good so early in the morning. His eyes met yours and you could see the emotion swirling in them—hope, determination, and something that looked too close to hurt for your liking. Shit.
You opened your mouth to speak but he beat you to it.
“We need to talk.”
“Bucky, hi—how do you know where I live?”
“I have my ways.”
He looked over your shoulder, straining his neck to see into your apartment behind you.
“Look, I agree we need to talk—“
“Why did you run off?”
And yup, there it was—the hurt crystal clear in his voice.
You closed your eyes briefly, the familiar clench of guilt overwhelming your chest.
“I—it wasn’t my intention to…run off, I just—“ You stopped, suddenly at a loss for words. He looked at you expectantly, the exhaustion from a sleepless night evident on his face.
“You what? Were you ever gonna tell me?”
The accusation in his tone slapped you across the face.
“Bucky, that’s not fair—you don’t even know—“
And, like usual, your daughters timing was impeccable.
“We’re gonna be late!” She barrelled towards you, knocking you off balance as she slammed into the backs of your legs.
Bucky instinctively grabbed your upper arms, holding you steady as you regained your balance. Your nerves buzzed alive under his hands and you couldn’t help but notice—no gloves, he wasn’t wearing gloves anymore.
He stepped back from you just as quick, and your body felt the loss of his touch immediately. Goddamn traitor.
He squatted down to Jamie’s level, smiling at her with the softest look you’ve ever seen on the man.
“Hi, I’m Bucky.”
You were suddenly annoyed with him. Coming to talk to you unannounced was one thing, but introducing himself to your daughter when you hadn’t had a chance to place boundaries—yeah, that pissed you off.
“Hi, I’m Jamie!”
The look he shot you had some of your anger dulling, the guilt you were so familiar with clouding over. You both knew the name Jamie was no mistake, and the flurry of emotions that crossed his face showed what the name meant to him.
“Jamie?” His voice wavered. “That’s a great name.”
She beamed brightly at him and you felt the world shift beneath the three of you. There was no going back now.
“Are you coming to my soccer game?”
That shocked both of you.
“Only if your mom wants me there.” And then two pairs of blue eyes are staring at you—one pleading, the other just waiting, letting you know the ball is in your court. And it’s not fair.
“Jamie, we need to talk about you inviting strangers out with us.” Bucky visibly flinched at the word ‘strangers’—it hit like a punch to your gut. “But, sure. Bucky can come with us.”
The ten minute walk to the soccer field was…nice. Bucky fit in like the missing puzzle piece, and it was doing complicated things to your heart. To be fair, Jamie talked the whole time. She was excited to tell someone new all her stories from school, yapping his ear off about everything she could think of. And Bucky was lapping it up. He had a soft smile permanently plastered on his face, his eyes on Jamie the whole time. From the second you stepped outside of your building, he positioned himself to be on the car side of the street, angling his body to protect Jamie—making your heart flip in your chest even more, and waking up something dangerous in your core.
There was no missing the looks sent your way from the other parents when you arrived—especially the looks your fellow soccer moms shot Bucky. Great, the last thing you wanted was Jamie to be stuck in the middle of their rumour mill.
Jamie sprinted towards her friends already warming up for their game, leaving you and Bucky alone for the first time. You drifted towards the other side of the field, putting distance between you and the gossip hungry parents. No one else needed to be privy of your conversation.
The air around you and Bucky grew heavy, neither of you speaking for a few minutes as you watched Jamie hug her friend after they fell, asking if they were okay. An overwhelming sense of pride took over you, tears warming your eyes at the sight of your daughter being so kind, so caring.
Bucky cleared his throat softly.
“She’s…happy,” he said wistfully.
“Yeah,” you mumbled softly. “Means I’m doing something right.”
He looked at you then, his eyes scanning your face as you kept your attention trained on Jamie. You couldn’t look at him. The exhaustion from the last few years was weighing heavily on you, and you knew one glance at Bucky would have you breaking.
He turned back, watching Jamie put her oversized goalie gloves on, chuckling softly as they dwarfed her hands.
“She looks like my sister.”
That had you looking away from your daughter, focusing on the man next to you offering more information about himself. You didn’t know he had a sister.
“Becca was full of energy at that age, too. We both were,” he shook his head with a small laugh. “Ma used to say our house was tornado central with all the damage we caused.”
You let out an amused huff. “I figured she got her energy from you—I was more on the reserved side as a kid. She’s now in three different after school sports activities, but I think they just make her more energised.”
He made eye contact with you briefly. “Three, huh? That’s…a lot.”
You both grew silent again, watching Jamie dive for a ball and successfully defending the goal.
Bucky let out a heavy sigh, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets.
“Were you gonna tell me?” He asked again, no accusation in his voice this time—a pensive sadness in its place. It only made you feel worse, the tears from earlier blurring your eyes.
“Bucky, I—“ you took in a deep breath, trying to control your emotions. “I was planning to, I swear.” You kept your eyes on Jamie, her smile bringing you some comfort.
“When I found out I was pregnant, I tried looking for you—I really tried. But, you just vanished…I thought you were dead.”
He sucked in a sharp breath at that, looking down at the ground.
“I didn’t want to go through the pregnancy alone, I was fucking terrified. Then, Jamie was born and she became my whole world—I would do anything for her.” Your throat grew tight and a single tear slid down your cheek.
“After the blip, I could only focus on her, on building a better life for her. And then I found out you were alive, that you had helped save the world, and I was…scared. I didn’t know what I was doing half the time, and Jamie’s father—you—being a superhero, putting your life in danger…it was a risk I didn’t want to take. I didn’t want you in our lives if you were just going to be…ripped away from us. It would break Jamie—it would break me.”
Your voice cracked and Bucky lifted his head, looking at you with concern. You brushed the tears off your cheeks and continued.
“Plus, I don’t know if you know this, but getting in contact with the Avengers when you’re a civilian…it’s pretty fucking hard.”
He let out a small laugh, nodding his head. “Yeah, that tracks.”
“I thought about reaching out last year, when I saw you were fighting alongside Captain America—who Jamie is obsessed with, by the way—but I just couldn’t get past that fear. It was easier to…live without you than potentially have you torn from us. Well, that’s what I tried to tell myself.”
You both watched as Jamie hit the ground, hard. Bucky stepped forward instinctively, like he was about to run to her side. She recovered quickly, jumping back up with a giggle.
“She’s tough,” he mumbled with a small smile.
He turned to you, determination and longing shining in his eyes.
“I get that. I get why you didn’t reach out, you were putting Jamie’s safety, her happiness, first.” He let out a humourless chuckle, “it’s a fucking complicated position to be in, I’ll give you that.”
“I want to be in her life, in your life—if you’ll have me.”
You looked back at Jamie in time to see her waving at you, at both of you.
“Yeah,” you muttered softly. “I don’t think she would let you leave, even if you tried.”
“Good.”
You both settled in to a comfortable silence, before you couldn’t resist asking what you’ve wanted to know for the last five years.
“Where were you—“
“What does she know—“
You both laughed softly. You tipped your head towards him. “You go first.”
“What does she know…about me?”
Yeah, you were expecting that.
“I told her you were in the army, that you fought bad guys…that we lost contact after the blip. She asks for updates, wanting to know where her daddy is.”
His brows pinched, his mouth trembling slightly like he was holding back tears. He cleared his throat twice.
“How do we tell her?”
There it was, the question you had been dreading—because you had no fucking clue.
“…I don’t know—hope she figures it out herself?”
The look he shot you was deadly.
You sighed. “Fine, I’ll sit her down one night, tell her gently.”
“I want to be there.”
Of course he does. Of course he just walks back into your life and wants to be involved in everything. Half of you is fucking thrilled he’s here and wanting to be part of your lives, but the other half is terrified he’ll think it’s too much and leave you both—or worse, die and leave you broken.
His eyes watched you carefully and you knew he could sense your internal battle.
“I’m not going to leave, I promise.”
And, because it was the reason you suffered many restless nights, you couldn’t stop yourself from asking.
“What happened to you? After Bucharest?”
He closed his eyes briefly, letting out a breath.
“I was in Wakanda. I…couldn’t trust my mind, and they helped me. Brought me a bit of peace.”
You could see it, how different he was to the man who once lived across from you. He was still gentle, soft, but more sure of himself—more confident in who he was. He no longer walked around like he was ashamed to be alive.
“And now…you’re a Congressman? I’ll admit I’m a little shocked, it’s quite the difference to the guy who could barely make eye contact with me.” You teased lightly.
He scoffed, shaking his head with a small smirk.
“Trust me, speaking in front of Congress is much easier than talking to the pretty girl across the hall.”
Your body flushed with warmth. Was he seriously flirting with you?
You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to keep your emotions in check. You were not going to crumble for him that quickly.
“We need to set ground rules, if we want this to work. For Jamie’s sake.”
He nodded solemnly, catching the seriousness in your tone.
“No showing up unannounced—we have a routine, and Jamie can get easily distracted.”
“Noted.”
“Communication is important, okay? Let me know if you want to see her, or if you have to cancel last minute. We have to be honest with each other—you need to tell me if it’s too much. If we’re too much.”
“Not gonna happen,” Bucky muttered.
“And absolutely no funny business—I’m serious, Bucky. I’m not jeopardising her relationship with you because we couldn’t keep it in our pants.”
A muscle in his jaw jumped, but he nodded regardless.
“Whatever you say, doll.”
You glared at him when he said ‘doll’—that was not helping.
“Should I come ‘round tonight to tell her? I can bring dinner.” Bucky was rocking back and forth on his feet, barely containing his eagerness. You bit your lip to suppress a smile.
“No, not tonight. She has a playdate this afternoon and she’s always a nightmare to calm down afterwards.”
“Tomorrow, then?”
You rolled your eyes, the smile breaking out across your face.
“Fine.”
“…Any chance you can make that plum pie?”
Jamie was lying on the couch, her head hanging off the side when Bucky knocked on the door the next evening. You had told her earlier that he was coming around for dinner and she had barely sat still since. It was a pain in the ass, if you were being honest. She clung to your torso like a koala as you tried to vacuum the apartment, making the chore take twice as long. Her crayons and toys covered the dining table—you had already put them back in her room three times that afternoon but she kept on bringing them back out. And there was a purple stain on her chin—which you were fairly certain was a bit of plum pie mixture she had swiped when you turned your back.
“I’ll get the door!” She all but screamed as she ran towards it.
“I hope you like burgers,” came Bucky’s deep voice from behind you. You turned to find Jamie giving him a tour of the apartment, starting with the small kitchen you were standing in.
She gasped, delighted. “They’re my favourite!”
“Thank you,” you said, taking the bags from his hands and putting them on the counter.
“Of course,” Bucky replied, his eyes traveling down your body before meeting your eyes. You tried to not let that affect you, busying yourself with gathering plates and napkins.
“Peanut, can you please grab your stuff off the table?” You asked Jamie. “Don’t forget to wash your hands, too.”
Jamie grumbled her objections but did as you asked, huffing as she gathered her mess of toys.
You turned to Bucky. “Sorry for the mess, I cleaned earlier but…”
Bucky nodded, a small smile on his face. “Tornado central.”
You grinned at him. “Exactly.”
Jamie ran back to the kitchen, grabbing Bucky’s hand and pulling him towards the lounge. “C’mon, I’ll give you the tour.” She was no match for his super soldier strength yet he let her drag him around with no complaint.
You put the finishing touches on the plum pie, sticking it in the oven before setting the dining table for dinner—all while listening to Jamie show Bucky your quaint apartment.
“And finally, this is mommy’s room—“
“Peanut, I don’t think he needs to see that.” You raised your voice slightly, rushing down the hallway to see them already in your doorway. You did not need Bucky in your room—that would just open pandora’s box and you were not prepared to deal with that.
“Your mom’s right, I don’t need to see her room,” Bucky said, though the small smirk on his face said something else entirely. You really hoped he didn’t catch the bra hanging from the laundry basket.
“Let’s eat before it get’s cold, yeah?” Jamie didn’t need to be told twice, forgetting her tour and sprinting down the hallway.
You and Bucky followed behind her, and he was an inch too close for your liking.
“Red, huh?” He muttered lowly. Your body went hot—he definitely saw the bra.
The burgers were good, like really good, and you weren’t afraid to tell him.
“Where did you get these? I think they’re the best I’ve had in Brooklyn—wait, no, in the city.” You practically moaned.
Bucky’s smirk was bright and smug. “It’s a small hole-in-the-wall near my office. I can take you there sometime.”
Jamie was bouncing in her chair, happily nibbling away at her food—unaware that her life was about to change in a second. You made eye contact with Bucky, both your faces falling serious. It was time.
“Hey, Jamie? There’s something I—we—need to talk to you about.” You spoke to her gently, putting your burger down and wiping your hands. Her bright eyes met yours and you knew you had her attention.
“You know how I said I was looking for your dad?” She nodded eagerly, her eyes briefly flicking to Bucky. She was a smart kid, you could practically see the gears in her brain turning.
“Well, I—uh,” you stuttered. Now that you were here, your mind had gone blank. How the hell do you tell your daughter her dad is sitting right next to her?
Bucky placed a hand on yours, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. He shot you a look saying “I’ve got this” before turning to Jamie fully.
He sucked in a breath. “I’m…I’m your dad, Jamie. And I would love to be in your life, if you’re okay with that.”
Bucky had barely finished his sentence before Jamie lunged, wrapping her little arms tight around his neck—no doubt smearing sauce on his shirt and hair.
He was taken aback for a quick second before returning her hug, his hands gently cradling her back. And that’s when you noticed it—his arm, the left one. You had seen it in pictures, on TV, but never in the flesh. His vibranium thumb was rubbing soft circles on her back, soothing her as sobs wracked through her—her little frame overcome with emotion. A tear slipped down your cheek as you watched them—overwhelmed with guilt from keeping them apart for so long, and something else warm blooming in your chest.
Bucky pressed a kiss to her head, closing his eyes tightly like he was fighting back tears. He pulled back slightly, his hands moving to brush away the tears on Jamie’s cheeks.
“Does this mean you’re moving in?” Jamie asked sweetly.
He let out a watery chuckle. “No, no I’ll be staying at my place. It’s not far from here.” His eyes shot up to yours quickly before continuing. “But, I’ll come ‘round as much as I can. And, I’ll be at all your soccer games—promise.”
By this point she had fully crawled onto his lap, bouncing happily in his arms. “What about taekwondo and swimming? Will you be there?”
“If I don’t have to be away for work.”
She pouted at him, opening her mouth to argue when the oven’s timer went off. She jumped off his lap, running the short distance to the kitchen. “Plum pie!” She squealed, excited.
You put a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Thank you,” you whispered. He looked at you with glassy eyes that you were sure mirrored your own.
“Get the pie, I’ll clean this up.” He nodded towards the mess of burgers and napkins.
You shooed Jamie away from the oven and she climbed back onto Bucky’s lap—natural, like it was where she belonged. You put your hands on the counter, dipping your head down and taking a few breaths. This was going better than you imagined, but it was also dangerously twisting your heart.
“You’ve got no idea how much I missed this,” Bucky muttered, looking at the pie in your hands. His eyes dragged up your body, meeting your own with a darkened gaze—it was obvious he was not just talking about the pie.
Your hands shook imperceptibly as you plated up three slices. Bucky was the first to dive in, letting out a low moan as he tasted the pie for the first time in five years. Jamie giggled at him from her place in his lap.
And you? You were frozen in your chair, a warmth spreading in your core from his moan. It was fucking sinful, and he had no right to make a noise like that at your dining table—even if it was him showing his appreciation for your baking. It felt like it was more than that.
You were in the kitchen cleaning up while Jamie had convinced Bucky to sit on the lounge floor with her, showing him her favourite toys. You looked over your shoulder, catching her holding his vibranium arm in her little hands—gazing at it in wonder.
Then you watched the realisation hit her.
“…You know Captain America.” It wasn’t a question.
“Sam? Yeah, I know him.”
And then she was shrieking, hugging the arm tightly.
“Can I meet him? Please, please, pretty please?!”
Bucky laughed loudly at her excitement. “Yeah, princess. I’ll see what I can do.”
You watched as he stood up slowly with Jamie hanging from his arm. She swung on it, giggling nonstop. A smile spread across your face, despite the way your ovaries were screaming at the sight. The ‘no funny business’ boundary you set was looking a lot less appealing now, and it had barely been twenty-four hours.
The three of you were stood at your front door, Jamie clinging onto Bucky’s leg like her life depended on it. You and Bucky had your phones out, syncing your calendars so you were aware of each others schedules, routines.
“You weren’t joking,” Bucky muttered, looking at the colour coded schedule you had for all of Jamie’s activities. You rolled your eyes—you took your schedule very seriously, there was no joking when it came to having your daughter’s life prepared.
Bucky squatted down, pulling Jamie into a hug. “I’ve gotta go now, angel. You be good for your mom.” He tried to pull back but she held on tighter, her little fists clenching his jacket.
“No,” she whined. “Please don’t go.”
“The sugar crash, right on schedule.” You mumbled, gently prying her hands off of him. She let out a cry as you gathered her in your arms, her little hands reaching for Bucky. “I’m sorry,” you whispered to him. He gave you a small smile and shake of his head, stepping forward to kiss Jamie’s forehead.
You were exhausted by the time you tucked Jamie into bed. She cried for half an hour after Bucky left, and it fucking broke your heart. You weren’t expecting her to get attached to him so quickly, but that was your daughter—she loved with her whole heart. And you couldn’t blame her, you felt like crying after he left too. All your feelings for him came rushing back as you watched him with your daughter—his daughter.
This was not going to be easy on your heart.
A few weeks passed and everything felt so right. Bucky kept true to his promise—he didn’t miss a single one of her games and came to her taekwondo and swimming classes when he wasn’t needed at the Capitol. He spoiled her with gifts—even when you told him not to—and he had started spoiling you too. You tried to brush him off with an eye roll every time, but the flush on your cheeks gave you away.
First, it was a nice bottle of wine, one you would never buy for yourself. Next, a box of expensive chocolates he had been “gifted” and didn’t want—you called bullshit. Then, it was a massage voucher—when you tried to refuse it, he promptly said “it’s either this or I give you one myself, doll” and you snatched it out of his hands before he could see the deep red crawling up your neck. The more he did for you and Jamie, the harder it was for you to ignore the way your heart tugged towards him—the way your body lit up every time he threw you that secret smirk. You were growing more frustrated each day and it was starting to show.
You were sitting in the break room at work, half paying attention to the geography teacher who was gossiping about one of her sophomore classes—apparently two of her students had a cute back and forth and she was coming up with a plan to push them together.
She called your name, looking at you expectantly.
“Huh? Sorry, bit out of it today,” you muttered, your cheeks growing warm.
“I was talking about Sophie and Ben—they’re in your third period English class, right? Don’t you think they would be cute together?” She all but squealed.
You let out a small laugh. “Yeah, I’ve noticed them. I don’t know if we should be meddling in our students relationships, though. Besides, it’d just make me feel depressed about my lacking love life…” You trailed off, your mind already wandering to Bucky and the look on his face when Jamie called him ‘daddy’ the night before.
Your colleague dropped into the chair next to you, chin in her hand as she peered at you in interest. “Oh? Are you looking to date?” You were about to shake your head, but she continued. “My cousin just moved here and I think you would be perfect for each other! You’re definitely his type.”
You rolled your eyes, the last thing you wanted was to be set up on a blind date. “No, I’m not dating. It’s fine, really—“
But she was already grabbing your unlocked phone, pulling up your calendar and looking for a free slot. She found one—next Saturday, when Jamie would be staying the night at Bucky’s for the first time. She typed on your phone, setting up an appointment for eight pm—“Date with Michael!”
“I’ll text you his details!”
There was no way in hell you were going to text him to arrange a date. You already had a date scheduled that night—your bath, a bottle of red Bucky had given you, and the toy you hadn’t unboxed yet.
Later that night, Bucky was in your kitchen drying dishes slowly, a faraway look on his face. You had just tucked Jamie in for the night, and he didn’t notice when you returned to the kitchen.
“Hey,” you started. “You okay?”
“Who’s Michael?” He asked gruffly, his eyes boring into yours.
You furrowed your brows at him, very confused. “Michael? I don’t know a Michael.”
He pulled his phone out of his pocket, turning the screen to show you an appointment in your synced calendar—the appointment you had forgotten to delete.
You let out a breathy chuckle, rolling your eyes. “Oh, that. My coworker was trying to set me up with her cousin, she put that in my calendar.” You shrugged.
“And you didn’t think to tell me?” He looked pissed.
“Tell you what, Bucky? I’m not going.”
“I think I have a right to know if you’re dating, doll.” He crossed his arms over his chest, glaring down at you. Fuck, he looked hot.
“I’m not dating, Buck.” He leaned against the counter behind him, still staring at you intensely.
“But, you would tell me if you were?” You were starting to get aggravated, this felt like an interrogation.
“What does it matter to you?” You said, voice louder than intended.
“We have a child together. I should know if you’re bringing random guys home.”
Now you were mad. He made it sound like you were out hooking up with any guy that showed you attention.
You stepped towards him, pressing a finger into his ridiculously sturdy chest. “For your information,” you seethed, glaring into his darkened eyes. “I haven’t slept with anyone since Bucharest. Don’t you dare imply I’m hooking up with randoms.”
You watched as his pupils dilated, his eyes turning almost black. His vibranium arm whirred as he clenched the counter behind him.
“You haven’t been with anyone else?” He asked, voice dangerously low.
You hadn’t meant to let that slip, to tell him that he was the last guy you slept with.
You took a step back, dropping your hand and putting much needed space between you two. When did it get so hot in here?
“It’s a bit hard to find time for yourself when you’re raising a kid solo.” You were sick of the focus being on your nonexistent sex life.
“What about you, Bucky? Now that Jamie is going to be staying at yours, I have a right to know who you’re dating.” You were only asking for Jamie’s sake. It had nothing to do with the twisting in your gut at the thought of Bucky with anyone else.
He stepped forward, crowding you against the counter behind you. His eyes did a slow drag up your body, lingering on your lips for a few seconds.
“I’ve got all I need right in front of me.”
Goosebumps erupted across your skin, your breath hitching. This was not the Bucky you knew in Bucharest, he was never this forward.
“No funny business,” you whispered, though there was no heat to it.
“It’s not funny business, it’s the truth. Thought you wanted me to be honest, doll.”
You glared at him. How dare he use your words against you.
You pushed at his chest and he took a step back, giving you some much needed breathing room.
You went back to cleaning up the kitchen, Bucky falling in step beside you after a minute.
There was a buzz in the air between you and Bucky, your body hyperaware every time he shifted next to you—slowly closing the gap.
“Do you have photos?” Bucky suddenly asked.
“Photos of what?”
“When you were pregnant.”
You whipped your head to him, staring at him with wide eyes.
“What? Why…why are you asking me that?”
He shrugged like it was a normal thing to ask someone.
“I want to see.”
“Bucky, I’ve already sent you photos of when Jamie was a baby.”
“I’m not asking for those.”
You shook your head at him. “You’re weird, you know that?” He just stared at you blankly. “Fine, whatever. I’ll send you some later.”
The side of his mouth twitched, a faint smirk ghosting his lips.
“Good girl.”
Every time Bucky looked at you all you could think about was those two stupid words. On their own they’re completely acceptable, harmless. Put them together and they’re a totally normal praise to say to a child. But when he said them to you in that low voice? There was nothing harmless or normal about your body’s reaction.
And you knew he knew what he was doing to you. There was nothing subtle about the way his eyes raked over you, and the gifts he kept on getting you? They were not for the sake of co-parenting or whatever bullshit half-excuse he used.
The bouquet of flowers he turned up with the other night? “Something nice for you and Jamie to look at.”
The gift voucher for your favourite clothing store? “Can’t have the mother of my child wearing old clothes.” That was a bullshit excuse and you both knew it.
“You use that massage voucher, doll?” He asked when he came to pick up Jamie for their first sleepover.
You woke up feeling hot and flustered, with a notification on your phone telling you that you were ovulating. The heat lingered all day, your clothes irritating your skin every time you breathed. Now Bucky was standing in front of you with that half-smirk, asking about whether you used his gift, and it was not fucking helping.
“You look…tense, it might help.” He stepped closer, your back pressing against the doorframe.
“Gotta make sure you take care of yourself, sweetheart.”
Oh. That was new. He hadn’t called you that before.
He raised his vibranium hand slowly, running a cold fingertip along the heat blooming on your neck. “Got any plans tonight?”
You shuddered at the feeling, your brain going blank as the dull ache in your core amplified.
“…What are you doing?” You asked, voice barely a whisper.
“Jus’ making sure Jamie’s mom is looking after herself, taking care of her needs.”
Jamie came running from her room, her backpack unzipped and overflowing—even though you had already packed it and double-checked it had everything she needed.
Bucky took a step back, clearing his throat before turning and catching Jamie with ease. Your ovaries started a war inside you, your core cramping with need watching Bucky interact with your daughter.
“Bye Mama!” Jamie kissed your forehead, her spot in Bucky’s arms making her taller than you.
“Have a good night, sweetheart.” Bucky mumbled with a wink, grinning at your cheeks flushing even more red.
Bucky brought Jamie back early the next evening, her body slumped in his arms with little snores escaping her.
“How the hell did you get her to sleep?” You whispered, astonished that she was passed out so early.
He shrugged like it was nothing. “We did some soccer drills at the park, I let her try out some taekwondo moves on me. Helps that the serum gives me a high stamina.”
He walked Jamie to her room, tucking her into bed like it was second nature. He came back to the lounge to find you stood frozen, your mind still reeling over high stamina.
Blame it on your smart mouth, or on your ovulation obliterating your filter, but you opened your mouth without thinking.
“High stamina? Where was that in Bucharest?”
Your wide eyes gave you away—you had clearly not meant to say that. You weren’t disappointed with the sex you and Bucky had, god no, but you wouldn’t say it was a good example of super soldier stamina.
A devilish smirk spread across his face, stalking towards you like he was a predator and you were his prey.
“Cut a guy some slack, doll. You were the first woman I’d touched since the 1940s. I’m surprised I lasted as long as I did.”
He was right in front of you now, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear—his hungry eyes latched on your lips.
“You want a redo? Want me to show you how long I can really go for?”
Your pulse jumped in your neck, a breath getting lodged in your throat, the ache from the day before hitting your core at full force.
“…Bucky, we—we said no funny business.”
His hand moved to your chin, gripping it gently and tilting your head up. There was a fire blazing in his eyes as he stared into your soul.
“No, you said that.” His vibranium hand rested lightly against your hip, testing. You gasped at the cold seeping through your clothes, relieving some of the heat and making your core clench with need at the same time.
He dropped his head, brushing his nose against yours.
“Did you take care of yourself last night, sweetheart?” His voice was low, husky.
Your body flushed even hotter. His proximity had your brain short-circuiting and butterflies raging in your stomach, the smell of his aftershave and something uniquely him overwhelming your senses with every shuddering breath you took.
“I asked you a question,” he gripped your chin tighter, his tone bordering on demanding.
“I…had a bath, drank some wine…” the vibranium hand on your hip slipped higher, cupping your waist and pulling you closer. A tiny gasp got caught in your throat.
“Did you touch yourself?” His nose brushed across your cheek, his mouth dangerously close to your ear.
“You—you can’t ask me that, Bucky.” Your voice shook. Your hand clutched his shoulder, the vibranium cold against your palm even through his shirt. The ground beneath you felt unsteady, your body swaying towards him for support.
“Sure I can, your wellbeing is important to me. Answer the question.” The hand on your chin moved, a calloused thumb brushing your bottom lip.
The touch had your mind blanking, tingles erupting beneath his thumb and travelling through your body, gathering in the pit of your belly. Your head felt fuzzy and the world narrowed to him, only him.
“Yes,” you whispered.
He hummed, satisfied.
“Good girl.”
Your thighs clenched at the praise, the warmth in your core begging for relief. You watched his tongue swipe along his bottom lip, leaving them glistening and looking so fucking tempting.
“It wasn’t enough though, was it?” He walked you backwards slowly, a small gasp escaping you as your back hit the wall. “No, I think you need more.”
His head dropped to the crook of your neck, his stubble scratching your sensitive skin. You sucked in a breath, resisting the urge to moan. It had been so long since someone had touched you—since Bucky touched you—and the need pulsing through you was making you delirious.
Both Bucky’s hands dropped to your hips, squeezing tight as he stepped closer. One of his thighs slotted between your legs, the pressure against your core making you whimper.
“You need to be more careful about what you put in your calendar, doll.”
You struggled to understand what he was saying, too overwhelmed by his closeness and the dizziness it was causing.
He pressed a faint kiss to your throat, right where your pulse was beating wildly. He chuckled lowly, the sound vibrating against your skin.
“God, I’ve been hard ever since I saw that notification yesterday.”
That had you reeling, a fraction of reality slipping through the haze. What was he talking about?
You found your voice, although meek and small. “What notification?”
His vibranium hand slipped from your waist to your back, pulling you into him until your back arched, your core shifting against his thigh. The slight friction made your body thrum, your hips instinctively rolling to chase the feeling.
“The one letting you—me—know that you’re ovulating.”
You gasped, horror running through your body. You didn’t even think about how your tracking app was linked to your calendar.
“I can smell it, sweetheart. How fucking needy you are.” His words had the horror dissolving into liquid honey, the need he was talking about dripping from your core.
His right hand gripped your hip tighter, his fingers digging in as he moved your hips, dragging you back and forth on his jean-clad thigh.
“I wanna take care of you. Let me make you feel good.” He whispered, his mouth hot against your ear.
Any worries you had about crossing boundaries, about ruining Jamie’s relationship with her father disappeared, replaced by a blazing fire.
“Please,” you whispered desperately.
Bucky didn’t waste a second, his lips finding yours in a bruising kiss. His hands pulled you tighter against him, your hips flush with his. Your hands found their place in his hair, tugging the soft strands and making him moan into your mouth.
His tongue slipped past your lips with no resistance, meeting yours in a battle for dominance that you had no intention of winning. He bit your bottom lip, tugging it as he pulled back. He dropped his forehead to yours, both of you panting heavily from the kiss.
“You’ve got no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he murmured, pressing small kisses to your lips like he couldn’t help himself.
You whined when he stepped back, missing his warmth and the friction between your legs.
“Patience, doll.”
And then he was dropping to his knees in front of you, his hands sliding up the sides of your thighs and gripping the waistband of your leggings, pulling them down torturously slow. He groaned low at the sight of your panties, the dark wet patch exposing your need for him.
He pressed a quick kiss to the patch, making your head hit the wall with a thud. He chuckled at you, his eyes filled with a possessive hunger.
“So responsive.”
He placed one of you thighs over his shoulder, peppering your inner knee and thigh with soft kisses. He stopped at your mid thigh, turning his head to lavish your other leg with the same attention. Your breathing grew heavy at the teasing, the need in your core growing unbearable the more he avoided where you needed him most.
“Bucky, please, stop teasing,” you whined, your voice echoing in the apartment.
He chuckled darkly, looking up at you like you were a feast he couldn’t wait to devour.
“Gotta be quiet, doll. Don’t wanna wake Jamie up now, do you?” His tone was mocking and you wanted to slap the smirk off his face.
He relented his teasing, rising to his full height and gripping your hips. His mouth found yours again, softer this time but still just as hungry. Your arms wound around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer as you tried to grind your core against the bulge in his jeans. He let out a small broken moan, leaving your lips to kiss along your jaw and neck.
“Jump,” he muttered into your neck. You did as he said, your legs wrapping around his waist as he hoisted you up in his arms like you weighed nothing. His hands grasped your ass, rolling your hips against him harder. He spun you around, walking towards your room with his face still buried in your neck, biting and tugging your sensitive skin.
He closed the door behind him softly, dropping you gently onto your bed. He stood at the end, quiet as his eyes raked over your half-dressed body. He grabbed your ankles and pulled you to the edge of the bed. He dipped down to kiss you passionately.
His hands grasped the hem of your top, dragging it up your body and over your head. He stopped momentarily, staring at your naked breasts in awe.
“I didn’t worship you like you deserved, sweetheart. I’m not making that mistake again.”
Then he dropped his head, kissing a path down your neck and across your collarbones. He ran his tongue along your skin, biting the soft swell of your breast gently, avoiding your nipple. Your hips bucked under him, desperate for more. His hands tightened on your hips, pushing them into the bed to stop your squirming. He finally took your nipple into his mouth, sucking gently and grazing his teeth against it. You let out a sharp gasp, your hands clutching his shoulders. His flesh hand came up to palm your neglected breast, pulling and twisting the nipple between his fingers, eliciting more debauched gasps from your lips.
“So fucking pretty,” he mumbled, switching his mouth to the other breast to give it the same attention. His vibranium arm whirred as your hips tried to buck more, holding you down with ease.
His flesh hand stayed palming your breasts as his mouth descended, his stubble scratching the soft skin of your stomach. He stopped, pulling back slightly as his eyes focused intently on your skin—more specifically, on the stretch marks covering your lower belly.
He let out a low moan, pressing his forehead against your stomach like he was collecting himself. His hand on your breast trailed down, calloused fingertips reverently tracing the jagged lines your pregnancy left behind.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured absentmindedly, like he was in a trance. “You’re always beautiful, but seeing those photos of you pregnant with my child.” He let out a dark chuckle. “You don’t know what that did to me, doll.” His dark eyes met yours. “I’ve fucked my fist every night looking at them. Seeing you big and round with my baby—shit, doll.” He closed his eyes and groaned. “Makes me wanna get you pregnant again.”
He dropped his mouth to your skin, his lips kissing your stretch marks with a tenderness that had your heart clenching painfully. He took his time, worshiping every scar with his lips. Your underwear was soaked, his actions and words making you so overwhelming needy that it hurt.
You pushed on his shoulders, trying to get him to move down to your core—to offer you some relief. He relented his soft kisses, grabbing your panties and pulling them down your thighs. He moaned, watching the way the fabric clung to your wet pussy—a line of slick keeping them tethered. He stuffed your panties into his back pocket once he removed them, throwing you a wink.
“A souvenir,” he muttered before diving in.
His mouth was hot on your core, his tongue dragging a line up your slit before latching onto your clit. He sucked greedily, a hum sounding in the back of his throat. Your hands flew to his hair, grasping the strands and pushing him further into your core. He switched between sucking your clit and fucking you with his tongue, listening to your moans and whines to see what you liked. His flesh hand splayed against your stomach, stroking the marks there as he held you down. It was both tender and dirty, and it had the heat in your core spreading like wildfire. His vibranium hand trailed along the top of your thighs, making you gasp and shiver.
He lifted his mouth off you, your slick glistening on his lips and beard—you almost came from the sight alone. He watched you closely as his hand inched higher, a cold finger brushing against your lower lips. You gave him a quick nod, muttering “please” and he didn’t waste any time.
He dipped a finger into your entrance, moaning at the wet heat and little resistance. He pumped it slowly, sucking your clit back into his mouth—making your back arch and hands tug harder, pulling at his scalp and making him moan into you. The noise had you preening, the ball in your core tightening. He inserted another cold finger, curling against the spot that had your legs shaking. You let out a long moan, your breath coming quick as you climbed higher.
“Come for me, sweetheart.” He mumbled, his voice vibrating against your core. A third finger joined in and the stretch had tears brimming your eyes, the pleasure he was unleashing on your body too much. You came with a cry, your body tensing and shaking under him. He slowed down slightly, dragging your pleasure out until you were whimpering and pushing his head away from the overstimulation.
He crawled up your body, peppering more kisses on your skin as you struggled to catch your breath, coming down from your high slowly. You giggled as his stubbled tickled your stomach. He brushed your cheeks gently, wiping away the few tears that escaped from your pleasure. He looked at you with what looked like love in his eyes, causing your cheeks to flush and heart to beat harder.
He kissed you deeply, the taste of you on his tongue turning you on more. You returned the kiss with fervour, wrapping your legs around his clothed waist and grinding your hips against his bulge.
He moaned at the feeling, his arms on either side of your head shaking with restraint.
“Can I fuck you, doll?” You responded with an eager nod.
“Will you let me fill you up?” You continued nodding, a little whine and pleads leaving your lips.
He removed himself from you, ripping his clothes off in a hurry. He dropped on top of you and you relished at the feeling of his bare chest against yours. Your hands found his shoulders as he rubbed his cock along your dripping slit. You both let out matching moans.
“Wanna give Jamie a little sibling.” It wasn’t a question.
You nodded deliriously, your breath hitching as his tip caught your entrance. He pushed in achingly slow, kissing you as a high pitched moan escaped your throat. He grabbed your legs, wrapping them around his waist as he plunged deeper—a deep groan rumbling in his chest. You whimpered at the stretch of him. He thrusted slow and gentle at first, closing his eyes and savouring the feel of your tight walls hugging him. He picked up the pace, hitting your sweet spot—sharp gasps escaping you with every thrust. Your hands clutched his back tighter, your nails digging into the flesh slightly. The obscene sounds of skin slapping against skin, your breathy pants and gasps, and his low moans filled the room.
His hand moved from your hip to your core, rubbing circles on your clit in time with his thrusts. You were still sensitive from your first orgasm and you could feel the fire spreading from your belly at record speed.
“That’s it, that’s my good girl,” Bucky muttered against your lips. You clenched around him tightly, the praise adding more fuel to the fire. “You like that? You like when I call you a good girl?” You nodded, babbling incoherently as everything became too much and you seized below him. A harsh gasp escaped you as you came a second time, your nails scratching along his back and drawing blood.
“Fuck—squeezing me so tight, sweetheart. Shit,” he grumbled out as he continued to fuck you through your high, only slowing down when you let out a sob.
He cradled your face in his hands, brushing away tears with a concerned look on his face. “Hey, hey, you’re okay. Just breathe,” he cooed softly, pushing hair back from your face. His eyes roamed over your features as you collected yourself, gasping in small breaths as your mind came back to your body.
“You still with me?” You nodded shakily. “Wanna keep going?”
“Please, need you to come inside me.” You whispered, a shaky hand grabbing his jaw and kissing him softly.
He groaned into your mouth, his cock dragging inside you slowly—making you whine.
“You got any idea what you do to me, doll? Fucking begging me to breed you,” he gave a harsh thrust and you let out a broken sob.
He shushed you, moving his flesh hand to your mouth as he continued to thrust mercilessly.
“You’re gonna wake Jamie up.” You moaned behind his mouth, your eyes rolling back and your body feeling weightless.
He pulled out suddenly, making you let out a pained cry at the loss of him. “No, no, please, don’t stop.” You babbled, your hands grabbing his arms trying to get him back inside you.
He chuckled at your desperation before grasping your hips and flipping you over, positioning you on your hands and knees. You had little time to adjust to the new position before he was slamming into you, his cock pounding your walls at a relentless speed. Your moans were muffled by the pillow beneath your head, the fabric getting soaked in your drool and tears.
“Fuck, you look so good like this, baby,” he moaned, clutching your ass cheek before bringing his palm down in a harsh slap. Your body jumped forward, pain radiating from his slap and morphing into pleasure. You clenched down on him in a vice like grip, his hips stuttering in response.
“You want another baby, doll? Want me to get you pregnant again?”
You nodded your head vigorously, mumbling out “yes” and “please” like they were the only words you knew.
He slapped your ass two more times and you let out a broken sob, tears flowing down your cheeks as the pleasure became too much. You could feel Bucky getting close, his thrusts losing rhythm and his grunts increasing in volume.
“God, you’re gonna look breathtaking, not gonna be able to keep my hands off you.” He muttered out, cursing as you gripped him even tighter. His hand moved from your hip to your clit, rubbing harsh circles. Your back bowed from the oversensitivity, trying to escape his touch but needing it at the same time. You bit the pillow below you as you came for a third time, your wail ringing out in the dark room. Bucky thrusted three more times before stilling, coming inside you with a long drawn out groan. He kept pumping inside you, his warm seed filling you completely. You sighed at the feeling, bliss running through your veins. Bucky caught you as your body collapsed, all your strength leaving you. You felt completely ruined.
Bucky pulled out with a groan, gently rolling you over so you were laying on his chest. His hand trailed up and down your back in soothing patterns, the both of you quiet as you came down. He pressed a kiss to your head, breathing you in deeply. You traced a pattern on his sweaty chest, sleep pulling at the corners of your eyes.
“We should probably talk,” you mumbled.
“Later,” another kiss to your head. “Wanna enjoy you in my arms a little longer.”
More tears pricked at your eyes and you hugged him tighter. You took in a shaky breath as you prepared yourself to say what’s been on your mind since Bucharest.
“I…I think I love you, Bucky.”
Bucky’s chest shook with a trembling exhale below you.
warnings: MDNI, cheating trope (not on bucky), a touch of angst, insane levels of pining, slight dirty talk, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, p in v, pussy pronouns if you squint
author's note: i'm so proud of myself because i wrote 10k of this in a single day... i don't even know what happened. 🚬 that hasn't happened in SO long. anyway i hope you enjoy! we are SO back! 🥰
It was still late spring, not quite summer. Sometimes, the days carried the brisk chill of wind, plucking petals from flowers and new leaves from trees, before another warm day could make its presence known. Bucky couldn't really complain. He'd take whatever weather was on offer, as long as it meant that he was out of college for a few months. He was tired of writing articles and doing research. All he really wanted was to waste the daylight hours relaxing. Still, he took up a summer job delivering newspapers. It wasn't glamorous by any stretch, and the pay could have been better, and he had to get up well before sunrise, but when he was finished, he'd have the whole rest of the day to do whatever he wanted.
He also got to see a different part of town, outside the heart of the city, which he was more used to. His route took him to the big, rich people mansions, the types of homes that he couldn't even dream of going to for any other reason. It was interesting to see how the other side lived, to say the least.
It was pretty uneventful at first. On some days at the beginning, he didn't even go to bed before he got to his route, out most of the night with other kids he'd come to know through classes. He wasn't really a partier, but he enjoyed letting loose after a tough round of exams. Other times, he'd be hopping out of bed, struggling to throw on some pants, before racing out the door, grabbing his bike from the garage, and making his way to the warehouse to pick up his deliveries.
The big houses were nice, polished. He almost expected to be stopped and frisked when he went past the manicured lawns. He'd carefully toss the rolled up papers onto front steps, thrown over gates when they were locked. He darted through sprinklers and morning dew for others. His hands were always black with ink by the time he was done, the papers still fresh and warm from the printer. He'd come home to smudges across his face from when he'd wiped away sweat. He'd learned to stop wearing white t-shirts, after that.
One such house was all white. It had a shiny white Lexus in the driveway. It was made of white stone, with white shutters. White chairs with white pillows adorned the porch. The door was mostly glass front, set into painted wood, but he'd never gotten close enough to see inside, to see if it was just as boring as it was on the outside. He wasn't all that interested, if he was honest.
It was a morning much like any of the others when Bucky strolled through the unlocked gate. He walked right up the path, admiring the Lexus as he passed it. He stopped at the porch and tossed the newspaper with ease onto the welcome mat. He'd gotten very used to it by now. He was about to turn away, but noticed the lace of his boot was untied. It was when Bucky was crouching down to retie it into a haphazard knot that he heard the click of the door's latch, then the creak of it opening, followed by a soft, "Oh!" of surprise.
His eyes made a slow trail from the mat to a pair of dainty feet, red polish on the toes. Up a long, toned expanse of leg, up, up, up, to a white fur trim. The trim belonged to a tiny silk robe, which was open at the front, revealing a matching nightie of ivory. You were blinking at him, the newspaper pinched between your nails by the elastic band. The weak morning light didn't hide the giant rock on your left hand. Your hair was in an artfully messy pile atop your head, face devoid of makeup, but your skin was smooth, unblemished. What a gorgeous thing you were.
He didn't think you were much older than him. In fact, you couldn't be older than thirty. He wondered if the Lexus was yours. But your ring glimmered, like it was signifying wealth, and he thought it must be your husband's. Clearly, he had money to be living in a house like this, and paying for a diamond that size. Bucky was still holding the bows of his lace between grubby fingers, and he dropped them unceremoniously, clearing his throat. It was an unspoken rule of the job that he remain unseen. In fact, the only person who ever saw him with regularity on this route was the old man three streets down, who would stand in his worn blue bathrobe and wait for Bucky to hand the paper straight to him.
"Sorry," he coughed, straightening up. "Didn't mean to startle you."
He was at the bottom of the three steps leading up to you, but he was almost at your eye level from this angle. "Oh, it's no bother. I suppose I'm up earlier than usual." You gave him a soft smile, teeth framed by blush pink lips. You tucked a piece of loose hair back behind your ear, but it was unruly, brushing against your cheek again. "Thank you." You wiggled the paper for emphasis.
He dipped his head, mouth dry. You looked like a goddess, to him. He never thought that someone who looked like you would prefer an old fashioned, crinkly newspaper that stunk of ink. You looked more like the kind of girl who would read articles online, instead, in a café that sold twelve dollar drinks. But he didn't know anything about you. He didn't even know your name. He just knew that you looked pristine, clean, untouched. He wondered if all the white was your idea, or your husband's. He could just about see past you, into a foyer of white marble floors and a sweeping staircase. You didn't close the door right away, though you'd stepped back through the threshold. Your hand rested on the shiny silver handle.
He gave you a small smile before backing away. It was only after he'd heard the door close that he belatedly wondered if he had any ink on his face. It would be just his luck.
The next day, Bucky fostered a quiet hope that he would see you again. He just wanted to look at you, one more time. Were you as pretty as he remembered, or had he just been sleep deprived? Maybe he'd just caught you on a good day.
It was unlikely that he'd see you again. In fact, he didn't. He even walked up the path more slowly than usual, biding his time. But no, as he placed the newspaper on the mat, there was no sign of life beyond the glass and wood.
He believed it must have been a fluke. After all, it had barely been five in the morning, the day before. Most people usually weren't up that earlier, especially not housewives. Still, he took stock of the property again as he reached the gate. Same shiny Lexus. No kids' toys—you must not have had any, not yet. He doubted your house would be quite so white and clean if you did.
The following day had him mildly surprised. No Lexus. It was Monday. Usually, when clients went away on vacation, they would phone the distributors and be skipped for the length of time they were gone. Papers wouldn't go to waste and pile up, yellowing with age and cluttering porches, that way.
Well, someone had gone, but who? And for how long? He was on the bottom step when the door opened, and there you were. There were no silky underthings this time, just tiny cotton shorts and a thin t-shirt. He saw a sliver of your belly, the waist of the shorts low and the shirt a touch cropped. Your hair was down today, a little bit wild, but not in an unattractive way. You stood in the archway, your hand against the frame. "Good morning," you said. Your eyes sparkled like your ring did.
Bucky was still holding your paper. He was aware that his palm was sweaty, and suddenly wondered if the ink was going to smudge all the more because of the heat of his hand. He flug it at the mat more clumsily than he usually would. You didn't seem bothered. "Morning." He agreed—it was morning indeed.
You bent to grab it, then stood straight. You seemed totally relaxed, unbothered by his presence. "It's going to be very hot today. I hope you can finish before the sun's really up." You kept the same conversational, friendly tone.
"Oh, um, yes. I'm in the second half of my route by the time I get here." He stuttered out. He hadn't been planning on talking to you.
You tilted your head curiously. 'Is it always you that does this neighbourhood? Or do you switch out with other boys?"
Boys. Indicating that you must have thought he was just a boy, too. He wasn't. He was a man, he thought defensively. He was almost 22. "I'll be me all summer. Just until I go back to college. I'll be a senior in the fall." He added the last bit on with pride, trying to demonstrate that he was quite the adult, thank you very much.
You smiled, and it was girlish. You looked very young, indeed. "Oh! I remember being in college. It must have been, what—five, six years ago now?"
So you were older than him, but not by very much. You had a fond look on your face. He wondered what you got up to when you were in your early twenties. Had you been a party girl, or a more studious type?
"Well, I guess I'll be seeing you a lot this summer," you said, and he came back to the conversation, caught off-guard.
"You will?" It sounded stupid to his ears as soon as he said it. Obviously, yes. He was delivering papers to your address all summer. That was clearly what you had meant.
You nodded, unperturbed. "Yes, when my husband's away, I'm up pretty early."
You both turned to look at the empty space in front of the garage. "Is he away a lot?"
"Oh, yes. He's always travelling," you laughed, "but he brings me trinkets, so I don't really mind. I like being alone, actually."
"Oh." Bucky was mildly stupefied. He'd never leave a woman like you alone for more than a minute, let alone weeks at a time.
You'd been holding the newspaper against your chest the entire time you'd been talking, clutched in one hand. Now, you'd switched it to the other, and Bucky realized with startling dismay that there was a gray smudge across one of you breasts. Well, it looked like the ink had transferred, after all. "Well, I better get going. Sun and heatwave and all," he said, looking at the sky instead of you.
"Right. Well, thank you. Have a good rest of your day!" You said with another sunny smile, before closing the door. Bucky sighed with relief, glad that you couldn't hear it. He thought you might have been more likely to give him heatstroke before the sun's rays could.
You were correct. Over the next week, Bucky saw you for four out of the seven days. You properly introduced yourself on the second day, holding you hand out to shake, but he'd held up both of his apologetically. Ink had marred every single line along his palms. Your laugh had been bright, musical, and you'd said instead, "Well, at least tell me your name."
He did, and he almost sighed dreamily when you repeated it back to him. "Bucky," you mused, like you were tasting a piece of candy and trying to decide if you liked its flavour. You must have, because you tossed the paper through the open door behind you and continued to chat with him for another five minutes before apologizing for babbling on, and sending him on his way.
He could get used to seeing you every day. You'd started leaving bottles of water, the fancy kind in glass, on the tiny side table next to one of the chairs. One morning, you weren't around to greet him, but a basket of muffins ranging from blueberry to banana to chocolate chip sat next to the water, along with a note in bubbly handwriting: "Bucky, please take one for the road! I know you probably didn't have any time for breakfast."
Even when you didn't see him, you thought of him. He liked that, the idea that you liked him enough to be so considerate. It was sweet. He'd started racing thought he first half of his route so that he had a few extra minutes to spare when he got to your house. One day, he hesitated to ask you, but ultimately did, "I know you said you like being alone, but don't you ever get lonely? This is a big house to have to yourself all the time."
You shrugged and the strap of your nightie, another thing made of silk and lace, slipped off your shoulder. "Sometimes. But I don't feel so lonely when I see you every day." That was the same day that you asked him if he drank coffee, to which he said yes. You seemed to have a naturally curious disposition.
The next day, you were still in ridiculously tiny pajamas, but you were out on the porch already. In your hands was a white towel, slightly damp. When Bucky got to you, he looked between you and the towel, puzzled. Your hair was dry, so he didn't know why you had it. Until you stood and motioned to his hands. "Can I?"
Oh. Was it too childish to believe that his heart had fluttered? He relented, holding his hands out, and you wiped away the ink on his skin. You couldn't completely remove what had gotten under his nails, but he was decidedly cleaner. Your hands looked so small next to his. The towel was now a study in shades of gray and black, and you tossed it over the back of the chair, before turning towards the little table and cupping your hands around a mug that still held steam. "I don't know if you have much time, but it's fresh. The beans are from Columbia."
His chest felt tight as he took the mug of coffee from you, and then watched you grab at your own. But you didn't take a sip until after he did, your eyes seeming to twinkle. "What do you think?"
"It's good." It was, but he didn't know how else to describe it. And besides, he was more focused on you than the rich flavour of the drink.
But you smiled anyway, your lips half hidden by the cup. "Good." You repeated it back to him, not at all offended by his lack of enthusiasm.
Was it wrong to have a bit of a crush on you? Bucky didn't think so. He hadn't done anything. Neither had you. You were just very kind, and as you'd said, all alone. He had no idea what company you kept during the day. For all he knew, he was the only contact you had while your husband was gone. He was fairly certain you were a stay-at-home wife. As long as things stayed cordial like this, it shouldn't become a problem. You'd never invited him in, after all. And you still wore your wedding ring. But still, Bucky couldn't help but think of you hours after each encounter, like a part of him was still standing on that porch, right beside you.
Bucky was beginning to think he might have manifested you into being. He was certainly not one to be at the farmer's market at eleven in the morning on a Sunday. He hadn't seen you that day, and had planned to come back home and sleep until the afternoon. But his sister and mother had nagged and said they wanted to go, and that they needed an extra set of arms to carry all their finds. So there he was, a little groggy and annoyed, standing in front of a set of stalls with disinterest. He'd lost his family ten minutes ago, and was in absolutely no mood to look for them.
He thought it a trick of the light at first, the glimmer in his eyes. He narrowed them, looking for the source. It was a wedding ring, catching the sun between the canopies of the booths. A ring he'd seen before. There you were, face buried in a cluster of sunflowers. You had a floppy hat on, cut off shorts and a tank top, different from your usual indecent pajamas. You were holding your curtain of hair away from your face so that you could properly smell the flowers. Then, like you'd sensed him there, your head turned in his direction. Surprise melted into what looked like delight. "Bucky? Hi!"
You abandoned the sunflowers and made a beeline for him, stopping just shy of your sandals touching the toes of his beat up sneakers. "Hi," he parroted back. The market was noisy, but he had no idea what anyone else was doing or saying in that moment, everything but you reduced to a blur.
"I didn't take you for the market type," you teased, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder.
He couldn't hide his grimace, to which you let out a giggle. "I'm not. My… uh," he cringed, not wanting to admit it, but no lies came to mind, "my mom and sister are here somewhere."
"Oh, are you spending the day with them? That's so sweet." You cooed.
Oh. He stood a little taller. Maybe you thought him dashing, a thoughtful man who valued family time. "Oh, well, you know… anything for them."
"Well, until you find them, do you want to have some lemonade? My friend is selling some a couple booths down." He could just barely make out the white and blue striped sign with a lemon wedge painted across its side. Two small tables with fold out chairs were right in front of it.
"Uh, sure." He said.
He tried not to smile when you curled your fingers around his arm and pulled him along.
Being around you made Bucky feel slightly drunk. There was something about you that made his skin buzz. No wonder you were already married. Any man who overlooked that chance was surely a fool.
You'd both sipped lemonade, the air stiflingly warm. He could feel sweat on the back of his neck. He didn't care. You talked to him like he really was a friend, like you had been planning to meet him there to catch up. You'd been a communications major in college, it turned out. You'd been to his campus a few times for rival football games. You'd been the good girl in the library, papers and assignments finished well before the due date. He couldn't be surprised; the image fit.
When you asked him about his own college career, he was stuck between feeling juvenile, and feeling accomplished. You asked him like an equal, not like he was a someone's kid brother. He appreciated that. He thought you might see potential in him, beyond throwing newspapers at lawns and avoiding overzealous golden retrievers.
He was upset when the spell broke. He could see Rebecca coming his way, though she hadn't noticed him yet, and your phone rang at almost exactly the same time. "Oh, shoot. It's my husband, sorry." Your face was set in an exaggerated frown.
He smiled tightly, the spell breaking, and hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "Gotta go anyway. Nice to see you."
You waved at him with a grin, though you were listening to your husband, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder, and Bucky made a hasty escape. He had almost imagined that you were out together or something. But you had an entire other half somewhere across the world who still made the time to call you, who showered you in gifts. Bucky could barely afford to buy a round at the bar, let alone a huge brick house. Still, he couldn't help picturing what it would have been like to stroll past all the stalls, hand in hand with you.
It was with total surprise that Bucky received a gift from you. It was wrapped in white tissue paper, which he took care to rip off, the box held steady in your hands. He felt like anything he touched that you had once handled, he needed to be gentle with.
He frowned in slight confusion when he revealed the brown tweed hat. "I know it's a bit of a gimmick, but I thought it was cute." You said with a shy smile. "I saw it at the market after you left. A newsboy cap!"
It was a bit silly, yes. But Bucky wouldn't trade your wide grin for anything when he put it on his head, covering his unruly hair. You put the box on the table and clasped your hands under your chin, eyes bright. "Oh, now you really look the part."
There was no teasing in your tone, only genuine sincerity. He tipped the brim at you experimentally, and that beaming smile of yours was like a shot to the heart. "Thank you." He said. This strange little friendship you'd built up meant something to him. A lot of the girls he knew from college really only cared about studying or partying, and there didn't seem to be much in between to discuss. It was different with you. You seemed to find joy in the little things.
"You don't have to wear it if you don't like it, of course," you added, fingers reaching up to touch the rim of the hat, "but it suits you."
He imagined for a moment your fingers trailing from the hat to the side of his face. Your smooth, soft hand on his cheek. If he kissed you, would you stand on your toes to reach him, or would you pull him down to your height?
It was a stupid thing to wonder—it only made him ache. It wasn't something he could do, the gleaming diamond winking in the light a harsh reminder.
"My husband's coming home tomorrow.' You said, an abrupt change in the conversation. Did he hear a forlorn tone woven into your words? Or was he just wistfully hoping?
"You must be happy." He was relieved that he didn't sound as wooden as he felt.
The pause was just the tiniest bit too long. "Oh, yes. He's only back for three days, though. Then he's going to Asia for five weeks."
Five weeks was a long time to be away from someone. Bucky didn't think he could bear being away from you for that long, and he just saw you in passing, really. Besides, after the summer, he wouldn't see you again. He was a fool, but not foolish enough to believe that you'd want to stay in touch with him when he went back to school in the fall.
Either way, Bucky knew that when your husband was around, he wasn't likely to see you. He resigned himself to knowing that the next few mornings would feel utterly dull.
You might have been missing in action, but you still left things on the table for him. A paper bag with muffins or croissants. A bottle of water. Once, there had been a tiny tube of sunscreen, along with the note, "I noticed that you're getting a little bit red on the arms. Please make sure you protect yourself!"
Was this what love felt like?
He missed seeing you, and it had only been a couple of days. You had become a part of his routine. He didn't want the summer to end, didn't want to say goodbye to you. He thought, bitterly, that it would hurt. More bitterly, he thought the idea of the farewell causing him pain was stupid. You'd probably be fine, back to your perfect life, which really hadn't been disrupted at all. But his had been turned on its head.
He eyed the Lexus with a scornful glare. Of course, it wasn't your husband's fault that he'd met you first, realized what a catch you were, and put a ring on your finger. Still, Bucky couldn't stop his irrational distaste for the man he'd never seen. He could have stood behind him in line at the grocery store, for all he knew. But he doubted your husband did things as mundane as that. He probably had a personal shopper. There he went, making assumptions about the object of your affections… but it was impossible to turn off.
The day he was to see you again, Bucky tried to tamp down the thrill thrumming through his body. Your husband wouldn't be around today, no, but it didn't mean that you would be waiting at the door. You never had been totally consistent—sometimes you did still miss each other.
It was quite unfortunate that the sky felt close and low with its dark gray clouds. More unfortunate that it opened up, a great sieve of water washing the pavement and Bucky, soaking him to the bone, three houses before yours. The papers were safe, wrapped in plastic. But Bucky watched black in run in rivulets from his hands, up and down his arms, dripping onto his shoes.
He suddenly hoped he didn't see you. He probably looked pathetic. His t-shirt clung to his torso like a second skin. His jeans felt awful. He was only lucky that six of the houses after yours were on pause, meaning there was a street he could skip almost entirely, save for the one green house on the corner. He could get home quickly and take a hot shower.
When he got to the gate of your house, he squinted through the rain at your porch. And then his eyes went wide as he saw you there, holding the door open, motioning with your hand, the movement frantic. He scrambled to grab your paper, and barely heard you saying, "Forget it! Just come in!"
He did as he was told, half jogging down the path and up the steps. He hadn't realized how loud the rain had been until he was standing in your foyer, dripping water, the door closed behind him. The hush of the weather against the roof was now a more comforting rumble.
"My goodness, you poor thing!" You were fussing over him already, fluffy white towel at the ready, patting at his hair and face. "They should really cancel the paper service during a torrential downpour! People can miss a day—it's not that important."
"It's okay. It's just water." He said, though he couldn't deny how much he enjoyed you fawning over him. You were careful as you wiped at his face, then grabbed one of his wrists to wipe down his arm. The towel came away smeared in grime.
Dabbing at his shirt did absolutely nothing—he could feel the dampness of his skin under it. Finally, you tsked and put your hands on your hips. He tried to ignore that you were in that silk nightie again. "You know what? You're about my husband's size. I'll get you some dry clothes. Wait right here."
You turned and dashed for the stairs, only pausing when he said, "No, it's fine, don't worry."
"Oh, Bucky, come on. I insist. You can bring them back tomorrow. I just can't stand by and let you finish your route in those clothes. You'll catch a cold." You weren't quite scolding him, but the seriousness in your tone was more adorable than anything else.
He swallowed. He didn't want to wear your husband's clothes. But if it meant being in your presence a little longer… "Okay." His voice was quiet. So quiet it was almost blocked out by the rain. You smiled, satisfied, and disappeared up the stairs.
He lingered in the foyer. The ceiling was high, the lighting warm. It had to be, because everything was white. It would feel clinical if not. White walls, white floors, white carpet runner—he had no idea how that stayed clean. A gilded mirror hanging by the coat closet. A tall vase of flowers on the side table. A glass dish of decorative stones. The little puddles of water that had gathered by his feet were pale gray.
You came back with a pile of neatly folded clothes in your arms, jeans and a t-shirt, not much different to what he had on. You walked right past him, like you knew he would follow. Bucky trailed after you, until you stopped at a door.
"Here, change in the powder room. Give me your clothes and I'll get them washed and dry. You can pick them up tomorrow, okay?" You dropped the clothes on the counter and lightly pushed at his back, forcing him to step in.
When he was alone in the bathroom, Bucky looked at himself in the mirror. Water still clung stubbornly to his eyelashes. His hair looked wild from when you'd run the towel through it. Every muscle on his torso was outlined by his shirt. He changed unceremoniously. You were right, the clothes fit, though the shirt was a little bit tight—he guessed your husband was more lanky than he was.
He couldn't help but to feel like he didn't belong. He was too filthy, too unkempt, to be standing in a house like this. What good were these fresh clothes when he'd be going back out into the storm in a few minutes, anyway? They'd get just as drenched as his own. He contemplated struggling back into his wet clothes, denying your hospitality. But then there was a soft knock on the door. "Does everything fit?"
He twisted the crystal doorknob. You looked up at him—you seemed so small in his shadow. He didn't answer, because you gave him a quick once over, then nodded to yourself. "Good. Follow me; leave your clothes. I'll get them later."
He felt wary, though he did as he was told. The living room was incredibly formal. Finally, he saw some touches of colour. Baby blue armchairs, a painting of orange flowers. You thrust a cup into his hands. "Drink this tea. I don't care if you don't like it, I swear it stops colds in their tracks."
It was funny to hear you sound authoritative. It didn't really fit your image, in your flouncy robe with your soft bedhead. "Yes, ma'am." he murmured. He couldn't really taste the tea—it was so hot that it burned his tongue.
"Can you stay here for a bit? Wait out the rain? I'm sure the other clients would be understanding when its storming like this, right?" you asked, mirroring him, though your own cup contained coffee.
He hesitated. Yes, he probably could. But was that really the best idea? You gazed at him imploringly. He already knew that he was a lost cause. "Yeah. Um, sure."
"If you get in trouble or something, you can give your boss my number. I'll talk to him, I'll explain." This was said with the air of being able to smooth things out with money. That was probably something you were able to do with ease.
The silence lapsed, only you and him and the patter of rain, a singular clap of thunder. You floated away like a cloud to look past the sheer curtains at the window. You sighed then, shaking your head, and glided right back to his side. "I thought we were going to skip out on summer storms this year. Guess not."
"It's not that bad. We need it. A lot of other neighbourhoods have all got brown, dead grass." He said. He didn't mean to lay the implication that the rich suburbs, like yours, could splash money around to have their sprinklers running 24/7.
But you nodded in understanding, not offended. "I'll take a storm over a heatwave." You finished your coffee, then looked pointedly at his cup. He sighed theatrically before tipping it back and draining it, to which you looked pleased.
You were only gone for a short time, dipping into the kitchen to deposit the mugs in what was likely a state of the art dishwasher, before you were with him again. You stood facing each other. Bucky couldn't tell if he was imagining awkwardness, or if he really was feeling it. "Well," he said, rocking back on his heels, "I'd better get out there."
You nodded, but neither of you moved. "Yes, I guess you should." The only sounds were of the muffled rain, and the ticking of the big clock in the corner of the room. You assessed each other. "Do you have to?" you asked, quiet as a mouse.
You weren't really asking—you knew he did. But the unspoken question was, do you have to leave me so soon?
This house would probably feel so cold and lonely with the weather like this, no sun shining in through the windows. You'd be by yourself in this echoing maze of hallways. Would you play music so it felt more lively? Would you curl up with an old movie? Bucky sighed again, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, I have to."
You nodded once more, and he thought you might be chewing the inside of your cheek. "Okay."
Yet again, you both stayed still, instead standing in the living room like a diorama in a museum: here we have two people on the precipice of something that could tilt their worlds on their axis.
Bucky thought he was probably going to hell for this, but if he got a taste of heaven first, he didn't think he minded so much.
It was with slow certainty that his hands came to rest on your face. Slower still was him moving forward to make the gap between you smaller and smaller. Slower still, the build up like a war drum in his chest when his mouth moved six inches, three inches, one inch from yours. Then, the gentlest kiss, softer than a butterfly's wings.
If you were startled, it wasn't obvious. There had been no gasp of surprise, just your head tilting slightly under his palms, to better meet his height. You didn't touch him, not at first, but your lips parted under his as smoothly as a knife slicing through butter. Bucky's head was a mess of static and chirping birds and his heartbeat in his ears, which kicked into double-time when he felt the first touch of your fingertips on his chest.
All at once he crushed you to him, his hands leaving your face and landing at your hips. Silk as fluid as a river bunched up under his palms as he pulled you closer. All thoughts had left him except for the one that felt like a bright, neon sign: he was kissing you.
He didn't know if he'd bitten your lip too hard, if that was what made you come to your senses, or if your own thoughts had travelled down the path and ended at the same sign. You pulled away with a breathless gasp, your hands light on his chest, your head ducked in repentance. "Bucky…I—I really like you, but—"
His arms fell away from your body. He suddenly felt cold, like he'd been standing in the rain again. But. Your hands were shaking a little, from where they'd coiled themselves together, held in front of your ribs like a shield. And there was the 'but', staring him right in the face: that oval shaped diamond on your finger, polished to a despicable shine. Right. You belonged to someone else, and not him, never him. Only for those few short moments had you both forgotten that fact.
Abruptly, he straightened, body no longer bowed towards yours like a tree offering shade. "Right. I need to go, anyway." He moved to stride past you, and flinched at the delicate flutter of your hand against his arm, like you wanted to stop him.
"Bucky, wait, it's okay—"
"Thanks for the clothes." He cut you off, face hard. "I'll bring them back tomorrow."
Because he couldn't just make a mistake like this and not see you again, of course. He'd be forced to reckon with what he'd done for the rest of the summer. He only hoped you had the sense to stop waiting for him at the front door.
He couldn't help but notice, as he all but threw himself across the threshold, that you'd followed, a forlorn white shape, ethereal as an angel, and that you watched him cross the path through the glass. The rain had lessened, more of a gentle patter. He wished he could forget the distinct, grayish marks on your hips, where his hands had been, where he'd left a mark.
Bucky hoped to any God that would listen that you wouldn't be waiting for him the next day. He never wanted to see you again. That was a lie, of course, and even though thinking it sent a bolt of pain through his head, it was easier to come to terms with than the idea of seeing pity on your face. Because that was what he expected. For you to think, poor little college kid, lonely and single. He must be desperate for someone to love him.
Did you even enjoy his company? Or had he been a complete idiot this entire time? Did you seek his friendship because you really did want a friend, or was he just an easy way to pass the time while your husband was away? He no longer felt certain. A small, hopeless part of him rebelled against the idea. You wouldn't have sat with him at the market, wouldn't have brought him that stupid hat, the one he kept on his nightstand, if you didn't care about him at least a little bit, surely. But people did strange things when they were lonely. Maybe it was all a game, for you.
He cursed under his breath when he got to your house that day. You were sitting on the chair on the porch. There was a plastic bag sitting beside you, which he guessed contained his clothes—your husband's were in a similar bag, hooked to one of his handlebars. You wore a big t-shirt, presumably with shorts underneath, but he couldn't tell, folded into the chair as you were, your chin on your knees, arms around your shins.
The sun was weak this morning—it had rained into the night, only clearing up when Bucky had stepped from the shower before his route, and the grass was as wet as if someone had dumped a bathtub onto the lawn. he wanted to just drop the paper and go. He supposed he could manage a curt "Morning," a nod of his head. But he wished you weren't there.
Even more, he wished he couldn't feel the unsteady tick of his heart at the sight of you, the twist in his stomach that said he was actually overjoyed that you weren't hiding away from him in that big, empty house.
"Hi, Bucky." You said, voice quiet, steady. You didn't unfold yourself from your seat until he was at the top step. He tried to stop his eyes from flicking to you, only watching in his periphery, but the way you said his name, the way you always said it, had him unable to resist looking your way.
He didn't answer, the paper slipping from his hands, the bag he was supposed to exchange with you strangled by his fingers. You'd stood to drag the other chair, the one across the porch on the other side of the door, back to your side, back to the little table, which had… Well. It was a spread, to say the least.
Toast, jam, butter. Those were in little silver dishes. Bacon, sausages, eggs, arranged like a smile on the plate. Coffee, water, juice. All somehow fitting on the small table, set for two. "I was hoping you had enough time to eat with me." You said. Your hands were clasped in front of you again—he was beginning to learn that was a nervous tic you had. Your twisted the ring around on your finger, anxious. It was the only time he'd ever seen you so uncertain.
He felt guarded, wary. Of course, he did have time. You remembered, as did he, that many of the neighbours after you had paused their subscription. He had nowhere to immediately be, not today. It broke his heart a little to imagine what you'd done for the rest of the day, yesterday. Broke it a little more when he thought of you getting up even earlier than you usually did, well before the sun, to start arranging all of this. For him.
He still hadn't said anything, so finally he murmured, "Yeah," then cleared his throat, because the word had come out in a croak. " I can."
It was silent, save for the loudest pair of birds in the world, perching somewhere on your roof. It felt awkward. Usually you filled the quiet easily, babbling away or asking him questions. But you nibbled on the corner of your toast, eyes fixed on the center of the table, though he caught your gaze more than once drifting in his direction. He knew he should say thank you, but the words were stuck in the back of his mouth. He didn't think any semblance of normal conversation could be had until one of you brought up what had happened the day before, though he didn't think either of you wanted to. In fact, in this moment, he'd rather walk over hot coals.
"I hope you know I'm not upset," you began, tentative. Your finger traced the rim of your plate. "It was… nice. To be kissed like that. It's not something I've felt, in recent months."
The words hung in the air. He was quietly stunned by your admission. It hadn't been what he'd expected, not at all. He waited, unwilling to say anything, unwilling to risk it until he knew where you were going with your line of thought. He heard your nail tap against the porcelain. "I really… I really do want to be friends with you, Bucky. I've grown pretty fond of you. I like seeing you every day. I hope that what happened won't change that."
And then you looked up at him, your eyes honest and open and so devastatingly hopeful that it nearly tore him in two. Now he was in a bind, because how could he deny you when you looked like that? "Are you going to tell your husband?" He didn't know he was going to ask the question until it was out.
Bucky thought you might look contrite, but your face remained unchanged. "No. It will only upset him for no reason. There's nothing he can do, anyway. He's not in the country, and it already happened."
"He couldn't, I don't know, get me reassigned? Fired? Pretty sure it's against company policy to go around kissing clients." Bucky muttered, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.
Your hand touched his arm, gentle. "Bucky."
He looked to you, and immediately felt regret at the way he'd spoken. "We just have to remember that there's a line, that's all." It may have sounded vague, to anyone passing by. But he knew what you meant. He wished he could erase the line, trample it until it was dust. "Unless… you don't want to. I don't want to make things hard for you. If it;s easier to stop being friends with me, I'll respect your decision."
He bit his tongue. As much as that would be the right answer, it wasn't one he could accept. You were in his life now, and that wasn't something he could just give up. Instead, he countered. "And when summer's over? When I go back to school? We won't see each other after that." He lifted his chin in a challenge. How much did you really care? Now was the time to prove it.
At this, your expression brightened. God, it hurt. "I'm in the city all the time. My friend owns a boutique right by your campus. You can't get rid of me that easily." Playfulness had entered your voice, then.
He raised his eyebrows. Really? You'd go out of your way to see him? Just like that? "Oh." He exhaled, surprised. "Okay."
You pushed the pitcher of juice closer to him. "So, that's a yes then?" Your optimism was impossible to ignore.
"I guess it is, kitty." The pet name stumbled forth like a foal bursting from a barn and into sunlight. You had reminded him of a sweet, docile kitten since the first time he'd met you, all soft edges and easy smiles and dappled sunlight.
You leaned back in your chair, stretching your arms over your head and letting out a yawn, as if now that the hard discussion was over, you could expose how little sleep you'd gotten. You reminded him even more of a cat, body long and loose like that. "Good. I play for keeps, you know. I'm a very loyal friend. It's my best quality."
Friend, he mused, privately. Well, if that was the capacity to which he could enjoy you, then so be it.
It turned out to be true, your claim of loyalty. You'd sent him along with a croissant and a bottled water, as well as your phone number. You'd even posed sweetly for the contact photo, hands folded under your chin as you beamed, your bedhead an adorable addition. Bucky's own contact photo was much more stoic.
It hadn't even been two hours since he'd finished his route, laying heavily on his bed, that he got a text message.
FROM: kitty - a couple friends and i are going to the beach this afternoon, would you like to come? i can pick you up!
He sat up with a swiftness that should have given him whiplash. He didn't want to respond right away, not wanting to seem too eager. He didn't want you to pick him up, either—it felt embarrassing to tell you the address to his family home. He hadn't even known you had your own car. He surmised it must be kept in the garage all the time.
He paced his room for a good five minutes, but eventually the itch in his fingers was too much. He was thumbing out a response before he could think too hard.
FROM: bucky - sure, but i can meet you there, i'm not at home so it will be easier.
It wasn't true, obviously, but he thought he would die of mortification if you rang the doorbell and his mother answered, only to see a beautiful, sunny angel on the shabby welcome mat, come to collect him.
Bucky almost wished you hadn't invited him. He spent entirely too long messing with his hair in the mirror, as if you hadn't already seen the disorderly spikes of it earlier that day. He didn't even know what to bring. Was it a party, or was everyone just relaxing? Did your friends know about him? What if they were all married couples and he was an awkward plus-one in your husband's absence?
It turned out, he needn't have worried.
Your car turned out to be a Jeep in pearlescent blue. Bucky saw it in the small strip of parking spots overlooking the beach. He'd expected it to be more crowded, the the wind was a little too cool, the sky a little too gray, to attract the usual suspects. Your license plate had a bedazzled frame around it. A long chain made of beads and crystals hung from your mirror. There was a sticker on your rear window that said, "I break for turtles!"
You were standing in a semi circle of people, that same wide sunhat from the market on your head, a white, flowy dress over what was probably a devastating bikini. A picnic basket was slung over your arm.
He'd taken the bus, unwilling to bring his bicycle, and even more unwilling to take the station wagon, but he'd been dropped off a stop before this one, because he felt too embarrassed to be seen taking public transit. You'd probably never stepped foot on a bus, at least not in your recent years.
When you saw him, peering over your sunglasses, your face looked like a cherub's. The smile was enough to make his pulse jump, more so when you pushed good-naturedly through your group to meet him halfway, looping your free arm with his, and dragging him along. "Everyone, this is Bucky!"
"Pleasantries were exchanged, and everyone herded their way down the sun washed wooden stairs and onto the sand. A Bluetooth speaker was set up, towels thrown down, a folding table and some camping chairs scattered about. You'd brought a grocery haul's worth of food, and chatted easily with your friends.
Bucky stood just off to your side and observed. It seemed everyone was around your age, not too far off from him. None of the girls wore flashy rings like yours. He thought it safe to assume that you were the only married person on this stretch of beach. "Oh, Joaquin?" you called to one of the guys, "I left the volleyball in the trunk. Can you get it, please?" You tossed your keys in his direction, and Joaquin nodded and jogged away.
You turned to Bucky. "Joaquin actually graduated from your school last year. He's friends with Wanda's brother; they were on the same softball team."
It was interesting, to see how the connections between all your friends were made. He felt ashamed that he'd judged who you hung around with before he met them. By all circumstances, they seemed as normal and working-class as he did. As the hours wore on, he grew to like Sam and Joaquin quite a lot. They didn't treat him like a kid. Instead, they talked about video games and the bar that had the best chicken wings on football nights. He and Joaquin were able to lament about the college cafeteria, its lack of variety.
You circled your group like a bumblebee, each friend a flower whose pollen you stopped to admire. But always, you seemed to make your way back to him. He was only lucky that he hadn't been right beside you when you and Kate decided to brave the ocean, believing that it might be cold at first, but it would surely warm up. He missed you pulling your dress over your head, revealing an orange and pink patterned bikini. The strings had yellow beads that danced over your hips. He thought he was going to break his neck when he saw you running, hand in hand with Kate, to the sea. It was impossible to look away.
He'd already known you had a gorgeous body—you'd never been shy about your scanty sleepwear, but it just made it all the harder for him, he thought with a sigh. He hoped his ogling wasn't too obvious, and instead put all his energy into the volleyball game instead of your shrieks of laughter, mixing in with the sounds of the gulls overhead.
When you made your way back to land, a Minnie Mouse beach towel wrapped around you, you smiled up at him. You were squinting—your hat and sunglasses had been left behind on the table. "Are you having fun?"
"Yes." He said, surprised with himself. Days like this were what summer was all about, but he hadn't done anything remotely similar at all, so far. Your smile was soft, one he'd never seen before. Like it was private, just between the two of you. "I'm glad."
"Yo, Buckaroo!" Bucky's head swivelled in Sam's direction, halfway down the beach. "Come on, man, we're getting ice cream. Need the extra hands!" And so Bucky allowed himself to be corralled by these new people, new friends, up the beach and to the van selling cones for a dollar, the saltwater smell of your hair still in his nose.
It was scary how normal it became, to see you each morning when he dropped off the paper, and then to meet you and your friends somewhere in the city. Sometimes it was at a cozy apartment. Sometimes it was an activity, like bowling or karaoke. Sometimes everyone was there, sometimes not. But Bucky felt very alive, especially with you right beside him.
He was again surprised, always surprised these days, it seemed, when one night, out on the fire escape of Pietro's apartment, taking a breather—the air in the living room had become stifling—Yelena joined him. He liked her, because she was never afraid to bust anyone's balls. She was a bit of a bulldog, despite her short stature. He'd trust her to back him up in a fight. "I think you fit in well, Barnes." She said, arms folded over the safety railing.
Bucky was sitting on the sill of the open window. "Yeah? Thanks, Belova."
"You gave us our friend back. It's like we gained two instead of one."
He frowned at that. He knew she was referring to you, but he was confused by what she meant. "Who, Kitty?"
She rolled her eyes when she looked at him over her shoulder. "Yes, Kitty," she let the nickname drag on her tongue, the 't's sharp, like a rattlesnake's tail. "She was sort of becoming a shut-in. Her house is a little far from the rest of us, as I'm sure you've realized. And her husband never likes her to invite people over when he's not there. He's sort of a neat freak. You would know; you've seen how clean everything is over there."
Ah, so the austere shades of ivory were indeed the work of your elusive husband. Yelena went on, turning to face Bucky, leaning her elbows back on the railing as she tipped her head to the night sky. "He only really lets us come over when he's hosting a formal event. And those are boring as hell."
Bucky stayed silent, not loving the picture of your life that he was starting to see. "Do you think she's happy, though?" He finally asked.
Yelena dropped her head to look at him. Her eyes were piercing, even in the dark. "I wonder all the time. Right now, I would say yes. But when he's back? That question becomes harder to answer. You've done something, though."
At this, Bucky felt himself freeze up. Had you told Yelena that he'd kissed you? But he was able to release the tension he carried when Yelena added, "I think you woke her up. I don't know how to explain it. So thanks for that."
He was saved from replying when he felt warmth against his back. You weren't touching him, but you were right behind him. "Pizza's here. You guys coming in?"
You hadn't heard the conversation, it seemed. He tilted his head back to look at you. Even upside down, you were beautiful. He was sure you could see his heart in his eyes. "Yep." He said.
You smiled and squeezed his shoulders. "Don't listen to what Sam says about pineapples on pizza." Then you were gone, Yelena squeezing past Bucky to follow. He stayed there for another minute, looking at the stars, and thinking of you.
You were going out this morning. It was supposed to be brunch, with all of your husband's female relatives. You hadn't said it out loud, not to Bucky, but he had the distinct feeling that you were dreading it. He knew you'd be leaving sometime after he stopped by your house. "Do you think you could come back, though? When your route is done? I need an opinion on what to wear and I just know that none of the girls are awake yet." Your hair was in rollers, your flouncy robe on once more. You were blowing on your fingernails gently, a fresh coat of baby pink polish painted on.
"Do you really trust me to choose?" he asked drily, but you were sincere when you said, "Yes, of course."
It was really nothing at all to cycle back to yours, at the end of his route. You'd told him the door would be unlocked—dangerous, he thought, but it had been true—and called your name. "Up here!" your voice floated back.
He took the stairs two at a time. He was sure that he was leaving muddy shoe prints on the carpet runner. He found your bedroom with ease, though he'd never been upstairs before. Your room was huge, cavernous. He saw through one open door the curve of a giant bathtub. Through another, rows upon rows of clothes. And in the middle of the room, at the end of the bed, was you. You were still in your pajamas, but your hair was free from rollers, looking gorgeous and soft and oh, how he wanted to run his hands through those perfect curls. You were holding up a pale blue dress, with a few others in varying colours laid on the bedspread.
"I just can't pick," you wailed, dramatically tossing the blue one over the others. "There are too many choices."
He kept his hands behind his back, because all he wanted to do was reach out and touch you, temptation threatening to rear its ugly head. "Don't you have a favourite?"
"Yes," you mumbled, though you didn't sound happy about it.
"Well, why can't you wear that one?"
You sat down, not caring about wrinkling the array of fabrics. "Ah, well…" You bit your perfect pink lip, "No matter what I wear, I know that it will be wrong. My husband's mother is, well… she can be a bit…"
"A bitch?"
Your eyes flew up to his. "I was going to say 'difficult', but, yeah," you sighed, "that works too."
"You're already married to her son. Shouldn't the time for impressing her be over?" Bucky asked, frowning. He didn't know all that much about marriage, and knew even less about being married into a rich family, but he would have thought that it meant everyone welcomed you with open arms. He knew for a fact that his own family would love you.
"It's not that simple, I—" You frowned too, twisting your ring. "You know I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth, right? I only went to college because I was on scholarship."
The air left him in a sharp whoosh. No. In all the conversations you'd had about school, you hadn't shared that detail. "Oh."
He could suddenly see, with startling clarity, what it was about you that made your husband's family look down on you. He'd never felt hatred for someone he'd never met before, but he did now.
"When I met my husband, I was top of my class. He was failing. I started to tutor him. and then, you know, everything else, the happy ending." It didn't sound very happy, not to him. Then you sat up straighter. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. She tolerates me a lot more when he's around, but this is something I can't skip. My sister-in-law just got engaged and it's about wedding plans, so I have to go."
He hesitated for only a second before crossing the room and sitting next to you, not caring about the careful pleats of the pink dress beneath him. He took your hands, a bold move, and held them in his. "It does matter. You have the most beautiful soul I've ever seen. If she doesn't know that by now, it's her loss. I hope you know that her opinion isn't worth a damn."
You didn't speak for a long minute. He worried that he had offended you. Family was family, after all, no matter how poorly you got along sometimes. But then he felt your hands squeeze both of his. "Thank you for saying that. It's not—I don't really hear that sort of sentiment often."
Bucky felt a distinct, faint outrage that you weren't told that sort of thing regularly, but he let the anger pass. "Okay, so, show me your favourite dress. I'll be honest, I promise."
He gave you an encouraging smile and your hands slipped from his, before you stood. "I have two, actually. So you have to pick the best one."
You disappeared into the closet, appearing moments later in a dress of dark red lace. It had a halter top, a flared skirt. Your legs looked impossibly long in the matching heels. You looked gorgeous, thought Bucky's opinion was somewhat skewed, because that was what he always thought of you. "Wow," Was all he could say, leaning back on his hands.
He wasn't sure if he imagined that your cheeks looked a little more pink than they had a moment ago. He admired you openly as you smoothed your hands over the skirt. "If this is your first option, the second one might kill me."
"You ducked your head shyly. "Oh, but I have to wear different shoes with the other one. I like these, but they don't match. And they're really annoying to put on and take off."
It was a crisscross of straps, halfway up your calf. The outfit was probably not the most respectable for brunch, not with the people you'd be meeting with, at least, but Bucky would have taken you anywhere in that dress. You started to undo one of the straps, fumbling with the clasp that held them together. Your nails were slightly too long to do it easily. "Here," he motioned you closer, "let me."
You sat on the bed, and he moved to crouch at your feet. The position reminded him of the first time he'd laid eyes on you, and he suppressed a shudder of desire. You were trusting him to be your friend, nothing more. He shouldn't squander it. But still, he couldn't avoid touching your soft skin as he undid the clasp, the laces, the tiny, delicate buckle at your ankle. He slid the offending shoe of your foot, swallowing hard. He could smell your lotion, your perfume.
He should have worked faster on the other shoe, faster so that he could lean away from you. But his hands wouldn't obey, instead taking the time to caress your leg as he slowly worked the laces off. You were utterly silent. He couldn't bear to look at your face, afraid of what he might see. When the other shoe was off, he still held your ankle in both of his hands. "Thank you." You said quietly, like speaking would set off an alarm.
"You're welcome." But he didn't move, and you didn't pull out of his grasp.
All you did was let your breath hitch, when one of his rough palms moved up your calf, to the bend of your knee. He placed a kiss there, before resting his forehead heavily against the bone. All he could smell was you. It was intoxicating—you were intoxicating. He almost felt he couldn't breathe. "I shouldn't have come back," he murmured into your skin.
"No, you shouldn't have," you admitted. But your hand stroked through his hair gently. So gently, he thought he was imagining it. It made him feel lightheaded. Each kiss that followed, a slow meandering path up your thigh, was broken by a sigh from you, or from him. He felt like he was begging for forgiveness, there on his knees before you. He felt like his heart was going to explode out of his chest. He felt like his nerves were made of electricity.
It was very easy to push your skirt up to your waist. Equally easy to rest his head between your legs, his chin touching the mattress, the flurry of skirts from the reject dresses. His eyes were closed. You had invaded every one of his senses, and looking at you felt like it would hurt. Your hand moved to the back of his neck. Your nails grazed him, the barest touch, as you both stood at the end of the cliff together.
There was only one more place he could kiss you, kneeling before you as he was. He was giving you a chance to push his head away, to push him away. But you didn't, so his mouth brushed the black lace of your panties. He felt you go rigid for a single second. but then your hands met his at your hips, pulling the fabric down and away. He was dizzy. What had happened to just being friends? He couldn't ask the question, now. He had to take what you'd give him.
The first touch of his tongue against your folds made the tiniest whimper leave your mouth. He looked up, was greeted by the sight of you covering your lips with the back of your hand, eyes watery. Like you couldn't handle the sensory overload, even when he'd barely started with you. Or maybe you were crying because you were breaking your vows. He didn't look away from you when he licked a long, slow stripe up your center. You were so beautiful that it was painful.
Your legs threatened to close around his head as he kept going. You tasted like honey. He could have guessed it, but he was happy to be right. He'd thought about this more than once, though he'd felt guilty about it. Guilt wasn't in the room right now, though. Not for him. His hands were firm on your thighs, keeping you spread. Your sounds were muffled by your hand. He didn't care—he'd take what he could get. He wanted you in any capacity that he could have you.
He got lost in you. He was drowning. He was glad. Thrilled, really. The simple act of helping you take off your shoes had gotten you wet. Or maybe it had just been his presence, he didn't know. It felt like too much to hope for. He lost track of time. He was only jolted back to himself when he heard you say shakily, brokenly, "Bucky." Then you came.
Your body quivered under his hands while he worked you through it. What a fragile little creature. He thought you might snap in two. He kept you open, relished in your hand tight on his hair. When your grip went slack, he stopped. Stared up at you, knowing his face was glistening. You still looked perfect. Your mouth was slightly open. You'd been biting your lip—he could tell by how red it looked. If he examined the hand that had been over your mouth, he would sure he'd see the crescent moon indentation of your nails in your palm.
The silence was suspended, dangerous. He wanted more. He was afraid he'd always want more. But he knew that was too much. He was amazed that he'd even gotten this far. He was scared you'd throw him out, now. But instead, you whispered, "I can't wear this dress to brunch."
"No, you can't," he agreed. He licked his lips—he could still taste honey. "Do you have something more conservative?"
You nodded quickly—too quickly, really, like your head was about to pop off your shoulders. "Yes. An a-line tea dress. It's lilac." Bucky didn't know what those words meant. But he nodded. "Wear that."
You both stood slowly. You smoothed the skirt of your dress again, then disappeared into your closet. Your panties, discarded on the toe of his boot, disappeared into his pocket. And then he disappeared too, out the door and into the sun.
You didn't talk about it. Neither did he. It was a secret, you see. You were being a very bad wife when you sighed and fell into Bucky's arms. You were being a terrible wife when you let him leave ink smears on your clothes. You were being an awful wife when your arms snaked around his neck without your permission, lost in a kiss.
He thought that when you met him on the porch every morning, you were resigning yourself, promising yourself, to be a good wife. To treat him like your friend. To stop this, to go back to before. You still gave him water and snacks. You still exchanged pleasantries. But when he came back at the end of the route, unable to stop himself even though you hadn't requested a return visit, knocked on the glass with a grimy hand, your promise went out the window. He hadn't slept with you. But he'd found himself pushing you into a chair or onto the long, formal table in the dining room. Found himself on his knees again, your legs wrapped around his head, heels digging into his back, hands in his hair. He wouldn't let you return the favour. You'd only tried once, tugging on his belt loop with your pinkie, lip caught between your teeth. He didn't want to dirty you up more than he already had.
Worse was that you both still hung out with your circle of friends. It remained perfectly normal. He got the sense that your friends didn't care for your husband all that much, but that didn't mean they'd be alright with what you were doing. The thing was, you were the last person to be suspected of cheating. Loyal friend, loyal wife, he thought. That was your brand.
Not anymore.
The only inkling of suspicion that he'd noticed was one evening, when you'd leaned your head against his shoulder. Yelena, directly across from you both, had caught his eye. Her expression was unreadable, but it wasn't judgemental. He remembered what she'd revealed to him. Wondered if she was quietly rooting for him to shake your foundations, spring you free.
It was killing him, bit by bit. Fall was right around the corner, a couple weeks away. He wouldn't be seeing you in the mornings anymore, quite soon. He'd be in class until early afternoon. You'd have to come to him. But would you want to? It was one thing for him to double back to your house. You were already there. It was him crossing the line. But for you to come to him… You'd have to be very aware of what you were doing, what you were risking.
Bucky e went to your house that morning, paper in hand, same as always. But you weren't home. He knew, because there was a paper bag on the table. A note was stuck to the front. "Busy day. Stay out of the sun, it will be hot! See you tomorrow."
He grabbed the bag without much thought, leaving the newspaper in its place, then carried on. It was only at the end of the route, when Bucky got hungry, that he unfurled the paper. Orange slices carefully sealed in a plastic bag. A water bottle. A flaky pastry with strawberry filling. But he caught sight of something at the bottom. White edges, flat to the paper. Was it another note?
No, actually, it wasn't. If Bucky hadn't been standing still, he would have tripped over his feet. Three Polaroids fanned out between his hands.
Three Polaroids of you. In the bath.
You were mostly covered by bubbles. Your hair was piled on the top of your head. One of them was you blowing a kiss, complete with an exaggerated wink. Bucky had half a mind to call an ambulance for himself, to get hooked up to a heart monitor, the way the cursed organ was racing in his chest. He flipped it over, saw your handwriting on the back. "I thought of you today. I hope you think of me."
Of course he thought of you. He couldn't remember a time when he hadn't. This was so unlike you. Spontaneous. Carefree, like you weren't tightening a noose, betraying the man who paid your bills. Bucky put the most demure one in his wallet, tracing your smile with his finger. The others he tucked back safely in the bag. He'd have to show you, tomorrow, just how much he'd appreciated the sentiment. How much it meant to him that you'd take such a risk.
He also felt a lot more confident about what your true feelings might be.
The days passed too fast. Bucky felt like he was on a teacup ride, spinning and spinning, the world blurring too much for him to make out any shapes. Only you, that was all he could see clearly. He was fine with that. The rest of the universe could fall away, leave only the two of you standing, for all he cared.
Bucky felt certain, as certain as he did that the sun came up each day and that he needed air to breathe, that he loved you. He'd never felt so sure of anything in his life. He felt as light as he felt heavy. It wasn't a burden, not at all, to love you. It was the greatest joy he'd ever experienced. And he believed that you loved him, too. He felt it in his bones. But you still wore your ring. You never took it off. It felt like a gun in your hand, pointed at both of you. He didn't know if there was a bullet in the chamber, or when it would go off, who it would hit.
He didn't want to go back to school. It was his final year. He'd be a fully fledged adult after this, free to roam. But all he wanted was to travel the path up to that white house, see the girl behind its glass door. See all the colour in her closet, the colour contained there and only there, because it wasn't shades of ivory and bone. He knew that if you had been allowed to decorate more than the formal living room, it would have been a riot of blues, greens, oranges. Purples and pinks and yellows and reds. White wouldn't exist. If he lived with you, he thought, he wouldn't care if the whole house looked like a Jackson Pollock. He'd let you do whatever you wanted.
He let himself imagine it late at night. A warm, bright home. The smell of flowers. Music. The windows open to let in air, the curtains buffeting in the breeze. The sound of your laugh. Sitting on the floor with your dinner on the coffee table, an old sitcom on the TV. Waking up with you in a bed that would undoubtedly be frilly and over the top, but he wouldn't care, because it would have been picked out by you.
Thoughts like these kept him awake, because he wanted them to be real so badly. But if he told you that he wanted all of it with you, would you take the leap? He kept swinging wildly between yes and no, unsure where the pendulum would really stop, but with each passing day, his hope unfurled within him like a budding blossom.
It happened all too soon, his last day on the job. Bucky was supposed to do his route, the final circuit, the street names he'd come to know like the back of his hand. He knew which house had a tortoiseshell cat watching from the window, which one always had scooters and tricycles thrown across the driveway. Most of all, he knew your house.
When he finished here, he was to pick up his last paycheck at the warehouse. They paid out early for the final week of service. He would be using that money to pay for textbooks. He wished he could use it to take you somewhere nice.
For the fun of it, to see you smile, he wore the newsboy hat that you'd gotten him weeks ago. He'd never actually taken it with him on a route. It had stayed on his scratched up nightstand, too precious to him, a gift from you, to risk losing it somewhere. But it sat on his head now, as he walked up your driveway.
You were not waiting for him.
He felt a sense of unease, for a moment. But your husband was still away, and nothing was left out for him on the table, so he assumed you were still sleeping, for once. He recalled, belatedly, that you had gone to Natasha's last night. Maybe you'd slept over.
He carried on, finishing the rest of the route, before doubling back. He didn't ride his bike, choosing to walk with it resting against his hip, rolling it back down the hill. The longer he took, the more he could push away the end to a routine he'd come to love. He slowed to a crawl on your street. So unbearably slow he could feel the gravel crunching under his boots, the sun blazing against his shoulders, hot already. Your roof came into view, then the white brick, the fence.
He brought his bike through the gate, let it lean against the fence. Then he stood for a long moment, staring up at your house. A great, sparkling behemoth, it was, but it was also home to the greatest girl in the world. He walked up the path at a snail's pace. Knocked on the glass. Nothing.
It felt like a cold shock of water in his face. Were you really not here on his last day? Had you not meant it, when you said you wanted to stay friends after the summer? What if you'd already deleted his number, blocked it? He knocked again, a little frantic. Bucky thought the glass might have shaken. Still nothing. He felt distress like he'd never known.
So, that was really it.
Hands in his pockets, he stared blankly through the glass, into your empty foyer. The lights were off, but he could still see the marble floor gleaming. Then he turned, shoulders slumped, and walked back down your steps.
How heavy he felt, carrying a broken heart. Like the weight of the world was crushing him to paste. He was two steps away from his bike when the door cracked open with a thwack! at the same time he heard, "Bucky!"
He turned to see you, clutching a towel around yourself, running barefoot over the grass, and launching yourself at him. "I'm sorry, I was in the shower and then the phone rang, and then I dropped conditioner everywhere—"
He didn't care.
He didn't care, he didn't care, he didn't care what the reason for your lateness had been.
Not when you had your arms wrapped around his neck, your face close to his, your body warm and damp and smelling of wildflowers. He'd caught you easily, automatically. Your feet weren't even touching the ground. He stopped your apologies with a kiss, smiled at the muffled, "Mmph!"
You'd run across the lawn in such a dishevelled state, desperate to catch him before he was gone. He knew in that moment, he'd wait for you forever. "You're pretty indecent to be outside, you know. What would the neighbours think?" He chastised, the bravado covering just how derailed he'd been at the thought of not seeing you. As if your neighbours could see anything beyond the five foot high hedges lining your property where the fence ended.
"Oh, I know. Come on, let's go inside. I'll throw something on." you sighed. "It's laundry day. I put it off too long."
Your fingers twined with his as you led him into the house and up the stairs. Your free hand held the fold of your towel carefully, keeping it pinched together. He was fairly sure you'd almost lost it in your sprint.
Bucky followed you into your room. You were humming to yourself as you busied about the room, rifling through drawers for something to put on. At last you struggled into a t-shirt, the towel still covering your waist. You were chattering away, but he thought there was something different about it this time. Like you were nervous. He wanted to fix whatever it was that was bothering you. You held up a pair of shorts before folding them and putting them back. That was when he came up behind you, linking his arms around your waist. His chin came to rest on your shoulder. He gazed at you through the mirror above the dresser. Your hands had been fussing, but they stopped, as you looked at your reflections, too.
"Would you relax? You seem jumpy this morning." He murmured, nuzzling his face against your neck, leaving a kiss there.
"I know, I—" you faltered. Your voice had taken on a breathy quality. It always did when he kissed you there. "I think it's because I know I won't see you in the mornings anymore. It feels weird."
"Mmm." He hummed noncommittally. He pressed another kiss to your skin. You smelled divine. "But I'll still see you."
"I know, I know. Just—I'm not usually an early riser, you know. But I've managed to become one. What am i going to do with my mornings?" you joked, but your voice was a little shaky. Your t-shirt was stretched out at the collar. It was easy to pull at it by the sleeve to expose some of your shoulder. Another kiss melted into your flesh.
"Move your yoga class to an earlier one?" he suggested. He knew you did yoga most evenings with Wanda. You'd pointed out the studio on an outing once, teased all the boys and told them they'd never survive.
"Well, I could, I guess. That might be nice—oh…" You broke off when he sucked on your skin. He saw your eyes flutter closed. your head tipped back a little. It took almost no effort at all to turn you in his arms. You leaned against the dresser, let him continue to press kisses across your neck and jaw. He could feel your pulse each time he made contact. His hat fell away, landing somewhere on the floor. His hands pushed at the hem of your shirt, until his fingers dug into your waist. You were softer than a cloud. You always were. He kept dragging his hands up, palms rough against your ribs. He stopped under the curve of your breasts.
Against your mouth, between breaths, he said, "I think this shirt is getting in the way." You nodded, but he didn't think you'd really heard him. He was half-sure that he could have told you the sky was falling and you would have agreed. Off it went, over your head, though he took his time. He'd never seen all of you before. You were just as incredible as he'd known you would be. Pulling your towel away was even easier.
Bucky squeezed your waist with his hands, just because he could, just to hear you gasp. He cupped your cheek, then, let his thumb trail your lower lip. Your tongue darted out—he didn't think it had been intentional, not with the way your eyes flared wide, but he felt a bolt of lightning zip through him. His other thumb mimicked the same motion, across one of your nipples. The effect was instant. He thought you might melt to the floor from just that touch. You tilted your face, kissed where his palm and wrist met. It could have undone him. It almost did.
He dipped his head and laved his tongue over your other breast. You were trembling under his hands. He wanted this, wanted you, forever. He could only stay patient for a moment in time, though. He was through with holding back. He straightened up, only so that he could hook his hands under your thighs and lift you. Your legs locked around him automatically, hands on his shoulders, as he turned and marched you to the bed. He laid you down gently. All you could do was gaze up at him from where he hovered above you, your eyelids heavy. "Bucky…"
He didn't know if you said it as a warning, as a marker of a point of no return. He didn't know if you were saying it like a plea, begging him to blast straight through the stop sign. His foot was on the gas anyway. There was no way for him to slow down. You were both in it now.
"I got you. I got you, baby."
Bucky kissed you with enough force that he lost where he ended and you began. He could have stumbled for miles and not found the answer. You were panting into his mouth, your nails digging into his shoulders so hard that it hurt, even through his shirt. It was a stinging bite, like a snake's fangs. He hoped that there would be marks there, later, to prove that he hadn't been dreaming. He drew a line down your body with his mouth. He only stopped because you pulled his hair so brutally that it shocked him. You let go to pull at his shirt frantically, until he got the message. He was swift—he'd never keep you waiting if he could help it. Then your hands were everywhere. You were exploring him, and he loved you for it. Every muscle you touched seemed to twitch in response.
You tugged on his belt with surprising force. He put his hands over yours to stop you, to let him do it himself, and you relented, but your eyes never left his waistline. Glee rushed through him when your mouth fell open. He was bare before you, just like you were to him. Bucky had never really felt insecure. The way you were staring at him right now, with open adoration, made him think that he never could feel insecure. Instead, he felt invincible. "I—you—wow…" you breathed. He thought that you might be salivating.
"Now you know how I feel when I look at you." He admitted. You drew your finger between the muscles on his stomach. It tickled. You were both looking at his very obvious want for you.
"I don't even know what to say…" you trailed off. "Are you always like this?" The question was really: are you always this hard during sex? But Bucky answered it as if you'd asked, are you always like this around me?
"Always."
"Oh." He couldn't believe that you had the audacity to be surprised. Had you looked at yourself lately? Any man who could resist you had to be a saint, or blind.
He groaned when you curled your fingers around his shaft. "Fuck, give a guy a little warning first."
"I'm sorry." But you didn't sound very sorry. You were experimental as you moved your hand up and down, thumb brushing the tip. He could have wept at the sensation. This was precisely why he'd never let you take him in your mouth. He thought he'd fall apart immediately.
"Stop," he said, but it was around a sharp inhale.
Your hand stilled. "Why? Does it not feel good?"
"I'm gonna come right now if you keep going." His voice sounded strangled.
Impossibly, you laughed. It sounded like music, just like the first time, and all the other times he'd heard it. "Would that be so bad?"
He gritted his teeth. "Yes. That's not how I want to do this." He pried your hand off, linked your fingers with his.
Your laugh had faded, your face a study in softness. "Okay. Show me then."
It was the easiest request you'd ever asked of him. You laid back down on the bedspread. your hair was soaking the sheets, still wet from your shower. He wished he could frame this moment, remember exactly how you looked, the way the sun gilded your features, turned your lashes golden. The naked trust in your eyes was piercing. Your legs parted at the gentlest nudge of his knee between yours.
He could see you were slick between your thighs. He'd made you that way. He could hardly believe it. He dragged his thumb across your folds. You shifted restlessly at the touch. He did it again, just to watch you squirm, pressing down on your clit. "She's so wet, and all for me." He hadn't meant to say it out loud but the words floated between you anyway.
"Bucky, I…"
"You don't have to say anything." He didn't know what he was stopping you from admitting, or why he did. But he didn't want you to be too in your own head, to feel like you had to respond just because he'd spoken.
"Are you gonna…?" You said anyway, looking pointedly at his cock.
"Gotta get you ready first."
"I am ready."
He couldn't help but smile. He'd never heard you sound stubborn before; it was cute, and totally ineffective. "Easy, Kitty. I want to make sure."
"But Bucky, I'm re-ahh!" you stopped short, head falling back, when one of his fingers entered you.
"Hmm, yeah, maybe you are…" he teased, voice innocent. He added another for good measure, stretching you open, feeling you clamp around his hand.
Tou got lost in the feeling for a good long while before your nails dug into his wrist. "Enough. Now you. Please."
"You have me."
"You know what I mean." You were all but pouting. His fingers slipped out easily, but he took his time sucking your wetness from them. "Did you know that you taste like honey?"
At this, you blushed. "Stop it."
"Next time, I'll let you taste." He was surprised you didn't know. How unimaginative your husband must be, to never tell you, to describe your distinct flavour. He was more surprised with how certain he'd sounded that there would be a next time.
"You sure you're ready?" He was teasing you again. He knew you were. He felt five seconds away from going crazy himself. Still, Bucky waited for you to nod before notching himself at your entrance. He only pushed in the tip. He thought it was enough to kill him. How did you feel so good already, when he was barely inside? His forehead thunked heavily against your shoulder, and your whine sounded loud in his ear. He wanted to bottle it up, listen to it later.
"Shit, shit, shit," he muttered. He was sure he wasn't going to last, not when you felt like this. It was nearly painful how slowly he pushed the rest of the way in. Then he held very, very still. You let him, running your hands through his hair before he moved his head, to look into your eyes. He hoped you could see all his love for you in them. He kissed you once, whispering, "You okay?"
You nodded. "Are you?"
"I've never been better." He was slow when he started to move. He had to be. He wanted it to last as long as it could. He could feel every inch of you as you held him inside. You fit together like you were meant to be.
Even still, he could feel his end approaching. "Fuck, I'm not—I can't—"
"It's okay," you murmured. But it wasn't okay, not to him. He wanted to make it count. He didn't want to go before you did. "Bucky. It's okay." you repeated. "If it feels good, don't stop yourself. Please." Please was said on a moan.
He started to speed up, only because he realized you were closer than he'd thought. Maybe you'd come at the same time. He felt it in the base of his spine, in his belly, in his tendons. "Leave him. Be with me. Please, God, just be with me instead." The words were blurted out when his hips started to stutter.
Bucky had never planned on saying them, but now they were out, no taking them back. Your eyes had gone wide, with passion or shock, he didn't know, and that was what he was afraid of. "Bucky, I can't. I signed a prenup, I…"
You trailed off. Maybe you'd had nothing else to say. The crushing reality of the situation slammed into Bucky at the same time his orgasm did; his and yours both. You clenched around him so tight he felt like he was choking, but it might have been the numbing grief spreading through him as he emptied himself inside you. "I know I'm not rich. I don't care. I'll work two jobs to support us. I can do that for you." He gasped out.
"Bucky…"
All of a sudden, it was over. Making love, and you two together. Just like that, in a span of twenty seconds. He stopped touching you, started to push himself off the bed, but your arms and legs coiled around him. "No, no, Bucky, please don't go. Please don't…"
He pried off your arm, but your flung it straight back over his shoulders, pulling him against you. "Please don't go. Please don't go."
"I can't do this anymore." he mumbled. "Please let go so I don't hurt you by mistake."
He couldn't bear it. Nor could he bear the tears flooding your eyes. "Bucky, please don't go." It was all you could say. He kissed your tear stained cheek, pulled your arms off again, and held them by the wrists. You went limp, your energy expended. Then he was up and away, dragging a hand over his face, before stumbling into his jeans and grabbing his shirt and boots up in his arms.
He didn't look back at you, but he heard your sobs in his head all the way home.
Class was monotonous. Bucky was getting some of the best grades he'd ever had in his life, diligent in his studies. He threw himself into it. What more could he do? Your number was gone from his phone. So was everyone else's. Sam, Joaquin, Yelena… He'd seen Wanda once, at the crosswalk near his campus, and turned the other way. He couldn't be friends with them and not you. It would be too hard to hear about you. He didn't know if you'd told any of them a thing. He couldn't pretend nothing had happened.
It was amazing how quickly things could go from blissful to tainted, ruined, destroyed.
He'd never given you his address. He was sure you could have found him somehow, but he never heard a word from you. It was easier that way. Your loyalty came at a cost. The asking price had been too high.
The leaves turned orange, russet, copper. Snow came, and so did exams. Holly leaves and Christmas music and candy canes. The poppers and streamers that rang in the New Year. Wind and rain and ice, followed by flowers and bees and birds, and Bucky graduated that spring at the top of his class.
And every day, he thought of you.
"Barnes, I know you're new here, but I have to say I'm impressed. Your column is doing well. I'll admit that I thought it would just be a fluff piece once every other week, but the other higher ups and I think you have potential to take the Monday and Thursday slot going forward." Bucky blinked in surprise at Nicholas Fury.
Furious News was a pretty popular online newspaper. It was happenstance that Bucky had ended up there. One of his classmates had heard of an opening and got him an interview, as luck would have had it. He'd been very lucky that Daisy had talked him up to Coulson and Fury, luckier still that he had a shiny new diploma indicating that he knew a thing or two about journalism, because he'd been given a tiny desk and instructions to do some copy editing for the least important articles, before miraculously being given a slot of his own, a year into working there.
Advice From Yours Truly was the name of his column. Surprisingly, people liked hearing about a 20-something's life experiences, felt some sense of kindred spirit. His advice was never very good, he thought to himself, but people seemed to like it.
"Really?" he asked, though it was rhetorical. He knew Fury hated those types of questions.
Indeed, Fury gave him a look of distaste from across the desk. "Just don't screw it up, Barnes. For whatever reason, we get the most fan mail for you. And they don't even know what you look like."
There was a pause as Bucky ruminated on the praise, before Fury sighed and said, "Get the fuck out of here."
"Right. Sorry." He scrambled from the chair and out into the bullpen, bee-lining for his desk.
Darcy leaned into his space, snapping her bubblegum between her lips. "Do my eyes deceive me or did you just get a compliment from Fury? Anyone else who enters his office doesn't leave without getting yelled at most of the time."
He leaned away from her—he'd ended up with gum in his hair enough times by now—but nodded. "Yeah, I did. Yours Truly is getting a more permanent spot."
She extended a fist, to which he knocked knuckles with her. "Good going, sport."
He grimaced. She'd only worked there for three months longer than him, but she constantly lorded it over him. Then she wheeled her chair back to her own desk, leaving him alone.
Speaking of Yours Truly, he had to check on the submissions he'd gotten over the weekend. Usually he went through each one and picked out the five best, before writing an answer to each. Then he'd pick the strongest two and share them around the office before making the final decision. They were all normal, as he clicked through the emails. No crazy anecdotes this time. No, completely mundane, except for the last one, the newest to hit his inbox at 8 am that morning. He looked at his watch—it had only just gone past nine.
"Hi Bucky," it began—nobody knew him as bucky here—he'd hung up that nickname for the sake of professionalism. Maybe it was another previous classmate. "Do you have any experience in losing out on love? I knew this amazing guy, a few years ago. He was really one of a kind. He listened, he cared. I felt like I smiled every day, when I saw him. He was the best part of my summer."
Even though he'd gotten emails like this before, he hadn't yet grown jaded. He felt a pang of sympathy for the sender. "But I screwed everything up. I was scared I guess, to seize what was right in front of me. He's definitely my one that got away. How do you move on from that? Is it even possible? Or do you think I should go out on a limb, ask for a chance? I've been single for a while now. I can't bear to enter the dating world again—I keep thinking of him. I should have listened to him. I should have told him… I should have told him so many things, but I didn't. It's my biggest regret. I don't think words could ever express how deeply."
Hm, this writer was awful lovesick. Bucky heaved a sigh. He was about to close out of it, unable to think of any advice he could give. He knew the pain all too well, of course. It was a tough burden to bear, a hard wound to close. "I just hope that wherever he is, that he's doing well. I think he is. I always thought he had great potential. The rest of the world should see him like I do."
The final sentence caught his eye, his finger hovering over the mouse. A peculiar feeling settled over his shoulders, worn and familiar like an old coat, one he thought he'd lost. It was a tiny seed, not quite big enough to bloom yet. But it was there all the same.
"Always yours forever, Kitty. xx"
bonus note: this is how this idea was conceived by the way... if you're ever wondering what writers talk about... (me and @juniebjonesin)
tangentwithtanner
areudirty
2087
