Description: Things between you and Azriel had been going great, until he comes home from a mission wrapped around another. Realizing it wasn't as serious to him, you run. Just intending to take a walk, things go south when you realize you're in trouble... and the shadowsinger might just not care.
Tags/ Warnings: Angst, injury, hurt/comfort, Azriel is a meanie, Cassian being Cassian.
Smoothing the skirts of your gown, your gaze couldn't help but fall on the necklace you hadn't taken off in weeks. Azriel had gifted it to you for solstice, the blue of the gem looking suspiciously similar to that of his siphons.
You wouldn't say you were courting, per se. Your relationship had simply bloomed on its own into something neither of you had ever bothered to name.
Your fingers drifted over the stone's surface, and for the first time all day, the tightness in your shoulders began to ease. Azriel was meant to be home tonight.
It was no surprise to you that Rhysand had deemed Azriel's mission over the same night he intended to host a feast for the inner circle and outside friends. According to your High Lord, Azriel was due back any moment now, the details of his mission unbeknownst to you. You were just excited to see him.
Azriel had gone on a few missions since this relationship had intensified, the male always seeking you out the second his feet touched down on the balcony of the house of wind.
You hadn't intended to miss him so much. Things were still fairly new, and to feel this attached to him was almost alarming. You weren't used to having someone to wait for, unsure if you should act overly joyful at his return or a little more nonchalant.
Shaking your head for some clarity, you let your gaze fall upon your figure one last time. You had chosen the best getup you had available for the occasion, something in you itching to see the reaction of the shadowsinger. The dark fabric and intricate lace might have been on purpose to reference his shadows, but that was insignificant.
He always took you in appreciatively, whether in a nightgown or training leathers, his gaze slowly dropping to your feet before rising to your face. You felt your cheeks heat at the memory of the way his eyes darkened when landing on you.
Finally tearing your gaze from the mirror, you cleared your throat from the intensity before making your way out of your bed chambers.
The violins grew louder as you neared the party, your shoes clicking lightly against the stone of the ground beneath you. Finally catching sight of a few guests, you sighed in relief when your eyes fell on Mor already chatting up a familiar looking couple.
Timidly approaching her, you let your hand meet her arm before she turned to look at you, her gaze lighting up immediately at the recognition.
"Finally! I was starting to think you weren't coming!"
You giggled as her arms wrapped around your neck, her stance slightly wobbly likely from the wine glass already clutched in her fire red nails.
"I see someone has already cracked open the wine..."
She lightly smacked at your still outstretched hand, the glass sloshing lightly at her movements. Pulling entirely away from the couple she was previously speaking to, she wrapped her arm around yours before leading you deeper into the party.
"Ha. Ha. Very funny. I know you're just itching for a glass yourself." She huffed, heels clacking along as she kept her pace beside you.
An hour or two later, you were three glasses in, watching amusedly as Cassian reenacted an interaction he had in the market earlier this week.
"I don't understand why it's so laughable that I, warlord and killer of men, would be interested in personal hygiene?! You should've seen the females giggling from the stall over!"
A content laughter settled among the few fae around him, his expression exaggerated as if waiting for someone to answer his rhetorical question. Just when he seemed ready to continue, his posture stiffened at something he was seeing behind your back.
Furrowing your brows in confusion, you went to look behind you when Cassian's hand suddenly landed on your shoulder.
"Hey! Why don't we- uh- would you like to come get a drink with me?"
You could see the nervous gulp trail down his throat as his gaze searched yours, his eyebrows lifted almost in a plead as he gently pulled you toward him. Glancing down at your almost full wine glass, you lifted your gaze back to him confused, raising it slightly to catch his attention. It would have almost been comical if he didn't look so close to soiling his trousers.
"Not you, silly! Me! I need a drink, you know, all this 'working the crowd' has really dried out my thr-"
His plead was interrupted by a few gasps from the fae around you, your attention quickly snapping back to the situation at hand. Just as you went to turn around a second time, Cassian quickly pulled you again, your wine splashing over the rim and onto your fingers.
"Hey! What is going on with you? What is everyone starting at-"
Just as the words passed your lips, your gaze finally landed behind you. Across the party, an unmistakable spymaster was stood in the crowd. Feeling your pulse increase at his presence, you let your body fully turn in his direction, eager to greet him.
You were stopped in your tracks as your gaze lowered, your feet coming to an abrupt halt when you noticed a manicured hand wrapped around his bicep. Eyes quickly shooting to his right, you felt your heart stop entirely as your eyes fell on a beautiful fae woman. His eyes were on her as she laughed, her gaze more than friendly as she looked up at him.
All you could manage was a small "Oh." as Cassian appeared at your side, his hand finding your arm and tugging again.
Letting him steer you away from the sight, the gears in your mind began turning as you walked with him to his unknown destination. Voices invaded your mind, whispers from the party guests. Statements along the lines of "Azriel never brings a female" or "I wonder if he has found his mate". You only snapped out of your spiral momentarily when you heard a door shut behind you.
"Look y/n. I know what it looks like. Just listen to me-"
You raised your hand abruptly, cutting him off.
"What it looks like? Cass, it's what it is. You don't have to try and spare my feelings."
Cassian ran a hand through his hair, a frustrated sigh leaving his lips.
"No y/n seriously. Let me explain."
You took in his devastated features, matching his look with your own. How awful that Cassian would have to be the one to let you down easily, his own brother too occupied to reject you himself.
"No Cass. It's fine. You don't have to explain for him."
You quickly turned away from him, dropping your glass on a nearby table. You didn't realize you were crying until you caught your reflection in the mirror above it, tears trailing through the makeup you had spent hours perfecting.
Steeling yourself in the reflection, you didn't let Cassian speak another word before you were gone. The rage and utter betrayal in your mind blending into one tainted landscape. Where the winds matched the ice you felt in your veins, the temperatures as brutal as the thrum in your heart.
Landing on your knees, you didn't even have to look up to know where you had landed. The snow cushioned your fall, pooling around the skirts of your gown. Your chest rose and fell rapidly as you stared, watching as a thin layer of sleet covered your lap almost instantly.
Letting your hands fall to your sides, your fingers didn't even flinch as they came in contact with the freezing sludge beneath you. You just sat there, letting your body become one with the elements and bring you back to reality.
It didn't take long before you felt the biting chill racing across your skin, your gown not doing anything to shield from the biting winds. It was refreshing.
This place was not unfamiliar. You had been here before, many times. When you had nightmares, when you were so overwhelmed with emotion you couldn't escape, your mind always conjured you here. You don't know why, but the place that once seemed to frighten you was now calling with open arms. The one place nobody knew. The place of your deepest fears, now becoming your sanctuary.
Nobody would be crazy enough to follow you out here. Even if they somehow knew where you were.
It felt like hours had passed when you finally stood. Body uncontrollably jerking with the cold, you forced yourself onto unsteady feet. Letting your gaze fall on your destination, you took in the twisted black trees and steady downpour of sleet. The hairs on the back of your neck immediately stood. Something was watching from the darkness.
Whipping around at a cracking twig beside you, your hands immediately raised in defense, body tightening with anticipation. Feeling your breaths tumble past your lips, you couldn't help the jumps in your muscles from the freezing temperatures. As you squinted through the snowfall, you made out a large figure twisting its' way through the forest.
You jumped when you heard another sound behind you, forcing you to take your eyes off the first creature and check your blindspot in case of an ambush. Not seeing anything, you quickly whipped your head back to the original threat, but were shocked into a gasp when the creature appeared right in front of you. Tripping over your own feet, you gathered your skirts in your hand and ran.
Jumping over roots, ankles twisting and bending at awkward angles, you ran through the snow as fast as you could. Your toes were numb as the snow soaked through your slippers, making it even harder to measure your steps. You checked behind you every few steps, anguish crawling up your throat in a scream as you realized it was gaining on you faster than you anticipated.
Deciding running wasn't going to save you, you swallowed your fear and stopped your steps. Whipping around, you prepared to strike at the monster on your heels. A shudder crashed through you at the sight of it.
It was nothing you had ever seen before. A large reptile-like head rested on an even larger body, the moon glinting off of massive claws digging into the slush before you. It's long serpent-like neck twisted and turned as it looked at you, teeth baring and tongue lashing curiously as it sized you up.
You didn't even have a chance to take in the creature before it was pouncing, teeth chomping at the space your head was just in. Dodging, you tucked and weaved as quickly as you could to dodge its' blows. As you danced around the creature, you could hear its' voice in hissing whispers, and one of them made you stop dead in your tracks.
"The Ssssspymasssterssss mate!"
You could only stare as its' tongue flicked with each 'S', a pang of confusion almost knocking you back harder than one of the creature's blows.
Your moment of pause would cost you.
Before you could even utter a word, one of the creatures scaled legs soared, its claws sinking right into your side. You could feel as each claw pushed through your ribs, nothing but a small wheeze escaping as you held the intense eye contact. The searing pain was nothing compared to the memory you'd have of those eyes, holding your own like it never wanted you to forget. Your body had no choice but to collapse where you stood, the world blurring until you were looking up at the sky above you. You could barely make out a scaled tail whipping above you as the creature slipped into the night.
Your hand clutched your side, white hot pain shooting through you. You sucked in a ragged breath, only for it to catch as fluid invaded your lungs. A harsh cough wracked your body, your body convulsing and warm liquid spilling out onto your face.
Trying and failing to suck in a full breath, your battered body jerked and pulsed with the pain, your vision becoming hazy for a moment before focusing back on the night sky. You could feel the sleet hitting your face harshly, forcing your eyes to blink rapidly.
The wind howled around you, the once still trees looking alive as the rays of the moon slipped between their branches. You could hear the whistle of the wind through them, creaks and groans echoing around you at the pressure pushing against them.
Just as your vision blurred a second time, you thought you heard something. Your fae ears twitched, straining against the raging winds around you. Hope bloomed in your chest, fragile, as you listened.
There it was.
Faint at first, then louder.
"Y/n!" a voice bellowed through the trees. "Answer me, sweetheart!"
Your heart lurched.
Azriel.
Every instinct urged you to call out, to let him know you were here and you needed him. You opened your mouth, but only a weak broken gurgle escaped past the blood on your lips. Pain ripped through your chest.
You didn't realize you were crying until you felt the shrill trail of tears down your temples, the realization that Azriel wouldn't find you in time bringing a rough cry past your lips.
Your heart lurched a second time as another shout cut through the trees.
"Y/n?" His voice cracked with panic. "I hear you, baby."
Footsteps thundered through the forest, growing closer with every passing second, branches snapping beneath his steps. Shadows stirred between the trees, racing ahead of their master.
"I'm coming." he called, breathless. "Hold on for me. I'm coming."
Your blurry gaze catches a movement in the tree line before you, branches separating and snow falling as a tall figure bursts through. Before you can even orient yourself Azriel has landed on his knees beside you, the glow of his siphons drawing your focus to his chest.
Hands come up to cradle your face, your eyes flickering to his own as his head blocks your line of sight to the sky above. You can feel the trail of blood running down your chin when you attempt to smile up at him.
You can feel his hands leave your face as he assesses your body, another gurgle coming from you when his hand comes in contact with the wound on your side.
âI know, baby. Iâm sorry.â he coos, his free hand coming back up to wipe at the tears rolling down your temple.
Your hand comes up to grab at his resting on your hair now, your own blood coating your fingers visible in your peripheral.
A broken sound leaves his lips as you choke once again, an almost feral growl you had never heard from him before.
His shadows slowly start to surround you, and before you can attempt another breath, his face steeles into one of resolve.
âIâm going to winnow you. I have to get you back to Velaris so Madja can help.â his hands automatically start moving to hold your body to his, one sliding beneath your back and the other cradling the back of your head.
At the movement, you canât help the wince that tumbles past your lips.
âI know it hurts, sweetheart. But you have to stay with me, okay? Can you do that for me?â his eyes are pleading when he locks them with your own, his breaths trembling.
With as much of a nod as you can muster, you brace yourself for the pain about to consume you.
Azriel brings your body to his, tucking your face into the crook of his neck. You watch in awe as the shadows surround you fully. You had never been surrounded by such complete and utter darkness.
You can hear Azriel talking to you, a repeated âIâm sorry. Iâm so fucking sorryâ passing through your ears as the world around you disappears.
With the warp through time, you can feel your entire being teetering over the edge of life and death. The pressure on your limbs is so strong you can do nothing but hold your breath, praying to the mother that you make it to the other side.
Azriel might love another, but you still have friends, a family waiting for you. Even though your heart was on the verge of breaking, you still had hope. Hope for happiness and a future where you didnât feel like this.
Just as a bright white began taking over your vision, Azriel clutching to you like he would never let go again, the shadows dissipated. You could feel the coolness of their embrace leave you suddenly, before your consciousness began to fade.
Muffled in the background, you could hear Azriel yelling. âGet Madja! She doesnât have much longer. She canât breathe.â tore through his lips as your body transferred from his to a softer surface. You finally could let your mind relax.
The first thing to return to you was sound. You could hear the faint crackling in the hearth, a soft sound coming from the fae lights around you. Letting your ears tune into the new environment, your fingers began searching of their own volition.
A soft, familiar texture smoothed under your fingertips, the warmth of the comforter feeling foreign after so long in the cold.
Clearing your throat, your eyes immediately popped open when you realized that there was no longer anything interfering with your breaths.
It took a moment for your vision to clear, almost as if the sleet had to clear away before you could fully take in your surroundings. Slowly sitting up, you winced at the pinch in your side.
Your brows furrowed as you realized that this was not your room. The dark bedding and wall of daggers gave you a good idea of whose bed you were occupying, but you werenât sure why.
Realizing you were alone in the room, you forced your legs to swing over the side of the bed, the grunt of effort an added reminder of the trauma your body had gone through.
You didnât even stop to take in your appearance, which you were sure had been cleaned up by some form of magic, before tiptoeing through the cracked bedroom door.
It took a couple of stops against the wall before you began hearing muffled voices in the dining room. Your fae healing had gotten you this far, but you werenât entirely confident in your own movements.
Steeling yourself and taking a calming breath, you prepared yourself to see the Illyrian you were sure held your broken heart in his own two, scarred, hands. Right as you were about to round the corner, you stopped again when you heard the smooth timbre of his voice rumbling through the room.
âAnd nobody thought to fucking tell her that?â
Realizing you were the topic of discussion, you decided to stop the inevitable and make your presence known. You only made it two steps into the room before every head snapped in your direction, and another two before your body was brutally crushed into an embrace.
âOh, thank the mother! I am so glad youâre alr- wai- what are you doing out of bed?!â Morâs voice screeched against your ear. You could only wince as she bombarded you, her arms immediately pulling back as she jerked herself away from you.
You only smiled apologetically at her as her expression filled with guilt. It only took two seconds before that look turned into one of gratitude, her body coming in to hug you a lot more gently the second time around.
A round of agreements and scolds met you as Mor finally released you, your gaze jumping around the room to take in the entire inner circle. Out of nerves, your eyes purposely avoided the darkest corner of the room.
You could feel the cool drag of shadows as they assessed your frame, only steeling yourself further until they were content and sliding back to their master.
As all eyes stayed locked on your form, you finally cleared your throat once more before letting out a scratchy âAnyone got any water?â
After what felt like hours, you had finally finished explaining every detail of your mishap with the serpent like creature. Leaving out the tidbit about your rescue, everyone seemed content enough to begin parting for their own duties. With an order to rest and hydrate, you also turned to leave the dining room when a deep voice stopped you in your tracks.
âCan we talk?â
Your body felt frozen as you took in his voice. A mixture of exhaustion and sadness finding you from across the room.
Keeping your back turned to him, you let everybody else pass you by before swallowing your nerves and turning to face him.
You could only bring yourself to look at his chest, his fighting leathers now traded for a black shirt and trousers. You could see the daunting outline of his wings behind him, your fingers immediately coming to twist in front of you.
You tucked a stray hair behind your ear, gaze dropping as you waited for him to break the silence.
It took a few long moments, but the first words to leave him almost had your mouth dropping in shock.
âCan you look at me please?â
Your eyes immediately lifted to his own, a frown of confusion painting your face when you took in the sight of him.
His hair was disheveled as if he had been vigorously running his fingers through it, his under eyes dark and a shadow forming on the lower half of his face.
Just as you went to blurt out something, anything, his form crossed the room. He looked almost afraid to get too close to you, choosing instead to stop with a good yard of distance between you.
Your eyes flickered between his own as you processed your thoughts, unsure what you were really supposed to say. Before you could get out a word, his rough voice stopped you again.
âHow are you feeling?â
You were a bit taken aback by his question. A few embarrassing stutters leaving you before you finally coughed up a quick âGood. I feel pretty good.â
Your fingers kept violently twisting as he eyed you up and down, your brain bouncing a million different questions around before it finally settled on one.
You didnât even have a moment to second guess before the words were forcing past your lips.
âAm I your mate?â
A look of certain shock passed over Azrielâs face before he steeled himself again, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. His hand came up to run through his hair as his face portrayed the inner turmoil clearly a jumbled mess in his brain.
âI only ask because before that⌠snake thing⌠attacked me it hissed out something along the lines of âthe spymasterâs mateâ and it really confused me because after the party Iâm not really sure whatâs going on. I understand if you were planning to reject the bond for that female but why string me along before then, you know? I thought something was forming between us but now I think I might have just been exaggerating things in my own mind- I mean, that woman was beautiful, and I understand why you would choose her over me but-â
You only stopped to take a breath as Azriel roared a growl, your body flinching back as he whirled towards the dining table. He looked as if he was about to break something before his hand came up to rub at his chest.
Your shocked gaze stared at his back as his shoulders heaved, his wings twitching wildly before pulling tightly back into their normal position.
A sigh that carried the weight of the world left him before he whirled back around, his legs taking two more steps toward you. His hand reached out as if to touch you before he seemingly thought better of it and brought it back to pinch at the bridge of his nose instead.
âReject you? Y/n, please, youâre killing me.â his face held nothing but anguish as he brought his gaze back up to meet yours. âRhysand asked me to escort that female to the party. She was linked to some Illyrianâs weâve been monitoring and he wanted me to get more intel. Fuck, I wouldâve never- I never- Cassian was supposed to tell you. He was supposed to tell you before the party started but he was too busy following Nesta around like a lost pu- oh fuck this.â
He seemed to decide against the last part of his explanation before he closed the rest of the distance between you. Your breath caught at the proximity when his hands came up to cradle your jaw, his eyes piercing yours as a confused furrow took over your brow.
Without realizing, your hands came up to grip his forearms, your eyes fleeting between his own as you processed his words.
His body only pressed closer to yours as you hesitated, the gears running a mile a minute in your mind.
âI swear to you, y/n. There is no one else in this galaxy I wouldâve rather been with than you. I hate that you even questioned my feelings for you. Iâm yours. I have been since the day we met.â
His eyes only intensified his words as you searched them, the gold flecks throughout his orbs almost glowing as they locked with yours.
You felt the trail of a tear before you could stop it, your lip wobbling for a reason unbeknownst to you. Azriel was quick to wipe it away, his forehead coming down to rest against yours. His voice lowered to a whisper as he continued.
âI almost lost it when I heard you were missing. I donât even remember leaving the party or how I knew where to find you. I would tear this world apart inch by inch if it meant keeping you safe, sweetheart. I promise you that.â
Your breath shuddered through a gasp as more tears made their way down your cheeks. Letting your eyes fall closed, you shook your head against his before meeting his gaze again.
âSo basically youâre saying that my disappearance was a slight overreaction?â you whispered, your teeth finding your lip as you waited for his reaction, a smile threatening to break out on your face.
Azriel shuddered a laugh of disbelief, his hands pulling you fully into his embrace. You couldâve sworn you saw a slight wetness in his eyes before your face was tucked firmly into his neck.
You and Azriel had reluctantly split after your embrace caused a sudden twinge in your side, his warmth immediately turning into panic at the wince that left your lips.
You had parted with the promise that you would get some rest before finding him in the morning to finish your conversation.
Flipping harshly onto your other side, you sighed in frustration as sleep continued to evade you. Every time you closed your eyes you saw manicured nails, serpent like eyes, and the look on Azrielâs face as it assessed your form on the floor of the woods. Also, the mantra of mate, mate, mate playing on a loop in your mind didnât help.
Kicking the blankets off of your legs, you didnât give yourself time to rethink your movements as you tiptoed out of your bedroom and towards Azrielâs. Pausing at his door, you let your knuckles lightly tap the surface before you heard a quick âCome inâ.
Pushing past the threshold, you let the door close behind you before you made yourself as small as possible in his doorway. Wringing your fingers again, you slowly gazed up at Azriel, sitting wide awake in bed with a book resting on his chest.
You twisted your mouth in contemplation before letting out a small âI canât sleep.â, your gaze dropping to your bare feet before snapping back up at the sound of rustling blankets.
Azriel had lifted his duvet, his body sliding further into the bed as he gestured for you to join him.
Shyly stalking towards his bed, you gently climbed into the open space next to him before his hands immediately made contact and brought you into his embrace.
The position almost ended up being a horizontal hug, your head tucked under his chin. One arm was wrapped around your waist as the other rested under your head, his hand coming up to twist a strand of your hair. His wing folded over the both of you, the lights instantly dimming into a soft glow through the membrane.
You slowly tilted your head back to meet his eyes, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you took in his features. Letting it out as a whisper, you started with âIâm sorry for bothering you..â only to be immediately cut off.
Azriel tucked your head back into his neck, his chest rising with a deep inhale before he whispered back.
sorry to be a broken record every month but christ menstruation is a stupid concept. oooooh excuse me for not getting pregnant, why the fuck is there goo falling out of me about it? grow the fuck up and reabsorb that shit for nutrients.
summary: Hydra sends you â a broken empath â into the Winter Soldierâs cell to keep him calm. Youâre supposed to soften him. Control him. But instead, something starts to unravel. In both of you.
word count: 6187
WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNIâ disclaimer: contains dark themes. read at your own discretion! angst, slowburn, captivity, tortures, hydra, violence, sa (mentioned), brainwashing, non-consensual experimentation, hurt/comfort, trauma, possible smut in future chapters? weâll see.
Chapter Seven | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter
Present day.
The room is quiet. Too quiet. No humming lights. No screaming orders through metal speakers. No blood on the floor. Just stillness â the kind that makes your bones ache.
You sit in a chair thatâs too soft. The window behind you is open, and the air smells like rain.
They say thatâs a good thing â that youâre safe now. That youâre free.
You didnât know what freedom meant anymore.
But they gave you a name. Official. Registered.
Apparently, people who escape captivity after vanishing for years make for messy paperwork.
The blip only made it worse. Too many questions. Too many forms.
Eventually, though, you got it.
A name.
You didnât think long about your first name â you knew instantly.
Dove.
He gave it to you. It was the only real thing about you. Symbolizes freedom you would always say.
Across from you, the therapist waits. Sheâs not pushy. Not like them. She watches you with a calm, patient gaze, as if nothing you say could ever surprise her.
When she breaks the silence her voice is soft â too soft â youâre not used to that.
âWhy donât we start todayâs session with the last thing you remember? Before it ended.â
You stare at your hands. Your fingers still tremble sometimes â like your body never got the message that the war is over.
You breathe in slowly. The air feels too clean.
Before it ended�
âââ
Everything was blurry.
Tortures, pain, orders.
Calm him. Soothe him. Soothe her.
Tortures again, more pain, more commands spat like bullets.
Make his pain go away. Reach him. Break him.
You did as you were told.
One face after another â agents, soldiers, broken things barely holding together. You reached into their minds. Quieted their storms. Wrapped soft light around them just long enough for Hydra to patch them up and send them back out to bleed for the cause again.
You never saw the same face twice â that was the rule now.
No attachments. No names. No bonds.
Just your hands pressed to temples slick with sweat, your voice barely above a whisper, telling strangers itâs okay, itâs okay, youâre safe â all while screaming on the inside.
At some point you stopped knowing which memories were yours and which were theirs.
Which screams were your own and which you pulled from someone elseâs head.
It drained you. It hollowed you.
And Hydra knew exactly what they were doing.
They didnât need to break you anymore.
They just let you rot.
No one mentioned James anymore. Not even Kern.
He wasnât coming back.
Why would he?
You lied to him. Betrayed him. Broke something you could never put back together.
He looked at you like you were his whole world, and you still chose to play Hydraâs game.
Maybe you didnât know what you were doing at the time â maybe you thought you were protecting him. But in the end, it didnât matter.
The damage was done.
And he was free.
Out there. Somewhere far from this place. From you.
And you were still there.
Still caged.
Still wearing their mark like a brand.
You would lie on your cot with your back to the wall, eyes open in the dark, and try not to remember how his hands felt in yours. How he once looked at you like you were real.
But it came anyway.
It always did.
And when it did, the ache in your chest was worse than any pain they could ever inflict.
Because thereâs no greater agony than knowing he got out â and still didnât come back.
âââďżź
âI didnât know he was going to leave me, never come back for me,â you tell her.
Silence.
âBut I should have.â
The words slip out like a secret â not for her, but for you. Like theyâve been rotting behind your teeth for years, waiting.
âIs this the last thing you remember? Him not coming back?â she tilts her head, her gaze locked on you.
âNo.â
âWas it the blip?â
âIt was the chaos.â
âââ
Months turned into years.
But you didnât know exactly how long itâs been â just long enough to use that term â years.
They wouldnât ask if youâre ready anymore.
Theyâd just open the door.
No words. No looks. Just the soft hiss of metal and the figure waiting on the other side â another Hydra agent, another soul unraveling at the seams.
You didnât ask his name.
You never did.
Heâd walk with you down the corridor, twitchy fingers, dead-eyed stare. You knew the signs. Youâve felt them all before â panic buried so deep it starts to bleed out of the skin.
They sat him across from you. Same room. Same walls that werenât walls. Same silence, heavy as chains.
You didnât speak.
You just⌠breathed.
And reached.
You found it quickly, like always. Fear shaped like a wire inside his chest, humming, burning. You circled around it, loosen it gently. Like pulling a thread from your own heart.
His shoulders relaxed. His eyes cleared, just a little.
Then they took him back to his cell. Called it a success.
They called you useful again.
Back in your cell, you curled against the cold wall and stared at nothing. There was a cot, but you didnât sleep on it anymore. It was too soft. Too clean.
You missed the dirt. The blood. The one hand that ever touched you without hurting you.
You didnât cry. That stopped after year two.
What you did now was worse.
You remembered.
His voice. That one word â Donât â spoken like it cost him something.
His eyes, rimmed with red when he flinched away from your hand.
His silence, heavier than any scream.
You remembered how it felt when you tried to reach him and couldnât. How empty it was. How cold.
Kern said once, âYou still miss him.â
Not a question. Not a cruelty. Just fact.
You didnât answer. You couldnât.
The missing lived in your ribs. It breathed through you, slower every year. Like it was trying to teach your body how to forget oxygen.
And maybe itâs not even him you missed. Maybe it was the version of yourself he saw â something worth protecting. Worth saving.
âââ
âMiss Dove?â
The voice snaps you back to reality.
âYou zoned out again.â
âIâm sorry,â you straighten in the chair.
âNo need to be sorry.â She smiles at you and it sends a shiver down your spine. Her smile is⌠genuine. Itâs not like Kernâs. Itâs real. Her voice doesnât come with consequences. It doesnât make you brace for pain. You donât know what to do with that. âCan you tell me about the blip? The chaos, you mentioned?â
âââ
The light flickered.
Just once. Quick. Sharp.
You noticed straight away.
You sat up.
There was something in the air. A shift. Like the world inhaled and forgot how to exhale.
You looked at your hand.
And it was⌠gone.
It wasnât pain. Not fear. Just a sensation â like warm static. Like falling asleep with your eyes open.
You looked up, into the buzzing light above.
The last thing you thought before everything dissolved wasâ
James.
And then, nothing.
âââ
You pause.
Not because you donât remember â but because itâs the only part that still feels like a dream.
âââ
You came back in a hallway.
Not a room, not a cot â but in motion. As if the universe hit resume mid-sentence and dropped you back into the middle of something.
The light above you was broken. It flickered and sputtered.
You smelled smoke.
Not chemical. Not controlled.
Burning.
Screams echoed from down the corridor â real ones. Human ones. Not the kind you used to soothe.
You didnât know what was happening â only that the air was different. Thinner. Warped. Like the building had a heartbeat now, and it was racing.
You pressed your back to the wall, blinking hard. Your fingers tingled â not from your powers, not from pain â but from life. It surged up your arms like adrenaline.
For the first time in years, no one was telling you what to do.
No voice in your ear. No boots stomping toward you. No door locking behind you.
Just chaos.
And opportunity.
You ran.
Barefoot. Silent. Faster than you shouldâve been able to. The panic in the air fed you like oxygen. You followed it. Let it pull you.
Alarms shrieked. Somewhere, a pipe burst. You heard Kernâs voice barking orders â not at you. You werenât his concern anymore.
You were gone.
And they didnât know it yet.
You slipped past bodies â some screaming, some not moving at all. You didnât stop to check. You couldnât. You wouldnât.
All you knew was you had to reach the exit.
Even if you didnât know where it was.
Even if Hydra had changed the halls a dozen times since the last time you let yourself care about the layout.
You just moved.
You moved like someone who had nothing left to lose.
âââ
In the chair, your throat tightens.
You realize your hand is gripping the armrest.
Hard.
âYou got out,â the therapist says softly. âThatâs how you escaped.â
You nod once.
Barely.
Her voice drops lower. âWas anyone with you?â
Your voice is a whisper.
âNo.â
She waits a beat. Then asks the thing youâve been waiting for.
âDid you look for him?â
You laugh, but itâs not really a laugh.
You stare at the window again.
âI didnât know where to look,â you say.
And then, quieterâ
âI didnât know if heâd even want to be found.â
The words sit between you like something living.
You donât take them back.
You mean them.
You still do.
Because itâs not just about what he would do.
Itâs about what you did.
And some things feel too heavy to come back from.
The therapist doesnât say anything right away.
She just watches you â gently, like someone waiting for a bird to land, not spook it.
âI think he wouldâve wanted you to survive,â she says, eventually. âEven if he wasnât there.â
You blink, slowly.
âI did.â
It comes out quieter than you expect.
âI survived.â
A pause.
âHe didnât save me.â
You lift your gaze now, meet hers.
âBut I saved myself. I like to think itâs a good thing.â
She nods â and itâs not pity. Itâs not praise. Just understanding.
âWhere did you go after?â she asks.
You exhale. Your shoulders curl forward before you realize youâre doing it.
You rememberâ
âââ
The woods smelled different than anything inside Hydra.
Rot and leaves. Rain and earth. Life.
You donât know how far you ran, only that you didnât stop. Not when your lungs burned. Not when your bare feet bled. You just kept going.
Because if you stopped, they might remember you existed.
You moved by instinct.
Away from roads.
Away from sound.
Away from everything.
The woods didnât welcome you. But they didnât reject you either.
You ran until your legs gave out. Until your vision blurred. Until the only thing you could feel was motion.
There was no plan.
No direction.
Just away.
You stumbled through mud, thorns, uneven ground. You bled, you bruised, you crawled. And when you couldnât go any further, you laid beneath the trees, chest heaving like something broken.
You thought maybe youâd die there.
And for the first time⌠you werenât afraid of that.
At least youâd die free.
But the stars came out.
And you were still breathing.
And something in you refused to stop.
So you got back up.
You kept walking.
You stole clothes off a line when you reached some abandoned chalet. You slipped into crowds like a ghost. You didnât speak, didnât sleep, didnât trust.
It took weeks before anyone asked you your name.
You lied. Of course.
But you were alive.
And no one was dragging you back.
âââ
âYou saved yourself,â the therapist says, repeating it like truth. âThatâs a powerful thing.â
You nod, once. Your throat is too tight for words.
She watches you for a moment longer, then leans forward slightly.
âWhat was it like?â she asks. âWhen you got back. When the world had moved on without you.â
You blink.
What was it like?
The question sounds simple.
Itâs not.
âââ
The world was⌠loud.
Too loud. Too bright. Too alive.
It wasnât like before. Not like Hydra.
You stepped into streets that smelled like food and car exhaust and perfume. Neon lights buzzed overhead like electric wasps. Screens screamed news, music, smiling faces that didnât look real.
People brushed against your shoulders without apology. Laughed too loud. Tapped glowing rectangles like they were casting spells.
You hated it.
You loved it.
You couldnât breathe.
You spent three nights in a shelter and never slept. You curled up in the corner and flinched every time someone opened a door. You didnât talk. You didnât eat. You just watched the exit.
They called someone â a volunteer, they said. Government-appointed. She showed you a badge. Spoke gently, like you were made of glass.
You didnât trust her.
But you followed her anyway.
She took you somewhere quieter. A small room, a bed, soft blankets. You stood in the doorway for ten minutes before sitting down.
You waited for the door to lock behind you.
It didnât.
You were no longer a prisoner.
Now you were just⌠someone they didnât know what to do with.
âââ
âIt was like trying to live in someone elseâs dream,â you say. âEverything felt fake. Too easy. Too clean.â
The woman nods, her gaze steady. âDid anyone help you adjust?â
You shrug. âThey tried.â
There were programs. Government stuff. Trauma recovery. Reintegration.
People asked questions you didnât know how to answer â about your past, your name, your family.
Sometimes they looked at you like they pitied you.
Sometimes like they didnât believe you.
âYou got a name,â the therapist says gently.
You nod.
âDove.â
She smiles. âIt suits you.â
You want to believe her.
You want to believe youâre someone new.
Or someone you were â when you were good, when you were with him.
But some nights, you still hear it â the electric hum of the door. The scream of metal restraints. The voice in your ear telling you what to do, who to be, who to love.
Some nights you wake up and your hands are glowing.
âIâm trying,â you say. Quiet.
And you are.
You really are.
The therapistâs pen pauses.
She tilts her head. âWhat about before Hydra?â
Her voice is careful. Measured. Like she already knows the answer but needs to hear you say it.
You donât answer right away.
You look down at your hands again â always your hands â palms still lined with stories youâll never remember.
âNo,â you whisper. âI never got it back.â
âNothing at all?â
You shake your head.
Thereâs a beat of silence between you, thick and patient.
Then, finally, âSometimes I think maybe thatâs worse than anything else.â
She doesnât speak. She lets you keep going.
âI donât know what I lost. What kind of person I was. If I had people. If they missed me. If I was even⌠worth missing.â
You laugh softly, bitter and low. âMaybe I was nobody. Maybe they didnât need to erase me. Maybe I already didnât exist.â
You say it like itâs a joke, but it isnât.
Youâve lived entire years with borrowed memories humming in your skull like bees. Images that werenât yours. Feelings that didnât belong to you. Youâve drowned in the weight of other peopleâs sorrow, but your own pastâ
Itâs a locked room with no door.
The therapist writes something down. You donât ask what.
Instead, you lift your gaze and meet her eyes.
âDo you think Iâd still be me,â you ask, voice rough, âif I got it back?â
She thinks about it. Then her voice softens â again â which only breaks you more.
âI think youâre already you, Dove.â
You donât know how to take that. So you look out the window instead, at the clouds rolling in over the city.
The world outside feels too open, too clean. The clouds move freely. The trees sway like they donât know what it means to be caged. Everything out there just⌠exists. And you donât know how to be part of that.
But youâve stood in too many storms to be afraid of a little rain.
âKern said it was easy to wipe me,â you murmur. âThat they didnât even have to try hard.â
Across from you, the therapist doesnât flinch. She just sets her pen down. Gently. Like she knows this part matters.
âWho was Kern?â she asks.
You stare down at your hands.
âKern wasâŚâ Your voice tightens. âHe was the one who studied me. Broke me down. Piece by piece. He said I was Hydraâs gentle hand. That I made the pain go quiet. Made them easier to use.â
You flex your fingers once. They still remember the cold of the floor. The blood. The way James used to hold them.
âHe told me things like he was helping. Like he knew me. But he didnât. He just⌠watched. Every time I cracked, he smiled like I was finally doing something right.â
You press your palms into your knees to stop the shaking.
âHe liked me better before I started fighting back.â
âWhat did he do to you?â
A strange sound builds in your throat. Not a sob. Not quite.
âHe made me think I was choosing,â you say, voice hollow.
She waits.
You glance up. Just once. Her eyes donât flinch. Sheâs not like the others.
âHe told me I had power. That I was important. Special. But it was always for their cause. For Hydra. Not for me.â You laugh â low and bitter. âHeâd give me choices that werenât choices. Punishments dressed as lessons. âSay no, and someone else suffers. Say yes, and you live another day.ââ
The silence stretches.
âHe made me think it was my fault,â you whisper. âEverything. Every time James forgot me. Every time I failed. He said it was because I wasnât strong enough. That I didnât matter enough.â
You can feel it â something sharp and ugly trying to rise up from your chest, but you force it down.
Then her voice comes again, soft but firm.
âDo you think about him now?â
This time, your answer is instant.
âI want him dead.â
Stillness.
You donât flinch. You donât look away.
You just breathe, slow and careful.
âI donât care if that makes me sound unwell. I want him to pay. Not because of what he did to me. But because heâll do it again. He is doing it again. Somewhere. To someone.â
You shift in the too-soft chair, crossing your arms before you even realize youâre doing it.
âI donât like this,â you murmur.
The therapist looks up from her notes. âWhat donât you like?â
You hesitate. Not because you donât know the answer â but because saying it out loud feels like admitting it still has power over you.
âThis,â you repeat. âThe questions. The quiet. The way you look at me like youâre waiting for something. It reminds me ofâŚâ
You trail off. You donât need to finish.
She does, gently. âKern.â
You nod, jaw tight. âHe asked questions too. Pretended it was for my good. But it wasnât. It was about control. Always.â
The therapist doesnât interrupt. Doesnât deny the similarity.
You appreciate that.
âIt still feels like a trap,â you admit, voice lower now. âLike thereâs a right answer and a wrong one. And if I say the wrong thing, something bad will happen.â
She leans forward, slow and careful, like approaching a wounded animal. âAnd what would happen, if you said the wrong thing?â
You donât answer.
Because you know what would happen.
Pain.
Isolation.
Kernâs voice in your ear saying:
You did this to yourself.
You stare at the window again. At the gray sky beyond it. Youâre free now. You know that. But knowing doesnât mean feeling.
âYou donât have to trust me yet,â she says. âOr ever. But youâre not trapped anymore, Dove. You can walk out of this room anytime you want. You can say nothing. You can scream. You can refuse.â
The words make something ache in your chest â not relief, but the terrifying ache of possibility.
Because youâve never had that before.
Not really.
You swallow hard. âItâs going to take time.â
âThatâs okay,â she says. âYou have time now.â
Time.
What even is that?
After years spent without a clock on the wall, without a window to tell day from night, time stopped meaning anything. Days bled into one another like spilled ink, indistinguishable and heavy. There was no before, no after. No future to long for, no past to remember.
There was only the present â raw, immediate, inescapable.
Pain didnât keep track of hours.
Neither did silence.
You shift in the chair, uneasy beneath the weight of a word that once meant something. That maybe could again.
âItâs not just that it reminds me of him,â you say eventually. âItâs⌠something else.â
Her gaze stays steady, patient.
You shift again, pressing your palms together. âWith him⌠everything was layered. Every smile had a motive. Every word was a test. A trick.â
You look at her now â really look.
And itâs not the same.
Thereâs no cruelty folded into the corners of her mouth. No glint of control behind her pupils. No manufactured softness waiting to snap shut around you like a trap.
âThereâs nothing false in your face,â you murmur, almost to yourself. âAnd thatâs why it scares me.â
She tilts her head, curious but not surprised. âWhy does it scare you?â
âBecause I donât know how to trust that. I donât know what to do with something that doesnât want anything from me.â
You blink, and your voice breaks just slightly.
âNo oneâs ever asked how I feel. They just told me what Iâm supposed to be.â
The room is still. The quiet kind again â not empty this time, but full of something.
Understanding.
She doesnât fill the silence. She just lets it hold you. Lets you be.
And somehow, that feels more dangerous than anything Hydra ever did.
Because it means thereâs a you in there somewhere.
One worth listening to.
Then her voice cuts through, low and careful as she changes the topic.
âWeâve talked about him before, James,â she says. âNot much. But⌠you always refer to him like he was the only real thing in all of that.â
Your throat tightens. You donât look up.
âHe was,â you say quietly. âHe still is.â
The therapist nods, waiting. Not pushing.
âHe grounded you?â
You nod once. Itâs almost imperceptible.
âIt was like⌠like the whole world was breaking apart and rearranging itself around me every second. But he⌠he stayed the same. Despite the tortures, the brainwash, the pain. He didnât even have to try. Just breathing the same air as him made it easier to survive.â
She doesnât write anything down. She doesnât move.
âHe probably doesnât even know,â you add, voice low. âThat he did that for me. That he kept me human.â
Thereâs a pause, and then the question you knew would come, eventually.
âDo you want to see him again?â
You donât answer right away.
You trace the seam of your sleeve with your thumb. The silence stretches thin, trembling.
âYes,â you say, finally. âI would like to see him.â
It slips out softer than you meant it to, but itâs the truth.
The therapist doesnât smile this time. She just nods, slow and deliberate. Like she understands what it cost you to say it.
âYou said⌠you donât know if heâd want to be found,â she says after a moment. âBut do you?â
âYes,â you say softly. âI think I do.â
Thereâs a pause â not surprised, not expectant. Just space for your truth to breathe.
âHe was the only thing that felt real. Back then. And sometimes still now.â
You donât look at her. You keep your eyes on your hands. Safer that way.
âI donât know if Iâd say anything. Or if I could. But I want to know if heâs okay. If he made it. If what we had meant anything to him⌠even afterâŚ. Everything. Or if I made it all up in my head to survive.â
The therapist doesnât answer right away. She just sits there, that same gentle presence.
And for once, you donât feel dissected.
Just⌠seen.
She shifts slightly in her chair. Not leaning forward â not closing in â just anchoring herself in the space between you.
Then, gently, âWhat do you imagine would happen, if you met him again?â
You donât answer at first.
Not because you donât know â but because you do.
You picture the way he used to look at you. How he stopped looking at you. That moment behind his eyes when something familiar slipped away for good.
âI donât know,â you say. Itâs half a lie. âMaybe nothing. Maybe it would just⌠hurt more.â
The therapist nods, not pushing. âSometimes we think we need closure from someone else. But often what weâre really looking for is a way to make peace with how things ended.â
Your gaze drops for a moment.
âI think Iâd still want to see him,â you say finally. âEven if he didnât look at me the same. Even if he walked away.â
Another pause. Not uncomfortable â just space.
âI miss who I was with him,â you admit. âAnd I donât know if that version of me exists without him.â
âThatâs something we can talk about,â the therapist says softly. âNot just him â but you. That version of you. What she felt. What she lost. And what she still carries.â
You exhale slowly. Itâs not relief, not yet â but something close.
You nod.
âI carry his name for me,â you admit with a weak smile. âHe gave it to me. James. He called me Dove. Back when we were stillâŚâ Your voice fades, and you press your lips together. âIt was the only thing that ever felt real. He made me feel like a person. Not a number.â
The therapist doesnât interrupt. She doesnât have to.
âIn that place, you donât get to be real. Youâre a tool. A thing. And heâhe looked at me like I was more than that. And he said it like it meant something.â
You lift your gaze toward her, just for a moment.
âI kept it after. When I got out. When they registered me, asked what name I wanted⌠I didnât even think. I just said it.â
You try to smile, but itâs faint. âI like to think it means something now. That maybe I made it mine.â
The therapistâs voice is low, steady. âIt sounds like you did.â Her eyes soften. She leans forward just slightly, enough to show sheâs listening â not pressing, not pushing, just there.
âIt sounds like youâve held onto that name the way someone holds onto a lifeline,â she continues gently. âWhat do you think it means to you now? Not then, when he gave it to youâbut now, when you choose it every day.â
You hesitate.
Thatâs the kind of question that feels too big. Too layered. Like thereâs no way to answer it without unraveling something youâve spent years keeping stitched together.
Your thumb presses harder into the seam of your sleeve.
âI thinkâŚâ Your voice is low, barely audible. âI think it used to be about hope. Or maybe freedom. He used to say it like I wasnât stuck there. Like I could still fly.â
A pause.
âAnd now?â the therapist prompts, voice quiet as breath.
You swallow. Itâs harder to say out loud.
âNow itâs⌠survival. A reminder, maybe. That I got out. That Iâm still here.â
You let out a dry breath of something that might almost be a laugh. âSometimes I think I keep it so I donât forget I used to mean something to someone.â
The therapist doesnât flinch.
âAnd do you think you mean something now?â
You look at her. Her eyes arenât calculating. Thereâs no clipboard, no mirrored glass behind her. Just quiet attention.
âI donât know,â you admit. âBut I want to.â
You donât look at her when you speak next.
âDo you thinkâŚâ your voice catches, but you push through. âDo you think itâs possible? That he could ever forgive me?â
The words sit sharp in your mouth. Too raw. Like theyâve been festering in the back of your throat for years, waiting for someone safe enough to hear them.
The therapist doesnât answer right away. She doesnât fill the silence with platitudes or optimism. Just gives it space.
âWhat would he be forgiving you for?â she asks gently, not to test you â but to let you define it.
You shift in your seat.
âFor betraying him,â you say. âFor letting them use me. Use him. For doing what they told me. For not stopping when I shouldâve. For not stopping them.â
A pause.
âFor choosing them over him.â
The weight of it sits in your chest like stone. You still canât bring yourself to meet her eyes.
The therapistâs voice is steady.
âI donât think you chose them, Dove. I think you did what you had to do to stay alive. Thatâs not betrayal â thatâs survival.â
You shake your head. âIt doesnât matter what I meant to do. Itâs what I did. And he trusted me.â
Finally, you lift your eyes. Thereâs no tears â not now. Just something quieter. Something older.
âI donât know if Iâd forgive me.â
The therapist leans back slightly, giving you space again. âSometimes forgiveness isnât about what we deserve. Itâs about what the other person needs.â
A pause.
âAnd sometimes⌠itâs about what you need.â
You almost scoff â almost.
âBut I used him.â Your voice is low. âHe trusted me and I let him down.â
You donât try to dress it up. No justifications. No blurred lines. Youâve rehearsed this admission in your mind so many times, it no longer feels like something youâre confessing â just something that is.
âI was sent in to manipulate him. That was the mission. Make him calm. Make him listen. Make him easier to control.â
Pause.
âThen I got attached to him, I cared for him, I started developing feelings.â You swallow. âReal feelings,â your voice cracks. âAnd I still took the deal when they offered it. Because I thought I was doing the right thing. Becauseââ
Silence.
âBecause I was selfish and I didnât want to lose him.â
Your fingers dig into the fabric of your sleeve again, knuckles pale.
âI knew it was wrong, but I did it anyway. I thought maybe⌠maybe I could protect him if I stayed close. But I lied to him. Over and over. And when he finally started to wake upâwhen he started to rememberâI got scared. I tried to shut it down. Tried to pull him back instead of letting him go.â
You look at her then. Force yourself to.
âThatâs not survival. Thatâs cruelty.â
The therapist holds your gaze, steady and quiet.
âYou were a prisoner,â she says. âYou were surviving in the only way you could.â
You shake your head again, harsher this time. âIt doesnât change the truth.â
âNo,â she agrees gently. âBut maybe it changes how you carry it.â
You let the words sit. Not because they comfort you â but because, for a second, you want to believe them.
Then:
âI didnât save him,â you murmur.
âNo,â the therapist says. âBut you loved him.â
You donât respond right away.
The room is too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your heartbeat feel loud in your ears.
âI think,â you say eventually, âI didnât even know what love was. Not really. Not until it was already too late.â
You donât look at her when you say it. You stare past her, into a corner of the room where the paint chips faintly at the edge of the wall. You wonder how many others have sat in this same chair, staring at that same corner, hoping to outrun ghosts.
âI thought it was something soft. Gentle. But what I felt for himââ You shake your head. âIt wasnât soft. It was desperate. Fierce. I wouldâve torn the whole world apart for him. And that scared me.â
Your nails press into your palm now, hard enough to sting.
âHydra taught us to weaponize everything. Our bodies. Our minds. Our emotions.â You huff out something that isnât quite a laugh. âEven love.â
The therapist says nothing â just lets you speak.
âSometimes I wonder if thatâs all I ever was to him too,â you murmur. âA trigger. A command. A safety valve. Something useful.â
Now you glance at her, briefly.
âAnd I wonder if he thinks about me the way I think about him. Not like a person. But like something lost.â
Silence stretches again. This time, you donât fill it.
Until finally, the therapist speaks â soft and steady:
âDo you think youâre a person now?â
The question hits harder than you expect. And not because itâs cruel but because you donât know the answer.
Do you think youâre a person now?
The words echo.
Not in the room â in your chest.
Itâs not the kind of question that floats gently to the surface. It crashes. Splinters. Like glass striking tile. You almost wince.
Your mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again.
ââŚI donât know,â you admit, hoarse.
The truth of it unsettles you more than it should.
âI can play the part,â you continue after a second. âEat meals. Make conversation. Walk down the street like I belong there. But sometimes I still feel like Iâm watching from behind glass.â
You draw a slow breath.
âI thought freedom would feel like air. Like a clean slate. But itâs more likeââ Your fingers twitch against the hem of your sleeve, trying to name it. âLike being untethered. No one telling you who to be. No one deciding what youâre worth. And youâd think that would feel good.â
A beat.
âBut mostly it just feels like falling.â
The therapist nods, not interrupting. Just listening. You feel her presence like a weight meant to anchor, not to hold you down.
You try to smile. It doesnât quite land.
âI spent years being nothing but what they told me to be. A ghost in someone elseâs machine. And nowâŚâ You gesture vaguely at yourself. âNow I have a name, but no past. Feelings, but no map. I have a body, but sometimes it doesnât feel like mine.â
Then, quieter:
âI think I want to be a person. I just donât know how.â
The therapist leans forward slightly, her voice still gentle, but more grounded now. âMaybe you donât have to know yet. Maybe you just have to keep choosing it.â
You swallow. Your throat feels too tight.
You donât cry.
But your fingers keep pressing into the fabric of your sleeve like itâs the only thing keeping you here.
Like youâre trying to hold yourself in place.
Your voice comes smaller this time, almost like itâs not meant to be heard.
âNo one told me how overwhelming the feeling of freedom would be.â
The therapist doesnât move, doesnât speak too quickly. She lets the weight of it settle in the room, lets you breathe through the admission.
âItâs supposed to be this⌠beautiful thing,â you murmur. âYou imagine itâll feel like light pouring in. Like something sacred. But itâs not like that.â
You look at her, and this time, your smile is bitter.
âItâs terrifying. Thereâs too much space. Too many choices. Too many ways to be wrong.â
A pause.
âAnd after everything⌠after all the things Iâve done⌠I donât even know if I deserve it.â
The words hang there, hollow and sharp.
The therapist doesnât flinch. She lets a few breaths pass, her gaze steady but soft.
âYou talk about deserving like itâs something you earn,â she says quietly. âLike itâs something you can lose.â
You donât look at her, but youâre listening.
She smiles just a little, voice steady. âBut freedom isnât a reward. Itâs a right. One they took from you. One youâre still learning how to reclaim.â
You say nothing. But your hands have stopped moving.
âYou survived, Dove. That wasnât weakness. That wasnât cruelty. That was strength.â
A beat.
âYouâre not the things they made you do. Youâre the person who walked out anyway.â
That finally makes you look at her again.
Your mouth parts â to argue maybe, or deny, or say something sharp to push it all away â but nothing comes.
Just that unbearable ache behind your ribs.
Just the thought â What if sheâs right?
Interview over.
Chapter Eight đď¸
tags (tysm for all the love and support, If you asked to be tagged and I didnât tag you it means I couldnât for some reason đ): @tfamidoingwithmylife @stell404 @shakysif @unicornqueen05 @carolinianmermaid @zoroforlife @beforemdnight @nicksolemnlyswears @mistalli @blazeflays @storystorktwo @its-in-the-woods @blv3rd @starkglory @diabolicaldinosaur @elisha-chloe @miyababbby @cats-chaotic-mind
summary: youâre a runaway and his truck has broken down. the only thing you two have in common is that youâre both staying in a shitty motel. you have three days to try to convince him to take you all the way to california, and three days to decide whether or not you can trust a stranger more than the place you ran from.
pairing: trucker!bucky barnes x fem!runaway!reader
word count: 30.5k................. im so sorry guys it drags a bit
content contains: 18+ contentâ smut. porn with way too much plot, slowburn(?) not really, age gap (bucky is early fourties, reader is early twenties minimum), strangers to lovers, mentions of an abusive boyfriend, sambucky mention đ, creepy man, mentions of gun use, pet names (princess, sweetheart, etc), fem!masturbation, dry humping, boobies, fem!oral, unprotected PinV, basic sex stuff
authors note: hi guys ;P i am back. take this monster as a reward for your patience with me. this idea and the plot came to me at 10pm on a friday night. i was staring at the last picture on the moodboards and i was possessed by something evil and a little freaky. i was genuinely in a flow state⌠imagine jeffree star organising that eyeshadow and then shane dawson saying oh oh oh in the background that was my vibes.
you've never really liked highways.
they were far too big and still so small at the same time. they were barren and isolating, almost metaphorical in a way you can't quite name; but even though you find they take more than they give, you find escape in route 66.
it stretches and stretches, a torn grey ribbon pulled tight against the ground, disappearing against the horizon. every mile looks exactly the same as the last. its the same yellow lines and the same broken guardrails, the same low hills and the same signs that promise towns that you never seem to ever reach.
it all feels like a big circle that you can't escape, and from the passenger seat of a stranger's car, it certainly feels endless.
the window is half-open, just enough for the wind to tangle in your hair and carry in the smell of gasoline and dry asphalt. the car hums beneath you, the steady rhythm you've been enduring for the past seven hours constant enough that it almost lulls you into forgetting where you are or WHY you're really doing this at all.
but you remember. you always remember.
the car you sit in is a rented SUV. it smells faintly of sunscreen, beef jerky, and the sour tang of someone who hasn't showered in a couple of days. the glovebox is full of old batteries, a few maps of america, and fast food wrappers. in the front, a cassette tape rattles quietly in the stereo, the sound of bruce springsteen's voice filling the cab, loud enough to be heard, but still quiet enough that nobody has to yell.
there's one person in the drivers seat and two in the back, their voices overlapping like they've been traveling together long enough to finish each other's sentences. you dont know their names yet, and you don't think you'll ever learn them, but you can tell by the way they talk that they met on the roadâ friends made at rest stops, gas station restrooms, motels with peeling wallpaper, andâ like youâ on the side of the road.
they'd seen you on the side of the road in missouri with your thumb stuck out and a bag that fit your entire life slung over your shoulder. they'd picked you up with no hesitation with the simple explanation of 'that was us once', and you fit in the passenger seat like it was made for you.
"dude, seriously, stop singin'." the woman in the back groans, her plea directed to the man driving the car. "you're gonna blow our ears out if you keep tryin' to duet springsteen."
the driver scoffs, "come on. you know you love it. admit it."
"you sound like a dying dog. nothing to love about that." the man in the back seat chimes in, his arms crossed against his chest. "put my mixtape in and we'll see what real music is."
the woman in the backseat narrows her eyes. "sorry, but nobody wants to listen to ten hours of duran duran's best hits either."
"oooh, burn!" the driver snorts from the front seat, glancing into the rear-view mirror to catch a glimpse of his friend's defeated face. "i think that officially made you the least popular person in the car."
you watch them out of the corner of your eye, sometimes finding yourself glancing in the rear-view mirror just to see what they're doing. they're loud and messy and a little corny, but a part of it is comforting. you say nothing and find peace in their noise.
"hey." the man in the back says suddenly, attention diverted towards you now. "is this your first time riding like this? spending hours in the car with people you don't know driving across america?"
you blink a few times before glancing over your shoulder. the attention is a little sudden, and it takes you a moment to gather your thoughts. your thumb brushes against the fabric of your pants, a small and unconscious anchor.
"i only started doing it when i first decided to leave chicago." you tell them, your voice only slightly louder than the hum of the music. "it was more impulsive than anything."
"huh..." the driver tilts his head as he sneaks a glance at you. "you dont look like someone who just throws themselves out there without a plan."
you shrug, keeping your eyes on the dark streaking asphalt outside. "i didn't think i was that type of person either." you mutter.
the man in the backseat hums in acknowledgment, but then leans forwards again like one question wasn't enough. "why are you on the road? whats the story?"
you hear a slap of flesh against leather, and you can only assume that the woman had hit the man on the arm. "what is this, twenty one questions? let the lady breathe!"
"it's fine." you say quickly, almost hesitantly. "i just... needed to get away from home for a while. packed up what i could and i don't plan on going back there anytime soon."
the man in the back leans back with a thoughtful hum. "yeah, i get that. sometimes moving's better than being stuck."
the driver perks up in his seat, eyes wide like he's forgotten his keys at home. "i forgot to ask, but where were you headed?"
you hesitate. for a moment, you consider lying, and then you consider not saying anything at all. you dont know these people and your answer would do nothing but satiate their thirst for stories of the road; but something about the way the car hums beneath you and the way that the wind tunnels down your sleeve makes it easier than usual to let a small piece of yourself slip.
"i'm going west." you finally say. "california."
the woman smiles like you've given her the perfect answer. "that's the spirit. the road likes it when you don't stop movin'."
you manage a small humourless smile as you turn back to the window. california sits in your mind like a red pin on a map of america. its more of a fantasy than anything solid. you dont have an address or a plan that makes much sense when spoken out loud, and with nothing more than the clothes on your back, your duffel bag, and the certainty that if you keep moving west, something has to change eventually.
and almost like a light in the pitch black darkness, a neon glow flickers up ahead. slicing through the amber orange haze of the sunset, a sign that reads 'HOTEL CALIFORNIA' comes into view, and you find yourself following it even as the car passes, your head turning to watch it disappear into the darkness behind you. the letters shine like a signal, a promise, a miracle like an oasis in the desert, and you would be stupid to ignore it.
your hand braces against the car door as you push yourself up in your seat, your other hand tightening around the strap of your duffel almost instinctively. you turn back to the front of the car, brows knitting together as you lean down and zip open your duffel.
"do you think you could drop me off at that hotel california? the sign said it should be about five miles down the road." you ask.
you reach down and riffle through the unorganised mess in your bag and pull out your wallet. its scuffed from years of use and it pops open the moment you press in the buckle. the cards inside rustle around as you count what cash you have, thumb running over the notes just to make sure it's all there.
the driver glances down at you, his eyes scanning over your alarming amount of money you have. "sick of the car life already, drifter?"
you nod as you shove your wallet back into your duffel, a small smile on your face. "i think i need to stand on solid ground for longer than an hour. my body's forgotten what it feels like to be stationary."
the woman smirks. "that's fair. even the best road warriors need a pit stop sometimes. can't be movin' forever. we can spare five miles for our new friend, can't we?"
the driver nods like it's the easiest question he's ever had to answer. "yes ma'am. hotel california, here we come."
and just like that, the road stops stretching endlessly forwards and instead starts narrowing in on a single glowing sign that promised the hope of a new beginning and a moment to rest your feet on solid ground after what felt like a lifetime of running. at least for tonight, the road can wait.
you clutch your duffel bag straps, letting your eyes linger on the motel as it grows larger by the second. the neon light that stands in the front shines against the darkened sky, spitting orange and teal light across the windshield. and after a few minutes, the indicator starts blinking and the SUV swerves to the left, the vehicle shifting as it pulls into the carpark of the motel.
gravel crunches under the tires, and the hum of the engine drops into a softer sigh, like the car itself is exhaling. a few lonely streetlights cover the area in a soft glow and the motel looms just in front of the carâ low, wide, and tired-looking, its paint peeling off of the walls and the roof shingles threatening to fall off of the roof.
you hesitate for a moment before opening the door, like you're waiting for permission you don't need. the night air slips in as soon as it clicks open and you hope out, duffel bag following close behind you and your feet finally touching solid ground. it feels strange after hours of motion, but you find comfort in the smell of dust and warm pavement, like the road has finally let you go.
you turn back, glancing at the people in the carâ at their messy hair, at their lopsided smiles, at their clothes that haven't been washed in god knows how longâ and you can't help but feel grateful. they didn't have to stop for you or give you a seat in their journey across america, but they did it anyways, and that feels bigger than anything you could possibly say.
your hand grips the side of the door like you're unsure of what to say. finally, you settle on "i really appreciate you guys stopping for me. i'm sorry for just... ditching you for a motelâ"
"hey, it's all good. don't let us keep you." the man in the backseat tells you with a sincere smile. "if you need a real bed, then i say go for it. after all, seven hours in a car seat isn't the best for your back or for your mind."
the woman smiles, "just take care of yourself, alright?"
"yeah, and if it's anything like the song, just try not to get stuck in the there forever, alright?" the driver jokes, and you meet him with a weak laugh.
you nod, a smile on your face as you manage a small "thanks for everything" before finally closing the door, and the click of it sounds louder than it should. they drive off with a waving hand out of the window, and now you're all alone in the outskirts of glen rio, texas with nothing but the weight of your life on your shoulders.
the night air is warm and dry, carrying the smell of dirt and the sound of vehicles passing by on route 66. the front office glows dimly through the glass windows, the single LED light flickering like it's considering giving up too. a vending machine on the other end of the motel and the ventilations on the rooftop fight for title of loudest noise in the quiet. a rusted water tower stands neglected on the far side of the property, there are no other cars in the parking lot apart from a beat-up pickup truck parked along two spaces, it's paint sun-bleached and chipped, and you can only assume it belongs to the person at the front desk.
somewhere in the distant, there's a bang. a dog barks and the noise echoes in the desert. the world feels thin out hereâ stretched wide and emptyâ and you feel so very small inside of it.
you hesitate for a second, eyes lingering on the motel, before you shift your duffel higher up on your shoulder and head towards the office. the concrete is warm beneath your shoes, still holding the heat from the day, and the closer you get, the louder the hum of the lights becomesâ a thin, tired buzz that seeps into your bones.
the door squeals as you tug it open, the rubbing lining along the frame sticking before giving way. cool recycled air washes over you as you step into the office, and the sound of the door shutting cuts through the silence of the room.
the office is small. cramped. a long counter runs along one wall, scratched and worn down by years of borrowed keys and elbows. behind it, a lanky middle aged man wearing glasses sits slouched in a swivel chair, his face half-lit by the glow of his ancient monitor. there's a small radio that sits beside him that plays music from the local radio station, a voice and a guitar that blur into the hum of the lights, and you find it incredibly hard to ignore the smell of lemon air freshener and moist carpet.
the man takes a long moment to really register you and your presenceâ the bag slung over your shoulder, the dust on your shoes and your clothes, the way you're standing just inside of the doorway like you're not sure whether or not you're meant to be thereâ and he smiles, dental issues on display for you to see.
"evening." he says eventually, head tilting upwards just slightly like he's trying to take you in, "what can i do for ya?"
"hiâ" you step towards the desk, your weight shifting as you lean against the counter. you look at the name on his faded name tag, "trevor. i was wondering if you had any rooms available?"
trevor doesn't answer right away. he just looks at you like you're a pretty thing in the wrong place, and his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. his eyes trace over you slowlyâ your face, your bag, the way your fingers wrap around the straps like you might runâ and then he leans back in his chair, hands reaching up to rest on the back of his head.
"yeah." he finally says. "got a few."
you dont like the way he says it.
"okay." you blink. "how much would it be for a week?"
"depends what kinda room you want." trevor makes an odd noise with his mouth as he leans forwards, something like sucking in his teeth and popping his tongue on the roof of his mouth. "you by yourself?"
you hesitate, trying to push down the odd feeling that starts to well in the pit of your stomach, but you nod. "yeah. just me."
his eyes flick over you again, slower this time, and the corner of his mouth lifts into something you'd barely call a smile.
"just you, huh." trevor repeats like he's letting the fact settle. then he sighs and twists in his chair, "alright, give me a sec to pull up the prices."
he turns back to the monitor, fingers moving over the equally as ancient keyboard, and you try to ignore the porn pop-up that he quickly clicks out of and the solitaire match that he's losing. each key he presses fills the silence, loud in the silent office.
click. click. click. thenâ
blinding headlights sweep through the office, the small room flooding with harsh white light. for a moment, it's so bright that you can't even see a foot in front of you, and you instinctively shield your eyes. when your vision adjusts, you can make out the outline of a massive semi-truck rolling to a stop in the lot, tires crunching into the gravel and engine growling loud enough for you to wonder whether it's meant to be that loud.
it idles near the far end of the motel, headlights still blazing, long shadows cast against the walls. the cab door opens, and you can barely make out the figure of a tall, broad shouldered silhouette stepping out. he pauses for a moment, one hand resting against the cab before he disappears into the darkness of the parking lot.
there's a small, metallic clank, then another, the sound almost hesitant, like he's trying to figure something out or fix something.
but a grating voice brings you out of your head.
"y'know, we don't usually get much foot traffic out here." trevor's lips smack, eyes flicking over to yours in a way that makes your skin crawl. "couple'a hippies and cross country truckers, but nothin' like you."
"who wouldn't want to spend a night in a place like this?" you murmur with a hit of playful sarcasm lacing your voice.
"you don't gotta sugarcoat it, darlin. this place isâ and always will beâ a shithole." trevor sighs as he rests an elbow on the desk, a cheeky smile growing on his face. "the only thing that makes up for it is the company. if you get lonely and need someone to talk to, iâ"
"yeah, i don't think i'll be talking to anyone much tonight." you quickly and bluntly cut him off. you dont really have time to deal with creeps right now.
he chuckles, the noise low and almost wet, like he's amused and disappointed all at once. "we'll see about that, sugar."
trevor goes back to clicking away at his keyboard. you're picking at your nails when you feel the heat on the side of your face cool, and you turn your head to find that the semi truck's headlights are off now. your attention drifts back to the clanking of metal and the tall silhouette that moves around in the dark.
you wonder if you'll see the face that's swallowed by shadow. you wonder if he'll come into the office and save you from the creepy receptionist. you wonder if he'll be equally as creepy and if you'll need to sleep with a weapon in hand.
the squeak of trevor's chair brings you back to reality.
"right. single room's cheapest. one bed, small. got a pull-out sofa if you decide you don't wanna spend the week all alone." trevor drags the word, tongue running along his teeth. "but if you want a bigger bed for your beauty sleep and a bathroom for all of your girly things, then we do have a double."
your brow quirks. "the single room doesn't have a bathroom?"
"nope, so i'm assumin' you're gonna pick the double. it's two-fifty for the week." trevor says, "cash or card, sugar?"
"cash." you reply. "and don't call me sugar."
you ignore the huff trevor lets out. you zip open your bag, riffling through it before pulling out your wallet. you pop it open and pull out exactly two hundred and fifty dollars. you set the cash down on the counter and slide it towards trevor.
trevor's eyes widen just slightly as he does a faint double take. his hand slaps against the counter as he takes the money, counting it. "right on the dot. where'd a lil' thing like you get all this cash?"
"work." you simply reply. a stranger doesn't need to know anything about you or your money, and you're not about to give away more information than needed.
trevor hums. he pops open the register and places the cash into the tray with a small metallic clink. then he turns around in his chair, head cranes towards you like an idea had just popped into his head.
"y'knowâ" he pauses, brows raising just slightly as he leans closer to you. the closer he gets, the more he smells of tonsil stones and tooth decay, and you swear you can see a thought forming in those bloodshot eyes of his. "if you wanted the room a lil' cheaper, you could come around the desk and show me what that pretty little mouth can doâ"
"i'll pay the two-fifty." you cut in, voice firm, eyes meeting his and trying to keep him from crossing the line any further. "and i'll take my key now."
the annoyed groan that leaves the man sends a chill down your spine. trevor reaches under the counter and pulls out a tarnished room key with a small plastic tag. he holds it out for you to grab, but just as you do, he snaps it back like a predator played with cornered prey.
"don't think you can just walk around here with that attitude, lil miss." he mutters, low and rough, head tilted down enough that his eyes bore into yours. "just because you've got a pretty face doesn't mean things always go your way. you pay, but sometimes... you owe."
the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end and the pit in your stomach almost comes up as vomit. you narrow your eyes at the sick grin he has on his face, about to tell the asshole to go to hell, but the squeal of rubber lining and metal screeching stops you.
the office door swings open and slams shut, harsh and sudden, and it catches both your and trevor's attention. the two of you turn your heads towards the figure who had just walked inâ a tall, broad shouldered man, no doubt the one you'd seen outside working on his truck in the shadows.
with a shaved head, a thick scruffy beard, and a torn denim jacket, the man moves through the room with quiet confidence. there's grit in his posture, his face tired and rugged, with soft lines on his forehead and a shadowed jawline thats strong but worn. he's the type of man you'd see in a movie and be intimidated by, but this man felt different.
the man doesn't smile, nor does he speak. he simply looks between the two of you like he's figuring out what he's just walked in on. before anyone can react, you lean forwards and snatch the room key from trevor's hand. he awkwardly rubs his hands on his oily shirt like he's suddenly uncomfortable.
the receptionist gives you a fake smile as he ushers you away, voice dropping with false charm. "room one, sugar. best room in the house."
you scoff as you walk off, your shoulder just barely clipping the man's arm as you stomp past. the contact is almost nothingâ a brush of denim against your sleeveâ but it sends a strange shiver up your spine anyways. you push the door open and the night air hits you instantly, a soothing feeling after being trapped in that stuffy office.
as you cross the lot towards the room, you glance back, and through the office window, you see him.
the man stands exactly where you had left him, broad frame filling out the office, half shadowed by the dim yellow lights, his head slightly tilted as he cranes his neck down to watch you. not in the way trevor had watched you. not hungry or leering, but with curiosity, like he's trying to decide something, and you can feel his eyes boring into your back until you reach your door.
the key sticks in the lock for a moment before you twist the doorknob. you shoulder the door open and step inside.
a single double bed sits pressed against the wall, its blankets thick and vaguely floral in pattern, the colours dulled from years of washing. a small nightstand holds an even smaller table lamp on top, a worn bible sitting on the lower shelf. the bathroom light flickers on the far end of the room, and you wonder how long it's been on for. the carpet feels flat and stiff beneath your shoes, and the air smells of moth balls and fruity room spray that feels like it's trying to cover up the scent of something old and damp.
the room is fine. its nothing special, but it's dry, it's quiet, and it has a door that locks. that's about the nicest thing you can say about it.
you drop your duffel bag at the end of the bed and kick off your shoes. you peel your jacket from your arms and throw it over the backrest of the small dinning set chair before sinking down into the mattress. it creaks under your weight, but it holds. exhaustion settles over you all at once, your eyes feeling heavy now that you've stopped moving.
you dont even bother changing. you just lie back, stare at the stained popcorn ceiling, and then let your eyes fall shut.
sleep comes fastâ or at least you think it does.
some time laterâ you're not sure how longâ a sound pulls you back to the edge of consciousness. you think it's a door. it softly opens and closes. your eyes stay shut, but your mind sharpens in on the noise. you hear footsteps, slow and heavy, and then the low murmur of movement through the thin wall next to you in room two.
you frown slightly into the pillow as the noise comes to a slow stop. the trucker, you assume. the man with the shaved head and the quiet eyes. the one who had indirectly saved you from the advances of the creepy receptionist.
you roll onto your side, tuck your legs in a little closer, and tell yourself not to think about it. you're safe, you're inside, and you're not on the road anymore. nobody is going to find you.
eventually, the sounds fade and the motel settles into silence, and when sleep takes you, you welcome the old friend gladly.
the next day, you wake up slowly. not with an alarm or a bad dream, but with a soundâ a dull, metallic bang.
your eyes crack open, unfocused and strained in the low light. light bleeds in around the edges of the frilly curtains, brighter than you expect. you place a hand against your eyes, and for a moment, you're disorientated and heavy limbed, your body still weighing on the mattress like it's trying to hold onto sleep.
you blink and the sound comes againâ metal against metal, constant and loud as it echoes through the empty parking lotâ and your brain catches up to your body.
you groan quietly and roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling before pushing yourself upright. your joints ache in a way that comes with too much rest and your head hurts in a way that comes with not enough. you rub a hand over your face and glance at the blinking alarm clock in the bedside table.
it's late. not morning late; afternoon late. you'd slept through most of the day and woken up with a grogginess that makes it feel like you never really slept at all, but you give yourself a little leewayâ you'd been awake for a day and a half beforehand and this was your first proper bed in a while.
your stomach gurgles, void of any proper food. you get up, tug on your shoes, shove your room key into your pocket, and step out into the heat.
the day has already settled over the motel, the texas sun bleaching the colour out of everything. it still smells like dust and hot concrete, but now there's a faint smell of gasoline and soldered metal. you impatiently make your way to the vending machine you'd spotted last night, the humming getting louder as you near it.
the semi truck is still there, the hood up now, the massive front tilted forwards like a jaw. the man from last night is crouched besides it, his hands and shirt darkened with grease and dirt as he works. tools are scattered at his feetâ wrenches, screwdrivers, things with long handles and odd contraptionsâ and a dirty rag is thrown over his knee.
he looks different in the daylightâ still intimidating, still broad and still quiet, but you can see the tiredness in him. the set of his shoulders as he tightens a bolt, the slow and careful way he moves like he's trying to conserve energy, the way he huffs out a breath whenever he meets a particularly stubborn piece of metal. he pauses, wipes his hands on the rag, then leans back to look at whatever he's working on with a slight frown like it's not cooperating and hasn't been for a while.
the vending machine beeps obnoxiously loud at you.
its only when he turns his head just slightly to spot the source of the noise and he catches your eye that you realise you're staring. you turn back quickly and begin feeding your coins into the vending machine, awkwardly pressing on the first button you can see, and wait for the dull thud of something half edible to drop.
you're almost disappointed in yourself when a bottle of old fanta makes its way through the machine instead of food, but you pull it out anyways. the cap hisses when you pop it open. you take a sip more out of obligation than enjoyment. its warm, flat, and too sweet. you take another sad sip and let your eyes wander around.
there isn't much to look at.
the motel stretches out in a long line, sun bleached doors, curtains drawn in most windows, and outdated signs as far as the eye can see. you skip over trevor's badly parked car and focus more on the heat waves that hover just above the ground, and just beyond that, there's a hum of cars passing by every so often. you're about to turn around and go back to your room, but your eye catches on a pink sign that says 'pool'.
it hangs haphazardly on a light post on the far end of the property, the arrow beneath it pointing to a pathway between two buildings with cracked pavement. the sign is barely illegible, the paint faded and cracked, but curiosity gets the better of you and you follow it.
the path eventually opens up into a small, fenced in area behind the motel, and you find that there actually is a poolâ or at least a poor excuse of one. the water inside is cloudy, a dull bluish green with leaves and a few empty plastic water bottles floating on the surface. the tiles that surround the pool are either cracked or gone completely, and just beyond that, a few plastic lounge chairs are stacked awkwardly on top of one another, sun bleached and warped from age.
you step closer to the edge and peer down into the water. its so murky that you can't even see your own reflection. alas, you try to squint through at the glare of the sun, but then you feel someone behind you, your shoulders tensing before you even turn around.
"thing hasn't been used in years."
you turn. trevor stands there, hands on his hips and squinting at the pool like he owns it. you hadn't even heard him sneaking up on you, and the thought of it happening again makes you queasy.
"i figured." you mutter.
you take a small step backwards just as trevor steps forwards, his head craned down towards the pool like this is the first time he's seen it in years. he kicks a pebble and it lands into the water with a thick splashing noise before he turns to you.
"used to be nice though. families'd come during the summer. kids'd scream and they'd barbecue. used to get a lot of action." his eyes flick to yours, "not like that anymore."
you nod even though you don't really care.
trevor smacks his lips. "what are you doin' round back?" he asks, the question a little pointed and slightly accusatory.
you straighten a bit, gesturing vaguely. "just looking."
"at the pool?"
"at whatever was back here." you say, already turning away from him. "i was bored."
you start walking back towards the front of the motel before he can respond, but the scuff of shoes against pavement behind you tells you that he's close behind and that the conversation is far from over.
"i get that. not much to do round here." he says easily like this is completely casual and like he isn't matching your pace too well. "but we got a little kitchen just beside the front office if you wanna heat up or cook your food. microwave, coffee pot, workin' sink, that kinda stuff."
"okay."
"and you can probably tell, but housekeepin' doesn't run regularly anymore," he continues, "so if you need fresh towels or soap or anything, you just gotta swing by the front desk and ring that little bell. i'll sort it out for ya."
"i'll manage."
"independent type, huh?" he chuckles softly, and thenâ almost like he has a death wishâ he reaches out and places his clammy hand on your shoulder like you're just an old pal. "i like that about you, sugar."
your body reacts before your brain does. your shoulder jerks back, pulling away from his touch, and you turn to him with a glare sharp enough to kill.
"don't touch me and don't call me sugar."
trevor blinks, caught off guard. his hand hangs limply in the air for a moment before it dramatically drops back to his side. he scoffs, hand returning to his hips.
"alright, alrightâ" he says, lips pursing like you've personally offended him. "no need to get snappy with me."
you don't reply. you just turn and walk away.
trevor stalls for a second, hands on his hips like he's deciding whether he should follow you or just let you go. the clanking from earlier has stopped, but you barely notice it through the ringing in your ears and the crunch of gravel underneath your shoes.
"we also got laundry service if you wanna change outta those rags." trevor calls from behind you, hand cupped around his mouth to make himself louder. "maybe get a new shirt onâ it doesn't do much for your figure!"
you ignore the jab, keeping your eyes straight ahead as you reach your room. you reach into your pocket for your keys and pull them out, but your hands shake just enough for you to miss the lock on the first try, the key scraping uselessly against the painted wood. you manage to slip the key in, but thenâ
"everything alright over there?" a low, calm voice calls out from the far end of the lot.
you pause halfway through turning the key. your shoulders tense before you can fully control it, your breath catching just slightly as the words sink in. you've never heard his voice, but there's only three people here and it's not hard to guess who it belongs to. you glance over your shoulder, half expecting him to be speaking to you, only to realise that his eyes aren't on you at all; they're on trevor.
the trucker has gone still beside the hood of his truck. the rag that once rested on his knee is now thrown over his shoulder and his hands rest on his hips as he takes in the scene in front of him. his posture is calm, almost casual as he glares at trevor like he knows exactly what he's looking at.
"all is good, sir." trevor says quickly, with a thin smile and a weak thumbs up, "jus' helpin' a guest get settled."
the trucker doesn't look away. "doesn't sound like it."
the words aren't loud or aggressive. they're calm in the same way that his posture is calm, and somehow that makes them carry more weight than if he'd raised his voice at all.
trevor shifts in his spot. its subtle and barely noticeable, but you see it anywayâ in the way his shoulders drops, in the way his cheeks dimple into an awkward smile, in the way his hands flap around like he's searching for the words.
"everything's fine." he insists with a forced smile. he turns to you and gestures to you like you're supposed to back him up. "isn't that right, lil miss?"
but you don't reply. you twist the key and shoulder the door open, stepping into the room and shutting it behind you. you lean against the door for a second just enough to catch your breath before throwing the fanta bottle onto the bed.
through the thin curtains, the motel parking lot stretches out like a stage. the trucker and trevor are standing in what looks like a stand-off, their bodies still and eyes locked. there's a few words exchanged, but you can barely hear what's being said before trevor flaps his hand once and turns to walk away.
you watch as the trucker shakes his head, and thenâ just slightlyâ he tilts his head, and you swear he's looking right at you. your chest tightens and you press yourself a little closer to the wall beside you.
until long, the stranger goes back to working, bending back over the hood of his semi, the metallic clanking noise breaking the tension, and for the first time since you arrived here, you dont feel like you're the first person to realise something is off about this place.
you spend the next three days doing all that you can to bunker down in your motel room and avoid any and all interaction with trevor.
you keep the curtains drawn. you reuse the same towel over and over again just so you don't have to face him. you time your trips to the vending machine with the noises outside of your door. you listen for footsteps, for whistling, for anything that signals his presence before you even think of placing your hand on the door handle.
although it helps, you find that the isolation keeps your mind running rampant with no distraction from it. everything you'd once pushed down floods to the forefront of your mind until they feel like they're echoingâ the reason why you'd run from home, the reason why you'd chosen to ditch the travellers, the reason why you're even here at all. its an endless cycle of staring at the roof and spiralling into thoughts that you can't escape from.
and by the third day, your hunger overpowers your caution. the vending machine had stopped offering anything desirable and your stomach has been gnawing at itself for hours by now. later that day just as the sun had set, you find yourself sneaking off to the motel kitchen with the hunger of a man starved, and just like the rest of the motel, you find that it's anything but special.
the fluorescent lights above poorly illuminated the room. the linoleum floor is cracked and sticky with every hesitant step you take. the contact paper on the cupboards is peeling, and they smell of dust and mildew. there's an odd mould stain on the roof in the corner of the kitchen that watches you as you step inside. the refrigerator hums in the corner and the counters are clean apart from a thin layer of dust andâ trevor was rightâ there was a microwave and a coffee pot and a working sink, but theyre so outdated that you aren't even sure whether they function properly.
the first thing you do is inspect the kettle. it's dusty and it's text a little faded, but otherwise useful. you brush the thick layer of dust from the metal and bring it over to the sink, humming softly to yourself as it fills with water. the stove flicks onâ surprisinglyâ with little hesitation, and you waste no time in placing the appliance onto the flames.
you wander towards the kitchen cabinets in hopes of finding something edible. the last proper meal you had was a week ago, and even then, it wasn't much more than something to keep you upright.
most of the shelves are empty or packed with things that have long outlived their usefulnessâ dusty imploded bean cans, jars of preserves that weren't preserved well, and cardboard boxes full of cereal that were certainly stale by now. your stomach growls anyways as you rifle through the mess, your hand landing on a cup of instant ramen, the kettle whistling as you do so.
the ramen container is slightly dusty and the use-by date had passed a handful of years ago, but it sat like treasure in the palm of your hand. desperate times count for desperate measures, sure, but you really did not want to eat red beans smothered in crystallised strawberry jam anytime soon.
you peel open the foil of the ramen container, empty the sachets, pull the kettle from the stove, and begin filling the container with the boiling water. the faint smell of sauce and dried vegetables mixes with steam, and for a moment, the kitchen feels like its yours; a small refuge in a motel that otherwise reeks of tired paint and decay.
but then the door squeaks open behind you and you freeze, hand hovering over your food as you pray in your mind that it isn't trevor. you tilt your head just enough to glance over your shoulder, and the small breath of relief that leaves you is almost instant.
it's the trucker.
he steps inside the room with the same quiet confidence he's been holding onto ever since he pulled into the lot. he holds a plastic container in one hand and a set of plastic utensils in the other, and for a moment, he takes the time to glance at you. he doesn't say hello or really acknowledge you in any way; he simply moves towards the microwave on the other side of the kitchen like this is his own home and opens the door, sliding in his food, pressing a few buttons, and then leaning back against the counter as he waits, his arms crossing loosely over his chest.
neither of you speak, but you're sure you're both aware of each other. it's a constant battle against your brain to try not to stare at him and watch his every move, not because he's threatening, but because he's unfamiliarâ unlike trevor, he's a presence you haven't learnt how to place just yet.
and as you continue trying to make your old ramen soak up the broth, you hear his boots press against the old linoleum as he heads towards the tableâ the only table in the roomâ and place his keys and his utensils onto the surface with a soft clink like he hasn't even considered whether or not you might have wanted it. its a small table with only two chairs, but he takes up the space in a way that makes it feel like there's only room for one.
so you stay where you are, hip pressing into the kitchen counter as you stab at your noodles with a fork, watching as the steam lazily curls from the cup, and pretending you're not waiting for him to move.
but he doesn't.
the microwave beeps three times, and the trucker steps forwards and pulls at the handle. the smell of plastic and artificial food spills into the kitchen, and he wastes no time in tearing the plastic seal off and tossing it haphazardly into the trash before setting it down onto the table, pulling a chair out, and sitting down to indulge.
he eats in silence like it's all he knows. his eyes are on his food and his plastic fork scratches at the plastic container, his shoulders loose and his jaw working as he makes quick work of the microwaved slop.
eventually, you turnâ just a little, just enough to check whether he's still there. you try not to watch him, but you fail, and thats when your eyes meet his.
he's already looking at you. not in a sharp way, or in a way that feels judgemental, but more like he's observing you. his gaze almost feels the same way as your first night when his semi truck pulled into the motel parking lot and the high beams blinded you, and in a funny way, you almost feel like a deer in headlights.
his gaze flicks from you to the empty chair across from him, then back at you. there's a small shift in his composureâ the pause of his jaw as he scavenges for food in his teeth, the scoot of his jean-clad butt in the squeaky metal chair, the cock of his head as he lets out the softest sigh you've ever heardâ and then he moves.
he reaches out with his foot and nudges the other chair out by its leg. it scratches against the floor as he pushes it towards you, creating a space where there hadn't been one before. he lifts his chin in a gentle gesture towards it, lip jutting out just slightly.
"i don't bite." he simply says.
you hesitate. your fingers tighten just slightly against the warmth of the cup, your brain running through all the reasons why you shouldn'tâ all of the ways this could end horribly for youâ before you suck in a soft breath, push off of the counter, and move towards the table anyways.
you take the seat across from him. the chair legs shift slightly as you sit, and the sound feels louder than it actually is in the silence of the kitchen. you dont bother tucking in your chair, afraid of invading his space, and the trucker goes back to eating like nothing has changed, his fork stabbing at various vegetables and chunks of artificial meats, eyes on the container in front of him; but not entirely.
every so often, his gaze finds you. he doesn't stare long enough to make it obvious, but his eyes find you frequently enough for you to wonder what he's looking for, and you have to pretend you don't feel it. you believe it's because he's checking on you, like maybe he's trying to figure out what someone like you is doing out in the middle of nowhere.
you shift under the weight of it, not uncomfortable, just hyperaware of it allâ of yourself, of him, of the little space there is between you, and of the silence that surrounds you. it's something you didn't necessarily prepare for when you left your room a little while ago.
you continue swirling the noodle around the cup, putting off actually eating them. you dont know whether you should just get it over with and possibly be sick for the rest of the week or if you should just pour it down the sink and live off of stale vending machine chips.
eventually, the table creaks under his arms as the trucker sits back up and sets his fork against the side of his container. you pause at the sudden shift, eyes drifting slowly up to find that he's already looking at youâ not in a way that feels invasive or creepy, but thoughtful, like he's trying to piece together the puzzle that is you instead of asking for answers out loud.
"you been on the road long?" he asks like its not even a question he really needs the answer to, but something to fill the silence.
there's a small raise of your brow as you huff out a small breath, the corner of your mouth twitching like you almost find his question funny. you stop stirring your noodles and let the fork sink into the cup.
"not long," you say, head tilting just slightly. "but it feels like it's been forever."
he hums quietly at that like he knows exactly what you're talking about, and you're sure he does. you can see it up close in the lines of his face, in the soft greying of his hair and his stubble, in the freckles surely painted on by the sun through his truck windows, and in the tiredness that sits heavy in his eyes as he nods.
"yeah," he says after a long moment. "roads'll do that to you."
he doesnt say anything after that. he simply shovels food into his mouth, quick but still neat like he hasn't lost interest in eating. a part of you thinks he's only invited you to sit for the company, and you appreciate the gesture for what it is, because you believe you needed it too.
your eyes flick to the dirty curtain-covered window without really meaning toâ to where his truck sits out in the parking lot, the hood up more often than not. it sits in the dark, toolbox still on the ground beside it and a half-empty beer bottle laying on the ground next to that.
you decide to ask a question next; something to fill the silence that sits in between the two of you just like he did.Â
"is there something wrong with your truck?" you ask, trying to seem casual and actually landing somewhere close to it. "i heard you working on it all day."
there's a second where you think you might've crossed an invisible lineâ asked something too personal or maybe been a little too demanding in your question. his fork pauses over his food, jaw working as he swallows what remains in his mouth. there's a small pause as he follows your eyes out to his truck before he gives you a half shrug.
"somethin' like that." he sighs like the topic is something that stresses him out. "she runs, but not as good as she used to. somethin' in the hood exploded back in shamrock and i've been tryin' to keep her alive long enough to get where i'm goin'."
you blink. "where are you headed?"
he glances at you, just briefly, like he's deciding whether or not the question is worth answering. the corner of his mouth tugs like he's in on some inside joke you aren't aware of.
"california. america's very own golden state."
his words land heavy as they leave his mouth, and your brain moves before any other part of you does.
california. warm. bright. somewhere that isn't here or home. somewhere thats still so, so far.
three days. that's all you have. three days before the cash you have tucked in your duffel bag grows thin, before trevor gets bolder and meaner and before you inevitably have to leave. you can't stay here and you know that. you dont have a car or a plan. you dont even have a general direction, just a need to keep moving; and suddenly, sitting across from you, is a man who is already doing exactly that.
you hesitate.
you shouldn't ask. you know you shouldn't. this is how people get into troubleâ they trust sketchy strangers from dingy motels, follow their impulses, mistake a well-time coincidence as opportunity, and end up on the evening news as a missing person. it's something you know all too well and you're not going to leap into it headfirst.
you're smart and you know it. you'll come up with a plan and you'll stick to it. all you have to do is ration, stick to yourself, and try not to think about how three days is so much closer than you think.
so you keep your mouth shut and simply nod. your eyes fall back down to the neglected cup of ramen in your hands. it's gone lukewarm and a thin film has formed over the broth. the noodles finally suck up the liquid, but they swell into something soft and mushy and vaguely unappetising. you wouldnt even feed this to starving a stray animal.
the man's eyes briefly drop to the cup of ramen that sits in your hands. you stare at it like you dread even thinking about it, and he furrows his brows.
"you gonna eat that, or are you just gonna stare at it until it goes cold?"
"oh, it, uh... i was going to, but..." you grimace like watching the corn pieces swimming around in the soup has suddenly made you loose your appetite. "i'm not even sure if it's still edible."
"here," he motions gently for you to come closer, and you're confused for a moment before he points a finger vaguely at your mug of mediocre noodles. you slide it over and he wastes no time shovelling some of his food into yours. vegetables and meat sink into the soup. the gesture is sweet and you feel your stomach growl at the thought of having actual food for once.
he slides your cup back towards you, and you dare yourself to dip your fork back into the soup, stab at a floating piece of meat, and bring it to your mouth. you chew on it and swallow the bite, the warmth of it settling in your stomach like a small comfort.
"young girl like you has to eat food that hasn't been rottin' in a cabinet for god knows how long." he says, and then continues before you can respond, "trust me. i've been on the road long enough to know what malnutrition looks like."
you shovel another forkful of noodles into your mouth, ignoring the way the soup sloshes around in the cup and certainly sending droplets of the liquid into the air. you shake your head, half-amused and half-unnerved by how closely he seems to be watching you.
"thanks, but i'm not young." you manage between bites.
the low laugh that leaves his mouth catches you off guard.
"well, you definitely aren't old. skin's all plump and clean and you've still got all your teeth." he says, his voice low and almost teasing, eyes still glazing over you in a way that makes your stomach twist. "i've probably got tools in my truck older than you."
the way he says it makes all the noise you hear go silent. suddenly the soup that drips from your chin and the noodle hanging out of your mouth doesn't feel all that casual nor does it feel presentable. he's watching you like you're something he's never seen before, eyes steady and intent, and you're unsure what to do with all of the attention.
you hastily wipe at your mouth with the back of your hand, clear your throat, and sit up a little in your chair. maybe a small part of you wants to prove him wrongâ show him that you might be young but you're wise beyond your yearsâ and you try to do so by fixing your posture and looking at least somewhat put together even with a cup of reasonable ramen in your hands.
it doesn't go unnoticed. if anything, it seems to catch his attention more.
his gaze lingers, but not in the way that trevor's didâ not with hunger or entitlementâ but with intrigue, like he's catching the shift in you and filing it away in his head. there's something softer in his expression now, a faint crease in his brows that you've only noticed just now as if you've just become a little more intriguing than he had first assumed.
he gently nods, curiosity trickling into his face. he leans forwards just slightly, elbows digging into the table. "what's your name?"
and the question hits you off guard even though you know it was inevitable.
for a moment, you consider dodging his questionâ lying, deflecting, keeping yourself small and unremarkable like you've been doing for days. it's not that you don't want to tell him, it's just that answering feels like you're giving this stranger a piece of yourselfâ a story, something to hold onto, something from your past that you'd been running from this entire time, and the reason you're here.
you turn your head, eyes flicking to the large crack in the middle of the kitchen's linoleum floor that sits split in two. it feels safer to look at something broken that isn't you. he takes your silence as an answer.
"that's alright. you don't owe me anythin'." he says as he leans back in his chair like he's trying to ease the pressure off of you without making a show of it. "my name's james, but you can call me bucky."
hm. he doesnt look like a james, but he sure as hell looks like a bucky.
you turn back to him with a turned lip. "what's bucky short for?"
"full name's james buchanan barnes. it was just a nickname my pa gave me that stuck." he says easily. then, like he's joking, he adds, "now you've got my full name just incase i try to pull somethin' on ya."
you huff softly, "how do i know you aren't lying about your name? i could come up with about fifty fake names right now, and you wouldnt know any better. criminals lie all the time."
he quirks a brow as he pops open the top of his coke bottle, the bubbles popping at the surface as he lifts it to his lips with a sneaky smile. "guess you just gotta trust me then, sweetheart."
you hum softly in acknowledgment, the faintest smile on your lips, fork scrapping at the bottom of the ramen cup for scraps. the food settles warmly in your stomach, and it reminds you that you're tiredâ really tired.
you stand, the empty ramen cup in your hand, and awkwardly brush your other hand on your pants before vaguely gesturing to the cracked kitchen door.
"i think i'm gonna head back." you tell him like you're unsure of what you should do. you don't know if he even cares, but it feels like the respectful thing to do.
bucky inhales a breath, the sound low and sharp, and it feels like you might've just pulled him from his thoughts. he reaches up and runs a hand over his head before nodding once. "s'pose that's fair. princess needs her beauty sleep."
you hesitate for a second, but a small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth despite yourself. "night, bucky."
he offers you a smile of his own, head tilting just slightly with a soft nod. "sleep tight, sweetheart."
you turn and push the kitchen door open, slipping into the night. the door creaks shut behind you as you tread through the parking lot, unaware of how long bucky sits there after you're gone, or how long he stares at the empty seat across from him like you might come back.
you've never been a great judge of characterâ you have the scars and the pain to prove itâ but this man didn't seem bad, or at least didn't seem like an axe murderer, and unless you want to walk along the edge of route 66 with your thumb stuck out hoping that another car full of non-murderous travellers picks you up to take you to california, your only other bet is trying to hitch a ride with bucky.
and plus, there are worse ways to get to california than riding shotgun with a trucker who calls you princess and sweetheart.
the next morning doesn't come with any great revelation, and you wake with the same boring nothing. there's no obvious sign, no sudden clarity, no omnipresent voice from the universe telling you what to do. theres only the texas heat seeping through your room windows, pressing in in you like it wants you to stay and rot in your room.
the heat is so prevalent that at midday, you've already had about three showers in the dingy bathroom.
it doesnt help much. the water never gets quite cold, the shower head sprays water in every direction but yours, and the humidity clings to your skin before you even step out of the shower. the towel you'd received when you'd checked in had served you well, but now it smelt of dirty laundry and damp cloth, and no amount of air drying or shaking it out seems to fix that.
you stare at it for a second before deciding you're not desperate enough to use it again.
you get dressed into something that could battle the heat yet leave you covered enough when you inevitably have to face trevor and leave your room with your dirty towel tucked underneath your arm.
the lot shimmers in waves under the sun, radiating the kind of heat that you might think will melt the soles of your shoes.
unsurprisingly, bucky's already out there. his truck's hood is up as per usual, his tools scattered all around the front, and he's leaning over the engine with the focus of someone who's been at this for hours, and you could already tell by the metal-against-metal noises that he'd had been up before you'd even opened your eyes.
and the second you shut your door, the noise pulls him from his work.
his head turns to see the cause, and when he noticed it's you, he straightens like he's trying to get a better look at you. for a moment, the truck seems forgotten, his attention caught on the sight of you leaving your room with your little shorts and your towel tucked under your arm. he doesn't rush to get back to what he's doing, and his gaze lingers instead, taking you in like this is a rare pause he doesn't mind stretching out.
sweat darkens the front of his tank top, clinging to his body in a way that makes it clear that the heat is winning. the thin fabric is stretched across his chest, damp and heavy, tracing every muscle earned through years of labour rather than vanity. his jeans are stained with grease and grime from his work, and what little hair he has on his head sticks to his temple in small soft curls.
his tongue darts out and swipes across his bottom lip almost like he's forgotten you can see him, a reflex born from the heatâ or maybe something else entirely.
god, he looks good.
after a long moment, he straightens with a soft exhale, grips the hem, and pulls the tank over his head in an attempt to free himself of the wet fabric. the muscles in his arms flex with every move he makes, glistening under the texan sun, and the light catches the sheen of sweat that forms over every inch of his body. the fabric finally slips free and gets tossed over the hood of the truck, leaving him bare to the heat.
you nearly walk straight into the curb. the toe cap of your shoe bumps against the concrete, jolting you from your wandering thoughts. you only barely manage to catch yourself, the towel sliding slightly from your arm, and bucky knows exactly what's happened.
he tilts his head just slightly, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like he knows exactly what's he's doing. his eyes flick briefly to the curb you'd almost stumbled over, then back to you, a mix of amusement and some genuine concern flooding his face.
"you alright, princess?" he calls out, his voice low but carrying easily over the heat-laced lot, and you realise you've been staring like a madman.Â
"i'm fine." you awkwardly reply, and he hums.
you break eye contact and pick up the pace towards the front office. sweat prickles along your skin, and the warmth of the sun suddenly feels more invasive than it does comforting. you dont even know if youre sweating because of the heat or because of him.Â
you hadn't expected this when he'd sat in front of you in a baggy denim jacket last night in the kitchen. where had he been hiding all of... that? the broad shoulders? that lean muscle? the six pack? it had all been covered by fabric and shadow, and you almost want to drop to your knees and thank mother nature for deciding to work in perfect harmony to reveal bucky like this.
you skid to a stop in front of the front office door. the handle squeals as you push down on it and shoulder the door open, and a cold blast of air hits youâ blessed, if a little stale. it smells faintly of mold, the result of a leaky unit, and of vinegar potato chips.
trevor is there slouched in his chair like he hasn't moved since the first time you met him. his eyes flick up as you step inside, and with a lazy smile and lopsided glasses, he turns to face you like he's excited to see you.
"hey, you." he drawls with a hint of surprise in his voice. "thought you'd never come back 'round to see me."
"you said you handle the laundry and all that stuff?" you recount, your voice stiff and to the point. you place your folded towel onto the counter and slide it towards him, the action swift. "i'd like a new towel, please. maybe two."
trevor smiles, a yellow tooth poking out from his lips. "i do do the laundry. i can fix up a towel or two for you, gorgeous. can't have the little princess walking around here with a dirty towel now, can we?"
you don't reply, nor do you give him the pleasure of seeing you smile. the rhetorical question hangs in the air between you, practically gathering dust as it remained unanswered. the nickname doesnt roll off of his tongue nearly as good as it does when it comes from buckysâ
oh my god. stop thinking about that man.Â
trevor leans back in his chair with his shoulders raised. "c'mon, that was funny. you gotta admit that i'm the best thing about this dump."
"the best thing about this dump is the air conditioning." you quickly retort before crossing your arms against your chest. "how long is this gonna take?"
his grin falters just slightly before twisting into something sharper. "it'll take no time, but it'll cost ya a pretty penny."
something cold settles in your chest. "you said it was FREE."
"boss raised it to ten bucks per piece." trevor stays like it's perfectly reasonable. "but if you wanted to discuss another form of payment, you can always come back after dark and we can see how it goes from there."
your jaw clenches. its one thing to demand ten dollars to wash a singular piece of clothing, but it's another to continuously press down on you with the threat of a good time to see if you'll break.
"i'll figure something out." you grab your towel from the counter and turn towards the door. "thanks anyways."
the word thanks tastes bitter on your tongue, but you don't give him the satisfaction of seeing it. you push open the door, and just before it shuts, you can hear trevor shout outâ
"oh come on, sugar! you know you want it!"
the door slams behind you harder than you meant it to.
heat hits you all at once, thick and suffocating as it wraps around you like a punishment. you clutch the towel tighter in your hand as you stomp back out into the parking lot, your pulse ringing in your ears.
metal clanks somewhere to your left, and then stops. you dont look, but you can feel the way the air shifts; the weight of someone's attention.
you risk a glance, and quickly find that bucky's no longer bent over the hood of his truck. he's standing upright now, a hand on his hip and a rag in the other. his expression is unreadable, his lips parted just slightly, his eyes slow and assessing, and whatever he sees on your face makes his grip on his rag tighten.
"you okay?" he asks, breaking the silence like he's testing the ice. his voice is calm like it usually is, but there's something sharper that rests underneath it.
you hesitate. every instinct you've honed over the years tells you to just shrug it off, that this is just another case of a man expecting something, to say its nothing and to keep moving. but you're done holding it in.
you huff, gesturing angrily at the front office where trevor is still sitting like a king. "asshole wanted ten bucks for a new towel. and he keepsâ" you pause, the words echoing in your mind, "he keeps making these horrible passes at me and i justâ"
you stop yourself and bucky's expression changes almost immediately. its not dramatic, nor is it explosive; it's colder, like something you'd said had rubbed him the wrong way.
you look at him then. "it's fine. i'll figure it out."
he studies you for a moment longer as you stand there soaking up the heat. its silent as his eyes flick from your face to the towel and then back to your face. then he exhaled and reaches into his jean pocket.
"i've got a spare towel in my room that you can take. it's clean." he says as he digs for something before he pulls out a pair of keys with a cheap plastic keychain that you recognise as his room key.
you quickly shake your head, "you don't have toâ"
"i wasn't askin'." he tosses his room key to you and you catch it, the metal rattling in your palm. "you can take it."
your jaw tightens as you fidget with the keys. they feel heavy in your hand and still warm from his pocket. "i don't want to owe you anything."
the corner of bucky's mouth lifts just a fractionâ not quite a smile, but something softer. "good. wouldnt want you to." then quieter, like he can sense your hesitation and like he doesn't want anyone else to hear it, he adds, "it's just a towel."
you really do want to turn him down, but the heat presses in on all sides and you're sure that if you use your towel one more time, it'd leave you stickier than you'd entered the shower feeling. to top it off, bucky is looking at you like he expects nothing in return.
"...thanks, bucky." you finally say.
he nods once, easy and almost proud of you for accepting his help. "it's folded up on the tv console. you cant miss it."
your fingers curl around the key and you give bucky one last glance before you turn and head towards his room. the walk across feels longer than it should, every step you take heavy with the awareness of bucky's eyes on your back. sweat sticks to your skin and the sun is relentless overhead, but the heat isn't what's bothering youâ it's the fact that you're about to walk into the room of a stranger and cross a line you didnt even know you were standing on.
you stop in front of the door, slide the key into the lock, and twistâ but it doesn't open. you try again, a little harder this time, but there's still nothing. you glance over your shoulder towards bucky.
"oh, the door sticks." he yells from across the lot. he makes a stranger gesture with his shoulder, "gotta give it a shove."
you hesitate, then brace yourself before shouldering your way into the room. the door pops open with an awkward crack, swinging inward enough for you to slip inside.
the first thing you notice is how lived in it feels. its similar to yours, but it's warmer somehow. the curtains are half drawn, letting in a thin strip of sunlight that cuts across the bed and the worn carpet. the air smells faintly of engine oil and generic dollar store soapâ the grit hidden underneath the cleanâ and something distinctly him, like heat and metal and long hours on the road.
there's very little decoration, but what is there counts. a denim jacket is slung over the small desk chair in the corner and a pair of black jeans sit messily folded on the table, scuffed with red dirt like they've seen more miles than most people. a half empty water bottle sits on the rickety bedside table beside a folded up receipt and an open pocketknife, the blade well-used.
the bed isn't neat, the blankets thrown to the side without much care. an open duffel bag sits on the end of the bag, and you hate how nosy you feel when something in it catches your attention.
you take a few steps forwards until you're able to peek inside, hand brushing against the zipper of the duffel. there's not much; a wallet and folded clothes, a blend of worn and clean fabricsâ a flannel, torn blue jeans, crisp white socksâ but then something out of place catches your eye.
paper.
it's not loose. it's tucked carefully into a pocket on the inside of the bag. you tell yourself that you're only looking because it's there, and you reach in before you can even think, pulling it out with care. just a glanceâ that's all.
the edges are worn and it's creased down the middle like it's been folded and unfolded more times than it should've survived, evident by the thin piece of tape that's holding a corner of it together. the colour has faded into something dull, but the frozen memory printed onto the front is anything but.
two men stand in the centre of it, close in a way that feels more personal than anything you'd ever known. you recognise one of the men as buckyâ younger, happier, and clean shavenâ a bright smile on his face as he stares at the other man. the other man is broad shouldered, his features sharp underneath his stubble, and wearing a smile similar to bucky's, one so wide that it almost looks like world hasn't had the chance to take anything from them yet.
your thumb absentmindedly brushes against the photo where bucky's face is, the finger curling right down the curve of his jaw.
there's no writing on the back, nor is there an explanation. who is this mystery man, a friend? a boyfriend? either way, they look awfully close.
your chest tightens, red hot guilt flaring in your stomach with the awful realisation that this is something extremely personal to bucky and you've probably just crossed hundreds of lines. the open bag seems to stare at you, and for the first time since you stepped foot in the motel room, you've become acutely aware of how much of an invasion of privacy this is.
you look away from the photo like it might burn you, heart thudding as you fold it back up and shove it back into the pocket you found it in. you find the towel folded up on the tv console just as bucky had saidâ white, clean, and untouchedâ and you grab it quickly, beelining straight towards the door.
you shut the door behind you and lock it. you cross the lot, quicker this time and with your eyes fixed on bucky like he might see through you if you blink. he's still by the truck, arms deep in the engine system, but he stops what he's doing as soon as he hears your rushed feet heading towards him.
"you find it?" he asks as he steps off of the bumper.
you nod and hand him the key. "yeah. thanks again."
your fingers brush when he takes itâ just the briefest touch of his calloused fingers against your soft onesâ and he curls it into the palm of his hand, gaze flickering at the clean towel in your hand.
you turn to leave, a half smile on your lip. you're halfway through a step whenâ
"hey." bucky calls.
you pause and turn back around.
"you busy tonight?" he asks,
"unless you count watching old reruns all night and listening to the rats in the walls, not really." you try to joke, but the humour dies halfway in your throat when you realise it's your reality. "why?"
he shrugs like his suggestion is nothing big. "there's a decent diner about ten miles down the road. thought maybe we could get something in you that isn't shit from a vending machine."
for a split second, you almost say yes immediately. the idea of real food, of leaving this place even if its just for a little while, of just having someone normal to talk to, feels like a god-given grace. but instinct cuts in fast. the logical part of your mind tells you to not get comfortable.
comfortable is how you get stuck. comfortable is how you get hurt.
"yeah, i don't know about that." you gesture vaguely to your room, and then to your empty pocket. "running low on cash."
"don't worry bout it." bucky says almost immediately. "my treat. least i can do after you've kept me company these past few days."
you blink. "we met last night."
then, almost like you'd just told him a joke, a small laugh falls from his mouth, and god, something about it makes you weak in the knees. "maybe, but you sittin' in your room all day staring at me fixin my truck is still better company than listenin' to trevor watchin' cheap cable porn in his office all day."
oh. he noticed that?
you open your mouth but shut it again. there's no point in denying it, and the cheeky grin that sits plastered on bucky's face shows that you can't gaslight your way out of this one.
the texas heat presses in and the motel hums around you, and for once, the idea of staying in your room all night feels worse than the risk of saying yes. you lift your eyes back to him and sigh, the fight leaving your shoulders.
"okay." you say, more to yourself than anyone else, then you nod. "yeah, okay. dinner sounds... dinner sounds nice."
bucky's smile spreads across his face, slow and satisfied like he knew you would accept. "good. i'll knock around seven."
and he does.
the knock comes at 6:58pm, solid knuckles banging against the wood. the sound echoes through your room louder than it needs to, and it sets every nerve in you alight.
you sit up straighter in the edge of your bed, your heart giving a traitorous jump. for a second, you stare at the door like the sound might go away, but it doesn't. there's a soft scuff of boots against concrete on the other side, and then there's a quiet huff of breath, patient and unhurried.
"hey." bucky's voice comes through the door, low and careful, almost like he's giving you an out. "it's me."
you swallow. your hands are clammy and there's a strange heaviness that sits in the pit of your stomach. you can't remember the last time someone knocked on your door for you.
"yeahâ" you rub a hand over your face, clearing your throat as you push yourself to your feet. you're too aware of how your clothes fit and how you look. "uh, just... give me a second."
"i'm not goin' anywhere."
you smooth your hands over your shirt, eyes glazing over your reflection in the small hanging mirror, and then you look down at yourself. you're presentable enough. with one final breath, you cross the room and open the door.
the creak of the door catches bucky's attention. he's standing there with his hands shoved into his jean pockets, his boots scuffed and his hair a little wet like he's washed up since the last time you saw him. there's something pleasant about the way he smellsâ like sandalwood and leather and him, a welcome change from the stale mix of dusty carpet and mouldy insulation.
he looks good. he looks handsome.
"ready?" he asks, and you cant ignore the way his eyes travel down the length of your body like he's taking you in for the first time instead of the girl he's seen coming and going all week. "let's get some food in you."
it isn't scrutinising, but it's thorough enough for warmth to creep up your neck, to make you suddenly aware of where your hands are, how you're standing, how close he feels in the narrow doorway. you haven't felt this way sinceâ never mind.
your brows knit as you glance past him and towards the lot. "wait, are we taking your truck? i thought it was fucked up."
bucky's face relaxes as he turns over to glance over his shoulder, then back at you. "she's fucked, but she can still drive."
"i hope so." you murmur as you lock your door and slide the keys into your pocket. you hear bucky chuckle.
as you walk beside bucky, you manage to sneak a glance at him. he's relaxed, his shoulders loose and his steps casual. he carries himself with the confidence of a man who does this all the timeâ talking to strangers and helping them out, letting himself form connections that inevitably lead nowhereâ meanwhile your pulse is throbbing throughout your body, struggling to differentiate the difference between the first date jitters you feel and your fight or flight response kicking in.
you force yourself to suck in a deep breath. bucky is nice. he's done nothing but help you., and even if he weren't, you aren't helpless. you know how to run and you know how to fight. you've done it before and you'd do it again. the thought settles the restless anxiety in your chest, and that gives you enough clarity as you near the truck.
the first thing you realise is how big the truck is. from afar, it looks just like every other semi you've seen in your life. up close, it's rusted metal and worn paint, scratches and dents adorning the length of it, and it towers over you like a skyscraper.
bucky reaches up and over and pulls open the door. "might be a bit of a climb. you think you can get up there yourself?"
"i think i'll be fine." you quickly reply, already stepping forwards.
you reach up and grab a hold of the support handle and plant your foot on the step, and you immediately realise you have no idea what you're doing. something about the layout of the truck is strange in a way that makes your brain short circuit for a long moment. the step is higher than expect, the handle a little too far back, your arms criss crossed and your leg is suspended for a moment as you try to figure out where to go next.
its not graceful at all.
you drop to the ground in defeat. before you can try and embarrass yourself again, bucky's hands are there, firm and warm on your waist, steadying you without being rough.
"'s alright, princess," he murmurs. "i've gotcha."
he lifts you like you weigh nothing. your hands instinctively brace against his shoulders, solid beneath your palms, and you can feel the heat of his skin through the fabric of his shirt. for a second, all you can feel is his hands. you're painfully aware of how close his face is to your stomachâ to that areaâ and you feel a little breathless as he hoists you up and sets you down into the passenger seat like you belong there.
you look down at him with a tight lipped smile, "sorry."
"don't be." he says gently as he gives you a small pat on the side of your thigh, already stepping back with a small smile and his hand on the door. "truck's old. not exactly built for somethin' little like you."
you blink as he shuts the door for you and circles the truck before clicking open his own door and climbing in with ease. the cab feels smaller when he settles into his seat, filled with the low rumble of the starting engine and bucky's scent.
he glances over as you as he pulls his door shut. he glances over at you, eyes flicking downwards. "seatbelt." he reminds you, and you quickly buckle in. he nods once when it clicks, satisfied.
bucky clicks some switches and tugs at some levers, and the truck lurches forwards with a load groan. gravel crunches under the tires as bucky reverses the truck with ease, manoeuvring the huge vehicle out of the small lot. the headlights sweep across the cracked paint of the motel, illuminating the stretch of route 66 that it sits on.
it feels strangeâ being here on the road again, moving again after a stagnant periodâ like your body remembers the rhythm of the road even if your body hasn't quite caught up.
for a few miles, neither of you speaks. the radio hums softly between stations, bucky skipping until it lands on something that vaguely resembles dire straits before he finally leans back, one hand on the wheel and the other resting along the sill of the window, the glass cracked open just enough for wind to funnel into the cab.
you watch the world go by through the windshield. there's desert scrub, flickering neon motel lights, the occasional passing set of headlights that fly past before you even really notice them. it's peaceful in a way you hadn't really expected.
"so," bucky breaks the silence without turning to look at you, his voice just slightly louder than the hum of the radio and the growl of the truck. "california."
your head turns towards him before you can really control it. "california." you echo, the word sitting strange and heavy on your tongue despite it being the goal you'd been trying to reach for so long.
theres another small pause before bucky hums.
"what's so special about california? job? family?" he turns and glances at you for half a second, throat bobbing once before he turns back to the road. "or did you just throw a dart at a map and decide it was good enough?"
a small laugh slips from your mouth before you can stop itâ soft, surprised, one that almost catches you off guardâ but it fades into something you'd barely call a smile. you glance down at your shorts, fingers picking at the fabric, and although bucky doesn't look over, you get the feeling that he's listening in a lot closer now.
"i don't know." you admit. "i just needed to get the fuck out of chicago."
bucky nods once, slow and understanding. "that's fair. not always good to stay in one place forever."
he doesnt ask you to explain, nor does he pry. he simply adjusts his grip on the wheel and shifts in his seat before he adds, almost absentmindedly, "a lotta people end up on the road for that reason."
"hmm." you softly nod. then your head lulls to the side just slightly, enough that you can gesture to the back of the truck that rumbles behind you. "what about you? what've you got back there in the trailer?"
bucky glances over at you for just a second, his brows furrowed like you'd just recounted a complex math equation. "who taught you that?"
"taught me what?" you ask, "trailer?"
"yeah." bucky's lips curl into a soft smile, and you can see the small crinkle of his eyes in the rear view mirror. "usually pretty girls like you just refer to the backâ or they just call it the truck. you knew what you were talking about, and that's not usually something you just know unless you've picked it up from someone."
you ignore the pretty part of the sentence, and instead try to put on a teasing grin. "do you talk to a lot of pretty girls?"
and then, almost like he can sense the playfulness in your tone bucky turns his head just enough for you to catch the smirk that sits on his lips. "only the ones who can tell the different between a cab and a trailer."
your chest flutters in a way that unconsciously makes a smile grow on your face, warmth creeping up your neck until bucky finally turns away from you and back to the road. there's something in the curve of his jaw, in the blue of his eyes, in the quiet confidence he drives, in the faint rush of his scent carried by the windâ it's confusing, but also exciting. you can't help the pull of curiosity or the way your mind lingers on the idea of him for longer than you should.
but something horrible tugs at your heart. it's something familiar, something you've know for so many years, something that's made its home in your body;Â guilt.
"my, uh..." you scratch the side of your neck, pausing just momentarily to pull your eyes away from the side of bucky's face. "my boyfriend built semis. he taught me all about the parts and the frames and stuff to try and get me into the business to help out butâ" a small, self conscious shrug follows. "not a lot of it stuck."
"boyfriend?" bucky asks. "and where's he?"
"far away, i hope." you say. there's a tightness in your chest, and you reach up to fidget with the necklace that hangs around your neck. "he's actually the reason why i left chicago."
you're looking out of your window now, but you can feel the burn of bucky's eyes on the back of your head as he turns to look at you for a moment.
"he an asshole?" he asks, half joking, but his tone is soft and patient like he already knows the answer.
"you could say that." you reply with a soft laugh, a little tight lipped and a little sad, but relieved that he isn't prying for more, and for the first time in days, it feels okay to leave it out in the open and mostly unspoken.
the road ahead stretches into flat darkness. the radio hums quietly. the truck rumbles as it rolls over rocks and asphalt. ahead, a bright pair of headlights glow bright. it's peaceful.
"garden gnomes."
your brows furrow. you turn your head towards bucky, who's eyes are set on the road. you're sure you'd misheard him. "what?"
he glances at you, then back at the road, his voice low like he's confessing a classified secret. "in the back. it's garden gnomes."
you blink, a bubble of a laugh slipping free before you can stop it. "you're hauling gnomes across the country? is that a joke?"
"sounds funny, but apparently those little bastards are worth more than both you and i and this truck." he says, dead serious, but there's a small twitch of a smile on his face. "rich people have nothin' better to spend their money on."
you snort again, laughter bubbling from your chest and breaking the heaviness that had settled there. bucky smiles at the soundâ small, satisfied, toothyâ like that was exactly the reaction he had hoped for. you press a hand against your mouth to try and suppress your laughter, but it barely works.
"heyâ they're gettin' a nicer trip than most people do." he half-heartedly adds with a grin. "they're drivin' with the best trucker in america. not everybody can say that."
"the best trucker in america and the most humble."
"don't start, missy." bucky warns you, but the amusement on his face gives him away. "you're apart of the lucky few who can call themselves a passenger of mine."
you scoff, "whatever you say, buck."
the nickname slips out before you can stop it, and for half a second, you wonder if you've crossed a line. but you watch how bucky's eyes linger on you and the way his knuckles flex against the wheel, turning white just ever so slightly as his grip tightens. there's a slight tick in his jaw before his tongue darts out and swipes across his bottom lip.
a neon light catches your eye. it's bright against the dark of the sky, the singular word DINER illuminated in bright pink and faint blues. it's a simple sign, but it gets the work done. a small building comes into view, small and unassuming yet warm and homey, like it's just waiting for people to stumble in for a feed.
"that must be it." bucky mutters as he squints through the windscreen. he pulls at a few things, and the truck rolls to a slow as you near the building.
"good." you murmur. "i'm starving."
bucky slows the truck, turning off of the highway steering wide and pulling the truck to the far end of the lot where the truck won't block anyone in (even though there's only three or four cars in the lot).
"she's too big to squeeze in there." he adds as he pulls the brakes and shuts the engine off. the rumbling stops, and suddenly it's quiet again. "hope you don't mind the walk."
"it's fine." you tell him as you unbuckle your seatbelt. you click open the door and push it open, almost falling out at the weight of it. you glance down to the step, and then towards the trucker. "uh, bucky... would you be able toâ"
before you can finish, bucky's door swings open, the cab groaning at the shift of weight. "i've got it." he says, voice calm but amused before he hopes out and shuts the door behind him.
you watch the top of his head as he circles the front of the truck, and he appears at your door. he reaches a hand out before you can even think about trying to hop down yourself.
"here." he says as you take his hand, the other arm extended just in case you slip.
you let him guide you down, one hand in his and the other on his shoulder. you hop down knowing that bucky would catch you if you fell without hesitation. the gravel crunches beneath your boots when you touch the ground and your hands slip from bucky's.
he takes the time to give you a small smile like it was nothing, and the two of you head towards the diner. the evening air carries the scent of grease and coffee and something faintly like him, and you're not sure if you're smelling him because he's so close or if its because
bucky steps ahead of you to push the door open for you, and the bell overhead dings and echos through the diner. the first thing you notice as you step inside is the clatter of dishes in the kitchen and the soft buzz of the coffee machine on the counter.
although clean and well-kept, the diner looks like it hasn't been updated in decades. the checkered vinyl floor is worn in some places from years of customers, the metal trim around the counter and the stools shine in the bright led light, and the red leather of the booths fray and tear at the corners. there are dozensâ if not hundredsâ of framed black and white photos on the wall of passing customers, food, and the employees, and next to those are various old school records hung haphazardly.
a few customers are scattered around the diner, all invested in their own world, and don't dream it's over by crowded house plays faintly from the jukebox in the corner, filling the space with music where otherwise would be ambient diner noise. a bell dings and your eyes dart to the kitchen where a chef passes the waitress a plate full of fries and a cheeseburger. the sight makes your stomach growl despite the vending machine snacks you'd had earlier that day.
bucky seems to catch onto your hunger and is quick to place a hand on your lower back and usher you towards an empty booth in the emptier half of the diner. the leather creaks as you both slide in, your hands instantly grabbing for the menu and flipping it open.
the first thing you look atâ almost instinctivelyâ are the prices.
"it's a bit expensive for a highway diner." you think out loud as you scan the menu, your thumbnail in between your teeth.
"get whatever you want." bucky says as he watches you. you catch him looking, and through your lashes, you watch his expression soften. "i don't like keeping a bunch of cash on me anyways."
you feel bad, but he's offering. you look down at the menu again, thumb playing with the frayed corner. after a minute, you ask, "so... what are you getting? the BLT looks good."
he shrugs lightly as he leans back against the booth. he gives you a small smile as he shakes his head. "i had somethin' back at the motel."
before you can reply, a waitress appears at the side of your booth. she's older, grey streaks in her brown hair and her eyes kimd but tired. her hair is pulled into a loose bun, and a red apron is tied around her waist. she reaches for her notepad and her pen, and then she smiles.
"evenin'." she greets. "what can i get for you folks?"
you sit up straight and smile, menu in hand. "hi. could i get one classic cheeseburger with fries? and two cokes, please."
the waitress nods and jots down your order on the notepad. you put the menu down thinking you're done, but then you look at bucky, and find that he's already looking at you. you blink at each other before an idea pops into your head.
"actually, sorry, could you make that two cheeseburgers?"
the look at bucky gives you makes you grin.
"of course, sweetheart. so two cheeseburgers with fries?" the waitress recounts, and you nod feeling a little victorious. "alright, it'll be out in no time."
"thank you." you smile.
the waitress leaves, and you lean back in the booth like you hadn't done anything. there's a moment of silence where you're smiling at bucky and he's staring back at you with a perplexed look.
"what was that?" bucky asks after a moment. his brows are raised, and the look on his face turns into amusement.
"what was what?" you reply, feigning innocence.
"that." he gestures vaguely to you. "theâ you know... the cheeseburger thing."
you lean forwards. "i'm not gonna sit here and eat a burger while you stare at me, bucky. if we're doing this, we're gonna eat fries and drink out cokes together."
bucky scoffs and shakes his head. "anyone ever told you you don't play fair?"
"once or twice." you grin.
and just like the waitress had said, your cheeseburgers were out in now time. she slides the plates in front of you with practised ease, and you dive in without hesitation.
the bun is soft, the cheese is melted just enough that is droops off of the patty, and the fries are the perfect amount of crispy. you take a bite, one that makes you sigh in relief, and you dont even bother to eat politely. you scarf down half of your burger before bucky's even touched his.
he shoves a fry into his mouth as he watches you chew. "should i be worried you're gonna steal mine too?"
you swallow. "if you dont eat it fast enough, then maybe."
he huffs a laugh through his nose and shakes his head before he finally leans forwards and takes a proper bite of his burger.
the two of you keep eating, but your eyes drift back to bucky every so often. there's something about him that you just can't look away fromâ the way he holds his burger, the way he chews, the way his eyes watch the other customers behind you, the way his shoulders relax now that he's finally eatingâ but then, uninvited, your mind slips back to the photo in his duffel bag.
the worn edges. the fading colour. the way bucky looked. the man beside him. everything about it pulls at something in you.
you finish your burger and slow down. you wipe at your mouth with a tissue, your stomach full as you lean back to digest. you watch him for a moment longer before you tilt your head just slightly, reaching for a fry as if to imitate cluelessness.
"what did you do before all of... this?" you start, aiming for casual but landing somewhere more questioning. "the hauling, i mean. the travelling and all that stuff. did you always do this, or was there... someone who got you into it?"
its subtleâ something in the way your words trail off, in the way your eyes search his for an answerâ and bucky clocks it immediately.
his jaw pauses mid-chew. his eyes flick between yours like he's replaying what you asked word-for-word. he swallows his food, and he squints just slightly.
"you snooped in my bag, didn't you?"
your shoulders tense. for a moment, you think about denying it or telling him that he's crazy, but you respect him too much to lie.
"i swear i didn't mean to. it was just... open, and i justâ" you blink, huffing out a small breath. "i'm sorry."
bucky doesn't say anything for a moment. he takes another bite of his burger and continues chewing on his food while you stress the fuck out. you sort of just stare at him as he places his burger back down and takes a breath.
"'s fine. not much in there for you to take anyways." he says as he leans back. he crosses his arms against his chest, eyes flicking towards you. "i'm guessing you wanna know who he is."
"only if you want to tell me." you tell him.
a beat passes. then bucky exhales through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching like he's decided on something.
"alright. i'll tell you about samâ" his gaze sharpens just a bit, more intent now. "but you have to tell me more about your boyfriend."
the proposition sits in front of you heavier than you'd expected. your stomach twists, not with fear, but with the awareness that agreeing means opening a door you've been keeping shut.
but your curiosityâ or maybe your resilience, that stubborn part of you that refuses to let your past dictate every choice you makeâ overcomes your fear.
"okay." you nod. "fine."
bucky leans back in the booth, hands reaching out to rest on the table. his fingers drum slightly on the table, his eyes unfocused for a second like he's replaying a memory in his mind.
"the man in the photo... his name is sam." he begins. "we were... friends. real good friends. we had a truck together onceâ an old thing, nothin' fancy, but we'd spent hours tinkerin' with it, fixin' whatever broke. sometimes we'd race the damn thing down the road just for somethin' to do. felt like we could do anything' back then."
his lips twitch, not quite into a smile, but into something fleeting. you watch as it passes on his face, brief but visible.
"where's sam now?" you ask softly.
bucky exhales. "i don't know. one day, we got into an argument about... everything and nothing, really. it was stupid. and then we just... went in different directions." he speaks slow like he's trying to remember, or maybe he's trying not to feel. there's something underneath, like he's choosing to trust you even if it costs him a second of discomfort.
"do you ever think of going back? of ever talking to him again?"
"all the time. not a day passes where i wish i could just... call him up and tell him i'm sorry." bucky admits. "i've done a lot of things wrong in my life, but not fixin' that... not tryin' to make it right... it sticks with me."
he pauses, fingers stilling on the table. "no matter what i do or where i go, a part of me stays back thereâ with him."
its said plainly, but there's something in the way that his jaw works that shows he's already said a lot more than he usually allows himself to. the memory isn't old or something fleeting he thinks about every so often. the memory of sam is still very much alive in bucky, and he carries it with him mile after mile.
bucky reaches over and grabs his coke. he brings the straw to his lips, takes a long sip, and sets it down with a sigh. he crosses his arms again, and his eyes flick back to you, steady now.
"that's all i've got. your turn."
you nod once, then again, like the motion might knock you out of the daze you'd pulled yourself into. there's a small inhale through your nose,
"right. okay, umâ where do i start..." you think out loud, eyes focused on the condensation of your glass like it might give you an answer.
"i guess it started back in high school. i didnt have many friends or talked to anyone, so the moment a guy started paying attention to me, i guess i didn't know any better." you swallow, eyes unfocused now. "he was older. he knew how to talk, and he was confident, and i fell head over heels. it felt like it was the first time anyone had ever actually seen me."
"but then we moved in together, and it got bad. he hurt meâ a lot." the laugh that leaves your mouth is more uncomfortable than anything humorous. your finger traces the edge of your plate just to try to ground yourself. "he knew how to do it in a way that made sure i'd always somehow come running back to him."
your voice wobbles on the last word, and thats when bucky moves.
its not abrupt or enough to startle you, and you barely even look up. he just leans forwards, forearms resting on the table now, like he's making sure you know he's there and that you don't have to do this alone. his jaw tightens, not angry at you, but in anger at the man who left scars you dont name.
"i didnt realise that the attention started turning into control." "you admit softly. "or how easy it is to mistake the control for love when you don't know any better. i don't know. sometimes i wish i could just... shove it all into a box and throw it from a moving car... and then go to bed and sleep for once."
"but would you be able to rest?" bucky asks.
"no." you shake your head. "no, i don't think i would."
you can hear a small sigh slip from his mouth, and you almost feel pathetic. you hated being pitied, and this was prime pity territory.
but then bucky reaches forwards to hold your shaking hand, his grip warm and steady. his thumb presses against your knuckles, grounding, like he knows exactly how close you're coming to slipping.
a part of you still shivers at the vulnerability you displayâ at being seen like thisâ but the tired part, the honest part, of you doesn't mind the contact if bucky is the one pitying you.
"sweetheart, people like that... they're good at makin' it feel like you're the problem. like you're the one who keeps messin' up. but that doesn't mean you were weak or stupid. it means you were young and you were lonely, and someone cruel decided to take advantage of that." his thumb presses into your skin just slightly. "you got out."
you look up for the first time since you started talking. your waterline burns with unshed tears, and there's a quiver in your lip despite your best attempts to keep it steady.
"i did something bad, bucky. i did something really bad."
he doesn't interrupt. he doesnt tense nor does he pull away. his hands stay exactly where they are in yours, his thumb stilling. his eyes search yours, waiting, giving you the space to speak.
"i shot him."
the words hang heavy in the air between you, whispered but still deafening, and for a second you think the world might come crashing down on you. you prepare for bucky to rip his hands away from you, to spit in your face, and leave you here to rotâ but it never comes.
if anything, his grip on your hands tightens. bucky exhales through his nose. he's not shocked. he's not angry with you eitherâ he could never be angry at you. his jaw tightens, and you watch as his thoughts pass in his eyes. his thumb resumes the small circular motion on your knuckles like he's trying to calm you down.
"okay." he says quietly, like he's afraid he might shatter something more fragile than you, like anything louder that leaves him might break you. "okay. thats okay."
his hands never leave yours, but you watch his face change like he's distanced himself from you.
"did you mean to?" he asks gently, not prying nor accusing, just trying to understand what happened. and before you can spiral into whatever answer you're forming, he adds, still soft, "you don't gotta justify yourself to me. i just wanna know what you're feelin' right now."
you pull away from his touch. it almost feels like too much. you retreat into yourself, hands holding yourself just for another sense of safety, but even then, you dont feel safe in your own skin. your fingers press into your sides just to remember that you're there and that you exist outside of the memory and the guilt and the fear.
"i don't know. i was just scared, and he wasâ he was yelling, and it was so loud. and i shot him, and i wasâ god, i don't even know if he's alive." you spit out all at once. you turn to bucky, "please don't be scared of meâ"
"i'm not scared of you, princess."
bucky says it immediatelyâ no pause, no hesitationâ like there was never another option. his voice doesn't rise in anger or soften in pity, and he never once looks away from you.
"you were scared and you did what you needed to survive." he adds quietly. "nobody can blame you for that."
and for the first time since you've said it out loud, the word shot doesn't echo as violently in your mind as it once did. its still there, but it isn't screaming at you anymore.
you nod because its all you feel you can do. you wipe at your eyes with the back of your hand, embarrassed by the wetness, the vulnerability, the rawness you feel after admitting it for the first time.
"how about we get this packed up, and we'll head back." bucky suggests like he's offering you an out.
"yeah." you blink and nod, "okay."
and that's exactly what you do. you leave the diner in silence, and you drive back to the motel in the same silence. bucky helps you down from the truck, and he hands you the entire bag of food with the soft assurance that he 'isn't hungry', bidding you a good night at your room door.
in the shower, you stand under the running water until your skin prickles and your fingers prune, letting the water run over your body for what seems like hours, and when you get out of the shower, you lay in bed half under the covers staring at the ceiling and tracing the cracks and bumps for what feels like even longer.
your body is exhausted, but your mind won't follow. every time you blink, it's there again; the yelling, the smell of sweat and metal, how loud is was. god, it was so loud.
you see it in fragments. the way his face had changed, the split second wgere you realised this was going to happen whether you wanted it to or not, the recoil, the ringing in your ears, the sound of him collapsing, and the blood.
you suck in a breath and sharply turn your head to the side.
the alarm clock glows an ugly red. 3:04am. you reach over and click on the table lamp, and before you can overthink it, you swing your legs over the bed and pad over to the dresser where your duffel sits, half open and slumped against the wood.
you kneel in front of it and unzip it the rest of the way. you begin sifting through your belongings, your fingers clumsy but determined as you dig through scraps of your life that you've shoved together without much care.
and then your hand brushes against something heavy and metallic. you reach in and grab the gun by the barrel, pulling it out and watching as the metal glows under the lamp light before you pull it into your lap. a shotgun. it looks smaller there, stripped of context and fear, but your hands still remember the weight of it. your body itches like it's bracing for something you know has already happened.
you stare at it for a long timeâ the stupid, ugly thing that changed everything.
it'd been the thing you shoved into your boyfriends face when he'd threatened to keep you locked up in that cramped apartment of his. it'd been the reason he'd let you go, and the thing that saved your life; but simultaneously, it'd also been the thing that'd ruined you.
you decide to be rid of it.
one second you're sitting on the carpet with the shotgun on your lap, and the next, you're pulling on a spare hoodie and stepping out of your room, completely barefoot and all sense of rationality thrown out of the window. you dont even lock your room door.
you cross the small space between your room and bucky's. you knock once, twice, and then once more for good measure, knuckles stinging as soon as they make contact with the wood.
there's a pause. there's a shift. then the door opens.
the door creaks open, and from the dark, bucky emerges. the first thing that you notice is that he's shirtless, and the first thing he notices is that you're carrying a shotgun.
"what's wrong?" is the first thing he says. his voice is still gravely with sleep or something close to sleep, and you almost feel bad for dragging him into your drama again. he doesnt sound scared or in fear for his own life, but you can hear the concern laced in the question. "is thatâ"
"i want to get rid of it." your hands tighten around the barrel of the gun.
bucky doesn't ask why. he just nods once and steps back inside of his room to tug on a shirt and grab his keys.
the truck eats the miles quickly, the headlights carving a thin path through the dust and the scrub of the texas desert. the land opens up the further out you go, and the two of you drive until you can't see anything but the darkness. bucky pulls off of the road where the tires fade into the sand and kills the engine.
the land bucky helps you down onto is bare in a way that only places with nothing to witness can be. you cant see much further than a couple of feet ahead of you, and the silence is almost deafening. nobody is driving past on route 66 at this time, and nobody is there to watch you hide the weapon.
you hold the gun while bucky holds the shovel and a flashlight.
you dont know how far out you walk. the ground shifts under your bare feet, toes digging into the cooling sand and small stones, but you keep going until the heavy metal in your hands starts feeling heavier than your body can hold. when you glance over your shoulder, you can barely see the moonlight silhouette of the truck in the distance.
in front of you, bucky slows, his flashlight scanning the area out of habit, then he nods.
"here should be good." he says quietly, turning back to you just to check on you. "doubt anyone every comes out this far."
you don't reply. you simply nod, the action small, fingers curling tighter around the barrel and the handle. your throat feels thick, your words lodged there with nowhere to go, and maybe it's better that way. you dont know what you'd say even if you tried.
bucky holds the flashlight out for you to grab, and you take it and shine it at the ground. the light cuts a pale circle onto the sand, and your brows furrow when bucky presses the tip of the shovel into the ground, tasting the density.
"maybe i should do it." you interrupt, the words coming out thin, like you're testing out the question more than asking it.
he doesnt even look at you. "i've got it."
but you still feel so guilty. he doesnt even know your name and he here is on the border between new mexico and texas buring evidence for you.
"it's my gun, bucky." your grip tightens around the flashlight, the muzzle of the gun scratching against the ground. there's a quiet guilt and responsibility in it, a quiet belief that this is something you have to carry alone. "you don't have to do this for meâ"
bucky sighs as he finally pauses to look at you. he pulls his hands from the handle of the shovel and folds them on top of each other on the handle, his eyes soft and unyielding like he's already made up his mind and he's just waiting for you to catch up.
"you already asked me to bring you out here, sweetheart. i'm not lettin' you do this on your own anymore." bucky says, quieter but no less sure, and his eyes never leave your face. "you've done enough survivin' by yourself. let me do this for you."
you hesitate for half a second longer like you might still argue, but the fight drains out of you instead. the way he's looking at you feels like he's willingly shouldering the weight with youâ or maybe for you.
you nod once. "okay."
bucky gives you a short nod back like your compliance is all he needs before he turns to the shovel again. he drives the shovel down, the metal biting into the ground with a dull clang. he pulls the shovel from the ground before slamming it back down again, harder and stiffer this time like he knows exactly how much force to use and when.
you keep the flashlight trained on the growing divot, the beam wobbling just slightly whenever the shovel meets the ground. after a while of staring at bucky, you swallow, your voice low.
"do you think i could go to jail for this?" you ask him. the question had been running rampant in your mind ever since you'd left y the apartment in chicago.
bucky pauses mid-scoop for a second, head tilting upwards towards you. the raise of his brows and the small huffed out laugh he gives you makes the question you just ask feel stupidâ and in retrospect, it probably was.
"people go to jail for less serious shit than shooting your ex-boyfriend, princess." he says, not unkind, just honest. he turns back to the ground and stabs into the sand. "if that asshole's still alive and he gives the cops a story about how you left guns a-blazin', you could be set up for attempted murder."
"oh." you mutter as you fight the urge to roll your eyes. "thanks bucky. that really helps. super comforting."
he huffs quietly. "you asked."
you kick at a mound of sand like it had personally wronged you, and it's only then that you realise you're completely barefoot. you're not sure when that happened.
"wellâ" you pause, flashlight dipping just slightly, "yeah, i asked, but hearing it that way instead of a simple yes or no or maybe just freaks me out."
"sorry." bucky exhales through his nose. "not much point in worryin' about it now. thinkin' that far ahead'll eat at you, and it sounds like it already has been."
"whatever." you grumble. "i at least wanna get to california before i get thrown in a cell to rot."
bucky glances at you. "and you will."
bucky finished digging the hole with a finally jab of his shovel, sand piling up around it in a large mound. he steps back and nods towards it, giving the the go-ahead without saying it out loud. you lean down and place the gun inside, pushing it down as far as it can go, the metal scratching against the sand as it sinks inside. when you stand back up, you cross your arms over your chest.
the weapon you'd used to maim someone now looked so small. stripped of its power and its noise. just a cold, ugly thing sitting in a hole in the ground.
for a long while, the two of you just stare at the gun. there's not much to look at, but there's something about it that just feels different now. it doesn't look like fear or adrenaline anymore. it just looks out of place, almost wrong, like it never belonged in your hands in the first place.
bucky breaks the silence first, his question a little too casual for the context behind it. "was it a good shot at least?"
you turn your head just slightly to look at him, and he does the same. he watches you as you search for the answer, a soft sigh falling from your mouth.
"i got him right in the shoulder." you bluntly reply, your voice quiet even in the silence of the desert. "he was bleeding a lot, though. almost thought his arm was going to fall off."
bucky hums once, his face unreadable, then he steps forwards and starts pushing the gathered sand back into the hole. you watch as the ground swallows the gun, and inadvertently swallows up everything else you'd brought with youâ the dread, the panic, the buzzing tension you'd felt for so long.
but you feel a lot better now. of course you still have the topic of being homeless and being arrested on your mind, but at least you aren't carrying around the immediate weight of that cold metal in your hands. the gun is gone, and you can rest a little easier now.
you stand there for a moment longer as bucky finishes up, kicking the sand around so it looks a little less messed with. then, almost wordlessly, the two of you walk back to the truck.
he opens the truck door for you, helps you in, and then he circles around the front and gets in his seat. the engine growls as it comes to life and the headlights blink on like the sun on a bleak morning, and with a few pressed buttons and pulled levers, bucky is pulling the truck back onto the road and back towards the motel.
the road is steady underneath the wheels, and for the first time in a while, you feel a little lighter. neither of you really speak at first. the desert stretches onwards, and your eyes glance to the small analogue clock on the dashboardâ 4:17am.
and it's almost like bucky can sense the exhaustion that laces your bones. he glances at you, his own eyes tired although his mind is anything but. "you think you're gonna sleep much tonight?"
you shrug, staring out of the windscreen. "i'll try. there's still a lot on my mind."
your thoughts drift, unbidden and unrulyâ memories of your boyfriend, the way things had been once and how they are now, and the tension you felt in your body when you left homeâ but the thought of your him somehow brings you back to trucks, and the thought of trucks and sleep brings you back to the thought of the sleeper cab of a semi truck.
a little impulsively, you twist in your seat and pull at the curtain that sits behind you and you peek inside. the little bed sits neatly against the wall, the blankets neatly made and the singular pillow slightly askew at the head of the bed. it's nothing inherently interesting, but it's something that's always confused you.
bucky glances at you in the rear view mirror, "what are you lookin' for back there?"
"just looking at the bed. i've never seen one in real life." you casually reply, "is it comfy back there? mattress looks thin."
bucky half shrugs, his eyes ahead on the road. "it gets the job done, but its not as good as the real thing."
you pull the curtain back just a little further. it's hard to see in the dark, the shadows making it hard to see any object in real detail, but you can make out the pillows and the blankets, a small shelf with a basket full of miscellaneous itemsâ a couple of batteries, a bottle of painkillers, an empty water bottle, and a couple of magazines. you cant read the words, but even in the dark, you can make out the shape of a... is that a lady wearing a playboy bunny costume?
you turn back to bucky and find that he's already watching you through the rear view mirror like a hawk. his brows are slightly furrowed, his eyes dark and steady, but theres a small, sly tilt of his lips.
"are those... playboy magazines?" you almost laugh, glancing at bucky with your brows raised and a cheeky grin. you tease, "those get the job done too?"
theres a moment where bucky sucks on his teeth and glances at you over his shoulder, and you think you should've probably kept your mouth shutâ but then he smirks.
"like i saidâ" bucky lets the corners of his mouth curl, his voice low as he replies. "not as good as the real thing."
oh.
you blink. you blink again. you blink so much that you think you might actually start crying, or throw up, or do something equally humiliating. heat crawls up the length of your neck, settling in your cheeks. what the hell do you reply to that?
"right." you manage, pushing it out a little too quickly. you slide the curtain shut and turn back in your seat, tugging at your seatbelt to get it adjusted right. "yeah. thatâ that makes sense."
you clear your throat, forcing yourself to stare forwards at the dark stretch of highway instead of paying any attention to bucky. you can feel him glancing at the side of your face, lingering whenever you feel particularly flustered, and you can hear the soft chuckle he makes at your reaction that he doesn't even try to hide.
it settles somewhere low in your stomach, warm and aggravating and far too effective for how little he's actually doing.
god, that image is gonna be burnt in your mind forever.
the motel sign flickers back into view not long after, and the breath of relief that leaves you is almost instant. the neon lights buzz as bucky pulls into the parking lot, headlights beaming over the building before he kills the engine and opens the doors. you follow, and he circles the front and he helps you down from the truck just like he usually does, your hands on his shoulders while his wrap around your waist. it lasts for only a second, but it lingers on your skin all the same.
you walk side by side towards your rooms, the ground luke-warm under your feet and the air cooler now that the night has deepened. it's quiet now in the way most empty places areâ no noises or other people for miles, just the two of you sliding your keys into the locks and pushing open your doors.
and when you're about to step foot into your dark room, that's when bucky clears his throat. you pause, poking your head out of the doorframe.
"hey. i'm, uh..." he pauses, voice slower than usual. "i'm sorry about earlier. in the truck. i didnt mean to make things weird."
you blink before the conversation floods your mind. you take a step back out of the door and put on your best attempt of trying to act nonchalant before swallowing down the butterflies that come with the memory.
"there's nothing to be sorry about. its a normal human function and we're both adults." you reply with a casual smile, but you're not sure if you're actually convincing anyone. "right?"
bucky doesn't answer right away. he just sort of looks at you like he's thinking about something that he hasn't decided how to say yet, his jaw clenching once as if he decides against saying anything at all.
"right." he watches you for a second longer, unreadable eyes falling to the dip of your neck, his gaze tracing your collarbone before he looks up again. he gives you a small nod, "get some sleep, okay?"
"i'll try. thanks again for tonight. i really do appreciate it." you pause with a small, faint smile, then quieter, you add, "goodnight, bucky."
"goodnight, princess." bucky replies, his voice soft and steady, carrying enough warmth to make your chest tighten.
and then you're both retreating into your own rooms, doors closing and keys clicking, the thin motel walls swallowing whatever else might've been said.
you don't bother turning on the lights. you pad towards the bed, feet brushing against the carpet to get rid of the sand that sticks to your toes, drop keys onto the tiny table and crawl into bed like sleep might take pity on you if you lie down fast enough.
minutes pass. you glance at the clock. 4:56am. its only been thirty minutes, but it feels like you've been in bed for hours. you lie there on your back half under the covers, your eyes tracing the cracks and divots in the ceiling like they might lead somewhere else, trying to will your brain to shut up, but it doesn't.
the magazines. the sleeper. the idea of bucky
you had meant what you said earlier about how it is a normal human function and that you're both adults and can joke about this sort of stuff all the time and it shouldn't matter, but the mere thought of bucky getting himself off makes you feel like a pervert.
you roll onto your side with a frustrated huff, pulling the blankets tighter over your body as if it might smother the thoughts that plague you, but you have no such luck.
not as good as the real thing.
your brain is cruel enough to supply you images you definitely don't wantâ bucky alone in the sleeper cab in low light and the magazine crinkling awkwardly in his hands. his pants pool just above his knees, his hand gliding down his stomach, brushing past his happy trail and the waistband of his underwear, the rough palm of his hand wrapping around the base of his cock, the slow looseness of his jaw as it falls open with every tentative strokeâ
oh god. you squeeze your eyes shut, heat blooming under your skin, mortified by how fast your own brain betrayed you. you try to push the thought away before it can fully form, like distance is something you can try to manufacture in your head, but it's difficult.
"jesus," you mutter into the empty room.
this is ridiculous. you're exhausted. you're emotionally wrecked. you're traumatised. you should be asleep, and thats all you want to do; so why do you feel so wet? it's pathetic, really, getting wet over the thought of a handsome stranger after he made one joke, but now you're never going to be able to sleep when the heat between your legs feels inescapable.
your handâ almost like it senses your desperationâ trails down the length of your stomach and slides past the band of your underwear, fingers dipping through your folds, and the ragged breath that leaves you is almost shameful.
you slide a finger into your weepy entrance, the rhythm you set is slow, the pads of your fingers brushing against your insides at the same pace you imagine bucky would touch you. you can't stop imagining it's his fingers instead of your own.
"bucky." you whine breathlessly into the air as you glide in another finger, the stretch almost delicious.
you pump in and out of your cunt until youre panting into the side of your pillow, until your hips move on their own, until you feel that familiar heat growing deep in your stomach.
then you catch it. cedarwood. musk. his scent. your shirt still smells like him from all those miles you spent sitting in his truck, and the small whimper that leaves your mouth at the smell brings you closer to the edge.
"fasterâ god, please." you beg, brows furrowing and mouth falling slack as you speed up the assault on your pussy.
you continue until you feel that tight ball of heat finally in your stomach snap. you barely have time to shove your face into your pillow before a borderline pornographic moan rips from your throat, breath hot into the cotton as you grind into your hand.
you pull your shirt over your nose, inhaling bucky's scent with every breath you take, and you find that sleep washes over you easier that night.
the morning light seeps into your room in thin and warm stripes through the curtains, landing across your legs and the crumbled up sheets. you wake slowlyâ not startled or filled with dread, just rising with a sense of awareness of things of you'd been too overwhelmed with to notice before.
your body feels lighter than it has in a while, rested in a way that almost surprises you. you're not sure if it's because you'd buried one of your biggest worries under four feet of sand or if it was because of your late night self-love session. either way, it was a win for you.
you sit up in the bed, sleep still fuzzy in your eyes, and you look over at the alarm clockâ 2:34pm. you'd slept for a while.
then you hear it. the low rumble of a truck outside. it's definitely bucky'sâ because who else would pull over into this fuckass motelâ but it sounds different, almost steadier, not rattling like it had been the last few times you'd heard it. it idles smoothly and confidently, like it finally wants to be running.
you kick the sheets off, pad across the room, shove your feet into your shoes with half-assed effort, and push the door open without bothering to check yourself in the mirror.
the afternoon suns shoots down at you from the sky, rays burning against your skin as you step outside, door closing behind you as you make yourself towards the scene.
bucky is at his usual spot near the hood, shoulders bend and back hunched over the engine, a dirty rag thrown over his shoulder and his grey tank dark in places, spotted with sweat and oil stains, clinging to his body in a way that makes it very hard for you not to notice how broad he is.
but you try to ignore those thoughts and the fact that you'd fucked yourself to the thought of him last night. you perk up, hands folding in front of you as you put on an award winning smile.
"morning." you greet, your voice still a little scratchy from sleep but still light.
bucky is quick to cock his head to the side, and when he sees it's you, he straightens, hands still leaning against the metal of the vehicle, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as the truck continues to purr under his palms.
"mornin'." he says back, low and easy like it's the easiest thing in the world. his eyes flick over you onceâ almost habitualâ before finally settling on your face. "you look happy."
you grin. "i feel happy. she sounds better than she has all week. did you figure out what was wrong?"
bucky groans as he leans back up, pulling at the rag on his shoulders and wiping off his hands, eyes focused on the newly fixed engine. "yup. figured it out about an hour or two ago. somethin' wrong with the fuel line, but i managed to fix it up. i think she'll be ready for the road tomorrow morning.
he gives the metal of the truck a light tap as you nod before his attention drifts back to you. this time, his eyes dont just flick over you once; they take their time, slow and analysing, like he's reading something you're trying not to show.
his gaze lingers at your face, on your posture, on the way you hold yourself in an unwittingly protective stance in response to his peering eyes. his mouth curls into a smirk, almost amused.
he nods towards you, "how'd you sleep?" he asks, voice even, but now there's something in the way he speaks that makes you wonder if he knows.
"it was fine." you meekly reply with a pathetic smile.
bucky hums under his breath in acknowledgment. his eyes stay on yours, unreadable in nature but not unkind. after a second, he exhaled and rolls his shoulders back like he's trying to release the tension that weaves through his muscles.
"hey, you still got the leftovers from the dinner?" he asks.
you blow out a huff of air through your mouth as you glance back towards your room. "i think so. i can heat it up if you're hungry."
"yeah." he says easily. "that's be great."
so that's exactly what you doâ after all, it's the least you could do for bucky after he'd practically sidelined his own mission just for you. you head back to your room, pull out the leftovers, head over to the kitchen.
you pop the lid off of the leftovers and slide it over to the microwave, but when you press the button, but there isn't a beep nor is there any numbers on display. you press it again, harder this time like it might flicker to life, but it doesn't. the microwave sits there dead and useless, smelling faintly of popcorn and disappointment.
"great." you murmur.
after a moment, you snap the lid back onto the container. there's only one other option, and you already dread itâ trevor.
you enter the office, the air conditioning hitting you square in the face the moment you open the door. you step forwards and ring the cheap desk bell on the counter, and the back room door opens by the second ding. trevor steps out, glasses askew, a few strands of his dirty blonde hair sticking up in strange directions, and a lit cigarette hanging from his mouth like it's part of his uniform.
you don't bother with pleasantries and are quick to get to the point. "the microwave in the kitchen is broken. is there any way you could fix it or maybe heat this up for me?"
trevor squints at you, unimpressed. "i'm not doin' no favours for you after the attitude you've been givin' me ever since you stepped foot onto the property."
"it's not for me." you tip your head towards the window. "it's for him."
both of you glance towards the parking lot. bucky's by the truck, still working, still sweating, still leaning over the hood in a way that makes his muscles look extra toned in the sun and his body look carved out of heat and hard work. you feel your heart thump against your ribs and trevor lets out a pathetic huff, but you're sure you and trevor both look away for different reasons.
he sucks on his teeth as he looks you up and down once because he holds his hand out and makes a gesture for you to hand it over. "i got one in the back. it'll be a minute."
you hand it over with a shit-eating grin. "i can wait."
trevor murmurs something under his breath as he disappears behind the back door. a few seconds later, the microwave kicks onâ a loud, rattling sound that you can hear even through the shut door.
you tap your fingers against the counter, eyes wandering around the offie. there's a popping noise that catches your attention, and you find yourself looking out of the window and watching bucky again.
he wipes his hands on his rag and tosses it back onto his shoulder, unaware of your eyes on him and focused enough that his tongue sticks out against his lower lip in concentration. there's something unusually calming about watching him work like this, like the world is simple under the hood of a truck.
"... authorities are still searching for the suspect responsible for the shooting of a man in central chicago last week.
your fingers curl at the edge of the counter? your eyes darting towards the small red radio in the corner of the room. you lean over and turn the volume knob until you can hear the words clearly over the microwave.
"witnesses describe her as..."
your blood runs cold.
the description never seems to end. your hair colour and texture, your eye colour, your skin colour, your height, your build, your type of clothing. everything is listed. it feels like everything about you is being peeled open and dissected live on air for millions to hear.
"... authorities urge anyone with information on the whereabouts of this individual to come forward..."
you turn to the back room door.
you're not sure if trevor can even hear the broadcast, but you hope that he set the timer for longer than a minute. the microwave whirs loudly behind the door, drowning out the radio, and you go silent as if the broadcaster could hear you if you spoke, like any sound you make would make them aware of where you are.
and then it ends. just like that, the radio clicks, replaced by cherry country music that spills back into the room as if nothing had ever happened. you don't realise how tight you'd been holding the counter until you hwar the beep of the microwave from behind the door, and trevor pushes it open with his foot soon after, the steaming container in his hands.
you swallow your fear as trevor slides the leftovers across the counter towards you, forcing your hands to uncurl from around the table.
"it's hotâ" he starts, but your hands wrap around the container anyways and you pull it from him.
you turn and shoulder the door open with little care.
"not like i wanted a thank you or anythin'." trevor shouts behind you as you practically shut the door on his face.
the heat seeps through the container and into your palms as you cross the lot towards bucky. he straightens when he sees you, lips already curling into a smile and his mouth parting like he's about to say something.
"what were you doin' in thâ"
you lean down and place the leftovers on the top of his toolbox, catching his wrist and pulling him to the side of the truck all without missing a single step. the shade from the truck's body swallows you both, and you almost bucky's quick to steady you, brows knitting as his free hand comes up almost instinctively to hold you by the upper arm.
his brows furrow at the worry in your face. "woah, what's goin' on?"
"we have to go. we have to leave today or tonight, okay? like right now." you rush out in a singular breath. it almost feels like everything from chicago had come back to bite you in the ass.
"heyâ slow down." he says, another arms reaching out to hold you steady by your shoulders. he lowers his head slightly, looking at you through his eye lashes. "what happened, sweetheart?"
your lip quivers, and bucky reaches up to cup your face in one of his hands. his thumb presses firmly into the skin on your cheekbone, and the touch is reassuring enough for you to speak.
"in the office, they were talking about what happenedâ what i did. they started listing all these things about me. my hair, my eyes, myâ just everything."
something ticks in bucky's jaw. he glances past you towards the office for half a second, his expression almost unreadable. his shoulders square like he's bracing himself for a hit he'd been expected but still hated taking.
the hand that cups your cheek falls back to your shoulder. "did they say anythin' about a location?" bucky asks, eyes boring into yours.
you shake your head. "no. it just said that there's a suspect, said my full name, and described exactly how i look." "
"and did he hear anythin'?" he asks again.
"no, he wasâ" you shake your head, glancing over your shoulder towards the office where you can see the top of trevor's head. "he was in the back room with the door closed and the microwave was way too loud."
bucky exhales long and slow, like he's trying to come up with both a plan and a promise at the same time. it doesnt help that you're watching him like he's the only thing keeping you afloat.
his hands fall from your shoulders and rest on his hips.
"alright," he says at last. "we're okay for now."
your chest tightens. "but buckyâ"
"hey." his voice softens, his eyes the calm of the storm in the hurricane of emotions you feel. "if they knew where you were, they wouldn't be broadcastin' it all over the radio. this place'd be locked down and you wouldn't be talkin' to me right now. we're fine."
you nod, hesitant, but you're sure he means it.
"and even if they were here, i wouldn't go done without a fight." he adds, trying to cheer you up. "i've had my fair share of encounters with the law."
the mental image is ridiculous enough to shake a bit of the nerves out of you. you let out a soft scoff, eyes rolling just slightly as some of the tension actually manages to bleed away.
"i'm serious, princess." bucky defends himself, brows raised in complete seriousness even though you can hear the tinge of dry humour in his tone. "i fought the cops before and i'll do it again if i have to. just say the word and i'm goin' in there, fists swingin'."
"you can't fight the cops, bucky." you tell him.
"fine. maybe not, but look... how about you justâ" he exhales through his nose, the humour escaping from his voice. he gestures vaguely to the toolbox you'd set the food down on. "sit down while i work, have somethin' to eat, and then we'll figure out a plan."
you nod, the last of the tension seeping out ouf you as you finally let yourself believe him. you both turn, bucky's hand falling to your back to direct you to the large toolbox, the metal still warm from the sun. you grab the food and sit down, appetite slow but present, while bucky turns back to the truck, his hands disappearing back into the engine.
you watch him while you eat. the way his shoulder flex, the occasional mutter of something irrelevant under his breath, the pause he takes every so often to think, his jaw set and his eyes focused. its ordinaryâ almost domesticâ and somehow that normalcy steadies you a lot more than any reassurance could.
every so often, bucky glances over just to make sure you're still there with him, and you always are.
as you continue to eat, you realise you'd practically consumed the entirety of the leftovers. all that's left is a quarter of a cheeseburger and a couple of fries, and you feel a little guilty for taking what was meant to be bucky's food.
"are you going to eat anything?" you ask.
bucky pokes his head out from the hood. "no, i'm good. have what you can and i'll have whatever's left over."
you furrow your brows at the slight smile he has sitting on his face, and then it slowly dawns on you. he never really wanted the foodâ not for himself, anyway. he just wanted to make sure you ate.
you glance down at what's left, then back up at him. without a word, you extend the container out to him, eyebrows lifting just enough to make your point.
bucky pauses. he looks at the food, then at you.
"bossy." he mutters, but there's no real malice in it.
he reaches out and takes what remains of the cheeseburger and takes a bite out of it like he hasn't eaten all day. then another, and another, and the burger is gone in seconds.
you can't help the smile the spreads across your face.
bucky wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, gives you a quick, almost sheepish look, because he clears his throat and goes back to fixing the fuel line like nothing had happened.
you stay right there, sunlight warm on your skin, the truck humming beside you, bucky working hard, and for now, you decide this is enough.
night comes gently.
the texas heat bleeds out of the day, replaced by silence and the occasional cricket chirp, the low buzz of the motel sign outside ringing softly in your ears as you shuffle around the belongings in your duffel bag, reorganising the mess and ensuring you have everything you left with.
you have less than a day left here. in the morning, you'd have to leave. you dont know how you'll get there, but you've mustered up enough courage to ask bucky if you could hitch a ride to california. after all, you'd basically spent the past three days spilling your deepest darkest secrets to him; you aren't just going to leave him now.
you're in your room in the partial darkness, body enveloped in the shadows while the far corner of the room is covered in light from the table lamp. the curtains stir slightly in the breeze of the rattling air conditioning, and its so quiet that you can almost hear the electricity running through the walls.
you pause mid-movement, fingers brushing against something small and cold at the bottom of your bag. you reach in and pull it out.
a locket.
it's small. easy to forget. you'd ripped it off the moment you'd gotten on a bus to st louis and thrown it into your bag hoping it'd get lost and you'd never see it again.
you turn the locket over in your palm, the snapped chain curling around your fingers as you inspect the scratched piece of jewellery. it doesn't open, at least not anymore. the hinge bent inwards and snapped the last time you'd forced it closed, and you're almost grateful for your harsh treatment of the metal. you dont even try to open it. you already know what's in there: a picture of you and your boyfriend, one where you're forcing a smile and he isn't bothering to even try to look happy.Â
for a moment, you just stand there. the weight of it heavy against your skin in the same way it'd been heavy around your neck when you still cared for it. then you cross the room and drop it into the trash. it makes a soft, dull thud at it hits the bottom, and you barely flinch as the engraved flowers stare back up at you.
it's gone now, and although a version of you from the past wouldve mourned the cheap locket, the version of you now feels better without it weighing you down.
then comes a knock at the door. it's soft but firm, and you know who it is before you even look over your shoulder. you wipe your hands out of habit as if the locket was filth and cross the room, the lock clicking and the handle squeaking as you open the door.
bucky is standing there. he looks cleaner than he did when the two of you said goodnight a few hours ago, and truth be told, you're not sure why he's here. he's wearing a clean white shirt and a pair of jeans he probably thinks are comfortable but are covered in splashes of paint and dark spots of dried enamel. the shitty LED light that glows overhead bathes him in a glow that almost makes him look angelic, and you almost have to do a double take.
"hey." he says.
you blink. "hey."
the two of you stand there for a moment. bucky rocks on his heels with his hands in his back pockets and your fingers drum against the back of your door, both of you waiting for the other to say something.
"uh," you clear your throat. "did you... need something?"
his brows raise just slightly like you'd pulled him out of a thought, then he shakes his head once, "no, i just... wanted to check in. make sure you were okay."
something soft blooms in your chest at his words, and a part of you is glad that you shot your boyfriend. that asshole wouldnt have bothered to check on you, and he certainly wouldn't have asked if you were okay. if anything, he would've been the reason you were feeling like complete shit.
"you canâ" you hesitate, door creaking open a little more as you step to the side, "you can come in. if you want. i could use the company."
"yeah." he nods. "okay."
you step back as he steps inside, his once confident footsteps falling just short of awkward as he steps into your room. you close the door behind him, the lock clicking shut, pushing the night out and sealing the two of you into the silence of your room.
bucky glances around the room, and the poor guy looks like he's never been in a woman's room before. his gaze falls on your shoes messily discarded by the door, then towards the bed and it's mess, and then it lands on your duffel bag. clothes are still thrown everywhere, and he looks like he might combust at the sight of so much... woman.
you smile softly as you walk back over to your bag, glancing over your shoulder just to glance at him. "you can sit down if you want to, bucky. you're not gonna get cooties or anything."
"...right." he mutters with another nod, and yet he hesitates anyways and decides to sit on the edge of your bed, his thigh just barely brushing against the side of your duffel bag, and he glances down at it before looking back at you. "reorganising?"
you huff out a small, tired breath as you go back to digging in your bag. "just trying to see what i brought. it all happened so fast that i forgot how fast i packed up my shit and left."
you pull out a hoodie and hold it up to the light. the logo of one of your favourite bands stares back at you, you haven't worn it in ages because your boyfriend insisted that you listen to 'girlier' bands, and you being naive and compliant, you listened. the small frown that grows on your face doesn't go unnoticed by bucky.
"you should put it on." he suggests, leaning back on the bed with his palms pressed firmly into the mattress.
you "i'm not even sure if it fitsâ"
"then you should see if it does. no harm in tryin'." he's quick to interrupt.
you blink at him, but he just cocks his head like he wants you to do just as he said. you hesitate, fingers tightening over the worn fabric, then you huff out a breath and tug it over your head.
its a little oversized, but it fits better than you expect it to. the sleeves fall just past your wrists and the hem brushes against your thighs, the fabric warm against your skin, finally yours again in a way it hasn't been in a long time.
you glance down at yourself, then at bucky. "happy?"
"very." he says, a grin pulling easy at his mouth as he tilts his head. he jokes, "suits you. i don't think you should ever take it off."
you roll your eyes at him, already reaching for the hem of the hoodie. "very funny, buck." you say dryly. "it's a million degrees outside. i'd die if i kept it on forever."
you grab the bottom of the hoodie, pulling it upwards to pull it off, the action slow and barely thought through. the cotton slides back over your stomach, the cool air brushing against your skin as it takes your shirt up with it for a couple of inches.
and bucky's eyes drop without meaning toâ for a long, gruelling secondâ just long enough for him to catch the tiniest sliver of black lace peeking out of the waistband of your shorts, the fabric digging into the plush of your hips.
it's practically nothingâ barely thereâ but it's enough.
"shit." he mutters under his breath, the word barely audible but still loud enough for you to catch it as you pull the hoodie over your head.
but just as quick as it had appeared, it vanishes as your shirt falls back down the length of your stomach. his eyes linger for a second longer before flicking back up to your face, hair messy from the hoodie.
"hmm?" you hum as you toss the hoodie somewhere on the bag, brow raised just slightly as you ask him about what he said. "did you say something?"
bucky blinks before he quickly shakes his head, tongue running over his teeth as an involuntary way to distract himself. he sits back up and readjusts himself, digging his elbows into his knees to try and hide the growing tent in his pants, but the faintest amount of tension in his posture has you furrowing your brows.
"nothin' important." he mutters, but there's a tightness in the way he says it. "it was, uh... nothin'."
you brush it off. you lean back into your bag, sifting through clothes and belongings before deciding that you've had enough. you lean over and grab a shirt and shove it back into the bag, not bothering to fold it.
bucky watches you for a second, completely silent. you can feel the weight of his eyes on you as you move, and you try your best to not pay him any attention. finally, he clears his throat.
"your... boyfriend," bucky starts, the title cold and a little accusatory on his tongue, but there's something in his tone that's more careful than it is angry. "you always talk about how he wasn't good to you. talks all big, but inside, he's really just an asshole with a tiny dick."
you sigh, just shy of a laugh. "sounds just like him."
your words come out flat, but there's a crack underneath them that gives you away. you hadn't meant to sound hurtâ you tried not toâ but the ache sneaks through anyways.
bucky. notices. of course he does. before you can turn back to your things, he reaches out and catches your wrist, his fingers closely gently around your skin, stopping you mid-motion.
"sit." he tells you.
and pathetically enough, you do exactly as he asks. his demands dont fall onto you in the same way your boyfriends did. bucky's are softer and rooted in certainty rather than control, and you're not sure if you could ever disobey him.
you sit on the edge of the bed beside him, your hand settling in your lap while bucky holds the other. your heart thuds against your ribs as your eyes flick between his, never quite brave enough to stay there for long enough. you exhale a small breath, eyes trailing down the curve of his throat, tracing over the bump of his adams apple, and settling on the hollow at the base of his neck where you can see the soft thump of his pulse beating underneath his skin.
bucky swallows when he notices. his thumb just barely shifts against your knuckles, like he's trying to ground himself more than you are.
but god, he smells so good. it's unfair how something so subtle can make your thoughts slow and your pulse speed up. you don't want to think about it, you just want more of it. you almost want to slip his shirt off of him and wear it so the scent lingers even when he moves away.
you want to sit a little closer. you want the bed to be smaller. you want any excuse just for him to touch you more, for him to stop holding onto your hand and touch you in all of the places you'd imagined him touching the night before.
bucky's head dips, eyes focused on where his hand begins to trail down to your fingers, the rough skin on his hands ghosting over your soft knuckles like he's memorising every single joint and every swirl embedded in your skin.
"did he ever pay attention to the little things?" he asks quietly. his thumb brushes gently over your ring finger, pressing into the skin where an expensive ring would sit if he had his way. "like how pretty your hands are. how careful you are with them."
your breath hitches as his hand trails back up your arm, the tips of his fingers climbing up until they're pressed firmly on the skin just under your shirt sleeve, warm and intrusive in all of the right ways.
"or how when you're nervous, there's a little hitch in your breath like you forget how to breathe." his thumb shifts, feeling it happen again as he presses into the plump skin. his eyes lift to yours then, searching your face for something you'd never say out loud. "he ever notice that?"
you whisper, "bucky, what are you talking aboutâ"
"your boyfriend never... took care of you, did he?" the question is innocent, but there's something deeper hidden in the words. this isn't idle curiosity, this is something that wants to claim.
"what do youâ" you swallow, your mouth suddenly thick with saliva that makes the words stick half out. "what do you mean?"
bucky doesn't answer immediately. his eyes drop back to where his hand is held against your arm, his other hand sliding slowly up the side of your thigh until he has a firm grip on you. his thumb traces tiny circles into the skin, and he can feel the slight quiver you try to hide so hard.
"never made you feel good? never made you cum?" he murmurs, lips parting just enough for his tongue to dart out and wet his lips. then a small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. "you probably got off better last night than he ever did for all those years."
and just as head observed, your breath hitches ahain, catching in your throat at his words. god, you thought you were quiet. fuck this stupid motel and fuck its stupid thin walls and fuck bucky. fuck him and his stupid deep voice and his stupidly big hands that make you shiver under his touch.
you blink. "you... heard that?"
he shifts in his spot, moving further onto the bed so he can face you completely. his hand moves from your arm and slides up the side of your neck. his hand cups your jaw, thumb digging into the dip of the bone as he tilts your head, eyes glazing over the soft skin and imagining how pretty it'd looked all bitten and bruised.
"the walls are thin. i heard everything, sweetheart." bucky admits, his voice so low and his lips so close to yours that arousal starts pooling low in your stomach. "your breathing when you touched yourself through your panties... that gasp when you finally dipped your fingers into your needy pussy. could practically hear every time you pumped yourself full of those pretty fingers."
the hand that rests on your thigh slides a little higher, just enough that his thumb digs into your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you need him the most.
"bucky." you almost whimper.
"heard you say my name too, just like that. almost burst through the door right then and there." he continues, his voice low and even, but you watch as his brows knit together softly as his thumb digs into your inner thigh. "but no. had to settle for my hand instead and imagine it was yours."
you lean into his hand, the warmth and the roughness of his skin something you'd been craving for far too long.
"tell me." he whispers, close enough that you can feel his breath against your lips. "tell me you want me to stop and i will."
you shake your head. "i don't want you to stopâ"
and he doesnt wait any longer. bucky leans in fast, almost crashing into you as he pushes you back onto the bed. his lips find yours, demanding and insistent, and your chest tightens as soon as you meet him halfway, caught off guard with how much heat he's radiating. there's no teasing or testing, just the urgency of him needing to close the space between the two of you.
his tongue parts your lips in a quick and desperate action, pressing against yours like all he wants to do is taste you.
his knee slips up until it presses against your clothed cunt, the denim of his jeans rubbing against the soft cotton of your shorts. you pant into his mouth and he swallows them with ease, pressing his leg harder against you as you press down onto him.
the hand that rests on your throat trails down until he has a firm grip around your neck, pressing gently into the skin. his other hand digs into your hip, dragging your hips against his thigh until you leave a spot of your own arousal on the fabric of your shorts. you grind down on his knee, trying to find friction where you need it the most. your hands rest on his sides, and you barely have time to break away for a breath before he's swallowing your words.Â
"buck." you manage to whine.
a low groan leaves his mouth, his hands leaving your hips despite the small hesitant 'no' that leaves your lips.
"i like when you call me that." he murmurs before his lips are back on yours, his voice thick with something heavy and almost inhumaneâ a need to be close, a need to be in you.
his hands trail away from your hip, rough fingertips dipping inside of your shirt and dragging along the soft skin of your stomach, reaching higher and higher until he hits the band of your bra. you reach down and pull the hem of your shirt up until it bunches just below your neck, putting your bra on full display for him.
bucky pulls away from the kiss, his lips all bitten and coated in saliva. almost impatiently, he slides a hand under your back and lifts you up, hand fumbling with the clasp of your bra before it clicks open with a satisfying pop. they spill out as bucky pulls the confining fabric away.
"fuck." he groans, "such pretty tits."
his head dips down before he can even really think, dragging his tongue across the flesh of your breast, lapping up any of the salty sweat that'd gathered in the valley of your chest, his other hand massaging what he can't abuse with his mouth. and when he takes one of your nipples into his mouth, the sound wet and loud in the quiet of your room, you arch into his touch. your hips rut against the air trying to find frictionâ any frictionâ but he moves his leg the moment he feels you press against him.
"no, pleaseâ"
he detaches from your nipple with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting his lips to the bruised skin. he pushes himself up onto his knees and eagerly tugs his shirt off, throwing it onto the ground beside the bed. he glows in the dim light, catching the dips of his shoulders and his chest, highlighting all the soft scars and burns from his work, and all of the muscle that he'd gained over the years of hard work. it's nothing you haven't seen before, but you're not complaining either.
he tugs at the waistband of your shorts, sliding them off, and you lift your hips to give him easier access. he slides them down the length of your legs and off of the tip of your toes before he discards them just as he did with his shirt, and the site that greets him steals his breath.
you're wearing possibly the laciest panties he's ever seen. there's almost no opaque fabric, thin lace barely covering anything. its more of a thong than actual underwear. his thumb runs along the edge of your panties, tracing the lace like it's a physical manifestation of everything you need and want.
"did you wear these for me?" he asks.
he sounds so sweetâ so sureâ that he's the reason you're wearing them, and if you entire body wasn't already warm with desire, you're sure it was burning from embarrassment.
"no, they wereâ" you swallow, almost embarrassed as the truth slips out of your mouth. "they were my only clean pair."
he hums softly, a small smile playing at his face as he lets out the smallest amused huff. "cute."
you smile, and he leans down to press a warm kiss to your lips. you chase his mouth when he pulls away, but let out a soft gasp when he presses a kiss to your cheek, then another onto your jaw. he presses one onto your neck, kisses your collarbone, and continues downwards until his lips find the delicate lining of your panties.
he hooks a hand under your knee and gingerly places it into his shoulder, his hands wrapping around your waist so he can pull you closer to his face. you hold your breath, waiting for what you think is going to happen to happen. your boyfriend could never get this part right.
and then he does it. bucky presses a chaste kiss to the fabric of your panties, lips pressing into the fabric with a delicious pressure. his tongue darts out of his mouth as he licks a long, slow strip across your clothed pussy, soaking what little fabric there is covering you with his saliva and your slick.
you bite down on your hand and he groans at the taste, eyes flicking from your face to the soaked fabric. he reaches forwards, hooking a finger around it and tugging it to the side, and you instinctively clench at the knowledge that you're practically laid out for him and on full display. he's so close that you can feel his breath fanning over your cunt, and you don't think you'd trade this feeling for anything in the world.
he leans in and presses a kiss to your inner thigh before he licks a slow wet stripe from the bottom of your leaking pussy right to your clit.
you let out a moan, biting down on your finger until it burns, but he reaches up and pulls your hand from your mouth. he interlocks his fingers with yours and places your hands firmly against your hips.
"don't be shy, baby." he murmurs into your cunt, not bothering to come up to make sure you can hear it. "wanna hear every noise you make."
he leans in again and laps at what he can, his nose nudging against your swollen clit every time he tries to stick his tongue further into you. you're not sure if you're the one grinding down on his face or if he's doing it himself, but his tongue pokes through your entrance and you find yourself hooking your other leg over his shoulder and holding him there, and bucky gladly accepts his fate.
his tongue plunges in and out of you, pulling away ever so often to suck on the soft skin of your folds. the ball of heat in your stomach in your stomach is so close to snapping and bucky can tell. he lets go of your hand and slides two thick fingers inside of you, pushing until he brushes up against the spongy spot that makes you curl into his touch, and you can't help but slide your fingers through his hair and tugging at the salt and pepper strands.
he continues the rhythm until your legs are clamping around his head and he tastes the sweetness that leaks from your heat.
"fuckâ" you cry, your brain fuzzy and your body hot with arousal, "bucky, i'm gonnaâ"
but just as you're about to spill all over his face, he pulls away. you gasp, your legs instinctively try to tighten around his head to pull him closer, but bucky's stronger. he pries your legs open like it comes naturally to him and rises until he's on his knees.
and then he reaches for his belt buckle. the noise is startling, but it also brings a flurry of butterflies through you. the band of his underwear peeks from his jeans and you can't help but stare up at him as he pulls his belt from his jeans. his eyes bore into yours as he undoes his jeans and slides them down like he knows he's torturing you.
bucky's thumbs slide under the waistband of his underwear and he slides them down, his cock springing out and hits his stomach, the head all flushed and leaking and begging to stretch you open.
his eagerness is barely hidden in the way his hands are back on you, calloused palms running up your sides and cupping your breasts. the blunt tip of his cock presses against your entrance, sliding past your folds and resting there as he leans down for another messy kiss, but you stop him.
"wait, buckyâ" you whisper against his lips, hands flat against his chest. you push him away with little resistance. you can feel his breath against your face, and the worry on his face sends a pang of guilt through you.
"am i hurtin' you?" he murmurs with furrowed brows.
youre quick to shake your head. "no, i'm okay, i just... you still don't know my name. you still don't know my name and we're about toâ"
bucky's hand slides up from your breast and cups your cheek, his thumb running against your bottom lip. "you don't have to tell me it if you don't want to, princess."
your head shakes the slightest bit, "but if we're gonna do this, i want to tell you."
so you do. your name falls from your lips like a secret you're whispering to him in the dark, and bucky repeats it back to you with such reverence that you've never experienced before, and you find that you never want him to stop saying it.
you lean forwards and kiss him. the kiss is slower than the others you'd shared, and bucky groans into your mouth as he finally pushes into you. the stretch burns, but your hips push against him despite the pain because he feels just like safety.
his cock drags against your soft walls, every second feeling like pure heaven. every sound that slips from your lips is swallowed by bucky and echoed back into your mouth, a chorus of moans and heavy breathes that never seems to end.
he bottoms out with a low groan before he grinds against you like he can't get enough of how you feel, but before you can beg for him to start moving, he pulls out and rams back into you. a yelp jumps out of you, but you try to hold it back.
"be loud, sweetheart. i wanna hear those pretty moans."
"trevor's stillâ fuckâ trevor's still here."
a breathy scoff spills from bucky's mouth, and the shit eating grin that he wears on his face tells you he couldn't care less. "let him hear. the only time that lowlife's gonna get any action is when he hears how good i fuck you."
then bucky's thrusts get harder and sloppier. his chest presses against yours with a welcomed weight, dragging out all of the pathetic bodies you'd been trying to hold back, and your nails dig into the rough skin of his back to try and make them stop. you're embarrassed. your eyes fall shut in a daze, but a growl stops you.
"no, look at me." bucky huffs out, hands coming to grab you by the jaw and redirect your eyes. his thumb digs into your cheek. "look at me, princess. want you to see who's fuckin' you better than that pathetic boyfriend of yours ever could."
and god, you can't do anything but obey. you practically fall limp in his arms as he looks into your eyes and fucks you, every thrust bringing you closer and closer to where bucky wants you. he's brushing against your walls and pressing into spots that you didn't know where there and dragging noises out of you that you didn't know you could make. your name falls from bucky's mouth like he's a sinner begging for forgiveness, like he's been promised that your name is all he needs to be pure again.
all you feel is warm. bucky's skin as your nails carve your presence into his back, your insides as he fucks you better than your stupid boyfriend ever could, your heart as you pull yourself closer to him with every bit of your beingâ everything is so perfect.
the noise the fills the dingy motel room is wet and filthy, the stickiness between you building, and with a few final thrusts, you cum with a loud moan, and bucky follows soon after, his head tucked into your neck as he fucks his seed into you with a groan.
you're trembling, every small movement wringing out the aftershocks of your orgasm. bucky pulls his head out of your neck and places a chaste kiss to the soft skin below your ear.
"took me so good, baby. just perfect for me," he murmurs.
bucky pulls out of you with a soft breath. his thumb swipes at the liquid that leaks from your weeping cunt before he brings it to his mouth without a second thought, his lips closing around the digit with a soft hum. his thumb pops out of his mouth and he lays beside you, quick to make sure you're tucked into his side, your body pressed against his perfectly like you'd both been shaped from the same mould. your head falls to his chest, a soft tired sigh escaping you.
a while passes. there's no noise coming from the outside world anymoreâ no cars or trucks, no planes overheard, no game show playing on full volume coming from trevor's office. you're not sure how long it's been quite for, but you know for a fact that the only thing that could've been heard for miles was your moans.
the bedside table lamp buzzes. bucky's heart beats steadily in his chest. there's the faint call of a coyote, and then another, and then silence. it's the kind of quiet that only happens when you're sure everything will be already.
but of course, nothing stays perfect forever. doubt creeps into your mind like a parasite and feasts on the security you feel. bucky is a stranger and you are just another girl. who's to say he won't just abandon you at this motel and leave you for another sketchy trucker to pick up?
"bucky?" you whisper into the silence, unsure if he's awake or if he's simply staring off into space just as you are. your fingers run through the wispy hair on his chest as you try to anchor yourself, but the wave in your tone gives you away.
"hmm?" he hums, his head tilting just slightly towards you.
"can i ask you something?"
"of course, sweetheart."
"this is probably too much to ask, and you can say no if you want." you hesitate. "but can i come with you? to california, at least. and you don't have to say yes, because i know it's sort of your thing to travel alone and everything, butâ"
"i was just inside of you, sweetheart. i don't do that with just anybody. thought it was already a given that i'd be takin' you."
you shrug. "you might've changed your mind."
there's a soft silence until bucky shifts. his hand slides up the back of your next and his fingers glide through your hair. you prop your chin up until you're looking straight at him, eyes flicking between his as you await his answer.
"i'd take you around the world if you asked me to." he says.
your breath falls short, replaced by a smile that makes its way onto your face before you can stop it. "thank you, bucky."
"'course." bucky meets you with a similar smile. "now get some sleep. we've got a long drive ahead of us."
morning arrives faster than you'd like. the truck is packed, your duffel bag sitting snugly on the floor of the passenger seat, and the engine rumbles steadily outside in the texan sun. the familiar sputtering and mechanical sounds that had plagued it for days before was finally gone, and you couldn't wait to get the fuck out of this place.
"checking out." you announce as you place both yours and bucky's room keys onto the counter. the metal clatters against the counter, echoing in the silence of the office.
trevor looks up from the magazine in his lap and stops chewing on his piece of strawberry gum, eyebrows lifting from the keys to you, then towards bucky, who stands behind you with his arms crossed.
"hm." trevor sniffs. he eyes the two of you like you'd dropped a suspicious package right in front of him before he puts his magazine down and stands up. "didn't think you'd get your truck fixed. thought you two were never gonna leave."
"tempting." bucky replies dryly.
"right. you're all set. safe travels, sir." trevor grabs the keys from the counter and holds them in his hands for a second before he nods towards you. "you too, sugar."
the word spills from his mouth like he knows it'll be the last time he can piss you off before you disappear into the desert like all of the other visitors. you want to walk awayâ it's the responsible thing to doâ but you're already on the run, so what's the harm?
you pull your fist back and slam it directly into trevor's face. a loud crack fills the office as he yells, his hands flying to his fac to figure out what damage you'd done. red seeps through his bony fingers and curses spill from his mouth, the man too preoccupied with his broken nose to notice that you and bucky are already leaving.
the last thing you hear is "you fuckin' bitch! you'll pay forâ" before the office door shuts. his yelling is drowned out by the glass, and even if you could understand what he was yelling, you really couldn't care less.
bucky steps forwards with a smug smile. he reaches up and opens the truck door for you, a hand extended. "you feel better?"
"a little." you sigh, your hand in his as he helps you climb up the steps and hop into the passenger seat. "would've been better if i knocked out a few of his teeth."
"i could go back in there and bring back a few of 'em." bucky suggests with a grin, though you're not entirely convinced he's joking.
you shake your head, "nah, he can keep them. i'm sure i'm not the first person to hit him and i definitely won't be the last. they'll need something to aim for."
bucky sucks in a sharp breath with a playful shake of his head. "i think spending time with lil old me turned you into a monster."
you roll your eyes. "i shot my boyfriend, fled my homestate, and ran from the cops, bucky. i was a monster before you even pulled into this parking lot."
he hums, "touchĂŠ."
the passenger door shuts behind you. bucky circles the truck and hops into his seat. the truck rolls forward, tires squealing as the vehicle veers into the road and takes off, and for the first time in a while, you finally know where you're going. your final destination? california.
Pairing: Husband!Bucky Barnes x Pregnant!Female Reader
Summary: During a fun and relaxing afternoon, Bucky overhears someone making fun of your body. He doesnât take too kindly to that.
Word Count: Over 2.9k
Warnings: Established relationship, pregnancy, pet name (sweetheart for you, baby nicknamed Sprout), mention of stretch marks (they are beautiful), pregnant body shaming, threat of violence (not against reader), fluff, feels, domestic life, Steve and Sam are good friends, protective vibes, putting a jerk in his place (sorry if your name is Chet), Bucky Barnes (he's down bad and a warning, okay?).
A/N: What can I say, lovelies? I love a Bucky down bad and sticking up for you. Part of Soft Echoes, Strong Roots AU. â¤ď¸ Beta read by the wonderful @mumbles411, but any and all mistakes are my own. Divided by the talented @saradika-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
It was meant to be a relaxing and fun afternoon.
Nothing major. Just a small gathering with a few familiar faces, some friends and agents, and good food. Maybe a few games, some music and conversations. Bucky only agreed because you batted your eyes and promised that you wouldnât overdo it.Â
As if he could ever say ânoâ to you.Â
âYou could smile a bit more, you know,â Steve teased, handing him a beer.Â
He scoffed, the bottle cool against his warm hand. âI am smiling,â he argued.
His general demeanor had improved since you came into his life. He liked to think he smiled more than he scowled most days. Well, at least he smiled more when you were around. Or when he thought of you, which was all the time.
So, yeah, his demeanor was much better.Â
âYou only smile like that when you look at or think about your wife,â Steve pointed out, like he knew exactly what he was on his mind.
Buckyâs gaze softened immediately when he heard you laughing, watching you from where you stood a few feet away.Â
You were glowing.
A pregnancy glow, yes, combined with something warmer. The dress you picked somehow flowed while showing off the shape of your body perfectly. Your smile lit up your face and you had a hand on your belly like youâd done for weeks now without thinking. It was beautiful.Â
You were beautiful.Â
âCan you blame me for having a smile just for her?â Bucky asked.
âNot at all,â his best friend replied.Â
You shifted your weight before you took a seat, your smile brighter when you spotted Bucky watching you. He never strayed far from you. Didnât even sip the drink in his hand. He had his eyes on you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.Â
You and Sprout.Â
Pride flickered through his chest when his gaze dropped to your belly. His wife and his baby. His family.Â
Everyone was waiting on you hand and foot. At least, they tried to. The moment someone tried to bring you a drink or food, he stepped in. He couldnât help himself. Once you were taken care of, he went back to his spot. The perfect place to keep an eye on his surroundings since some old habits died hard.
And you just smiled, soft and bright.Â
Steve nudged him with his shoulder. âYou deserve this, you know.â
Bucky swallowed hard. It didnât always feel like he did. The past liked to seep into his mind at unexpected moments and make the world look a little darker. Depending on the day, heâd either hug you close or take you to bed to drown out the noise. Sometimes both.
And no matter what, you made the world look brighter again.
âSo, youâre saying I deserved to knock up my wife?â he joked to deflect.Â
The blonde snorted. âYeah, thatâs what Iâm saying,â he said, giving him a small smile. âAlso saying you deserve this life.â
His chest tightened when you laughed at a joke Sam made, your head tipping back slightly and your hand going back to your belly. There was no fight to worry about. No past to haunt him. Just small precious moments like this.Â
His lips twitched upward when you found his gaze again, your love for him burning bright in your eyes.
He did deserve this kind of life.
âThanks, punk,â he mumbled, clinking their bottles together.
âJerk.â
You turned your attention back to Sam and Bucky pushed off the wall to move closer before a voice stopped him.
Something low and careless.
âIs that chair gonna break? Jesus Christ, sheâs fucking huge. How many are in there?â
The thought of domesticity and peace left Buckyâs mind, replaced by something cold and dangerous.Â
You were blissfully unaware that some prick had just insulted your beautiful body, still smiling and enjoying yourself. As you should be. You only deserved good things. No one else around you seemed to notice the change in the atmosphere either.
But Steve stiffened out of the corner of his eye. He heard it. They both heard it.Â
Super soldier senses really were handy at times.
Ice took over the blue of his eyes, his head slowly turning to look at the fucker stupid enough to open his mouth and even breath the same oxygen as you. A new agent with a very punchable face who wore too much cologne. There was a good chance that you kept your distance for that very reason since some smells still overwhelmed you. The snickering prick certainly wasnât a friend of his or yours. He was only âinvitedâ because someone else thought it would be good for him to hang out outside of work.Â
That wouldnât happen again.Â
âBetter snag a brownie before she stuffs her face with the whole tray.â
My wife can have all the fucking brownies she wants, you fucking piece of shit.
The bottle in his hand began to crack. It would shatter if he kept squeezing. He didnât want to draw attention to himself.
Not yet.
âYou know thatâs Barnesâs wife, right?â The assholeâs friend shifted uncomfortably. âSheâs really nice, and heâs⌠well, heâs pretty protective of her.â
Buckyâs gaze flicked back to you, much softer, before looking at the soon-to-be-dead fucker again.
No. Canât kill the guy. I have a wife and kid to think about.
The prick had the nerve to laugh. âSo? Does that give her a pass to look like a whale?â
âŚHeâs fucking dead.
Steve took the cracked bottle from his hand. âWant me to handle him?â he asked, his voice low.Â
He exhaled through his nose. Steve didnât like bullies. Never had. But he knew why he was asking instead of just stepping in and taking care of it.
Because you were his wife. His to defend. His to love and care for.Â
This was his fight.
âI got this,â he replied, subtly nodding to where you were sitting. âJust keep an eye out for a minute?â
Steve nodded in understanding, positioning himself to block your line of sight without looking too obvious.Â
Bucky took deliberate steps toward the table, his movements controlled and measured. His jaw tightened the closer he got, his fingers itching to toss the guy out with his bare hands. He wouldnât cause a scene out of respect for you.Â
But he wasnât going to stay silent.Â
The atmosphere shifted the second he got to the table, the chatter ceasing immediately.Â
The prick, of course, had the nerve to smile.Â
âHey, man! You-â
âYou got something to say about my wife?â he asked, his voice as cold as his stare.Â
The manâs eyes widened, maybe from shock that he was overheard or that he was being confronted. âI⌠What?â
Had no problem using your words seconds ago, asshole.Â
âYou were talking about her.â Bucky tilted his head slightly, his eyes flat and unreadable. âMy wife.â
The air shifted more, something cold settling over the surroundings as the guy sputtered to come up with an excuse.Â
âSay it again,â he ordered, placing his hands on the table and leaning down to his eye level. He made sure there was no warmth in his expression. âWhere I can really hear you.â
The idiot swallowed and looked to his friend for help and found none; his friend was suddenly very interested in the beer in his hand. âUm⌠Barnes, I-â
âMy wife, the love of my life, is carrying my child. Our child.â His lip raised in a small snarl and he leaned in enough that Agent Asshole had to back up. âAnd you think you can sit here and make fun of her? You think I wonât do something about it?â
âI-It was a bad joke,â he tried to reason.
Reasoning only worked with people when they were in a forgiving mood.Â
He wasnât.Â
âOh, now itâs a joke? You think youâre funny?â He smiled with no trace of friendliness behind it. It was likely how a wolf looked baring their teeth before sinking them into their prey. âYou think Iâll laugh while you crack âjokesâ about my wife?â
The prick looked like he was a heartbeat away from pissing himself, which made Bucky question the hiring process for agents. This sort of âinterrogationâ was nothing. Childâs play.Â
Then again, how many agents could say they had the former Winter Soldier in their space?
âI-I really didnât mean-â
âDonât.â His voice dropped even lower. âDonât insult my intelligence.â
He glanced back and saw Sam looking his way, his eyes narrowing when he sensed the tension. Steve subtly shook his head. There was no reason to intervene. He was still in control.
Barely.
But you were still smiling, which was the important thing.
âYou know what I see when I look at her?â he asked rhetorically, his chest tight. âI see the strongest person Iâve ever met.â
He smacked his hand on the table hard enough to make the bottles rattle and the guys flinch.Â
Sam, thankfully, chose to tell another joke at the same time and Steve cackled so the noise at the table wouldnât draw your attention.
I really do have good friends.Â
âIâll say it again. Sheâs carrying our baby. Sheâs uncomfortable and exhausted and guess what? She still walks into a room smiling and thinks of others first. And you sit here and act like sheâs something to mock when sheâs the most beautiful thing Iâve ever seen.â His jaw clenched even as his heart swelled with pride. âYou should be ashamed of yourself.â
The guy shrank lower as every word washed over him.
Good.
Bucky stared at him for another long moment before something colder settled into place behind his eyes.
âGet up, Chet,â he ordered.
âChetâsâ mouth fell open. âThatâs not my-â
âI know what your name is, and I donât care,â he cut him off, straightening up. âBecause you donât respect my wife, so I refuse to respect you.â
A bright shade of red passed through his cheeks before he paled.Â
As someone who was stripped of his own agency for years, identity mattered to Bucky. Basic decency mattered. So, maybe it was a little petty to call him by the wrong name, but it was also a good way to put him in his place by letting him know he didnât matter.
Chet, as his name was Chet to him now, got to his feet on shaky legs. âSorry.â
âIâm sure you are sorry now, but itâs a little too late for that.âÂ
Bucky clamped a hand on the back of his neck. To just about anyone looking over, it wouldâve looked casual. Almost friendly. But they wouldâve missed the firm squeeze.Â
âMove.â
The prick didnât need to be told twice.
He guided him away from the table and made sure to smile as he did so. He shot his friend a quick glare for good measure, but at least he stuck up for you. That was the only reason he didnât make him leave, too.Â
The chatter continued behind him, but he barely noticed it over the sound of Chetâs pounding heart and his own blood roaring loudly in his ears. But then he heard your laughter and he took a deep breath, picturing your loving smile and hand on your belly.Â
It kept him from snapping completely.
Once they were in the driveway, Bucky shoved him forward. Hard. He stumbled, but somehow managed to stay on his feet. He wished he could punch him for good measure, but he seemed like the type of coward who would cry and call the cops.Â
Even if they let him off with a warning, he didnât want to add any stress to your plate.
âChrist, man,â Chet muttered.
âYou stay the fuck out of my house and never come back,â Bucky said, his voice low and lethal as he stepped forward. âAnd donât you ever disrespect my wife again.â
Chet nodded quickly. Too quickly. âI wonât.â
Bucky looked every bit like the Winter Soldier wrapped in civilian clothing when he added, âYouâll never speak about her like that again. Youâll never look at her like that again. And you sure as hell will never come near my family again.â
âI understand,â he swore, his voice cracking.
âGood.â Buckyâs nostrils flared as he looked him over one last time, disgust curling in his stomach. âAnd the next time you come across someone pregnant, maybe try showing them some goddamn respect.â
He looked down at his feet, avoiding his gaze and swallowing any excuse he had left to give.
Fucking coward.Â
Bucky pointed toward the street. âGet the fuck out of my sight.â
The idiot practically ran to his car.Â
Bucky glared as he drove down the street, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck once he disappeared. He exhaled the remainder of his anger through his mouth, his hand moving through his hair. There was nothing to be upset about anymore. Agent Asshole was gone and now he could get back to you.
Where he belonged.Â
The second he walked back to the yard, his eyes found you automatically.Â
Still smiling, safe, and his.
He grabbed a couple of brownies from the tray before he walked over, giving Steve and Sam two nods. One to let them know everything was fine. The other to thank them for shielding you from that display.
They nodded in return.Â
You were his wife and family, but you were their family, too.Â
âThereâs my handsome husband. I wondered where you went off to for a minute.â You smiled up at him when he approached, his heart skipping a beat. âYou okay?â
Bucky stared at you in awe.Â
God, sheâs so fucking beautiful it makes my chest ache.
Up close, your glow was even brighter. You looked at him like he put the sun in the sky just for you. He would if he could. And your belly moved slightly under your hands, and he wanted to feel Sprout move, too.Â
âI should be asking you that,â he replied, his brows furrowing. âAre you okay? Are you thirsty? Hungry?â
He observed you carefully, looking for signs of discomfort or fatigue. The conversation with Chet and kicking him out didnât take very long, but it felt like hours now being apart from you. Steve and Sam had been watching over you, but it wasnât the same.Â
âIâm just fine,â you assured him, and he knew you werenât just saying that for his benefit. âBut you didnât answer my question,â you added teasingly.Â
Always thinking of me.Â
âYeah,â he murmured, gentler than he had spoken all day. âEverythingâs fine now.â
You studied him for a moment, sensing something underneath the surface. He didnât falter under your gaze. There was no need to.Â
âEverythingâs fine now, which means it wasnât fine before,â you guessed.Â
Bucky sighed. He shouldâve known youâd feel that something was off. You were too intuitive for your own good. That was one of the things he loved about you. And part of him loving you was trying to protect you from harm, physically, mentally, or verbally.Â
But there was also no hiding from you, even when he did his best to shield you.Â
âJust⌠needed to throw some trash out,â he said carefully.Â
It was true.Â
Chet was trash.Â
âThatâs one way of putting it,â Steve muttered into his drink, making Sam snort.Â
Before you could question him further, he set the brownies down and crouched slightly in front of your chair so he could rest a hand gently over your belly. He didnât chastise Sam for snapping a photo, and he didnât care who saw him like this. The two of you were his world and he wasnât going to pretend otherwise.Â
âHey, Sprout,â he murmured, his entire expression softening. âYou behaving for your mama?â
The baby kicked almost immediately beneath his palm.
He smiled wide, making him temporarily forget about the dickhead he just threw out.Â
âSproutâs just fine, too,â you promised, placing your hand on his, your gaze thoughtful. âYou sure youâre okay?â
He leaned up slowly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. He remembered sitting on the couch and comforting you after the mean voice in your head made you doubt that youâd be a good mom. And how you didnât think your stretch marks were pretty but he thought they were so beautiful. You were so strong and inspiring. His wife. The mother of his child.Â
He wasnât about to ruin your fun and relaxing afternoon by telling you what happened.Â
But as much as he wanted to protect you, he would tell you later once everyone left because he refused to keep secrets from you. There was a good chance youâd cry. Not because of the cruel words spoken or hormones, but because he stuck up for you so fiercely. He would always stick up for his family.Â
And if you wanted him to punish Chet even more, heâd do it without question.
That was how much he loved you.Â
And heâd take you to bed later, kissing and touching every inch of you he could. Heâd make you feel beautiful and cherished if any of your insecurities began to surface. Heâd silence any mean voice in your head, hopefully for good, the same way you drowned out the horrors he experienced and made him feel loved.Â
I love you both so much.Â
âYeah, sweetheart,â he whispered, glancing down at your stomach with so much love. âIâm better than okay.â
We all deserve to have someone in our corner. Love and thanks for reading! â¤ď¸
âŚBucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on a03!âŚ
âŚsummary: Bucky keeps you secret from his team, but your effect on his life might not be something he can hide.âŚ
âŚwarnings/tags: thunderbolts!bucky, wife!reader, no use of y/n, soft Bucky Barnes, no description of reader, shenanigans, tooth-rotting fluff, he's so down bad for you it's crazy âŚ
âŚwc: 6.1kâŚ
âŚAuthor's Note: request from anon! i love letting him be happy like he'd be such a wife guy trust meâŚ
Bucky Barnes has been bringing a lunchbox on missions.
Itâs not a sparkly lunchbox. Nothing flashy that grabs attentionâlike Yelenaâs bedazzled, personalized lunchbox and itâs three hundred rhinestones, required to stay in the jet no matter how much she insists upon it being an assetâbut everyone notices anyway.
Not because of the lunchbox itself, made of smooth black metal and could easily be mistaken for just another part of the jet. Because of itâs contents.
Strawberries.
Heart-shaped strawberries, put in a baby blue Tupperware and arranged neatly in a little circle around some honey.
âYou dip fruit in honey, Bucky Barnes?â Alexei asked when he saw it.
Bucky had only shrugged. âIt tastes good.â
âWould be sweet, no? Very sweet. Like cream.â
âItâs not like cream.â
âNo, not cream, cream.â
Bucky had stared at him incredulously, and Alexei had sighed, snapping his fingers.
âYelena, what is word for cream in English.â
âCream is word for cream.â Yelena hadnât looked up from her phone, and Alexei had sigh.
âNo, cream is word cream. This is other cream. White and fluffy like cat. Soft, like babyâs bottom, sweet like world between womanâs legs-â
âJesus, man.â Walker had groans. âAre you talking fucking whipped cream?â
Alexei had clapped his hands with a grin, everyone had started groaning, and Bucky and his strawberries had gone unnoticed for the rest of the flight.
But the next one, it was Yelena asking if he bought them, or cut them himself. Walker wanted to know if Bucky liked strawberries because they were girl fruit, and Yelena punched him in the face. Bob nervously asked to taste one, and Bucky had handed it over because he was the only one not being an ass about this. Even Ava teased that if he could do heart, he must do other shapes, and everyone distracted themselves coming up with what other form the strawberries could be cut into.
They seemed to be entertained by the thought of Bucky eating strawberries cut in the shape of dicks, and Bucky had let them laugh. It didnât bother him all that much, when he was the one eating them, they tasted perfectâyouâd done something with cinnamon that he didnât understand, but was as amazing as you wereâand he knew the answer to all their questions, no matter how mocking they were.
âWhy honey?â Heâd asked you while you cut them, leaning over your body with his chin on the top of your head.
âBecause it goes with cinnamon.â Youâd hummed, and Bucky had grunted.
âWell, why cinnamon.â
âBecause it tastes good, James.â
âWhy.â
âBecause.â Youâd leaned back, giving him an amused look. âYouâre like a toddler, you know that?â
Bucky had smiledâthe small, secret smile he saved only for youâand leaned down to press a deep, sweet kiss to your lips.
âOnly for you.â Heâd murmured, and youâd smiled, looking back to the strawberries with a pretty flush.
He loved standing like this. Where you were wrapped tight in his arms, and he could pretend he was never going to have to let go. He could bury his nose in your hair and smell the shea butter you made him use as well, but always just smelled better on you. He could rub his hands on your sides and feel you squirm, just press his face into your neck and feel your every word vibrate through his body.
Bucky would stand like this forever, if he could.
But he did have a job. A job he had to go do, soon.
So you made him lunch, to tide him over until he saw you again. A little reminder that he was loved, that someone as good as you loved him. The rest of the team could have their jokes, because Bucky was loved.
Loved by a woman who he mightâve been able to woo in his best yearsâbefore he was missing a damn arm and woke up in the middle of the night fighting ghostsâbut who heâd never even dared to dream of having a chance with now.
He didnât like strawberries before you liked them. He didnât care to bring lunch to workâhe didnât even need it, if he had a large breakfastâbefore you started volunteering to make it for him.
âI donât want you to get hungry.â Youâd said, pouting up at him, and heâd have to be a fool to tell you no.
Not when you take so much time to make it, just for him. Not when you can do other shapesâstars and moons and flowers and even a damn snowflake, and probably a dick if Bucky asked, although you might start giggling so much it wouldnât be safe to let you near a knifeâbut you do hearts just for Bucky.
Because somehow, youâre something thatâs just for Bucky.
A secret, good thing that he doesnât have to share with the team.
Love that isnât caught up in politics or old fights that bleed through time. Just you, and Bucky, and heart-shaped strawberries.
He lets the team keep teasing.
Itâs hard to mind, when heâs the one who gets to eat the strawberries in the end.
Yelena notices it first.
Theyâre in the truck on some mission in Alaska, with no wifi for streaming and the truck rattling so loud it gives her a headache. She asks Bucky to put on the radio while he drives. He says no. She keeps asking, over and over, until he caves and turns it on with a scowl.
And sheâs happy with it. Itâs just a top 100 stationâsome good, some bad, depending on tasteâbut Yelena likes it plenty, and itâs enough to calm her brain down.
Once her brain is calm, she starts to notice things.
Things like Buckyâs hand tapping on the wheel. Like his mouth, moving silently along with the lyrics of a few songs.
How his nose scrunches when some songs startâlike he knows theyâre going to be badâbut he smiles to himself for others. His knee bounces with some baselines. His head bobs along with the music.
He knows the songs.
âYou like pop music?â Yelena asked, and Bucky started slightly. Like he forgot she was there.
âNo.â He grunted, and Yelena scoffed.
âReally.â
âYeah. Weâve had this conversation. I like-â
â40s music. Iâve heard.â Yelena narrowed her eyes, watching him carefully. âYou seem to know the radio songs.â
His jaw ticked. âI have ears. I remember things.â
âImpressive, since you are a million years old.â
Bucky gave her a tired look. âIâm a hundred.â
âMost people have no minds by a hundred. But you- Look at you. You enjoy Lady Gaga.â
âI donât know what that is.â
He was lying through his damn teeth, and they both knew it, but Bucky was pretty sure he had the upper hand. Yelena could accuse him all she wanted, sheâd never guess why Bucky already knew all the songs. Never be able to work out that he listened them so heâd know what you liked. That he liked certain ones more than others because heâd think of you singing them in the shower. That he hated certain ones because you hated them, and you knew more than he did.
Bucky would sit at your feet and listen to you ramble about racist country singers for the rest of his damn life, if he could. Heâd listen to you talk about anything, because you were passionate about everything, and you never looked prettier than when you cared.
Youâd get all flushed, your nose would wrinkle, your hands would wave around as you gestured, and Bucky didnât understand half of the actual words you were usingâwhat a stan was, how idol seemed to have a meaning very different that he remembered, or what the hell a fandom wasâbut he liked how you said them. Like how youâd just pet his head sometimes while you spoke, and how happy youâd look when he repeated something you said a few days later, to prove heâd been listening.
So heâd learned all the words to your favorite songs, because it made you happy. Just like youâd learned how to dance to 40s music with him in the kitchen, even if you stepped on his shoes and mostly just stared at him with shining eyes while he led you around.
He didnât mind doing that, either. It felt like heaven to have you in his arms. And youâd always giggle when he spun you around, and ask him questions about the 40s he only would ever give you the answers to. Youâd smile at all his stories. Youâd ask to watch the movies he liked, read the books heâd enjoyed, listen to more of his music.
The least he could do was memorize a few songs. It made you smile.
And Bucky felt like a real good husband, when he made you smile.
Nobody needed to know that the Winter Soldier enjoyed pop music. That didnât strike fear in the hearts of adversaries, and people would probably want to know his opinions, when they were just yours echoed.
He did sing along to the next song, though. Under his breath, but audible. Just to mess with Yelena.
She gaped at him. âYou- You are singing-â
âI donât know what youâre talking about.â Bucky drawled, smirking at the road.
Yelena narrowed her eyes. Turned down the radio and leaned forward, scanning over Buckyâs face.
He gave her a bored look, brows raised in amusement.
Yelena leaned closer.
âYou are strange, Bucky Barnes.â She muttered, and Bucky snorted.
âReally? Hadnât noticed.â
âStranger than usual.â Yelena continued, like she hadnât heard him at all. âVery strange.â
Bucky just shrugged, and Yelena hummed.
âI am onto you. I will figure out what strange music secrets you keep.â
Bucky laughed again. âYou do that.â
âI will.â
âAlright.â
âAlright.â Yelena mocked, slumping back into her seat. âWhat do you think of Rihanna, Bucky Barnes?â
Bucky knew what you thought of Rihanna. Knew that you wished sheâd make more music, something he actually agreed with. The woman had good beats, and used a lot of real instruments. Those had been some of the easier songs to get through.
âI donât know who that is.â He repeated, but probably after pausing for too long.
Yelena huffed like she didnât believe him. Bucky was probably playing with fire, by not shutting this down firmly. But he really couldnât bring himself to care.
He wouldnât stop listening to the songs. And it wasnât his fault they were so damn catchy.
He did wish Yelena could hear you sing along to them, though. You did it a hell of a lot better than he did.
And Bucky got lost in thought about you again. He didnât feel his grin, pulling at his face from the thought of you.
Yelena narrowed her eyes.
Something was up with Bucky Barnes. Music and strawberries. Soft things, for soft people, which he was not. Maybe he had been kidnapped, and this was a clone. Yelena could fight a clone. That would be quite easy.
But the easy thing was rarely the answer. Which was annoying.
It didnât matter.
Yelena would figure out what Bucky was hiding.
And if it was something that let her fight a clone, well. Worse, stranger things have happened.
Bob and Ava realize next.
Theyâve known about the strawberries. Everyone has known about the strawberries. Only Bob knows about the musicâYelena told himâbut Avaâs noticed things as well.
Liking Bucky smiling at his phone. Going to bed before everyone else, and waking up before them as well. And it shouldnât be strange that a solider goes to bed early, but itâs how he goes to bed.
Bucky makes a big show of it. He stands up, announces that not to bother him unless someone is dying, and still try to handle that yourselves, then marches off to his room.
Ava walked past it last week. And she knows sheâs not supposed toâsomething about privacyâbut Bucky had a book sheâd wanted, and doors are just suggestions that people think keep them safe anyway.
She phased through the wall, and found the room empty. Completely and totally empty. No noise from the bathroom, no lump in the sheets. Nothing.
The book had been on the nightstand. Sheâd taken it and gone, but wondered.
If the room was always empty.
If Barnes was up to something.
Bob just thought the music thing was nice.
âMaybe he just likes pop music?â Heâd offered to Yelena, whoâd shaken her head.
âNo. Bucky Barnes does not like this.â
âI- That canât be true-â
âIt is.â
âHe likes some books.â Bob had said, a little desperately. âAnd⌠Sam Wilsonâs his friend. They have to do something together.â
âThey fix boats.â
âSee! Thatâs liking something-â
âThis is not a boat, Bob.â Yelena had snapped. âThis is music. It is important, because Bucky likes it, and he does not like things.â
And that wasnât entirely true.
Bucky didnât like most things. He didnât like crowds, or snow, or most movies until you liked them and suddenly he understood what everyone was making such a big deal about. He didnât like planes or trains, and boats were fine, and he hated going most anywhere until youâd started riding on the motorcycle with him. He didnât like resting, or eating, or the dark, but then you made him do spa nights with him and suddenly all those things were fine.
âYour hair is better than mine.â Youâd murmurs, running your fingers through it, and heâd sighed.
âThatâs not true, doll.â
âIt is.â
âNothinâ I got is better than you.â
Youâd hummed, smiling to yourself as you started to braid on of the thicker locks. âYeah?â
âYeah.â Heâd sighed, like he was pained you didnât believe him. âI donât sneak around for just anyone yâknow.â
âWell, you donât have to sneak around for me-â
Bucky had said your name, rolling onto his back with a sigh.
Youâd given him an innocent look, and heâd swallowed. Reached up to trace your features, his voice low and serious.
âYou know I canât risk something happeninâ to you. I donât like hiding either, but-â
âI know.â Youâd kissed the inside of his wrist. âIâm just reminding you. Just in case.â
Youâd smiled at him, and heâd smiled slowly back. His eyes shining with that quiet, relaxed awe that was yours, and yours alone.
The world could have Bucky in whatever role they made him play. He always went along with it, as long as he was helping, no matter how many times you casually floated the idea of him retiring. There was always another reason he had to keep going. Another part of him they wanted to take away from you.
But this, the peace and silent, but immeasurably powerful love that radiated off of him, it was all yours.
âI love you.â Heâd murmured, and youâd brushed a little hair from his face.
âI know.â
Heâd frowned. âYouâre not gonna say it back?â
âYou know I love you-â
âYeah, but I like hearinâ you say it, doll-â
âI love you, James, I love you so much-â
Bucky had rolled his eyes. âNow youâre just beinâ mean to me.â
Youâd giggled, leaning down until you were hovering only inches away. âYou like it,â youâd whispered. âGives you an excuse for later.â
Buckyâs eyes had flashed, his hand slowly sliding down around your neck, and youâd laughed again. Sat back up and gently nudged his shoulder.
âI love you, old man.â Youâd pushed a little harder. âFlip over, Iâm braiding your hair.â
Heâd groaned, but still flipped back onto his stomach. His face had been pressed into your thigh, one arm around your middle and the other rubbing up and down your calves as you braided. When youâd finished, youâd tied it, and heâd dove for you like an animal.
The braid had somehow survived the night, even if you couldnât really walk.
And Bucky had kept it in. It was a little under the thicker top layer of his hair, so no one would see it, and if he couldnât wear his ring at work he wanted something that was made of you.
Then the hair tie would got lost in a fight, and the braid came almost completely undone. He used to go back to you, and sheepishly ask you to redo it. And you always would with a smile and no complaints, and Bucky could never hate time he got to spend at your feet, but he also liked learning things.
Braids were good for ropes. They could busy his hands, if he was stuck on the jet too long and no one was looking at him.
If you ever had daughters together, heâd need to know how to do them, the exact way you did.
So he asked, and you taught him.
And Bob and Ava are in the common room talking about the Baby Shark song with Ava tries to braid her hair, but sheâs not all that good at it. She usually just keeps it inside the suit.
Bob offers to help. Heâs worse.
Theyâre seconds from going to grab Yelena when Bucky walks in with a bored expression, and finds Bobâs hands in Avaâs hair, both of them looking like they just got caught doing something wrong.
âWhatâs wrong with you two.â
âBob canât braid hair.â Ava says plainly, and Bob frowns.
âWell I- Iâm trying- But itâs- Thereâs so much of it-â
âYeah, I got it.â Bucky sighs, then frowns at Ava. âCanât you braid your own hair?â
Ava sniffs, raising her chin. âI never learned. But thank you, for reminding me of that childhood norm I missed out on-â
âChrist, itâs not like Iâm all sunshine and-â Bucky had sighed, ran a hand over his face, then nodded to himself. âAlright. Bob, move.â
Bob had moved, hands in the air like a surrender, and Bucky had taken his place.
Heâd worked fast. Very fast. Fast and neat, because heâd been practicing on himself and you, and he was pretty damn good at it now.
That was a good braid. Bucky stood back with his hands on his hips, nodded, and marched out without another word.
Bob and Ava sat there for a moment. Bob stared, and Ava reached back carefully to touch the braid.
It felt alright. There werenât stray hairs, and the pattern was tight.
Which meant Bucky had given her a braid of⌠Above average quality.
Ava looked at Bob, and found his mouth open. Their eyes met, neither really sure what to say other than-
âWhat the fuck was that?â
Alexei notices next.
He doesnât know it, but the rest of them have a running bet. Yelena told Bob about her theory, Bob pulled Ava into the room, and they all put a week of chores on the line for whoâs going to realize last.
Yelena thinks itâs going to be Bucky, not picking up on the fact that everyone is onto him. Ava thinks itâs John, his head too far up his ass to make such observations. Bob thinks itâs Alexei, simply because no one else had money on Alexei, and he wasnât allowed to simply not participate.
For a while, it seems that theyâre all on even footing. Bucky keeps coming and going, smiling at his phone and suddenly knowing how face masks and baking and different soaps work, and no one else seems to be picking up on anything odd.
Then Alexei asks Bucky to go out with him.
âNight on the town, Bucky Barnes.â Alexei claps his shoulder with a wide grin. âWe will find many beautiful woman, all looking for attention from great Red Guardian and Winter Soldier!â
Bucky grunts. âIâm good, thanks.â
âI know, you enjoy moping around Watchtower, why am I so alone, where is love- It is because you hide, I will help you stop hiding-â
âIâm not-â Bucky sighs, and shakes his head. âMaybe next week. Iâve got plans tonight.â
He walks away, leaving Alexei frozen in the middle of the room.
Bucky Barnes does not have plans. He does not do plans. Heâs dragged places by his neck, then returns to sulking in mysterious places around the tower. Usually when Alexei asks him to go out, he gets a very similar no, but then he asks again and gets a grumbled fine.
Alexei doesnât want to go out anymore anyway. There is no better drinking partner than Bucky Barnes. His moody, handsome face pulls in attention, and Alexei gets to swoop in and charm everyone that Bucky turns down with tight words and a half apology. Itâs a perfect system.
Bucky is messing with the perfect system.
âYelena.â He stomps into the living area with a scowl. âSomething is wrong with Bucky Barnes.â
Bob groans. Heâs the first person to lose the bet.
Alexei doesnât believe it at first, when they lay it out for him. Strawberries and pop music are not evidence of having a woman. Hair is not either. Alexei can braid hair. He used to do it for Yelena and Natasha, all the time.
âMother taught you how.â Yelena points out, and that is a fair point. Heâd leave it in knots before Melina showed him how not to.
But he would have noticed, if Bucky Barnes had a girlfriend. He lives in the tower. Alexei is Guardian, he knows who comes in and out of their home. If Barnes was hiding secret girl, he would have been the first to realize.
âOr she doesnât live in the tower.â Ava drawls. âBucky has been hiding an awful lot, lately. Maybe he goes to her.â
Alexei thinks this is insane. Why would one ever leave the Watchtower? It has magic robots, a kitchen with two ovens, and a pool. America is beautiful country. Robots. Ovens. Pools.
But Ava is exactly right.
The first few months of your relationship, Bucky had still been staying at the Watchtower. Heâd entertain Alexeiâs outings, knowing he was just there forâas you say itâeye candy. Heâd drink and mope about not being with you, maybe call you and tell you how pretty you are, then stumble home and dream about being in your arms. Sometimes he would end up in your arms, managing to drink enough that it actually effected him, thinking home when he got in the Taxi, and ending up swaying on your doorstep.
Youâd smile at him, when you opened the door.
âDid you drink the whole bar?â
âOnly half.â Heâd mumble, leaning against your door. âI love you.â
Youâd giggle. He loved your giggle. It was a sound of pure joy, almost like the songs his Ma used to make him sing in church.
He understands church more, now that he has you. Heâd build a whole house in your name, and make sure it was even half as beautiful as you were. He talks to you every day, texting even when he knows you wonât respond for hours, the chance of your attention worth every bit of his time.Â
âI love you too.â Youâd say, flushing and beaming at him. Youâd get bashful and nervous, the first times heâd say it. Like you werenât sure it was real.
And back then, heâd have to linger like a street dog at your door, staring at you hopefully under you asked him inside.
Now he has a key. He takes off from the Watchtower while no one is paying attention. Stops at the corner store to get you chocolate and flowersâhe does this every time, youâre considering opening a shopâbefore heading to the other side of town.
To you.
He has a key to your apartment now. Itâs his apartment too.
Houses are the kind of thing you have to share, when youâre married.
âYouâre an hour early.â You say when he opens the door, and he chuckles.
âCanât be early to my damn home, doll-â
âBucky-â
He turns from closing the door, and his jaw almost falls off his face.
He is very early.
Youâre in one of those thin, lacy things you get yourself to try and give him a damn heart attack. Sheer and tight, highlighting curves and making you somehow more than naked. Thereâs still the small robe, but it doesnât hide anything at all.
But your hair isnât done, your face clear of makeup for him to ruin.
Part of him likes it more. You look like an angel.
And it would be a shame for him to make you waste all your fancy products and put in so much effort, when heâs going to wreck you no matter what.
âIâm early.â He rasps, and you cross your arms.
âYou have to go out. Iâm not ready yet-â
âYou look pretty ready to me, doll.â
You flush under his heated, almost rabid gaze. Youâre already getting sore between your thighs, and heâs just standing across the room.
Setting down the flowers and rolling up his sleeves. Waiting patiently for you to beckon him over, tongue darting over his lips as his gaze rakes over your body, and your knees are getting weak.
âIâm trying to give you something nice.â You squeak, and Bucky laughs.
âYou are giving me somethinâ nice-â
âWell, it- Itâs going to be better than this-â
âI donât think thatâs possible.â
You breathe sharply, and Bucky raises his brows.
Heâd been ravenous before you were married. Somehow, now, itâs even more than before. He touches you like heâs trying to leave a mark. To remind you that even when he canât be home, there isnât a single moment youâre not on his mind.
âGreen light?â He mutters.
You nod, then remember the rule.
Words.
âYes. Please.â
He doesnât need to be told twice.
And outside, Yelena, Ava, Bob, and Alexei, frown up at the series of windows, trying to figure out which one Bucky disappeared into. It was Alexeiâs idea to follow. He wanted to prove Bucky was simply sick, rather than leaving him to try and pick up women alone.
Right now, his odds arenât looking good. Bucky doesnât buy chocolate and flowers for himself.
âMaybe heâs on the other side of the building?â Bob suggests, after almost an hour of staring at Bucky-less windows.
The words are barely out of his mouth before Yelena spots it.
Bucky and a strange woman, stumbling into a room, their mouths practically attached. His shirt is gone. Sheâs wearing something that looks like it used to be lingerie. Bucky tosses her onto the bed, kisses her ankle, then moves to the window.
He closes the blinds, leaving the team gaping up on the street, all thinking the same thing.
Bucky Barnes has a secret girlfriend.
John notices last.
Theyâre on a mission in some small city, and itâs fast. Clean. No slip-upsâfor onceâwhich means no extra paperwork to file. Yelena makes them go to the mall. They have a Petco, five makeup stores, and a cinnabun. Thereâs never going to be another chance like this.
Itâs in one of the makeup stores that John finally gets clued in. Yelena doesnât like any of the perfumes sheâs looked atâand made everyone else look at, because they should all stop smelling like sweet and damp assâand Bucky points out that she hasnât been cleansing her nose after each one with the coffee.
He suggests a specific perfume. Itâs not overly floral and sweet like what Yelenaâs been trying. He thinks sheâd like it, and she does.
And John is suspicious.
âBarnes has a wife.â He hisses to Ava, and she snorts.
âArenât you late.â
âWhat does that mean-â
âIt means weâve all known he has a girlfriend for months, youâre the last person to-â
âNo. I didnât say girlfriend. If heâs with someone, itâs a wife.â
Ava pauses. Looks over her shoulder, to where Bucky is staring at this phone, lost to the world.
He smiles at something on the screen, then looks up like heâs checking nobody saw.
âWhy do you think itâs a wife.â She says slowly, and John shrugs.
âHe knew perfumes.â Walker says loftily. âYou donât learn perfumes for a girlfriend. Thatâs wife shit.â
Ava frowns. His logic is flawed. Downright incorrect.
But he did reach the right conclusion, even with the wrong equation.
Bucky learned perfumes for you before you were even engaged. Before he got a key to your apartment, or you talked about a future, or he bought the ring. And heâd gotten that ring fairly early, too.
Right after he spent three hours before your anniversary, researching perfumes to figure out the exact kind youâd like as a gift. Heâd gone to stores, looked up guides on line, even sneakily asked Yelena questions to figure out what she liked, how it related to her personality, then apply his findings to you.
Heâd been nervous when heâd made his choice. He didnât get nervous anymore, but his palms had been sweating, his thoughts racing at what might happen if you hated the gift. You were too sweet to break up with him over just a perfume, but Bucky knows how small things can crumble a whole foundation. A good gift showed you he cared. That heâd been paying attention. It build trust, and grew affection. With that, heâd be showing you how serious he was about this. If you knew he was serious, that opened a million more doors that heâd only been holding as fantasies.
Moving in together, sharing a life. Marriage. Maybe partial retirement, removal from the public eye. Being allowed to go out with you in public without having to be so damn careful. Eventually getting a house. Maybe a catâhe liked catsâand, if you wanted it, one or two kids.
But none of that would happen if you didnât know he was serious. If heâd already messed up by getting you the wrong perfume.
Heâd played it super normal, when heâd given you the bag. Collected and suave, not sweating out of his ass, certainly not praying to the whole universe that youâd at least not hate it-
âBucky.â Youâd gasped, holding the bottle with delicate hands, like it was made of crystal. Like it was his heart, rather than some glass. âYou didnât have to-â
âWanted to.â Heâd grunted. âDo you-â
âI love it. I- Iâve wanted this one for a while, actually, but- James, I know how much this costs-â
Bucky had kissed your cheek, letting the prideful, golden feeling in his chest bloom.
âYouâre worth it.â Heâd muttered, and your smile had been worth more than a whole damn store of perfumes.
Heâd gotten the ring that Monday, before he went back to the tower. Spent every moment apart from you that weekend researching cuts and carats, just like he had the perfumes.
When heâd proposed, heâd told you that heâd been half a man before you.
Youâd told him that even if that was true, you wouldâve fallen in love with him if he was a tenth of a man. That just a sliver of him was easier to love than every other man on the planet combined.
Theyâre all dancing around it. How to tell Bucky they know about his girlfriendâor wife, as John keeps loudly insisting.
A few times, Alexei tries to start a conversation about what kind of women Bucky likes. Bucky stares at him, giving only grunts as answers, and Alexei gives up fast. Yelena asks if heâd want to go on a vacation to the Bahamas with anyone, and he just shrugs. Avaâs taken to stalking him through the tower, trying to catch a slip-up that gives her the perfect moment for confrontation. Walker has been talking about jewelry and perfume so much, Bucky asks if heâs getting back together with his ex.
Bob doesnât really want a part of any of this. He thinks that if Bucky wants this to be a secret, they should respect that.
Everyone else thinks thatâs boring.
Theyâve pooled their time, to manipulate the perfect way to reveal that they know. Itâs a needlessly elaborate plan, with far too many uses of a t-shirt gun, a blimp, and a pure-bred horse.
But it will work. Theyâve spent months getting it right. By the end of the week, Bucky will admit he has a girlfriendâor wifeâand they can start teasing him about it, as is their right.
The plan will be implemented tomorrow. Theyâve prepared. Nothing will go wrong.
Then, in the middle of a meeting about some organization either having too many automatic riflesâor not enough, but none of them are really paying attentionâthereâs a knock on the door.
Everyone freezes. Thereâs not a single person in the building, who doesnât know the rule. Never interrupt Valentina. Not even if the world is ending. You wait until sheâs ready to hear about the apocalypse, then you speak.
Sheâs scowling at the head of the table, but waves a tight hand for Mel to answer the door.
When she does, everyone cranes their head to see whoâs about to get fired. But itâs not an employee or agent, standing in the hallway.
Itâs a beautiful, anxious looking woman holding a smooth lunchbox. Sheâs shifting on her feet, wearing a thick coat and diamond ring, looking around like the walls are the tallest thing sheâs ever seen, and-
Sheâs the girl from the window.
Wearing a ring.
John would be smug, if he wasnât trying to wrap his head around how that was Buckyâs wife. But itâs not just him.
Youâd looked pretty from the window. Up close, itâs no wonder Bucky wanted to keep you to himself. You mightâve been able to defeat Thanos with a smile.
âHi,â your voice is soft, your expression like a doe in headlights. âI- Um- Bucky forgot his lunch.â
You hold up the black box, and Valentina clears her throat.
âAnd youâre who exactly?â
âUm-â
âAn assistant?â She shoots Bucky a glare. âI donât see why you should get an assistant, James, you barely even do anything-â
âBucky does things.â You stand a little taller, eyes narrowing on Valentina. âHe does a lot of things, and- You donât even give him pet insurance-â
âHe doesnât need pet insurance-â
âYeah, because my boss is a nice person-â
âDarling.â Bucky stands up quickly, moving to block you from Valentinaâs venomous glare. âYou didnât tell me you were coming, I wouldâve met you downstairs-â
âI wanted to surprise you.â You mumble, lips pulling into a pout. âSorry.â
ââS alright.â He glances over his shoulder, to everyoneâs aghast, almost offensively shocked expression. âI gotta finish this meeting, you know where my room is?â
You nod, still looking too damn sad, and Bucky sighs. He leans forward to kiss your cheek, keeping his voice low enough only youâll hear.
âI coulda gotten something from the cafĂŠ, yâknow.â
âYeah, but- Youâd forget to.â
Bucky chuckles, squeezing your waist gently. âYouâre too good to me, doll.â
âHm.â Your smile returns, paired with a pretty flush. âI donât think I am.â
You touch his arm, leaning forward to press a tiny, quick kiss to his lips. It takes everything Bucky has, not to drag you back and make out until youâre both dizzy. The only thing that manages to stop him is the eyes of his teammates, glaring daggers into his back.
You walk away with one last smile over your shoulder, and Bucky waves with a foolish grin.
Then he turns, braces his hands on his hips, and sighs.
âWeâre gonna do this now, arenât we?â
Valentina scoffs. âDo what, make you explain why youâre bringing your little civilian into the tower without approval-â
âShe is approved.â Bucky grunts. âSheâs my emergency contact, that grants her automatic access.â
Bobâs eyes widens. âWow, itâs- Youâre that serious? Not that you wouldnât be, just- I didnât know girlfriends could be emergency contacts. I always thought it was, um- Family. Only?â
âAnyone can be a contact.â Bucky grunts. âAnd- Jesus-â He sighs, running a hand over his face.
Thereâs no point lying about it now. Might as well get it over with.
âSheâs not my girlfriend. Sheâs my wife.â
Walker shouts I knew it. Yelena starts demanding her winnings from Ava, and Alexei starts grumbling about not being invited to the wedding.
But none of them are all that surprised.
âDid you all⌠Know?â Bucky snaps, and Yelena rolls her eyes.
âOf course. You were obvious, like dog after bone.â
âI was not, and- That doesnât make sense-â
âWe all knew, Bucky.â Ava shrugs. âBut it makes sense. Sheâs beautiful.â
At that, Bucky grins. Heâll be angry at them later.
Right now, heâs just standing tall with pride.
âYeah. She is.â
âŚEnd note: deeply upsetting that we're probably only going to get the one Thunderbolts movie I was 50 of them like the Avengers.âŚ
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I think one of the funniest abortion stances I've heard was from my parents neighbor. He's a like, hard-core libertarian viking larper guy who is very tall and very fat and very bald.
He believes a fetus is human with a soul, but also its "basically attacking the woman's body" so if she wants to get rid of it, that's "basically self-defense". He compared it to shooting a home invader. So he supports abortion not as healthcare, but as killing a baby in self-defense
Y'know I'm so glad someone reminded me of this. Because this was also discussed.
My stepmother did NOT like the way her Libertarian Viking Neighbor framed pregnancy as the fetus "attacking the woman". She incredulously told him this was extremely disrespectful to expectant mothers to portray pregnancy as so violent and negative.
Libertarian Viking Neighbor's response was that people consensually hurt each other all the time, and "there's like a whole community about that, with the acronym the one that starts with a B" And his reasoning was that if the mother was consenting to bring attacked by the baby, it in fact wasn't violent and negative because there was consent.
He brought up people consensually hurting each other, didn't go for one of the obvious answers like boxing or body mods or something, no he went STRAIGHT TO BDSM and he DIDN'T EVEN REMEMBER THE ACRONYM
especially when heâs got you pinned beneath him, buried so deep inside your tight, dripping cunt that you can barely think straight.
every brutal thrust has him dragging against every sensitive ridge inside you, slamming right into that spongy spot that makes your eyes roll back and your toes curl so hard they cramp.
his hips is snapping with that cocky, practiced rhythm, stretching you open around his thick cock like he owns every inch of your body.
the wet, filthy sound of him pounding into your soaked pussy fills the room, your juices coating his length and dripping down your ass with every deep stroke.
and he just canât help himself.
the moment you start clenching and fluttering around him, moaning like a whore, that feral side of him takes over.
he leans down with a wicked grin, his eyes gleaming with pure mischief and hunger, and sinks his teeth into your skin very hard.
he bites down on the junction of your neck and shoulder, teeth digging in so sharply you yelp in pain, your whole body jerking violently beneath him.
âfuck- satoru!â you cry out, but he just moans like itâs the sweetest sound heâs ever heard.
he thinks youâre screaming because it feels that good.
âshit, baby⌠youâre so loud for me..â he groans against your bitten flesh, voice husky and dripping with arrogance.
his tongue laps over the fresh, throbbing mark before he bites down again, harder this time, right above your collarbone.
the sharp sting blooms into burning heat as he sucks hard, leaving a deep purple bruise while his cock keeps bullying that perfect spot inside you without mercy.
you scream again, a raw, broken sound thatâs equal parts pain and overwhelming pleasure and it only makes him worse.
satoru chuckles darkly, the vibration traveling through your skin as he grinds his hips in slow, filthy circles, stirring his cock deep in your guts.
âyeah? right there, huh? keep screaming like that, sweetheart. youâre clenching so fucking tight every time i bite you⌠makes me think you love when i get rough.â
he shifts his angle, folding you nearly in half as he drives even deeper, another harsh bite lands on the swell of your breast, teeth grazing your nipple before clamping down.
the pain shoots straight to your core, making your pussy gush around him.
satoruâs lost in it, he pistons into you faster, harder, the headboard slamming against the wall as he chases his own high.
he bites your neck one more time, right as his fingers find your swollen clit, rubbing tight, mean circles.
the mix of pain and pleasure shoves you violently over the edge.
you shatter around him, screaming loud enough to make your throat raw as your walls spasm and flutter wildly.
satoru groans in satisfaction, hips stuttering as he fucks you through it, chasing his own release while still nibbling and sucking on your abused skin like he canât get enough.
I think ao3 is literally the only site where no censorship means no censorship. you can post the most vile things on there â things that will get taken down on any other platforms â and ao3 will protect you, your works, and your rights to create whatever you want, however you want.
and no, this isnât me saying âwrite that messed up, disgusting thingâ because while, yes, write it if itâs what you want (I myself enjoy writing dark fics, something I believe would be considered âvileâ to a lot of people), this is me saying in a world of censorship and capitalism, ao3 really is a treasure.
She loves unconditionally. Truly and absolutely unconditionally.
Feyre with Rhys: Loves him with all his past, understands him and makes sure heâs loved when he drops his several masks in front of her.
Feyre with Nesta: Loves her sister, is there for her sister even knowing that her sister apparently despised her. She cares for her well-being, she defends her at every turn.
Feyre with Elain: Makes sure that Elain is happy and has the time and space to do as she loves. She knew that when Elain finally came out of her stupor and finally started being herself (baking cookies with Nuala) she had to give her time. She had to give her sister her own time and made sure that when Elain was finally ready to approach her, she would be welcoming.
Feyre with Cassian: She truly loves and adores him. She opens up to him and he opens up to her. She knows that physical touch is something he loves, so she makes sure she bumps his wing, holds on tight when he gives her bear hugs (and when she gives them back).
Feyre with Mor: loves and encourages Mor to be herself. Even when Mor fights with her mate or sister, she still shows compassion and understanding to Mor.
Feyre with Az: Understands his darkness and quietness, his very worldly thoughts (when he first flew her, when he taught her to fly, when they went to save her sister together). Listens to him, respects him. She understands his humour and shows her concern for him every time he sets out to do something dangerous.
Feyre with Amren: Shows her love for amren the only way she knows Amren will understand and accept it. Respect (and blood of course). She listens to her counsel, respects her opinion and laughs herself hoarse with Amren when they almost drown to their deaths.
Feyre is a BEAUTIFUL, beautiful character. She loves wildly and wholly and she deserves the absolute world (which rhys is obviously set on giving her)
Aelin just casually strolls around her kingdom, concealing herself, and just going into random chocolate shops and bakeries
She became bestfriends with the shopkeeper, who has no idea who she really is
Well, the shopkeeper HAD no idea who she was until Rowan entered
She drags the others to the opera halls for the shows (the others get bored halfway throught but Rowan just ends up watching her 'cute' [She's kill him if she found out] expressions) (simp)
She keeps referring to Gavriel as 'uncle kitty cat' and by measure, Aedion as 'pussy cat'
Ans every cat, regardless wheter it's a lion or a kitten, she's like "Aw, Aedion, look, it's your long lost/distant cousin"
Aedion is NAWT happi
Oh and did we mention Lorcan yet? No?
So it's practically cannon that she calls Lorcan 'Lord triple L'
And the MOMENT the war was over, Aelin and Manon got Lorcan into a room and was like:
Aelin: So, you like Elide right? Well.....if ANYTHING happens to her, I will drag you through a pit of fire while you scream as your skin melts off
Manon: and I'll gladly tear every single organ apart from your body and relish as I eat them
Elide: *entering* what's going on?
Manon: Oh we're just recommending him date ideas right?
Lorcan: *nods, sweating*
Aelin: I sugessted you both go to a mountain place, you know, cause it's private
Elide: *blushes*
Manon tries to intimidate dignitaries coming to the palace by making them wait and enter a bit late
But that never works because Abraxos practically lives in the throne room and acts like a puppy wanting someone to play with them the moment the enter
Manon and Dorian were in an on-again, off-again relationship until even Chaol was sick of them
He plotted with the others to lock them in a room together and announce that they won't come out till morning
tw: size kink, bit of dacryphilia, overall this is nastyyy
something about having you under him, squirming and helpless, makes azriel go feral.
it's the way you look so small compared to him, the way you are incapable of doing anything because he's just too strong and you can't fight back even if you want to.
the fact is, that no matter what size you are, he is big. all those hours passed in the illyrian camps training pay off. his hand alone could cover a good part of your back. and his cock... it's a struggle everytime, but oh man if he doesn't take pleasure in seeing you struggling.
the first time you two fucked, he had to strech you out with his fingers first. and when he saw how much you struggled with just one of his fingers, he knew it was going to be a tight fit. your walls barely capable of fitting one single finger, he couldnât imagine how you could have taken his cock, but you did. you take it like a good girl every time.
"you can take it, baby. yeah..." he groans. "you can fucking take it. just like that..." the room is filled with the thick smell of sex, your little cries overpower the sound of skin against skin. you might almost feel embarrassed by the sounds coming out of your lips, but azriel's cock is fucking you so well it sends your brain to mush. zero thoughts behind your pretty eyes.
and azriel loves fucking you. loves watching as your face scrunches in a mixture of pain and pleasure, his cock stretching you out, breaking you in an half. he mutters praises under his breath, his eyes fixated on your tummy that bulges with every thrust, the line of his cock visible through your skin. "look at us, baby. fuck... look at us." he moans, forcing you to look at where your bodies meet. pretty tears stream down your eyes, overstimulation kicking in. you're so full you can feel him in your stomach.
he watches in wonder, completely intoxicated by you and amazed by how much of him you can take.
azriel is addicted to the power he has over you, too. the way he could throw you around like a toy, holding you in place just how he likes.
"c'mon baby, just a little more..." he whispers, supporting you with those strong arms. your back touches his chest, you can feel the wild rhythm of his heart against your back. your legs tremble, exhausted. "give me one more, just one more... i promise."
every time he says something, even tho your head is disconnected, your body can somehow still register his words, your walls clenching automatically around his girth, making him groan.
his hand presses against your tummy, feeling the bulge makes him twitch inside of you. the pressure causes his cock the hit even deeper, hitting spots that make you see stars. "keep clenching around my cock, sweet girl." you sniff, little incoherent prayers fall from your lips. you don't even know what you're begging for. "gods, gonna ruin you for everyone else. you're fucking mine."
warnings: mdni, forced proximity, exes to lovers, grovelling, minor teasing, vague mentions of sex, kissing, light groping, all plot and feelings my bad, bucky is down astronomically bad, feelings realization, banter carries the first half, player!bucky turned loverboy!bucky, sam and joaquin for comedic relief, fluff, a little bit of angst with a happy ending!
author's note: this is my humble contribution to @artficlly's moodboard event! i ripped my hair out every step of the way!đthis is only about 80% proofread because it's 10pm and i'm tired; i've been working on this for three months. đŠ
The air felt sticky. It wasnât surprising, given the humidity was sky high. But that didnât make it pleasant. Your thighs stuck together, sunscreen working somewhat like glue from your spot in your chair. The water glistened like a great, vast jewel, the sun overhead making white beams, the foam of the ocean looking like frosting with each crest. Small dots broke up the blue, in various bright colours, beach goers enjoying the gorgeous day. You could just barely make out the floaties of the little kids right on the surf, parents watchful and close by.
A few teenagers were clustered around the rock pool, poking into its depths with a long piece of driftwood. Umbrellas and towels covered the beach like litter. Youâd be walking the beach soon, but right now, your post was up here on the chair. Youâd only had one encounter so far wherein youâd had to scale the ladder of the chair and sprint through the sand, kicking it up behind you as it scalded your feet, ignoring the shock of cold water as you dove into a forward stroke to get to the little girl whoâd gotten a bit too far into the waves. It had been an adrenaline pumping moment, even after youâd brought her back to safety.
Youâd been a lifeguard at the local pool in your last year of high school, but this was a step up. Back from college, youâd known immediately how you wanted to pass the time. Though some found the heat stifling, you enjoyed it. You felt like you withered away in the winter, and youâd take all the summer air you could get until you were forced to hide away in the ivy covered buildings on your campus again.
You loved this job, actually. The other lifeguards ranged in age, but the ones you were on shift with the most, Sam and Joaquin, were your favourites. It was never a dull moment with those two, and youâd seen both of them in action. Youâd thought you were fast, but you had nothing on either of them. Sam seemed to fly through the sand when he had places to be, Joaquin hot on his heels. It was very clear that they were some of the most perfect people for the job.
It wasnât like you were always stuck on the chair, up high where only the seagulls could reach. Youâd stay on your perch for a couple of hours at the most before coming down, walking a circuit on the beach, and then disappearing into the shack a little ways down. It was a rule, actually, to get into the shade every two hours. What good was a lifeguard with heatstroke? Bruce was normally in there, sitting at the shabby desk with his glasses slipping down his nose. He was always poring over the schedule and checking to see if he needed to order more life jackets, rafts, or anything else that was necessary to function as a busy, popular beach. And youâd sit in one of the rickety chairs, grab one of the paper fans on the side table, and try to remember what âroom temperatureâ felt like.
This job was a dream for you, aside from one glaring issue. It wasnât something you could easily fixâyou couldnât just ban someone from the beach if they werenât doing anything wrong except for to get on your last nerve.
Bucky Barnes came to the beach.
Every. Single. Day.
Bucky Barnes, your former high school sweetheart, who broke up with you at your graduation, when the plan had been to stay together. You went to sister schools, after all. It would have actually been quite easy to stay together. But heâd wanted to sow his wild oats, as it were. Starting with head cheerleader Natasha.
It shouldnât have been a problem. Youâd seen him a handful of timesâyou shared friends, after allâbut you hadnât had to speak to him, or look at him for longer than a minute. You didnât want to see his stupid perfect face, to remember what it felt like when he kissed you. You would stubbornly say there was no love lost there, only a wound that had been hard to heal. You had cried all night, your first evening in your dorm. The original plan had been for him to help you move in, and for you to help him, and then to tour both of your campuses to see what buildings you would be in, where the best spots to wait for each other would be.
It would have been fine if he was just on the beach because he liked it there. Unfortunately you knew, with a sinking feeling in your gut, that that wasnât the reason. He was simply there for your attention. The first time youâd been alerted to his presence, youâd been walking the beach, heading to the chair, or Overwatch, as you and the others liked to call it. Youâd seen him from the corner of your eye, and started walking more briskly, hoping to get past without him noticing, but he fell into step with you easily.
Youâd tried to put all your force into pushing him away from your side, but he just laughed, immovable, keeping your pace. âWill you just talk to me?â he finally said, though he sounded amused at your ire.
âNo, fuck you. Iâm working.â you said crossly, not bothering to censor your words. You werenât about to scream and shout at him, but you were very much unimpressed by his lack of contriteness.
âYeah, I know. Iâm here because I know how good you look in a bikini.â
You cut a glare his way, annoyed beyond belief that he was looking you up and down. You were actually wearing a pretty conservative suit, the top a black band around your chest, not unlike a sports bra, the bottoms high waisted and full coverage. Youâd worn skimpier for sure.
You ignored his navy blue shorts, his lack of shirt. He was already halfway to a decent tan, sunglasses perched on his head rather than over his eyes. You could see the twinkling, mischievous blue of them even when you werenât looking directly at him. âWhat do you want?â you hissed, almost at your destination.
âI think we should talk.â he said simply, reiterating what heâd first claimed. But you knew that it wasnât as easy a request as he made it sound. Because how could you talk to him while ignoring your shared history?
âI donât think so.â If he was about to ask you to be friends with him again, something you hadnât been since you were fifteen years old, when that that word had changed, the prefix of âboyâ and âgirlâ added to the front of it, then he was in for a surprise.
âCome on,â he said, drawing out the words, arms spread wide. âYouâre already doing it right now!â
âFuck off, Bucky, Iâm working.â At last, you reached Overwatch. You scaled it with ease, grimacing to yourself all the while, because you just knew he was checking out your ass.
âIâm gonna be here all summer, sweetheart.â he called up to you, cupping his hands around his mouth. You gave him a withering stare. Heâd projected his voice loudly enough that a few heads turned in your direction. âCanât avoid me that easily.â
Then heâd smiled at you, smug, like he thought heâd be able to corner you easily. Well, he was about to find out how wrong he could be.
You hadnât expected him to actually come to the beach every day. The first two weeks, sure, you guessed. Bucky was one of the most determined people youâd ever met. But you thought that eventually, even someone as tenacious as him would get tired of it.
But no, he rolled up sometime after you, without fail, even going so far as to park in the spot next to yours when it was available.
Heâd lay out on a towel, or join whoever was playing a spirited game of volleyball, or try his hand at surfing. Youâd begrudgingly watched him, alert as ever, to make sure he didnât get a lungful of saltwater and drown. You were not looking forward to the prospect of giving him mouth-to-mouth. You thought it would be much more entertaining if one of your male colleagues got that pleasure.
If you werenât up at Overwatch, he was chasing you down, pestering you to take five minutes to talk, though you still didnât know what exactly he wanted. Youâd already complained to Sam about it at length. Nonplussed, heâd told you, âJust see what he wants, and if heâs being an asshole, I'll throw him in the sea,â to which Bruce had looked up from the desk disapprovingly, and said quietly, âI donât want to hear about any threats to someoneâs life.â
You didnât want to talk to Bucky, though. You knew that if you did, he could easily swindle you into something in under five minutes. He was very good at thatâheâd always excelled at turning your brain into mush with a few carefully persuasive words and a gleaming white smile.
You didnât think that you had ever affected him nearly so much. If you had, he probably wouldnât have broken up with you. Regardless, you continued to ignore him to the best of your abilities. UntilâŚ
Bruce liked to have meetings every two weeks to make sure everyone was still up to code, and to mention anything important like upcoming events that might make the beach busier, or harsh weather warnings. It was standard procedure, and everyone would trudge into the office, whether they were on shift or not, to listen in.
When you got there, canvas bag hoisted on your shoulder, you stopped short. Joaquin walked into you, not noticing you'd stopped, and let out a soft âoof!â Youâd only come to a halt because standing in the middle of the office amidst a handful of the other lifeguards, was Bucky.
âOh, youâve got to be kidding me.â you muttered.
Bucky noticed you right at that time, and his pensive, distant expression melted into a charming grin. âGuess weâre coworkers for the rest of the summer. Isnât that great?â
âYou know that I canât change the schedule to favour any of you over the other.â Bruce sat at his desk, watching you pace back and forth. There was sand caked into the worn floorboards. âYouâll be on shift with him at one time or another.â
Your hands were fists behind your back, your head down, looking at your flip flops. âBut isnât there some way we can look at it more strategically?â
âLook, I know that you have some kind of history with this guyââ
âDoes he even have his certification?â you interrupted, unable to stay neutral any longer.
At this, Bruce frowned. He was very thorough of course, so it had been a silly question to ask. But you were grasping at anything, anything that could bar him from being around you 24/7. âOf course he does. And even if he didnât, weâre doing the CPR drills on Saturday morning, remember? He would have got it then, if not.â
You stayed silent, trying to refrain from screaming.
Bruce said your name, quiet as always, and you looked over at him. âDid this guy⌠did he hurt you?â
You could see the concern on his face, and you sighed, defeated. âNo, not physically. Just⌠emotionally.â
You both sat with that for a moment. âIâm sorry about that. But thereâs nothing I can do. You know that I donât tend to double you guys up unless I have to, but I canât guarantee that youâll never have to work with him. I know youâre professional, so Iâm not worried about you,â he paused, pushing his glasses back up, âbut if he goofs around or something, Iâll get rid of him. okay?â
You didnât allow your shoulders to slump like they so wanted to. âOkay.â
It looked like your nightmare was about to begin.
Something you hadnât anticipated, something far worse than what youâd imagined, was that Sam and Joaquin got along with Bucky like a house on fire. It had you spitting mad. Those were your friends, your work buddies, not his. At least Joaquin had the sense to look guilty when you caught the three of them laughing it up at the end of a shift.
You stomped to your car, shaking sand from yourself, as you cut past them. You didnât hear footsteps jogging behind you until you were on the asphalt, just a few feet from the safety you were banking on.
âHey, wait!â you scrunched your face up at the sound of Buckyâs voice and started to fumble blindly in your bag, looking for your car keys.
He caught up with you right as you fished them out. âHey, I just wanna talk.â
âYeah, so Iâve heard.â you said icily.
âWell, can you just hear me out?â
âNo.â You unlocked your car, throwing your bag in the backseat. Once youâd slammed the door closed, you turned to face him. He was blocking the driverâs side. âMove.â
âNot until you talk to me.â
You crossed your arms. âMove right now, or I swear, Iâllââ
âI want to get back together.â
âAre you fucking joking?â You were incensed. The fact that he had the balls to say that to youâŚ
His expression was serious, pleading. âLook, I know I made a mistakeââ
âA mistake?â you screeched. âYou broke up with me right before I took grad photos with my mother!â
Youâd made her banish them to a cupboard behind all the other photo albums, unable to bear the sight of your red rimmed eyes and streaky makeup.
He winced. âI know. Shitty timing on my part, Iâm sorry. But I regret it. I regret all of it. I miss you. Iâve been missing you.â
âWhat, Natasha not giving enough in the sack?â you said sarcastically, a vicious bite.
You thought he went a shade paler as you continued on. âYeah, I know about that. We hadnât even been broken up 24 hours before you slept with her.â You sounded hysterical, and for good reason. Youâd never had the chance to scream and shout at him before. Now seemed to be as good a time as any. You didnât care if you drew a crowd. Hell, the entire beach should know what a piece of work he was. âI gave you almost three years of my life, Bucky, and you stepped all over it like it was dirt. Why the hell would I take you back?â
âWell, you never dated anyone after me, did you?â he asked, though he knew the answer.
You flushed, your skin hot, and it had nothing to do with the sun beating down on you. âWhatâs your point? I was pretty busy studying.â
âNow, you and I both know thatâs not why.â he said, leaning down and getting close to your face. You could smell his breath, peppermint. You knew he kept Lifesavers in his glove compartmentâit seemed that hadnât changed.
âYou havenât dated anyone because you still love me. And I still love you. And Iâm not going to stop fighting for you.â
If heâd said it to you any other time, maybe it would have cracked your exterior, exposed your gooey center. Maybe. But right now, it was only proving to you that he didnât even get it. That just because he said he still loved you, didnât mean youâd drop everything. Because if heâd loved you even at all, he never would have broken up with you.
âThe only thing you miss is having a girl sneak into your room at night and warm your bed.â you said, disgusted.
At this, he had the audacity to look wounded. âNo, Iââ
âMove out of my way, or I will scream.â
The wild look in your eyes told him you were serious, and he stepped to the side. You got in the car, shoving your key so hard into the ignition you thought you might have damaged it, and then tugged your seatbelt with enough force that it got stuck. You put the car in reverse and heard tap tap tap against your window. He was still there.
You rolled it down, just a crack. âBack up or Iâm gonna run you over, I swear to God, Bucky.â
âIâll show you how sorry I am. I swear. Iâll make it up to you. Iâll be good to you for the rest of my life.â
âGo fuck yourself, Bucky.â And then you were speeding out of the lot, feeling your eyes burn with unshed tears.
That evening, as you laid in your bed, the window wide open to let in the outside air, you closed your eyes and thought of drowning Bucky in the ocean. You were sure you could lure him out there late at night, with the promise of being understanding. You could play the game, lead him out into the water under the guise of being playful. He was stronger than you, but you thought your rage might be enough to hold him under water for long enough.
You felt a small stab of peace at the idea.
Of course, you couldnât do itâit would be just your luck that youâd land in jail because of himâbut thinking about it was nice.
Instead, you would do the next best thing.
Youâd make him regret ever looking in another girlâs direction. If he wanted to play, you could play. He didnât realize what the game really was. You just had to wait for the right moment.
You had the next day off, and thank God for that. There was no way you could face Bucky so soon after what heâd said to youâyou hadnât calmed down enough yet. But you did spend the day with a couple of girlfriends at the mall. You hoped he was disappointed to pull into the lot and not see your car. After all, he might have gotten the job just to bother you, but it still meant that he had to actually work when he was there, whether or not you were scheduled.
On Saturday morning, you arrived a little after sunrise. You werenât working that day, either, but the drill was necessary, so there you were in light, loose clothes over your bathing suit, your hair a tousled mess, prepared to spend the next couple of hours in the sand. You werenât the first one there, but youâd beat Bucky at least, so you had a few minutes of calm before he showed up.
The drills were meant to work as refreshers and to also help team building. After all, in a real crisis, youâd all have to be synchronized with each other well enough to administer help as quickly and efficiently as possible.
As well as standard CPR on the beach, you were being tested on pulling people from the water. It was harder for someone like you, not built like Bucky or Sam, but you still always aced that part of the drill. There were also some drills based on call and response times among yourselves, and when and how a two person job should be administered. It would be a piece of cake, you thought to yourself. You were never worried about tests like these.
Your sunny mood threatened to sour when you saw Bucky, long and lean, loping across the beach to where the rest of you were gathered. Bruce and one of the older lifeguards were off to the side, speaking quietly. The drills would start in the next five minutes, but you wished it would be in the next five seconds.
Taking a deep breath, you willed yourself to be calm when Bucky entered your orbit. You knew that heâd make a beeline for you. He stood by your side, hands on his hips, as he admired the ocean. âMissed you yesterday,â he commented.
âOkay.â You were plain in your response. There was nothing to say, really, and you figured that for now, one word answers were the best you could do.
âI remember you telling me about these types of drills when you still worked at the pool. Is it gonna be similar to that?â
You pursed your lips, eyes to the sea line. You didnât want to think about last summer, or the one before that. âIn the act of saving lives? Yes.â you said drily.
âI got my certification last week,â he admitted.
you bit the inside of your cheek. So he had definitely planned this, not just taken the job up on the fly. It had been his goal all along to force you into his proximity. âOkay.â you repeated, back to the safety of a single worded answer.
âI never told you before, but I think itâs really cool that you care about this sort of stuff.â
If he thought a compliment was going to get him anywhere, he was sorely mistaken. You were saved from saying âokay,â for the third time by Bruce striding forward and clasping his hands in front of him. It had been noiseless, but it may as well have been a clap, because everyone straightened and turned in his direction. âAlright, everyone. Weâre going to get started now. You know how to do this, so weâre skipping the demonstration. Just show us that you remember the right protocols, okay?â
And with that, the drills were underway.
It had started out fine. You were quick, and you knew exactly where all the extra equipment was. You knew what you should have on your person, what should be secured at Overwatch, and where any emergency backups were. You knew the best way to get them without leaving your victim. Communication was key in this sort of situation. The walkie-talkies were waterproof, but you tended to know exactly what you were dealing with before you were too far out in the water, able to call and anticipate what youâd need, or if you would require assistance, before reaching your target.
For most drills, you used dummies, though some were with your fellow lifeguards acting as helpless swimmers. So far, youâd been able to keep well away from Bucky.
That was, until it came time for the last one. It was a two person drill, and Sam, despite his newfound friendship with Bucky, was still your number one for group situations when the choice was possible. You high fived each other as you got ready on the presumed start line, right by Overwatch. The idea was that in this particular drill, two people would be needed to bring the person back to land and administer CPR or anything more serious.
The only hitch in this was that you were supposed to be saving Bucky, who had eagerly volunteered to float in the ocean and wait for his rescue. It irked you, but you pushed it to the side, ready to show that you were worth your salt. Bruce stood off to the side with a stopwatch. âAlright, readyâŚ?â
At your determined nod, he clicked the button of the watch. âGo!â
You took off in a dead sprint. You were in only your swimwear by now, your clothes discarded in a pile along with everyone elseâs. The water was still cool at this time of morning, though youâd been in and out enough that it didn't slow you down. Sam matched your pace pretty evenly, his legs longer, but you had a killer breaststroke, and got to Bucky first. He grinned at you, flicking water from his eyes. âMy hero.â
âShut up and donât make things difficult. If you screw this for me, Iâll kill you.â
Sam got to you both right as you finished the threat, and Bucky allowed himself to be pulled to land. Once you got him down on the sand, far enough away from the lapping waves, there was a brief, hesitant pause. You were already on your knees beside him. It had been automatic. The thing was, one of you was supposed to administer CPR while the other went for the first aid kit. You and Sam hadnât discussed who would be doing what. Inwardly, you cursed. You thought maybe somewhere in your subconscious, you were anticipating mouth-to-mouth. What you wouldnât have given to let Sam do it instead, to leave Bucky spluttering as you held in a laugh.
But you didnât have time to switch now, because in a real situation, that wouldnât be an option. Sam took off towards Overwatch, and Bucky blinked up at you innocently. âSave my life, angel. What are you waiting for?â
âShut up!â you whispered harshly. âDrowning victims usually donât talk!â Then you started with chest compressions. You were using a bit more force than you really needed, especially since Bucky could breathe, but you didnât care if he wheezed a little. He deserved it.
Even still, his eyes seemed to sparkle when you stopped after the count. âDo not enjoy this,â you warned, before pinching his nose and covering his mouth with yours.
You werenât supposed to actually breathe for him, but mimicking the motions was supposed to do the trick. Why, oh why did you not get to use a dummy for this? It was because all your other compatriots were currently performing the same drill, and there were no more left, but it felt like some cruel twist of fate to you, like the universe was having a laugh at your expense.
To your utter relief, he let you do the first set without issue. Then you went back to the chest compressions, where mercifully, he stayed quiet. It was when you did the second set of mouth-to-mouth that things went south. You felt the barest twitch of his fingers against your knee. Then he was snaking his hand up your thigh and to the dip of your waist. You sucked in a breath, moving to pull away, but not before you felt his tongue breach your lips and touch the inside of your mouth.
You stared at him, stunned by his boldness. How in the world had no one noticed the obvious violation of the drill? Instead, he only smiled at you lazily, head pillowed by sand. âYou taste just like I remember.â
âOh, Iâm gonna kill you,â you glowered at him, putting your hands on his chest and pressing down with all your weight. He only looked pleased.
âHey, donât break our dummy. Heâs not one that we can replace.â Samâs voice snapped you out of it, the first aid kit dangling from his hand.
You sat back on the sand heavily. âWork away, Wilson. I did my part.â
âAnd you did it so well,'â Bucky cooed, ignoring the daggers in your eyes.
You excused yourself as soon as you could, under the plea of a bathroom break. It was a short jog down to the cabanas where the stalls were. The lighting was dingy, the four by four room made up of blue tiles. You stared at yourself in the mirror. The drills were almost done, and it was still early in the day. After this, you could go home and put Bucky out of your head, at least until tomorrow.
You still couldn't believe that heâd kind-of-sort-of kissed you. It shouldnât have been a shockâheâd made his motivations to win you back somehow very clearâbut still, you didnât think heâd put your job at risk in order to do it. Okay, maybe that was a bit dramatic⌠the most Bruce would have done would be to give you a deeply disappointed stare. But even still, that wasnât something you wanted to be on the receiving end of.
When you walked back out, the sky had started to cloud over, just a little. You thought you could smell rain on the horizon. It didnât matter to you. Youâd already been in and out of the water a dozen times. You hoped the sky would open up and pour all over Bucky after you left.
The rest of the drills were a breeze. You stayed far away from him, choosing to stick with Ava instead, though you could feel Buckyâs eyes on you. At the end of the circuit, Bruce, pleased with everyoneâs efficiency, began handing out coupons. They were a dollar off for the ice cream stand, redeemable any time during the summer. You usually gave yours to Cassie, the stand ownerâs daughter, but you decided to keep it this time. You deserved the treat for dealing with Bucky all morning.
You stuffed it in the pocket of your shorts before throwing your clothes on and stealing away to your car while Bucky was distracted by pats on the back from Sam and Joaquin, glad to be away from him, though you had a feeling the memory of his mouth would plague you for the rest of the day.
You settled, reluctantly, into the routine of seeing Bucky often. If you werenât filled with bubbling annoyance, you would have felt almost like you had in high school, being in his proximity all the time. From the way he kept finding excuses to be close to you, it really did remind you of high school. Back then, when youâd been surrounded by teachers and other students, heâd had to be subtle with his affections. You remembered your hands being linked together behind your backs, or his shoe touching yours, arm to arm. Him scooting his chair closer, or pulling yours across the tile until your knee knocked into his. Back then, youâd mooned over each other like any other lovesick couple. Youâd frequently been told to âget a roomâ even when all youâd been doing was sitting on the bleachers under his arm, leaned against him, or resting back against his chest under one of the trees outside.
It was different now, of course. Heâd get close to you, kicking up sand and disturbing the pecking gulls, and youâd simply move away. You had the excuse of surveying the beach, at least. Being around others didnât really deter him eitherâany time you were in the middle of a laugh with Sam and Joaquin, heâd join right in, and youâd abruptly stop your giggling and become stone faced for the remainder of the interaction.
You thought youâd at least get some peace and quiet when you ventured to the ice cream stand on your break. You liked Scottâhe and his daughter ran the stand all by themselves, sometimes with a volunteer on really hot, busy days. He was always very silly normally, even more so to the little kids, and there was usually a line about a mile long to get a rocket pop or ice cream sandwich. You were lucky to be the last of a rush of customers, and stuck around as you started in on your vanilla cone. You were half leaned into the window, making conversation with Cassie and enjoying the cold that you could feel blasting from the deep freeze. The stand was really more of a little hut, decorated in a Hawaiian theme. Scott always wore the most goofily patterned shirts he could find.
Your fun was short lived when you felt the heat of a warm body at your side. You felt yourself stiffen, knowing exactly who would be that bold. You barely had to turn your head to see Bucky, looking innocently at Cassie. âIs this where I redeem my coupon?â He held the paper between two fingers, and it waved lazily in the breeze.
She grinned at him and took the coupon, and it was only a matter of seconds before Bucky was mirroring you, ice cream cone in hand. âI should have known this was where youâd be hiding.â
You straightened and pulled away from the stand, offering a half-hearted wave to the Langs. âAnd now I need to find a new spot.â
As you spoke, you felt the slow drip of vanilla curling over your fingers. It had started an instant melt the second youâd moved away from the window. Without thinking, you licked the offending melt away, grimacing at the stickiness you knew it would leave behind, and glanced back at Bucky.
The look on his face was comical. Eyes wide, mouth slightly open, completely ignoring his own melting ice cream. His eyes had been locked in on your hand, and more specifically the trip your tongue had taken. You snorted. âOh, grow up.â
He tried and failed to school his expression. âThat was hot.â
You wrinkled your nose and resumed eating, trying for bites instead of licksâyou were almost down to the cone now, and you didnât really feel like eating vanilla soup, but his eyes tracked your every move. âYouâre so gross.â
âDo you remember that night⌠at that John kidâs party?â Bucky asked, eyes still on your mouth.
You rolled your eyes. âSeriouslyââ
âWhen we stole wine from his dadâs cellar and hid in the pool house, and you started hiccupping so much that you couldnât breathe, but you kept laughing and laughing and laughing?â
You did remember, though it was fuzzy. Youâd drank way too much that night. It had been about two months before graduation, and the nerves had been getting the better of you for weeks. But Bucky had convinced you to go, to try and get your mind off of it. âI remember. But I remember what happened after more than I remember that part,â you admitted.
He gave you a half-smile. âYeah, me too.â The âafterâ had been very rushed, very giggly sex, and your âBâ necklace had kept smacking you in the chin every time youâd moved. And then Bucky and you had snuck out, slinking behind patio furniture, hands tightly clasped, when another drunk couple had stumbled in there. And heâd taken you to a fast food drive thru, and youâd sat on the hood of his car eating ice cream and looking up at the stars.
You didnât want to get sentimental. It was a road youâd already travelled far too many times, and you didnât want to drive the familiar path to your dead relationship again. You didnât want to eat your ice cream anymore, either. You threw the cone in the trash, felt the stickiness between your fingers, and looked at your hands in distaste. Your break was over soon, anyway. Bucky was still staring at you, with eyes as blue and warm as the Southern sea.
âWell, this was fun and all, but Iâm gonna go wash my hands before I get back to Overwatch.â You moved to sidestep around him, but he moved with you, cutting you off.
âI miss hearing you laugh.â His voice was quiet, almost drowned out by the shriek of a gull.
You bit your tongue before saying, âWell, thatâs a privilege only my friends get to hear. And youâre not my friend, Bucky.â
You left him there, with ice cream dribbling down his wrist, and a bitter taste in your mouth.
You were subject to moments like this all throughout the week. There were days where you almost reached salvation in the form of not being scheduled with him, but every time you thought you were free from Buckyâs pleading stare, heâd show himself. You really thought heâd have better things to do with his summer, but if you were at the beach, then so was he, without fail.
One of the hottest days of the year had approached. Bruce had scheduled many of your for that weekend, encouraging frequent breaks and eagle eyes on the beach goers to ensure that heatstroke was at a minimum. Youâd worked days like this before, the sun no joke. The ocean shimmered like a disco ball. It was almost painful to look at, especially from your vantage point on Overwatch. Your stint up high was almost over, with only a few minutes before someone switched with you. Your little handheld fan was losing the battle with the heat, only serving to blow more hot air your way.
You caught sight of a group of girls around your age, a striped blanket held between them as they squealed at the burn of the sand on their feet. They set up not far from you, before pulling off their beach coverups. Obviously, they were intent on getting their tan on. If that hadnât been clear already, their bathing suits were little more than floss and scraps of fabric. It left nothing to the imagination, that was for sure. You idly watched them lay out, before scaling Overwatch when one of the other lifeguards came to take over.
You were totally unsurprised to see Joaquin and Sam a little further down the beach, not hiding their ogling in the slightest. Joaquinâs eyes were so huge that they looked like dinner plates. You rolled your eyes. Typical men. You approached and lightly shoved Joaquinâs arm. âHow about you look at the rest of the beach too, and not just the hot girls, hmm?â
âButâ
âOh, come on. Lighten up. Itâs not every day we get to see girls that hot just laid out like that.â Sam complained, gesturing at them.
You gave him a look. âActually, it is every day. This is the fucking beach, Sam. Hot girls are kind of a dime a dozen.â
You dragged them both along with you, hands firm on their elbows. âYouâre just jealous that no oneâs making eyes at you.â Joaquin muttered petulantly.
It wasnât worth commenting on, so you just sighed and shook your head, but then Sam said, âWell, thatâs not true⌠Buckyâs been checking her out all day.â
Your head whipped to the side to stare at Sam. Today had been a day that youâd mercifully not seen much of your ex. Youâd covered up today. The UV was high, and youâd worn your rash guard, not wanting to risk a sunburn. Compared to the group of girls, you might as well have been furniture. Sure, maybe Bucky was doing his standard eye-fucking, but there was no way heâd be checking you out over those girls. You werenât blindâeven you knew they all looked like they belonged on the cover of Sports Illustrated.
You arrived at the cabana and immediately sat down on the floor in front of the dinky little air conditioner, letting it blow in your face. Sam fished in the cooler for some bottles of water and tossed one to you, which you caught with a grateful look before chugging half of it. Joaquin rounded Bruce's desk to look at the schedule, before letting out a whistle. âWell, good luck, because youâre walking the shoreline with Bucky in like, ten minutes.â He said to you.
You grimaced. âI know.â
Youâd looked at what the day would bring for you when youâd first arrived. Walking the perimeter wouldnât be so bad. And if Bucky really got on your nerves, youâd just push him into the surf and keep walking.
âAre you ready to forgive him yet?â Sam asked, slouching in one of the chairs.
You glared at him over your shoulder. âWhy on earth would I do that?â
âI donât know, maybe so we donât have to hear him pining over you or whatever. Dudeâs got a heart boner for you so strong that it makes me nauseous.â
âShut up, Sam.â
âItâs true,â Joaquin admitted with a shrug of his shoulders. âHe wonât shut up about you. I know things that I should never know.â
That gave you pause. âLike whatâŚ?â You were afraid of the answer.
âLike for your one month anniversaryâlame, by the wayâyou made him a giant skillet cookie and stuck a sparkler in it. Why do I know that? I didnât want to know that.â
âOr,â Sam added, âthat your yellow sundress with the lemons on it is what shows off your legs the best. Why do I care? Itâs gross. Youâre like a sister to me. I donât wanna know that.â
âOh my God.â You groaned, covering your face with a hand.
âYeah, think of how we feel.â
âWell maybe you shouldnât have gotten so buddy-buddy with him, ever think of that?â you snapped, looking between them.
âWhen heâs not waxing poetic about how your eyes look like the stars, heâs a cool guy. But my God, heâs so down bad for you.â Joaquin laughed at your disgusted stare. âSo either forgive him, or put him out of his misery. Seriously.â
But it wasnât up to your friends to decide whether you should forgive and forget. They werenât the ones that had had to nurse a broken heart between shifts at your part time job and 8am lectures. You sniffed disdainfully. âSounds like itâs gonna be a long summer for you two, then.â
You spent the remainder of your inside time sitting back against the wall, finishing your water and reapplying sunscreen to your face and your legs, listening to Sam and Joaquin talk about something or other, before you stood with a sigh. âOff to serve my sentence,â you said, stretching your arms.
âGood luck out there.â Joaquin said with a mock salute.
When you pushed open the cabanaâs door, you almost screamed in surprise, your hand flying to your chest to calm your racing heart. Bucky had been standing right outside. âJesus Christ, Bucky. Were you lurking out here like a feral raccoon the whole time?â
He shrugged one shoulder. âNo, only the last two minutes. I saw you guys come inside but I didnât want to crash the party.â His eyes flicked over your form, before he said, âAre you ready to go?â
âI guess.â You blew hair out of your face, then started walking, not waiting for him to catch up.
You basked in miraculous quiet for all of three minutes, the walk around the shoreline barely started, before you noticed that you were the only one with your head on a swivel, watching the water and the beach. Bucky had been staring at you almost the entire time.
âUgh, god, Sam was right.â
Bucky met your eyes. âHuh?â
âHe said you kept checking me out. How about you check out the beach instead? You know, seeing as itâs your job.â
âI canât help it,â he held his hands up, giving you puppy eyes. You were pretty sure he was pouting a little, too. âI only have eyes for you.â
You scoffed, turning to look at the sea, the group of kids splashing around nearby. âYeah, right.â
âItâs true!â
âPretty sure youâd be singing a different tune if Natasha was here.â You sounded bitter, and you knew it. You hated it. You didnât want to keep bringing it up, to keep bringing her up, but the whole thing was like a splinter in your palm, one that had gotten so deep under your skin that you couldnât remove it.
There was a moment of silence between you both. You felt the sand under your feet. You were closer to the water than he was, the waves lapping at your ankles as you walked. Your footprints were washed away after every step.
âWhat do you want me to do,â Bucky finally said, a heavy breath escaping him, âdo you want me to beg?â
And to your embarrassment, he got on his knees right there, stopping you in your tracks in front of a large family, who all turned to stare. You looked left and right, mortified as any other surrounding beach goers started turning your way as well, keen interest in their eyes.
âOh my God, get up.â You flicked your hands, beckoning him to stand, your voice strangled.
âIâll beg, Iâm not above it. Iâll do whatever it takes. I have no shame. I know how I feel about you.â He said steadily, looking up at you like you were the sun.
Oh, no⌠you had a terrible feeling that he was about to begin a whole speech. âBuckyââ
âI was a total idiot. Iâm gonna be kicking myself for it for the rest of my life. I was stupid and scared and everything was changing, and you were my only constant. And instead of clinging to you like I should have, I did the dumbest thing I could possibly do, and I hurt you. And Iâm sorry. Iâm so, so sorry. I know forgiveness isnât easy, but Iâm asking you to consider it.â
You werenât really listening, too focused on the heat under your skin, heat that had nothing to do with the warm weather and everything to do with being in the spotlight of a bunch of strangers.
âIf you donât get up right now, thereâs no chance in hell.â You whispered harshly.
To your surprise, he stood immediately, latching on to hope. âSo thereâs a chance?â
âThatâs not what I said.â
Bucky grabbed onto both of your hands, and you fought a shudder. It had been a long time since heâd touched you, and even something as innocent as this sent you into a tailspin. When you looked at his face, your eyes slow to move from where heâd been kneeling, you saw a horrible amount of earnestness there. You pulled your hands away from his, rattled. He didnât usually let you see his true feelings, not when you were together. It had been pretty rare.
âCan we just⌠can we just finish the perimeter, please?â you asked. People finally started looking away, disappointed that there hadnât been more of a spectacle.
âOkay. Whatever you want.â But Bucky stayed standing in front of you for a moment longer, before stepping to the side and falling in line next to you.
The rest of the walk was quiet, but his words kept echoing in your head anyway.
It didnât take you long to notice, after that, that Bucky had started to switch shifts to see you. Even if he didnât necessarily get to work with you directly, you had noticed names being scribbled out and switched with his. He was always working when you were, now. He was everywhere. Even for things as unnecessary as helping you down from Overwatch. Youâd climbed that chair dozens of times without any need for assistance, but all of a sudden, there he was with an extended hand to help you down. You always ignored it, but he did it anyway.
Frankly, it was unnerving. You had to believe that was it, because if you thought about it further... you were worried a small piece of you would find it sweet.
You could no longer ignore him quite so easily. Not when he was being so nice. You could only be so much of a bitch, and it was getting harder and harder to do when heâd bring you water or a snack, or offer to take over so that you could have a couple of minutes inside. He was certainly doing the most to win you over. And you were just a little bit worried that youâd fold like a house of cards if he pushed some more.
Unfortunately, being around him so constantly also made you aware of things you didnât really want to be aware of. Like the consistent sunburn between his shoulder blades. Bucky refused to wear a shirt, not on any of the days that heâd worked. He technically wasnât required to, but you thought it was silly to risk a burn just to show of his Adonis-like figure. It was hard to look at him without remembering what it had been like to trace your fingers over his abs. But eventually, the perpetual red mark between his shoulders and up his neck had you taking pity on him.
The next time you were working together, you saw him wince when Sam clapped him on the back in greeting, before trading off. Youâd just arrived yourself, your bag on your shoulder. Suddenly, it felt heavy with the weight of sunscreen. âBucky, doesnât that hurt?â You touched your own shoulder for emphasis.
He bit his lip, frowning. âYeah, but I canât reach there.â
You hesitated before biting the bullet. âDo you want me toââ
âYes.â He answered before you could even finish the question, his eyes locked onto you.
You regretted asking. You fumbled with the lid of the sunscreen before squeezing some out onto your hand. Standing behind him like this made you think of all the times heâd given you a piggyback ride, walking you from his car to your house. Youâd pepper the side of his face with kisses and heâd dig his fingers more firmly into your thighs, keeping you strapped to him like a backpack. You willed the memories from your head at the first gentle touch of your fingers to his skin. You could feel the heat of the burn and winced, imagining the pain. It only took turning into a lobster one time for you to always slather yourself in sunscreen and light layers of clothes, and you thought heâd do well to remember it too, but you said nothing as you rubbed the lotion in. Bucky let out a soft hiss of discomfort but stayed still otherwise. Even though it was overcast today, it was still worth the protection.
Once you were done, you gingerly patted his shoulder. âOkay, youâre good.â
You went to put the bottle back in your bag when he turned to face you. âCan I⌠return the favour?â
Your instinct was to say no, absolutely not, he was never getting his hands on you again. But the way heâd asked was so distinctly unlike him, it made you reconsider. There was no bravado, no cockiness. Just that same earnest look from the day heâd gotten on his knees, and a soft undertone of shyness that youâd never heard from him before. Usually, you got one of the other female lifeguards to help you with any spots you missed. But as you observed him now, his lack of flirtatiousness made you believe that heâd be on his best behaviour, for once. No lingering touches of heady stares. âOkay.â The answer left you on an exhale.
You had a racerback one-piece on today, meaning it was really only your shoulders on display. Youâd done your arms and legs already. You turned away from him after handing him the bottle.
The first touch of his fingers on your skin had you fighting a shiver. This had been a bad idea. It was impossible for Bucky to touch you without your brain catapulting you to the past. All he was doing was rubbing sunscreen into your skin, and yet it was making you think of when youâd been hunched over textbooks for hours, making flashcards, and heâd sat behind you and massaged your shoulders, pressing kisses between your shoulders and to the side of your neck. You were glad that you werenât looking at him right nowâyou were sure that your thoughts would be written all over your face. It was making you feel skittish, too self-aware of where your mind was spiraling. He carefully swept your hair to one side, his hand stroking against the back of your neck. You didnât like how comfortable you felt, how easy it was to sink into the feeling of his hands on you.
When he was satisfied with his application, he let his hands linger on your shoulders before murmuring, voice close to your ear, âAll done.â A flurry of butterflies exploded in your stomach. You didnât want to turn around. You knew exactly how close heâd be.
âThanks.â
And you both stood there for a moment longer, him behind you, hands still on your shoulders, and you staring down at your sand-filled sandals, suspended in a single stretch of time where he hadnât hurt you and you hadnât refused his apology, before someone called your name in greeting, and then it cracked like glass, and you were hastily shoving the sunscreen in your bag and striding across the beach like you were on fire.
Each time you found yourself alone with Bucky after that, it all felt compromising. He didnât even have to necessarily be close to you, but you felt some sort of intangible spark between you that kept trying its hardest to flicker to life, despite your attempts to smother it. Keeping your distance wasnât working, and almost all of Buckyâs earlier bravado seemed to have melted away in favour of more genuine connection. Heâd stopped flirting with you like he had at first, stopped trying to take advantage of how he could fluster you. It made it worse when heâd stand right beside you, not touching, but only an inch or so away. The heat on your skin had nothing to do with the weather.
You started to wonder, as you observed him, if your time apart had been⌠good for him.
Not with the way heâd ended things, no, but he hadnât had anyone in his corner, you believed, except for his best friend, Steve. You had always been the third person in that friendship, even before youâd started dating. And you had long since known that Steve had been the most studious of the three of you. It made you consider the long nights Bucky would have spent alone, without your company or Steveâs to keep him grounded. Something that Bucky had never done much of was stand alone. And whether you liked it or not, your break up would have forced him to do things by himself.
You found yourself thinking about it every time you saw him when he wasnât aware of you. When heâd been getting off shift, but heâd stopped to help an elderly couple fold up their beach chairs and take them to the car. When heâd helped a lost kid find their mother, holding their hand and then wiping away their tears when theyâd cried, accepting the motherâs profuse thankfulness with nothing more than a smile. The Bucky youâd known before wouldnât have bothered with going out of his way to help people. Heâd been totally absorbed in your bubble, your world with the population of two. Maybe heâd grown up more than youâd originally thought.
It was hard for you to reconcile the fact. The boy youâd loved, whoâd been all of your firsts, whoâd broken your heart, had changed. You wondered, if you were still together, if heâd have still become who he was now. If youâd love him more than you thought possible. But youâd changed, too. You werenât so trusting, you werenât so open to new things, like youâd been with him. When youâd been together, youâd felt utterly fearless. Bucky had always been good at entertaining your every whim. But youâd become a little more guarded in his absence. Your rose-tinted glasses werenât so pink anymore.
Still, you werenât quite ready to consider taking any steps towards anything more than a working relationship. You didnât think you could be friends. It would never be just that, not to you. Youâd always be thinking of before, when youâd been more. And heâd already made it clear that he wanted you back. You entertained the idea of telling him you wouldnât take him back, that you could only be friends in the same capacity that you were friends with Sam or Joaquin. You didnât know if heâd be able to respect your wishes or not or if heâd cross the line. All you really knew was that it would be too easy for you to fall under his spell if you gave in. That was the real reason for your continued distance. Falling back into Bucky would be as easy as wrapping yourself in an old, well-loved blanket, and snuggling so deeply that youâd fall asleep and never wake up again. And you couldnât do that to yourself. Not now.
The bonfire happened every year, apparently. It was after hours at the beach, no swimming allowed, just the promise of a fire and food and music. It was always at the beginning of August. Almost everyone from the lifeguard team was going. You felt somewhat nervous at the prospect, like there was some sort of anticipation under your skin, but you couldnât figure out why. After all, youâd spent most of your summer days with these people. You knew what to expectâSam had filled you in, having attended these things with a cousin a couple of years in a rowâbut still, you couldnât shake the feeling. It was just supposed to be a fun, lighthearted evening.
Youâd heard through the grapevine that Bucky wouldnât be attending. You felt a strange sense of disappointment, though you tried to convince yourself that it was actually relief. But when the night of the bonfire came, and your tires slid smoothly across the sand that had blown over the lot, you noticed that his car wasnât there. You wiped your palms on your shorts, even though they were dry, a nervous tic that you had, and made eye contact with yourself in the rear view mirror. You were just going to have a nice evening, probably attached to Sam and Joaquin the whole night, indulging on hot dogs and popsicles and drinks, and then youâd go home. It sounded like a perfect summer memory to capture and keep like a firefly in a jar.
When you moseyed on over to the beach, you were greeted warmly by your fellow lifeguards. It was just after eight, the sun low in the sky, setting the entire beach ablaze. The last stragglers that had been out enjoying the day were departing, rolling up towels and gathering toy shovels and buckets into bags. You could just barely make out Bruce standing by Overwatch, having taken over so that the rest of you could start your night. You were handed a lemonade and hustled over to the metal fire pit. Some chairs were scattered about, as well as a wooden bench that had seen better days. One of these years, it would probably serve as kindling. The breeze was subtle, carrying the scent of the burning logs across the open air.
Everything was very relaxed, with no expectations but to have a good time. The stars slowly woke up over the course of the next hour, brightening up the darkening sky in soft blinks. Marshmallows were being roasted over the open flame, but you were content to sit on the bench listening to the idle chatter. The evening carried on lazily, most all of the lifeguards present, each of them weaving between each other. A Bluetooth speaker had been set up on a towel, music pumping steadily, a couple people swaying to the melody. The songs were all popular ones, whatever was trending for the summer. The chorus of one was broken up by the distant slam of a car door. You looked around the beach, but you didnât think anyone had left yet. It was too soon, you thought.
And then you saw him, on the other side of the flames. First a long shadow, then more concrete, more real. Bucky, in a t-shirt and shorts, swinging the his keychain around his finger as he strolled up to the rest of you. He had a sweatshirt hanging over one arm. He was late, but he was here. You tried to tamp down the feeling spreading through your chest at the sight of him. He didnât see you right away, sidling over to Sam and accepting a drink. They were hovering around the grill. You saw Bucky laugh, but you were too far away to hear him over the music, the roar of the flames, and the swish of the waves. He clapped Sam on the shoulder before turning to survey the rest of the beach, raising his red solo cup in greeting to whoever waved or shouted in his direction.
Then, predictably, his eyes came to rest on you. He stayed staring at you as he took a sip of his drink, and you broke the contact to stare into the fire. You werenât surprised when he sat down beside you. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see him resting his cup against his knee. âI thought you werenât coming,â you said, the words leaving the side of your mouth.
âI was always coming. I just had to drop off Becca at a sleepover first. And you know how long she takes to get ready. She ran back and forth from the car to the house like ten times before she was ready.â
With a pang, you silently agreed that yes, you did know how Becca got. She always forgot something. Dates with bucky had been interrupted dozens of times because sheâd called him, begging him to bring her something sheâd left behind. And heâd always say yes, and then look at you apologetically, and youâd only smile and kiss the tip of his nose before standing and offering a hand. Becca had sort of been like your little sister, too. You had been the one sheâd always come to about boy troubles. You missed her.
âHow is she?â you asked. It was easier to talk about someone other than yourselves.
âOh, you know, same as always. Still taking her dance classes way too seriously.â
You hummed, remembering the recitals youâd attended with Buckyâs family. âSheâs got the talent for it. Is she still thinking of going to Julliard?â
ââCourse. Itâs on her wall. She made this, uhâŚâ he trailed off, searching for the word, âvision board thing. I donât know. A bunch of pictures all stuck together?â
You nodded. âRight. Itâs supposed to manifest your hopes and dreams, remind you of your goals, that sort of thing.â
He snapped his fingers, pointing at you in confirmation. âYeah, that. God, canât believe sheâs gonna be applying for universities this year.â
âI remember when she still had frizzy hair and braces,â you said, your voice wistful. If you closed your eyes, you could see her clearly. The summer sheâd gotten blonde highlights and cried because she thought they were too chunky, youâd helped her dye her hair back to brown. You used to give her your old clothes, ones youâd outgrown or no longer thought suited you. She would raid your closet and call it thrifting.
âAnd now sheâs got her learnerâs permit and a part-time job.â Bucky sounded equally pensive.
It was easy to talk about Becca and the passage of time. Bucky filled you in on what sheâd been up to. It was nice to hear. No matter what had happened between you and Nucky, youâd always have a soft spot for his family. ââŚAnd then her and my mom called me in tears. I was almost late for my mid-term.â he laughed, looking at you.
You smiled at the tale. It was a classic case of dramatic teenage girl versus worried mother. You tried to ignore the fact that Becca probably would have called you, if youâd been around. Bucky seemed to think of it too. He swallowed, and you watched the line of his throat. âYou know, she was uh⌠she was really mad at me, when we broke up. She didnât talk to me for two weeks.â You could barely hear him over the crackle of the fire, but the words seeped into your skin, regardless. âShe would have picked you over me, if she could have.â
You looked away from him, crossing your arms. You didnât quite know what to say. âMom, too, actually.â Bucky added after a moment. âShe slapped me upside the head.â
You bit your lip to keep from smiling at the idea. Wilhelmina was one of the gentlest women you knew, who only had to threaten to count to three to get her children to fall in line. The idea of her making Bucky see stars with a smack to the skull was admittedly funny. The words left you before you could consider them. âYou know, that was almost the worst part for me. Not only did you break up with me, but I lost my second family because of it.â
He said your name then, and you heard the remorse laced in it, but you cut him off before he could say another word. âI wasnât gonna be the ex-girlfriend that kept making your life hell by keeping up with your family. You might have deserved it, but any future girlfriends didnât. But I missed them so much.â Buckyâs family had always been much more hands on than yours. Theyâd never been upset by your presence, theyâd just wanted to know if you were staying for dinner so that they could get an extra plate out.
A cool breeze came in from the shoreline, and it made you shiver as your hair caught on it, blowing across your face. The weight of fabric pressed against your legs a moment later. âHere, take it.â
It was Buckyâs sweatshirt. I was a bad idea to accept it, especially when you were quickly approaching melancholy and introspectiveness, but another gust of wind hand you hastily pulling it over your head. The maroon fabric nearly drowned you, the sleeves hanging past your fingers. It smelled of him. His cologne had always had a little bit of a lavender smell to it. You resisted the urge to pull the hem over your nose, to breathe him in more. You could almost believe it was like old times. Youâd constantly stolen his clothes. You liked them more than your own, the way they felt so lived in. The way he always felt close. Youâd taken no less than three of his shirts with you when youâd gone to France the year before, away from him for spring break. It had made the time difference bearable.
You pushed your hair back behind your ears even though you knew another billow of wind would send it flying loose around your face again. You wished that someone else would come by, pull you into a more mundane conversation, save you from reliving the past. But it was just you and Bucky on that bench. Everyone else seemed oceans away. When you looked at him again, you regretted it. His eyes were dark in the night, but every time the bonfire flickered, you saw that telltale blue. His mouth was pursed in a line, his forehead creased. He turned to the side, resting his elbow along the back of the bench so that he could look at you with the full force of his gaze. âYou know my mom would still love to see you, even if weâre not together, right?â
âI know,â you said softly. âBut itâs too hard for me. I canât⌠I canât go into that house anymore. I canât look at your picture on the wall. Because then Iâll remember that I was there when she took it, and all the others.â You sighed, your eyes fluttering closed for a second. âItâs all just a reminder of before. And I canât keep looking back on it.â
His fingers touched his mouth as he considered, then nodded. âI understand.â For once, you thought that he actually did.
You both sat in the silence of what had broken you apart, before he nudged your knee with his. âTell me about school. Straight Aâs?â The subject was an abrupt, obvious change, but you grabbed it with both hands.
âOf course. like I'd ever get any less.â
He laughed. âWish I could say the same. got a D- on a first year seminar.â
At your look of dismay, he held up his hands. âYou made all my study guides for me. I tried to recreate them the way you do, but it just didnât really work.â
âDid you colour code everything?â
âI tried. But orange and red kept getting mixed up.â
You shook your head. âNovice move.â
The smile on his face faded then, his eyes going serious. His hand paused in the air between you, before he followed through, brushing your hair back again from where it had, predictably, come loose. âI want to kiss you right now.â
It was the wrong thing to say. The tentative, easy spell of camaraderie broke, and you shied away, ignoring the sparks on your skin from where heâd touched you. You could see regret swimming in his eyes. You stood suddenly, placing your half-finished lemonade on the bench. âI should go. I wasnât gonna stay long, anyway.â
You took a stumbling step backward when he tried to reach for you, his lips forming your name. There were no two ways about it, you were shaken. Youâd thought for a brief, shining moment, that maybe you could just enjoy the evening as something close to friends. That you could just pretend, for one night. But your feelings had risen in you like an unsteady tide, threatening to spill from your mouth. You felt like you had salt water in your lungs, the way they burned. You patted at your pockets frantically, almost at your car. It was too much, it was too soon. You didnât know what you wanted. For a second, all youâd wanted was him. You sat in your car for a full moment, both hands on the wheel, staring blankly ahead, before finally shifting into drive and backing out of your spot.
You just hoped youâd get to your room before you started to cry.
The country road ahead was dark, with only your headlights to guide the way. It was a ten minute stretch before youâd reach suburbia again. You drove with no music, only the sound of your breathing and the car rumbling over the road. Your fingers were tight on the wheel.
You supposed you should have expected him to say something like that. It was Bucky, after all. No matter how genuine he seemed, his goal had always been to get back in your pants. Maybe that was cheapening what your relationship had been, but when you had the foundation of your love crumbling because heâd wanted to chase down some tail that wasnât you, what else were you supposed to think? You were sure it would take nothing at all to re frame every action heâd taken over the course of the summer and twist it into something that hurt.
A flash of lights caught in your rear view mirror. The road had been empty, but there was a car behind you now. If they wanted to overtake, they could. But the lights flashed again, and you could just barely make out the shape of it. it was Buckyâs car. He was following you. âShit,â you murmured to the air freshener hanging from the mirror.
You couldnât let him follow you all the way back to the house. Your mom was home, and sheâd ask questions. Hell, sheâd probably invite him in. He flashed them again, keeping pace. You slapped the indicator with your hand, letting out a resigned sigh, and pulled onto the shoulder. He copied you, pulling in neatly behind you. You parked but stayed in the car, one hand on the wheel, the other clutching at your seatbelt where it rested over your chest. You stared straight ahead, blinking away any glassiness from your eyes.
From the edge of your periphery, you saw him lean down by your window, observing you for the space of three breaths, before he knocked gently on the glass. Your hand left the wheel to push the door open, but you stayed in the car. âI'm sorry,â were the first words out of his mouth. âI shouldnât have said that. I didnât meanâI'm sorry.â
You chewed your lip, eyes flicking to him and away. âAnd to be clear, I donât mean that I regret the fact that I want to kiss you. I still do. I always do. But I'm sorry for saying it and making you upset. Itâs the last thing I wanted to do.â
His hand gripped the top of the carâs door. You wouldnât even have to extend your arm the entire way to touch him. Belatedly, you realized you were still wearing his sweatshirt. âDo you want this back?â you asked absently, waving the long sleeve at him.
âWhat? Oh, no. You can keep it. Colour suits you more, anyway.â
âBucky,â you said on a sigh, turning your head to look at him finally, âI'm not gonna keep it. Itâs not mine, and neither are you.â
âYouâre wrong. I'll always be yours. Even if you donât want me.â
The admission left you in stunned silence. Heâd already said to you in so many words that he was intent on getting back together. But to hear it like that⌠to hear him say it with honest eyes and no expectation⌠Your next breath was shaky. You refused to cry.
âWhat can I do? Iâll do anything. Anything to make it up to you. To start making it up to you.'â
You didnât even know how to respond. Your mind had drawn a total, perfect blank, like someone had taken an eraser to the whiteboard that was your brain, any ideas completely gone.
âDo you know why I really failed that class?â A cricket chirped between the words of the question. âYeah, it was partly because I suck at studying without you. But it was also because I missed you, so damn much. God, I was still so gone for youâI kept a photo of you on my nightstand.â
At this, your eyes went wide, a look he caught. He gave you a grim smile. âYeah, thatâs right. Itâs you on that tire swing. You know, the one at my uncleâs lake house? And the sun was in your eyes, but you looked like you were glowing. Same one I keep in my wallet.â He pulled said wallet out of his back pocket and unfolded it, sliding a creased photo from its depths. He flipped it in his fingers to face you.
It had been warm that fall. So warm, unseasonably so, that his family had hosted Thanksgiving at the lake house that year, and youâd come along. The next day had been a complete and utter downpour. You remembered because heâd forgotten to roll up the windows on his car, and the drive back had been extremely soggy. Bucky tucked it back in his wallet. âYou were the last thing I saw at night, first thing I saw in the morning. I wasted hours I should have spent studying just thinking of you, trying to remember your voice. Old videos arenât the same. I was gonna come to your house over winter break, you know. I was gonna beg you to take me back then, but then I heard from Stevie you werenât cominâ home.â
Yes, you and your parents had flown across the country to spend Christmas with your grandparents, instead. And youâd been relieved. You hadnât wanted to come back to town, worried youâd bump into Bucky with some new girl on his arm. âI knew that for the last three summers, youâd worked at the pool, so I was planning to just show up there. But then I heard you were being a hero at the beach instead. And the first day I saw you, it took everything I had not to just run across the sand and hold you until you forgave me, until you told me everything was okay.â
His voice broke a little on the last word. âStop.â you whispered.
He didnât. âI miss you so much, baby. I miss you when youâre standing right in front of me. I miss when you used to tell me everything you ate in a day. I miss when youâd tell me what dumb thing your dad said. I miss all of it. I was such an idiot. I got cold feet and I didnât think it through. I didnât need other girls, or time apart. I just needed you. I'm so sorry.â
You felt his sadness like you were swimming in a sea of it. You felt his regret, his anger at himself. And even though heâd hurt you more than youâd thought he ever could⌠he wasnât entirely right. Time apart, whether you liked it or not, had forced you both to grow without the other, instead of tangling your roots together and staying intertwined.
The click of your seatbelt coming undone went unnoticed.
His hands hovered in the air between you again, like they had on the beach. He settled his palms on the sides of your face gingerly, like he was afraid youâd duck away. This time, you didnât. Looking into his eyes hurt, it burned. But you wanted to ignite, you thought. You wanted to smoke and smolder and disintegrate. âPlease,â he whispered, âplease give me another chance.â
Each word had brought his face closer to yours. Your head was tilted up to his. He was outlined by the silvery moon, you both were. You didnât know which one of your closed the gap, only that your hands came to rest over his. You both tasted like lemonade, but underneath it was his distinct flavour, the one that awakened your senses like an ember sparking on dry leaves. Suddenly the forest of your memories was aflame. It was a kiss both delicate and searching as well as frantic and pleading, like Bucky was pouring every single regret and wish into the same shared breath. His forehead knocked against yours. Your teeth grazed his bottom lip. The sound he made, one you thought youâd never hear again was what made you come to your senses. You pulled back, breaking the connection of your mouths, but his hands stayed on your face. His eyes stayed closed for a long moment and you were free to admire the way his lashes embraced his cheeks.
âHow do I know you wonât hurt me again?â
âYou donât. but I'll spend every day proving to you that I'm worth your trust.â His eyes were still closed, like if he didnât open them, he wouldnât have to see what youâd decided flying across your face.
He looked at you again when your silence became the clear answer. His fingers stroked across your temples. âI have to think about it.â you said honestly.
In truth, you were unsure. You werenât ready to trust him yet, even though your nervous system was screaming at your to dive off the board and into the deep end without a life vest. You saw his chest deflate on a long exhale, his breath fanning across your lips. âOkay. Okay, take all the time you need. I'm not going anywhere. You know that.â He seemed reluctant to let go of you. âYou know that, right?â
You nodded as much as you could with his hands on your face. âI know.â
That was what made him drop his hands. âI love you.â
You didnât say it back, and you thought you saw a flicker of pain in his eyes, before he shook his head. He knew you werenât about to reciprocate. âI'm sorry I ruined your night.â
Your laugh was born of nervousness more than humour. âYou didnât ruin it. I really wasnât planning to stay long. You should go back, though.â
He shook his head again. âI think I got what I came for.â
âAnd whatâs that?â
âA foot in the door.â
He stood up straight then, hand on the door. âDrive home safe, okay? I'll see you tomorrow?â The question was full of unrestrained, naked hope.
âYeah. I start at 12.â
He moved to close your door, but ducked down at the last moment, leaving a lingering kiss on your forehead. âSee you at 12.â
Then he closed your door, and you were alone in the car, the scent of him overwhelming, the taste of him even more so. It took a long time for you to buckle your seatbelt again and start driving.
It took Bucky even longer, staring at the empty space your car had been in, before he got on the road, too.
You didnât really know what to do with yourself in the morning. Youâd been on total autopilot the night before, after youâd gotten home. You didnât remember crawling into bed, even, but you had woken up still wearing Buckyâs sweater. The faint trace of his scent was still on it. Youâd let him kiss you last night, you remembered, but you couldnât summon the strength to be horrified. You had never, never seen him so emotional before. You couldnât believe, after that admission, that he was just trying to bed you. He had to be serious. There was no way he wasnât.
But that didnât mean you were ready to pick up where you left off. You needed time to wrap your head around it. You supposed you had a month before you were back on campus. You had to decide whether you wanted him haunting the hallways of your dorm or not. You didnât want to hold onto hope only to be crushed by âcold feetâ again.
You didnât remember getting ready for your shift. You only noticed as you were doing a final check of your bag that youâd gotten dressed and brushed your hair, and your teeth as well judging by the minty taste on your tongue. Somehow, youâd blown through the morning in a total fugue state.
You blacked out on the drive, too, only realizing where you were with sudden clarity as you pulled into your usual spot. Buckyâs car was already there. Heâd started before youâyour shift only overlapped with his for about an hour. You were nervous to see him. What if last night had actually been a cruel dream?
You drummed your fingers on the strap of your bag where it rested over your shoulder, striding over the sand and heading to the cabana. Bruce glanced up at you from over his glasses and murmured a greeting before turning back to whatever paperwork had graced his desk, and you sat heavily on one of the rickety chairs. You fumbled with your water bottle just for something to do. Even though you were wearing a loose t-shirt over your bathing suit, you felt like the fabric was pressing against you like a second skin. You couldnât even blame it on the humidity.
You basked in the silence for all of five minutes before slinging your bag on one of the hooks by the door and heading back outside, throwing your hair into a ponytail. It was overcast today, and you had a feeling youâd get rained on at some point, but you found yourself welcoming the possibility. Maybe you needed to get in touch with nature a little more, despite the fact that youâd been spending your days surrounded by it. You were scheduled to walk the perimeter and then cover Overwatch for a while. The beach was fairly empty today. You understoodâif youâd had the choice, you would have spent the day inside. Everything was awash in shades of gray, the waves looking choppy and rough.
Bucky was almost right in front of you before you noticed him, too lost in thought, too busy trying not to think of him, because if you did, youâd remember the feeling of his hands on your face and the way heâd kissed you and the sound heâd made, along with a million other tiny things heâd done last night. But then he was there in the light of day, hardly a foot from you. You stopped, narrowly avoiding kicking up sand. âHi,â you already sounded breathless. You hated it.
âHey,â he said with a nod. His expression was guarded, like he was afraid youâd come to your senses and decided not to take a chance on him.
You both observed each other. âWas it busy this morning?â you asked. It was a lame, easy out.
He shook his head. âThe standard early morning swimmers, but otherwise, no. Iâve actually been bored out of my mind. It gave me too much time to think.â It was a leading statement, but you decided not to pull at that thread.
âItâll probably be more of the same for you. Itâs supposed to rain around three.â he added, glancing skyward.
You mirrored him, taking in the gathering storm clouds. âItâs been a pretty dry summer.â
You knew things were awkward when you were discussing the most basic of topics. You could almost picture an elephant there on the beach, a sign on its neck saying âaddress me!â
You pointed at the shoreline. âWell, I should probably get to it. Are you taking a break?â
âYeah.â But you both stayed standing there for another few seconds, before you ducked your head and started to move.
Right as you were about to pass him, Bucky snaked a hand around your front, settling it on your hip, and kissed the side of your head. It was a small gesture, a simple one. He let go of you and walked away right after he did it, not keeping you there, but it was enough to send your heart ricocheting around your chest like it was taking a turn in a pinball machine.
For your sake, you hoped it would suddenly get very busy on the beach, just so you would have something else to focus on.
The month continued on in a slow crawl, and all of your interactions with Bucky felt like a tentative, shy dance. Sometimes heâd leave you alone, with nothing more than a cursory hello, a searching look, and a small smile, which youâd return. Other times, heâd hover in your orbit like a little lovesick fly. When youâd gone to check the schedule at one point, heâd stood right behind you as you leaned over the desk, not saying a word. You could feel his body heat radiating in waves. You wouldnât have had to take even a full step back to lean back against him. You imagined if you did, he would have put his arms around you.
Youâd started quietly pulling him to the side with no fanfare, turning him around by the shoulders, and slathering him in sunscreen without saying anything about it, though youâd only let him return the favour once, because heâd trailed his finger down your spine and your shiver had been so obvious, you couldnât look him in the eye after.
The well of longing that youâd boarded up with nails and plywood had flooded, and it felt like it was pushing against the barrier of your skin with insistent, needy hands, begging to be let loose and consume. You were aware of the grains of sand running down on the hourglass. Your personal benchmark of the end of August was approaching, and you felt it looming over you like a vast shadow.
You were running out of reasons to deny Bucky. Heâd continued to show up every day, continued to do his job as if heâd wanted to be a lifeguard all along. He was still coming to the beach on most of the days that you worked, though heâd started to give you a little more space. Youâd unblocked his number from your phone, and there were now disjointed strings of texts between you. Short things like confirming each otherâs schedules, even though you both new the otherâs as well as you knew your own. Messages from him wishing you sweet dreams. But the ones that had you holding your phone to your chest with heated cheeks came in the middle of the night, when Bucky would send you things like, âI canât sleep so Iâm looking at your picture,â and âI think I was dreaming of you. I couldnât see your face, but it was you. It couldnât be anyone else.â Sometimes heâd tell you what Becca was up to, and pass on messages from you to her as well.
You had started to entertain what the fall might look like. If you took Bucky back, would it be exactly how youâd envisioned it the year before? Would you stop by each otherâs campuses, have lunch and study dates together? Would you sneak him back to your dorm, tugging him along by the strings of his hoodie? Would you be one of those couples lazily making out in the quad? Or would you keep this strange tightrope of distance between you? You could picture it just as easily, telling him you still werenât ready. Him nodding, swallowing whatever he wanted to say, but asking if he could still visit you. You had a feeling that would be worse. Youâd be so distracted by the possibility, wondering if heâd make some sort of grand gesture or if heâd keep down this new path, respecting the distance and the time and your hesitation.
With two weeks to go before you needed to get packed up and head three hours away to your school, a couple of new lifeguards were being trained. The off-season was approaching, but the beach was still bound to be busy on weekends all through September and some of October. The heat loved to linger before the cold snap came closer to Halloween. Your hours had started to scale back, or else youâd be in the company of a newbie. Training Kate was somewhat of a challenge. She was goodâquick, sharp, determinedâbut she was also akin to a dog seeing a new toy with the way her attention would shoot elsewhere. Oftentimes, youâd have to repeat yourself or try to get her to refocus. It left little time for Bucky and you, and whatever was going on there.
It was why you were so caught off-guard by Kate asking you one day, âSo is that Bucky guy your boyfriend, or what?â
You dropped the bundle of life preservers that had been looped over your arm. âWhat?â
She pointed at the cabana. Bucky was outside of it, leaned against the wall. He was talking to Sam, but his eyes were on you. He didnât look away when you made eye contact, and you felt your heart flutter at his open stare. âThereâs something going on there, right?â she probed, crouching to pick up some of the preservers.
You joined her, knees in the sand. âWe um, we used to date, yes.â You were doing a piss-poor job of picking the red and white rings up. Your fingers suddenly felt slippery.
âUsed to date? How long ago?â
âA year ago, give or take.â you said mildly, hoping sheâd drop it.
But Kate latched onto it like it was a bone. âA year? Then why is he looking at you like that? Oh! Are you the one that got away?â she sang the last part with enthusiasm, eyes twinkling as she looked at you.
You bit your lip and dusted sand from one of the preservers, a useless thing to do. âIn a manner of speaking, I suppose.â
âAre you getting back together? No one looks at a person like that.â
âI know.â
âNo, no, I mean⌠no one looks at a person like that.â she said, grabbing your arm. âMy grandparents have been together sixty years, and I donât think Iâve ever even seen them look so love struck. Heâs looking at you like youâre keeping his heart held hostage in a box or something.â To make matters worse, she pointed at him very obviously, then at you. It couldnât be clearer what you were talking about if sheâd started twirling a baton and carrying a neon sign.
When you meekly looked up at him, he hadnât taken his eyes off you. And damn it, Kate was completely right. You felt stripped bare under his gaze. âWell, itâs sort of complicated,â you muttered.
âWhatâs so complicated? He looks like heâd get down on one knee right now. Itâs actually sort of gross.â She mimed throwing up. Then she looked at you. âAnd besides, you look equally struck by cupid.â
âWhat? No I donât!â You touched your face as if you could confirm or deny her accusation.
She grinned at you, successfully collecting all the preservers and tying them together with a section of ropeâthe thing youâd been trying to do when youâd dropped them. âIf you say so.â
As the rest of the day went on, you couldnât help thinking about Kateâs question. Whatâs so complicated? Yes, youâd been hurt beyond belief when Bucky had broken up with you. Yes, it had also sucked extra hard to know that heâd boned Natasha that same night at one of the grad parties. Youâd stuck your fingers to the edges of that seeping wound many times over, feeling it bleed over your hands, feeling the pulse of your veins, the hurt pumping through them. But with some level of surprise, when you put your palms over the wound now, you were met with a scar instead. It was puckered, marred, not pretty and clean. But it had healed over, nonetheless. You were sure youâd always feel the phantom ache of the slice, but you found it wasnât something you were at risk of bleeding out over.
Did that mean you forgave him? You imagined that if you told the whole sordid tale to a council, thereâd be varying levels of both outrage and passiveness. Youâd seen how girls got ridiculed for going back to men that had done them wrong. But this was the only wrong thing Bucky had done to you, if you thought about it. Any argument youâd ever had, even at your immature ages, had been smoothed over. You had never been the high school couple that broke up every other week. Youâd been solid. And it shouldnât matter what other people thought of your actions, should it? If things went poorly again, you only had yourself to blame for making the choice. You didnât want outside influence to muddy the waters of your thoughts.
And, you had to admit that as soon as Bucky realized that trying to be suave and charming in order to win you back wouldnât work, heâd put a stop to it. Since then, heâd been nothing but sincere. Heâd prostrated himself before you. Heâd tried to meet you where you were at. Maybe it was something worth considering. If you were honest with yourself, youâd never fallen out of love with him, even when youâd had your heart broken, even when you hadnât seen him for months. As soon as you had, all those feelings came rushing back in a tsunami.
Youâd just stepped inside your house, shaking sand from yourself and throwing your keys on the table. At that moment, like heâd known youâd been thinking of him, Bucky sent you a text.
There was no expectation of anything, just an offer of help. and he was rightâyou were a serial overpacker. It was one of your more endearing qualities, apparently, or so heâd told you once. You considered the offer, considered him. And miraculously, you came to a decision.
You had a week to go, and four shifts left. You only had two days between your last one and your return date to school. Youâd asked for it to be that wayâyou hadnât wanted to haunt the house with your overthinking.
You had what was considered a closing shift, though it wasnât a very long one. Four to nine, and the promise of a gorgeous sunset. You knew that Bucky was closing alongside you. After eight oâclock, youâd be on your own with him.
You managed to keep your distance for most of itâthe beach was busy that evening, and youâd had to rescue some kids that had gotten a little too far from shore and started to panic. It had all been fine, nothing except for a few tears, some shaken pride, and some furious parents, but youâd kept a sharp eye on the water regardless. You were here to do a job, after all, not moon over your ex, no matter how great he looked with no shirt and dark red shorts that brought out his tan. Youâd had the luxury of other lifeguards at the beginning of the shift, but as time went on, they dropped off one by one.
Ava was the last to leave, a couple minutes after eight. You had an hour to kill. You were staying up on Overwatch and keeping an eye on the dwindling beach goers while Bucky started clean up duty, making sure all the essential gear was in its right place, checking the batteries on the walkie talkies, and making sure none of the off-limits areas had been breached. You tried your best not to watch him, but it was hard when the beach was slowly emptying.
Right at nine, the soft clearing of Buckyâs throat alerted you to his presence. He stood next to Overwatchâs stilts, a hand extended up like he was a knight waiting to assist his princess down from her horse. You accepted his hand when you were low enough, your jump down the last remaining foot of the chair noiseless. âDid you lock up yet?â
âNot yet. I wasnât sure if you needed anything else from there.â Heâd already grabbed your bag and was holding it over one shoulder.
You nodded, waiting for him to pass you your bag, but he seemed utterly content to just follow along, continuing to hold it. âI just want to double check the schedule. I think my next shift is my last one with Joaquin.â
He fell into step with you easily, trudging through the sand in the twilight. The sun was gone but the sky was still a few shades lighter than black. You could see the outline of him from the edge of your sight. At least heâd put on a shirt now. It made him just a fraction easier to deal with. He followed you into the cabana and stayed hovering beside you while you ran a finger down the schedule tacked to one of the walls. The different times of day were highlighted in varying colours. You nodded to yourself. âYeah, last one with Torres.â
âMine was Tuesday,â Bucky said.
In the back of your head, youâd known he was going back to school, too, but it still jolted you to be reminded that youâd be drifting apart again if you didnât do something about it.
You flicked the lights off and ushered him from the cabana, locking it and tucking the key in the mailbox, which latched when you closed it. Bruce would be able to unlock it with the master key in the morning. The walk to the parking lot was quiet. Only yours and Buckyâs cars remained, tucked side by side together. You both stopped at the edge of the lot, and he turned to you. You could see the moths thumping their tiny bodies against the street light above him. He was limned in warm gold as he handed your bag back to you. This wouldnât be the last time you saw him, and you knew it, but you felt rooted to the spot like your brain was trying to trace his exact shape and height and leave it as an imprint behind your eyelids.
âWell, I guess Iâll see you,â you finally said.
Heâd been doing the same as you, twirling his car keys in his hand but otherwise making no move to go. He nodded. âGood night.â
You turned to go, but you only got halfway to your car before stopping. You felt like youâd stepped into a thin pocket of time where only the two of you existed. There was no sound except the crash of the waves and the moth bodies against the street lightâs glass. You turned, your flip flops skidding on the asphalt. He was still standing where youâd left him, still watching you. He didnât say a word as you walked back over, right into his proximity.
It was time to be brave and take a chance, you supposed. You let your bag slip off your shoulder and down to the crook of your arm before letting it fall in a pile by your feet. There was the barest hint of a question in Buckyâs eyes, and they flared wide when you put your hands on his shoulders, before you slid your arms around his neck. This was the closest youâd been to him in over a year, barring the mouth-to-mouth incident. This was real. You rolled up onto your toes. Your vision was overtaken by his eyes, so dark in colour but so bright in a sudden gleam of hope.
âIâm not saying we can pick up where we left off,â you started, your voice hushed, ânot like we were before. Iâm not even saying I want to dive in headfirst. But Iâm⌠Iâm willing to try, if you can take it slow with me.â
There it was, your heart on a platter. You didnât know if Bucky would readily accept it or if heâd have a counteroffer. He was slow to put his hands on you, like he was afraid that if he did, youâd pop like a bubble and disappear. You thought you felt one single tremor as his fingers landed on your waist, before the full weight of his palms branded you. âIâll take whatever you give me. Even if itâs just phone calls and texts. I canât do another year without you in my life.â You shivered under his touch, his words, his gaze.
âCan I just ask for one thing? Itâs the only time I will, I swear.â
You tilted your head to the side just a little. âWhat is it?â
âPlease, for the love of God, can I kiss you?â
You felt like you were going to be swallowed whole by those dark blue eyes. âYesââ
The word wasnât even fully out before your mouth was claimed by his. Your noses bumped together. The kiss was chaste, demure, even. The first one, at least. But each time his lips parted from yours, he came back, like he wasnât satisfied with just one taste. Like he was parched and you were a full cup of water and he couldnât resist chugging you. It wasnât that youâd forgotten what kissing Buckyâreally kissing Buckyâwas like, but all your memories seemed to pale in comparison when you got to experience the real thing in full sound and colour again. There was the telltale taste of peppermint in the brush of his tongue. The slow exploration of your mouth felt like he was kissing you for the first time ever, not like he was revisiting an old haunt. It made you feel weightless.
When you really did part, your breaths fanned over each otherâs faces, your heads bent together, your foreheads touching with each exhale. âPlease donât let that be the last one before we go back to college,â he muttered. The tiniest hint of the Bucky youâd known and loved before was threaded through the words, the smallest, softest whine of disgruntlement.
You couldnât hold back your laugh. âMaybe not, weâll see.â
As silly as it sounded, it felt like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders. You practically floated all the way home, a dreamy smile on your faceâyouâd seen it when youâd gone to brush your teeth. Your phone had been lighting up almost nonstop after youâd gotten into bed. It was all texts from Bucky, ranging between sweet messages heâd apparently been dying to say all summer and had kept in his notes app, and plans for the future. Those ones were more tentative, more shy. He sent you a couple of links to restaurants between your two schools, mentioned some of the events happening on his campus. He didnât expressly invite you, but⌠the implication was there, and it was clear. Now that he had the chance, he wasnât going to make light of it.
And it continued on, all through the week. He did end up helping you pack your things, throwing your last suitcase and storage box into the trunk of his car and promising to bring them to you sometime in the first week. In between packing and plans, youâd allowed him to steal some sweet, shy kisses. You couldnât help it. Your resolve had officially crumbled. And you didnât think you wanted it any other way.
Your days at work were dwindling down. You were right on the finish line. Unfortunately for you, when you got there for your next shift, Sam took one look at you and groaned before fishing out his wallet and slapping twenty bucks to Joaquinâs chest. âGod damn it, Torres, you won.â
Youâd frowned and cocked your head, confused. Sam had gestured up and down at you. âYou forgave Bucky.â
âHow do you know?â
âI can just tell. If you could see you right now, youâd know. Itâs really obvious.â
You looked down at your clothes, your bag, your lotioned legs. You didnât seem any different, you thought. You felt different, but that wasnât visible to the naked eye⌠was it?
But it became impossible to ignore when Bucky came sauntering across the sand. He wasnât working, but he held two ice cream floats in his hands, and handed one to you before slinging an arm around your waist. âWhatâs going on?â
You had been smiling goofily at him as soon as heâd come into your eyeline. And that was when you knew that your happiness was as clear and obvious as a stain on a white shirt. You gave Sam a look. âYou placed a bet?â
He snorted. âOf course I did.â
Your last day on shift was bittersweet. Bruce had thanked you for your time, and asked if youâd consider coming back the next year, which had been an easy yes. Youâd had one last ice cream at the Langsâ stand, chatted with Cassie and Scott, and joked about how the former would probably look totally different in a yearâs time.
Bucky swung by in your last hour. Heâd already been reprimanded the previous time when heâd corralled you into the showers. Youâd admittedly been playing hard to get that day, revelling in the wild look in his eyes, but youâd ultimately been mortified when heâd pinned you to the showerâs wall, a handful of your ass in his grasp, and heard a small, disapproving, âAh-hemâŚâ from Bruce. You wouldnât have been surprised if he hadnât invited you back next year.
You were still fully intending on taking it slow. You didnât want to burn too bright, too quick. You thought being on different campuses would help with that. You were doing your very last walk of the perimeter, Bucky in tow, his hand sweaty in yours, but you kept a firm grasp on him anyway. The sun was beating down on your head mercilessly.
You came to a complete, sudden halt, hand loosening from Buckyâs, when you saw a flash of copper ahead of you. Attached to the copper was the body of a model in a black and white striped bikini, doing what could only be described as a Baywatch-eqsue run into the water.
It was Natasha.
You went cold all over, despite the heat. You hadnât seen her since your graduation. She still looked great, as always. You were fairly sure she could wear a garbage bag and still turn every head on the beach. But then you were pulled back to reality by Bucky tugging on your hand. âWhyâd you stop, love?â
You looked between him and Natasha, 50 feet away. âNatashaâs here,â you said limply, gesturing to the waves.
He frowned, a look of genuine surprise on his face. âHuh, you know, I didnât even notice.â
It seemed crazyâeven you had been ogling her. The crazier thing was, you believed him. He really had been looking at you the whole time. As you resumed your walk, his eyes flicked over to her once, as you passed. But then they slid forward, to the next swimmer, and the next, and the next⌠Just a cursory glance. There was nothing there, no heat, no fire. And then when he looked at you again, he smiled. âDo you want to grab dinner when youâre done? Nothing crazy, just, I donât know, burgers? At that one place?â Then he lifted your joined hands and kissed the back of yours.
bonus author's note: a special thank you to @pinksplace, who helped me cook up a plot/trope while i was floundering; you threw me the life raft, for real. um, in the end i didn't really work with any of our spicy, rated r for radical think pieces, and it ultimately came out much more yearning-forward and with none of the planned smut... i hope you're not disappointed, the place that is pink.
