Finding your childhood ex-best friend in your mother's kitchen was definitely not on your vacation bucket list. Neither was discovering that your parents are drowning in debt—and that James has been helping them without you knowing.
Caught between resentment and reluctant gratitude, you do the only thing you can think of: force him to accept your money. But as you're trying to process the mess your life has become, you accidentally overhear a conversation between James and your father.
And what your father says about you hurts far more than any debt ever could.
▸ PAIRING: Mechanic!James Bucky Barnes x Fem!Citygirl!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: Reader pov, angst, slow burn, friends to enemies to lovers, mean reader, grumpy x sunshine, no use of y/n, lot of talking, reader is hotheaded and also very horny, please excuse her she's just a girl, daddy issues, bitchy father, financial debt, reader is almost always angry because this author believes in not suppressing your emotions
(image does not depict reader)
▸ WORD COUNT: 18.3K
▸ A/N: Welp, this got a little out of hand. I'm sorry if it's lengthy and not moving that fast, but I'm a sucker for slow burn. We'll get mechanic Bucky soon I promise.
Part 1
“James.” You said stiffly. “Hi.”
"Hi." he repeated quietly, finally averting his eyes from you and turning to your mom.
Your head felt like a jumble, flashing again to your childhood, his wide smile & round faced. the best friend you grew up with. Now, he was... this.
This tall, broad, (unhelpful & unfair to be honest), ridiculously attractive man who made your heart go haywire.
You blinked then shook your head, suddenly remembering how harshly he had spoken to you after fixing your car. You pursed your lips, and turned towards the shelves, trying to find the coffee.
Your mom and James were talking lowly behind you, their conversation becoming just a murmur in the background.
You fought the growing tension in your body, trying desperately to ignore the way the soft grey cotton of his shirt stretched across his biceps. You didn't have time for a crush right now, and especially not on a man who had been acting like a dick the day before.
Focus, you told yourself.
You opened the coffee cupboard. Coffee. Coffee. That's what you needed to focus on right now.
You frowned when you couldn't find it in the first cupboard, moving to try the one below the coffee maker.
A strong arm stretched past you, making you jump out of your skin from shock.
James grabbed a jar from the cupboard in front of you, and you stared up at him, barely a foot away.
He was even taller up close. Your nose nearly grazed the hollow of his neck, and it made your head spin with how familiar it should have been, and how painfully new the sensation of standing in front of him was.
He seemed to be breathing hard, his chest rising and falling just a few inches away from yours. His eyes were dark, unreadable as they ran over your face.
In that moment, you wanted to reach out and trace the smooth edge of his jaw. You wanted to feel the stubble under one hand, to run the other along his flexed biceps. You wanted to feel those broad hands on your bare legs, on your hips, holding you up against the nearest wall...
You clenched your jaw and took a shuddering breath. You squeezed your legs together subconsciously. Damn him.
You swallowed your dirty thoughts and grabbed the coffee can from his fingers, turning towards the coffee maker. You start the machine, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck slowly. Your back was to him now, and he took a moment to drink in the sight of you.
Your legs were just as incredible as he remembered, and your shorts barely covered your ass. He couldn't help lingering on it as you stretched to reach something.
His shorts were suddenly way too tight, and he scolded himself as he looked away. He was suddenly (painfully) remembering how you used to look in the tiny shorts you liked to wear as teenagers.
How innocent that version of himself had been then, he thought, his jaw clenching as he watched the coffee drip out of the coffee maker.
You couldn't hear your mom's words anymore, your focus narrowing in on the task in front of you.
Coffee. Focus. Coffee.
You poured the dark liquid into your mug, taking a shaky breath.
Behind you, James moved away, his feet shifting on the linoleum as he continued pulling out groceries from the bag.
You turned with your full attention and leaned back against the counter, cradling your steaming mug in your hands. Unbidden, the memory of yesterday resurfaced. His sweat-soaked chest, abs flexing as he pushed around the machine...
Not the time, you horny weirdo, you told your brain.
James was glancing at you every few seconds, so you decided to give him a look. “Since when do you do my mother’s chores?” I questioned.
“Since I’ve asked him to. He’s such a sweet boy, doesn’t let me carry a thing.” my mom interrupted, practically cooing.
You narrowed your eyes at her, before flicking back to him.
"Really?" You said dryly.
You watched as James shifted on his feet awkwardly, reaching up to rub the back of his neck.
"Yeah." He said gruffly, finally meeting your eye. "Been doin' their yard work, fixing the porch. An' other stuff." His blue eyes were unreadable, but your mind was already working.
It was hard to imagine the man in front of you mowing lawns, picking up leaves, running errands. The very idea that the James in front of you, all muscles and sharp jaw could possibly be the same dumb kid from your childhood who used to do anything he was told was laughable.
Your mom noticed the awkwardness and tried to fix it by clearing her throat. "James has been great. Really helped us out."
"Do you really need it though?" You said, raising an eyebrow. Her mouth opened and then closed, like she was trying to word it carefully.
James answered instead. "Y'all were tight with the bills, so I said I'd lend a hand." His voice was gruff, and he shifted on his feet.
Despite your irritation just a moment ago, something flared in your chest at his words.
“Tight with bills? What are you talking about.. Mom, what is he talking about?” you asked, turning to her. Her eyes were wide and she shot James a glance before grabbing your elbow and pulling you away from the kitchen.
“Help yourself to the biscuits, dear.” she called out to him, as she dragged you to the nearest room. Your face was somewhere between confusion & disbelief.
Finally, she closed the door behind us and sighed. “Sweetheart.. I know I should’ve told you, but I didn’t want you to worry for us. These past few months have been.. rough. The boutique, it’s.. not as popular now, and it’s putting us slowly in debt.” She said solemnly.
“Debt?” You echoed in disbelief. “Mom, you’re.. we’re seriously in debt?” Your eyes widened as she nodded once. “How can this.. your boutique was going so well.. why didn’t you tell me?” Your eyes searched hers.
“Because I knew you would come straight back.. and try to help us. Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out.” She said, squeezing my shoulder. You sat down on a stool, trying to understand how exactly this came to be. But however long you thought, you couldn’t figure out what exactly had led to this situation. You took a few deep breaths. Your mom had thankfully left you to recuperate on your own, but just a few moments later, there was a soft knock.
“Coming, mom.” You said, rubbing your temple. “Uh.. it’s me actually.” His deep voice said quietly, sounding.. unsure. You stood up and opened the door, revealing a slightly uncomfortable James.
You sighed deeply, before letting him walk in. "You knew.” You said, voice skillfully calm, coming from years of learning how to bottle your anger in front of others.
He took the full brunt of your gaze and didn't even flinch, which made you grind your molars.
“I did.” He spoke, hands raising in a placating gesture.
“Is that why you didn't take money from me yesterday for fixing my car? Because we're "poor"?" You asked.
He opened his mouth and closed it, trying to figure out how to word it. “It’s not that big of a deal, really. Our families have always taken care of each other.” He said.
Of course, this man hadn't changed one bit. Still the same boy who took everything on his own damn shoulders and act like it didn’t matter.
“Taking care and sparing money are two different situations, James. You can help my parents all you want, but do not put me in the same category as them. I am self sufficient.” you said.
“Sure didn’t seem self sufficient yesterday.” He muttered, making a strange mixture of anger and shame swell in your chest.
Your jaw worked for a moment, before you left the room and went to yours. You yanked open your purse and pulled out the check book you had. It only had a few pages left, but it didn't matter. You wrote down an amount of one thousand dollars and signed it, ripping it before walking back downstairs.
You find James still standing there, eyebrows pinched in concern while he rubbed a hand over his face. He looked up as soon as you walked in, and his eyes went to the paper in your hand.
"You don't have to-" he began, but you ignored him, shoving the check in front of him. He stared down at the check, not moving. His jaw was clenched again, and you could see the muscle jump with tension.
"There, for your "services"." You said, before gathering your remaining annoyance and turning to leave.
You only managed to take one step, when suddenly his hand snapped out, grabbing your wrist and pulling you back. The heat of his fingers on your bare skin sent goosebumps up your arms and you spun to face him, yanking your hand away and trying to ignore the way your heart slammed against your ribs.
"You gotta be kiddin' me." he murmured through his teeth. His body was bristling with tension as he towered over you. You pulled from his grip & crossed your arms, forcing a nonchalance you didn't really feel.
"You're helping my parents, so I'm gonna help you. Our families take care of each other, right?" You repeated back his earlier words, but the tone was polar opposite.
His jaw clenched again, but his eyes refused to soften. He pushed the check back at you.
"Take it back." He said, his arm stretching out between the two of you, the muscles of his biceps shifting under the cotton. You refused to let yourself get distracted by the sheer hotness of his arms and focused back on his face.
He was staring back at you unblinkingly, his jaw clenched and his blue eyes hard. "I told you. I don't take money from friends."
"Good thing I'm not your friend anymore then." You said, glaring back.
He narrowed his eyes down at you, taking in your defiant expression.
"You never stop with the damn dramatics, d'ya?" he grumbled.
"You were the one was fucking pouting yesterday just because I left the town." You retorted, watching his eyes widen. That’s when you realize you swore without meaning to. That’s another thing he wasn’t used to seeing girls do. His mouth fell open slightly, before closing it.
"What.. did you think I won't swear my whole life." You bit out to save grace, looking away from his shocked expression.
He blinked, taking in your words. His mouth opened to respond to your words, but shut again, and he seemed at a loss for words.
Good. You thought smugly, ignoring the way your stomach did somersaults.
His mouth kept opening and shutting, like he couldn't decide what to say, and you decided to take advantage of his shock.
"Take it." you repeated quietly, forcing the check back into his hand.
His fingers accidentally brushed over yours, and it took everything in you not to shiver. Your skin tingled where he'd touched you, but you tried not to think about it. His jaw clenched again, but he didn't throw the check back.
With that, you left him to his thoughts, deciding it was enough interaction for the day. You walked into the living room, collapsing on the couch with a sigh.
You had to be going insane. Maybe it was the heat, or maybe it was the fact that your mom just told you they were in debt. You shook your head, trying to remember that this was a vacation. You weren’t going to ruin your only days off this year by overthinking. They’ll figure it out, they’re adults.
The door swung open, and your dad walked in. Great timing, you thought to yourself. He barely glanced at you, before asking, "James is here, right?"
"In the kitchen probably." You muttered monotonously, not at all looking forward to their cheering and fistbumping or whatever.
It was a known fact that he adored him, and James idolized the guy like crazy, both coping with their daddy issues and.. “lack of a son” issue. Or at least, it was that way before you left.
For a few seconds, you actually wondered if James was mad at him for letting you leave, like he had said yesterday. But that thought was crushed when you watched your dad's face break into a grin, the two men immediately clasped hands to shake, pulling each other in for an awkward one-armed hug.
You couldn't hear them, but they were laughing loudly within moments. You stared at James as he threw his head back and laughed at something your dad was saying, his eyes bright and a soft smile on his face. You had to resist the urge to roll your eyes when your dad suddenly ruffled his hair.
James swatted his hand away, letting out a yelp of annoyance, still smiling.
Something in your chest twisted at the sight of them together, and you looked away as your dad said something to make James roll his eyes and turn away, shaking his head exasperatedly. There was a familiarity between them too, and you weren't sure why it rubbed you wrong.
This was all his fault, why did he have to be in your house all the time? You flicked on the tv with a frown, ignoring the talking.
By now, they were chatting cheerfully, the conversation getting louder, and the sound of James' gruff laughter came to your ears again. God, that laugh was hot. You clenched your jaw, trying to focus on the show playing on the television. It was pointless. You couldn't stop listening in on their conversation.
"Thanks for trimming our lawn yesterday, son. The place already looks much better." your dad said.
"Yeah? Well I was hoping to hang around, but I don’t think she’s happy with me here." James grunted in reply, and you tensed at the mention of your name.
Your dad guffawed out a laugh. "You know how she is. Never happy with anything."
You frowned at his words. What did that mean?
James huffed what sounded like a dry laugh.
"Oh, that's the understatement of the century."
Your eyes widened. Was he calling you picky? You shifted on the couch, crossing your legs.
"It's that attitude of hers. Always has been." your dad laughed again.
"Always." James agreed, and you bristled at his words.
You weren't that picky, were you? And what did he know about your attitude? You'd changed since he last saw you, you were an adult now, for god's sake.
"Don't know where she gets it from." your dad sighed, and you pursed your lips.
"Oh, I wonder where." James replied in a completely flat tone.
Wow. Your jaw nearly dropped at his words, and you were a breath away from marching in there and giving him a piece of your mind. He knew how sensitive you were about things like this, how you always hated this sort of conversation. Not that expected him to remember that.
But James had remembered.
He knew how much you hated it when people said you were dramatic, or picky. He knew because he'd known you before they turned on you. You clenched your hands tightly in your lap.
"And she gets it so bad. You remember in middle school, the only flavor of milk she liked was chocolate. Specifically, it had to be Hershey's chocolate milk. Nothin' else would do."
A small grin stretched over James' face, and you could clearly make out the dimple in his cheek.
"Oh, yeah. She was so difficult about it." He said, shaking his head, and your blood boiled at hearing your father and him remembering stories of you.
You were not difficult, you retorted internally. You were just particular.
Your dad chortled, clearly amused by the memory.
"Don't get me started." he groaned. "We used to tell her we didn't have money for her expensive tastes, and the next day that little brat would pull a handful of her money from her own little piggy bank to go buy it herself."
James' blue eyes widened. "No way."
"Oh yes she did." Your dad laughed. "Always refused help. Independent thing. That's why she was always so adamant about making sure she didn't need a loan to go to college. Always wanted to take care of things herself."
James paused, considering your dad's words. You couldn't see his face.
"Guess she never grew out of her pickiness." he said finally, and you rolled your eyes internally at his statement.
Your head was starting to ache, partially from their words and partially from you gritting your molars. This was so not the break you had hoped it was. Before they could launch into another story which indirectly insulted you, you grabbed a shrug-on and decided to take a walk. You just needed to escape from the feeling, desperately needed to cool down.
Only to hear your dad's words drift out of the house again, carried by the breeze.
"Not to mention she's a real brat about everything."
Your hands were shaking with anger now, and your breath was almost coming out in pants. How did- how could he-
James said something back, but his words seemed to have been swallowed by the breeze because you didn't catch it.
How could they-
Your dad's voice finally pierced you again. "I bet she's still a spoiled brat, just like when she was a kid. You know, that girl's too much trouble. Never really changed much."
Your jaw clenched again, hard, and your hands curled into fists. Your heart was ramming aqainst your ribcaqe, something annoying blurring your vision as You just walked out of the front gate, going wherever your legs took you.
Your eyes stung, and you blinked a few times, hating the fact that you were on the verge of tears.
You didn't often cry. It took a lot for you to well up with tears, but somehow hearing those words coming from your own father...
Your chest heaved and you sniffed, wiping at your eyes angrily. You were not going to cry.
You marched on, crossing the road and not even paying attention to the few cars that zoomed past you.
It wasn't even that you hadn't been expecting it. Your mom had always encouraged you to be independent- a trait for which you'd always thought your dad would secretly be proud of. So why- how had he been talking about you that way?
Your heart pounded as you walked, but you felt yourself slowing down, your pace almost slowing to a meander. You weren't even sure where you were going, at this point, until the cold gate of the kids' park was pressed against your palm.
You closed the gate behind you, taking a moment to catch your breath. Your eyes felt itchy, but you'd be damned if you let yourself start crying.
Your sneakers scuffed against the dry sand of the park. You sank down onto a bench, pulling your knees onto the seat and looking around the empty park.
You'd spent so many hours of your childhood there, running around and chasing after the neighborhood boys until your mom had to pull you out by the ear.
It still looked the same. Except no boys to chase after.
You leaned your head against the back of the bench and let out a breath.
You needed to be alone. You needed to cool down.
You'd spent years away from home, but you'd never once felt as on edge as you were now.
It was only a matter of time before your chest tightened up again, and you felt your vision starting to blur.
You blinked again, desperately trying to push back the sudden onslaught of tears before your eyes welled up, but nothing helped.
The dam broke. Tears started streaming down your face, your body shuddering with suppressed sobs as you let yourself crumple back onto the bench.
Your hands shook as you covered your mouth, trying to muffle the sobs that were being ripped out of your throat. Every part of you was shaking, your shoulders shaking in uncontrollable waves of grief and exhaustion that seemed to take everything out of you.
You couldn't control the tears. Your heart ached and all the anger inside you suddenly melted, leaving behind a gaping hole in your soul.
God, it hurt so much more than you'd thought it would.
You'd known your father was... disappointed in you, but hearing him actually say it out loud- it was something you'd never thought you'd hear.
It felt childish to cry this way at your age, but you couldn't help it. You let yourself cry against your hands, hoping that no one would see you in the empty park.
The park seemed to swallow your sobs, wrapping you in silence and isolation and letting you succumb to your sadness.
The sobs gradually seemed to subside, but your body was still shaking with the effort of the tears, your chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.
You sniffed again, wiping at your cheeks and trying to regain control of your emotions.
You let yourself sag back against the bench, tilting your head up to look at the afternoon sky. The sun was inching towards setting, and the sky was turning a mix of deep yellow & pink.
The tears were still staining your cheeks, but the sobs seemed to have vanished. Your body was finally stilling again, and you inhaled a deep breath, feeling the cool air fill your lungs.
The sound of crickets rang through the air, and you focused on their chirps, trying to focus on anything other than how much your heart hurt.
You couldn't tell why. Maybe it was the silence of the park, or the memories floating around your head, but your chest felt less heavy and you were less lost than you'd been moments ago.
You barely heard the crunch of gravel over the sound of blood still pumping against your eardrums. You felt exhaustion settling in your bones, and you shut your eyes, leaning your head back against the bench's back.
You felt something in front of you, and your breath hitched in your throat.
No.
You kept your eyes shut, but you could almost feel his presence through his body heat. Your heart was still beating wildly in your chest, the sudden presence of him making your skin feel feverish.
You heard him crouch down in front of you, his knees audibly cracking. You felt more than heard him sit on the ground, his face level with your knees.
The silence stretched on, and it took everything in you not to crack open your eyes, not to peer through your lashes and try to find his gaze.
Finally, James spoke up, and the sound of his deep, now rougher voice sent a shiver through your body.
His gravelly voice was surprisingly soft as he said your childhood nickname, and you swallowed.
You couldn't bring yourself to speak, too focused on keeping your eyes shut. You didn't want him to see your tear-stained face.
There was a shift of movement, then strong hands gripped your knees.
James' hands on you were as big as they'd always been, your kneecaps circled in his hands. You drew in a breath, your brain scrambling at the suddenness. His hands were big and calloused, and the roughness of his hands against your sensitive skin sent goosebumps up your legs.
You could feel your heartbeat throbbing all over your skin now, especially where he was touching you.
His hands stayed firmly planted on your knees, and your breath stuttered.
He was so close. You could almost feel his breath on your legs, and the thought of that proximity sent heat spreading through your body.
His hands were gentle, careful even, and it caught you by surprise.
"What do you want?" You finally whispered.
His hands flexed around your knees, his fingers tightening just a little.
He swallowed audibly. "You been cryin'."
Note: I would love to hear suggestions about this, whether it's too angsty or talky or is the reader too emotional, all are welcome <3
When your car breaks down in the middle of nowhere, the last person you expect to come to your rescue is your estranged childhood best friend. Except the chubby-cheeked boy you once stole apples with is gone. In his place stands a man sculpted like a Greek god from the softest stone—beautiful, sharp-edged, and nothing like you remember.
At first, he’s kind. Familiar enough to make you think the years apart haven’t changed everything. But beneath the warm smiles and bubbly words lingers something unresolved—hurt that never quite faded.
And you learn quickly that not everyone is happy you came back.
▸ PAIRING: Mechanic!James Bucky Barnes x Fem!Citygirl!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, reader pov, angst, slow burn, friends to enemies to lovers, mean reader, kinda grumpy x sunshine, no use of y/n, mentions of abandonment, description of male body, mentions of fingering, slight miscommunication?
(image does not depict reader, i just put that for funsies because i love manchild and it kinda fit)
▸ WORD COUNT: 15.6K
▸ A/N: This is my first time writing, all suggestions and corrections are welcome. Sorry for inconsistencies, if any. Also, should I make this a series?
You knew you shouldn’t have let your parents talk you into visiting them in the middle of summer. Every possible sign from the universe had tried to warn you.
First, when you bought your plane tickets on that “totally legit” website your cousin had recommended, only to find out it was a scam. Then your boss —who wouldn’t have approved your vacation unless someone held him at gunpoint— reluctantly agreed because you literally hadn’t missed a single day of work.
Yesterday your suitcase zipper exploded out of nowhere while you packed —seriously, how does a zipper just detonate?— so you threw everything into your backseat like a raccoon with a personal vendetta.
And now, your car had decided to die in the middle of the highway when you were so freaking close to home.
Your shirt clung to your back; the sun was so bright your eyes stung as you squinted at the faded road sign ahead.
15 Miles to Raybridge.
“Perfect,” you hissed, shielding your eyes as you leaned over the hood of your very hot, very dead car. Maybe some sort of mechanical enlightenment would strike you like a divine vision.
It did not.
All you saw was metal, wires, and a chaotic tangle of things you wished you’d paid attention to back when you used to hand your father his tools.
You tugged your phone out of your pocket—fine, you could call your dad or one of your neighbours— and unlocked it only to find… nothing.
Zero bars.
Absolutely no signal.
“You gotta be kidding me,” you lifted the phone toward the sky as if the universe might reward your efforts. You took a few steps. Tilted it. Stretched your arm like you were trying to make contact with extraterrestrial life.
You were so focused on your mission to summon a single bar of service that you didn’t notice the blue pickup truck slowing to a stop beside you.
A man’s voice called out your name, low, surprised, like he wasn’t sure you were real, cut through the shimmering heat. You turned from your screen, frowning, only to meet a pair of bright blue eyes. “Holy shit, it is you.” he breathed out.
“Uh… can I help you?” you murmured, lowering your phone as the stranger parked on the side of the road.
“I’m James.” he tapped a hand to his chest. “We were neighbors. We used to make mud pies behind the Carsons’ barn, remember? And hide in Roger’s apple field whenever we skipped Sunday mass….” his smile faltered when you continued staring.
“Our families spent Christmas together for years.”
“Oh! Right– Hi” you chirped, maybe a little too brightly. Relief washed across his face instantly, his smile blooming as he stepped out of the truck.
The last time you’d seen him, he’d been shorter than you, with braces the size of a small fence and cheeks so round the grandmas of both families fought over who got to pinch them.
Now…
Now he stood a head taller, all long limbs and broad shoulders. The braces were gone, replaced by high cheekbones and a sharp jaw that could probably cut . The soft blue T-shirt clung to him like it had personally signed up for the job, stretching over muscle and revealing a sliver of strong forearms where the sleeves were rolled.
“Car trouble?” he asked, snapping you out of the blatant staring you were definitely doing.
You cleared your throat. Violently. “I– yeah. My car’s trying to kill me, actually.” You gestured helplessly to the smoking hood. “At this point I’m tempted to leave it here and walk the rest of the way.”
“Don’t worry,” his voice dropped warm and confident. “I can handle it.”
He went to his truck, opened the passenger door, and pulled out a red toolbox like it weighed nothing. Sunlight caught in his hair as he leaned under the hood.
“Didn’t know you were coming back.”
He murmured, shooting a glance.
"I'm.. just visiting." You said, crossing your arms as you watched him, definitely interested in the car insides.
He glanced at you over his shoulder for a moment, the blue of his eyes vivid against the sunlight. It was different—and strangely unsettling— being under his gaze now for some reason.
“How long you’re staying?” He asked, disappearing back into the engine.
“A week, maybe two,” you replied, shifting uncomfortably on your feet. James knew you better than anyone here, more than your own damn family at times, or at least he used to.
But the silence between you somehow felt heavier than the heat.
He came out again, wiping a layer of sweat from his forehead with one arm and holding up a grimy tool in the other.
“Your alternator’s dead.” he informed you.
You cringed, nodding.
“That sounds… bad.”
He huffed a laugh, leaning over the hood again as he dug back in with the tool.
“Nothing I can’t fix.”
Your eyebrows arched. “You’re an expert car savior now, huh?”
He shrugged. “A lot of things changed while you’ve been gone. "
The statement hung in the air for a moment. There was something behind it, a thinly veiled accusation you couldn’t name.
“Right.” you said, suddenly uncomfortable. “I’ve only been gone a few years, James. What’s that supposed to mean?”
He paused whatever he was doing, straightened up to his full towering height, and turned back to you. Something close to a scowl darkened his features.
“You really need me to spell it out?”
A beat of silence settled in. He didn’t say anything more, but the sudden tension in his jaw said enough.
It shouldn’t have stung.
You’d left—you’d left for a reason, and you’d said your goodbyes. But somehow this new, sharp-edged James had you faltering more than the old one.
“I didn’t have much of a choice, James,” you finally broke the silence. “Everyone knows there’s no future here for people like me. I…” you swallowed dryly. “I had to leave.”
He snorted. “No future, huh?” his tone changed, mocking. “You sound just like your daddy.”
It felt like a slap more than any words could’ve done. All the air left your lungs, and the words spilled out angrily, without thinking.
“You mean the one you love? The man you practically worshipped?
James’ jaw clenched as the accusation hung in the air, heavy and damning. He took a step closer, towering over you. You tried to hide any sign of weakness, but your hands shook.
“Worshipped.” he echoed. “You think I worshipped the man that took my best friend away from me with a goddamn suitcase?” James’ voice rose, angrier than you’d ever heard.
Your eyes widened, but if he saw it he didn’t care. He took another step closer, a muscle in his jaw jumping as he leaned down to meet your gaze.
“You think I didn’t know you were leaving for months before you decided to tell me?” he hissed. “You could’ve been anywhere. But you left me here.”
The confession hit you like a punch, knocking the air out of your lungs. “I… tried to tell you….” you struggled to get the words out, but he shook his head, the anger making the blue in his eyes seem brighter.
"Forget it." He scoffed, before returning to fix your car.
You stared at him for a moment, mouth open in shock. He ignored you as he leaned back into the engine, shoulders rigid.
You crossed your arms, trying to control the swirl of emotions. He’d never been this angry with you before, never accused you of leaving him here. What the hell was his problem?
You tried to swallow the hurt as you leaned against the car, silently watching him.
His hands moved with practiced efficiency, tightening and adjusting. For a moment, you focused only on the way his fingers handled the tools, almost admiring.
You shook your head at the sudden thought.
Who the hell thinks about hands at a time like this?
You closed your eyes and let out a breath, trying to push away any confusing thoughts. As if he could feel your gaze on him, James straightened, grabbing the hem of his shirt with one hand and wiping his brow.
The strip of exposed skin revealed his waist—narrow, all muscle and strength.
Oh Lord.
Your cheeks flushed a beet red and you fixed your gaze on your shoes.
You waited in silence for a while, the heat nearly intolerable and the tension still heavy between you two. After what felt like an eternity, James finally finished up with the engine, closing the hood with a decisive slam.
His eyes flickered to yours. “You should be good now.”
You blinked, still trying to recover from your brain’s very inappropriate train of thought. “Oh. Good.” You cleared your throat, avoiding his gaze.
“How much do I owe you?”
He was silent for a moment, and when you dared to look up, the sharp edges were gone from his expression. He looked almost tired.
“It’s on the house.” he muttered before turning, toolbox in hand.
Your mouth opened then closed. "That's not.. I'll pay of course.. you don't need to do that." You said. He didn’t turn, just raised one shoulder in a half-shrug.
“Don’t worry about it.” with that, he tossed the box into the bed of his truck, not once looking at you.
He was actually just leaving? Like that?
You stared at him then frowned, annoyance mixing with hurt. “Are you seriously just going to ignore—”
James interrupted, the soft sound of your childhood nickname tumbling from his lips. You were stunned momentarily as he finally looked up at you. He shut his eyes for a second like he was gathering courage, and the look on his face was something you’d never seen on him before.
Vulnerable.
“Can you just… not.” he muttered. “Just please don’t.”
Your throat burned at the nickname, jaw working, before pride mixed with annoyance.
"Fine. Be that way." You muttered, before going back to your car and taking off.
If he said anything more you didn’t hear it. You got into the driver’s seat and slammed the door, turning the key to start the now-functioning engine.
You didn’t wait for James as you pulled back onto the road, away from him and the uncomfortable feeling in your stomach.
You couldn’t get his voice out of your head.
”A lot has changed since you left.”
He couldn’t seriously expect you to stay here. In this town where you knew everyone but they didn’t even know you. Where you were forced to be the version they wanted you to be instead of the person you’d always been.
No, leaving was the right choice. You knew that.
So why the hell did you feel so damn guilty?
"It's not my fault this shitty town has nothing." You scoffed to yourself.
You drove the rest of the way with your thoughts in a tangle and the music blasted loud enough to drown out any lingering words. Even though your AC managed to work properly now, you kept the windows down, hoping the summer heat would somehow burn away the heavy feeling in your chest.
You almost missed the sign towering over the side of the road.
WELCOME TO RAYBRIDGE
You slowed as you entered town, scanning familiar buildings and landmarks. The grocery store, the small movie theater. The park where you played as a kid.
Most people were heading home from work or running late afternoon errands—the ones you recognized did double takes when they saw you. It annoyed you for some reason, the way they stared.
Finally, you pulled into the familiar parking lot of your childhood home, noting the flower beds your mother had planted years ago and the curtains she’d put up just last week.
You switched off the engine and sat for a moment. Your parents knew you were coming, and you were already dreading the questions you’d have to deal with during your visit.
Not to mention you’d have to tell your father about the damn alternator.
You groaned, gathering your things and shoving open the car door.
Your gaze flickered once to the Barnes household next door, before shaking off your thoughts and walking up the steps.
The moment you opened the front door and saw the living room, the tension in your shoulders relaxed.
Nothing had changed in the years since you left. The couch was the same, photos on the mantel were the same, even those damn fake flowers from the early 2000s were still there. You shook your head, taking off your shoes as you called out.
“Mom? I’m here!”
You were immediately attacked by what seemed like a lump of yarns, wet kisses being planted all over your cheeks.
You grimaced with a laugh. "Alright mom, you can calm down now." You chuckled.
"My baby is finally here! Oh how I've missed you. I'm so glad you came to visit your old ass parents." She said, leaning into the dramatics.
You rolled your eyes. "Someone's gotta be the good guy I guess." You shrugged, before both of you fell into a fit of giggles.
"Okay, okay.. enough chittering missy, you go rest in your room and unpack.. or unload, I'll get something going." She said, briefly eyeing the lack of a suitcase.
You saluted her before walking up the stairs with half your clothes in your hands. You dumped them on a chair before plopping on your bed, staring at the ceiling fan.
Thoughts of Bucky crawled into your head again, unwilling, you told yourself.
James. You reminded yourself. He wasn't the lovely, chubby Bucky you knew anymore.
He was annoying, self centred, arrogant and full of biceps and long hair and wait- what were you thinking again?
You groaned and laid on your stomach.
Just as you were about to rant to the gods, a loud roar of a lawnmower interrupted your thoughts. "Who the hell-" you muttered, turning over, staring out the open window, and your mouth went dry.
Outside was possibly the most attractive human being you’d ever laid eyes on. He was standing next to a lawnmower, shirtless in the summer heat, his jeans riding low on his hips.
Your brain malfunctioned for a few seconds as the man ran a hand through his long hair, revealing a set of abs that looked like they’d been sculpted by some talented artist.
Holy Hell.
He was tall and muscular, his shoulders broad, his arms flexed as he leaned down and pushed the mower forward a few feet, a sheen of sweat covering his torso like some sort of hot, hot greek god.
You felt heat rising in your cheeks as you watched him move. His back was to you, but you were sure with a body like that, his front was just as good as his back.
You really needed to stop staring.
But you couldn’t rip your eyes away from him. He was pushing the lawnmower with all his weight now, and the muscles of his shoulders, back, and arms flexed in a way that made you want to fan yourself.
Your face heated up even more as he suddenly reached up to pull those black hair away from his neck, and you stared unabashedly at the way his bicep bulged.
You were in so much trouble.
Before you could fantasize more, he turned. Your mouth hung open, because there stood James.
Once again, you were sharply reminded of how much he had changed. There was barely a trace of the round-faced childhood best friend you remember, replaced by this man. A man who looked like he’d stepped out some hot fireman calendar while you’d been away, all strong muscles, jaw with a rough shadow of beard, and abs you could’ve made a religion out of.
Your eyes dropped from his face to travel down his chest, taking in pecs and abs that looked like they’d been chiseled by a master. They were dripping with sweat, and his jeans were just too low, exposing the top edge of his black boxers.
His skin was tan, smooth and flawless and perfect, and for a second you wondered how it must feel to touch him.
His face looked just as good as the rest of him… maybe even better. His lips were full, his jaw chiseled, that jaw that was still sprinkled with a layer of dark stubble.
You licked your dry lips involuntarily, hand itching to reach between your legs.
He took off his cap with one hand and ran his fingers through his sweat-soaked brown hair, cursing under his breath at the heat.
Your legs turned to jelly as you watched him rake the hair back, revealing a brow with a sheen of sweat, eyes sharp and focused ahead.
His jaw was clenched, and for a moment you wondered what he was thinking about before your eyes drifted to the strip of skin just above his jeans and you suddenly forgot what your own name was.
And somehow, things got worse.
He reached back to pull his shirt from the grass and slipped it on, giving you a perfect view of those arms flexing. A second later that delicious torso was covered and you tried desperately to control your breathing.
He walked over to his lawnmower, giving you a full view of his ass.
Good lord.
What were you witnessing right now? Was this some sort of hallucination? Some fever dream?
He turned back to his task, running a hand through his hair again, and you nearly collapsed into a heap. The muscles of his arms flexed again, and you wondered what kind of torture he put his body through to get that sort of muscle definition. Whatever the hell he was working with, it was doing things to you.
In the back of your mind, you felt ridiculous. Your first day back, and already you were getting flustered over a boy.
Even as you forced yourself to tear away from the window (only because his gaze flicked up once), the image followed you into your dreams the next day.
His face was the first thing you saw as you opened your eyes, and your mind immediately went back to the sight of him from the day before.
Those arms, his abs, the sweat on his biceps that had you practically drooling…
You squeezed your eyes shut again, trying desperately to shake away the memory.
It was just the heat messing with you.
Right?
Your thighs still felt sticky, sweat or uhm.. other things, you weren't sure. You huffed and trudged into the shower.
The cool water helped clear your head, and you were finally able to control your brain enough to think of something else… anything else.
You weren’t a kid anymore, you reminded yourself. You were a grown ass woman, for gods sake. You couldn’t still get flustered over a boy you hadn’t seen in ages.
You frowned at the obnoxious products on the shelf. But there wasn't much choice so you shrugged and hoped it wouldn't kill your hair. You washed the long strands with the strawberry shampoo, honey body wash scrubbing into the soft skin.
It took an insane amount of willpower to not let your hands wander as you washed, the image of him in your head and the memory of his sweat-slicked abs still burned in your brain.
You groaned in frustration and shut the water off. This was ridiculous.
You were drying your hair, dressed in shorts and a tank top, as you wandered into the kitchen.
"Mom, is there any-" you were cut off when a chuckle sounded through the kitchen.
Your mother’s surprised laugh was the first thing that registered, and then your jaw dropped.
James Barnes was standing in your house, his arms filled with food containers and a gallon jug of milk.
He looked just as good in a grey t-shirt as he did yesterday, only now his hair was tamed and combed back.
His blue eyes widened as he caught sight of you, and his hands froze where they currently were setting down the groceries.
“Uh….” he said intelligently, mouth opening and closing uselessly. His eyes ran over your face, your neck, and lower, taking in the bare legs he used to be so well-acquainted with.
“Good morning hun!” she said, clearly trying to break the sudden tension. “We have a… guest.”
"I can see." You murmured, shooting her a look.
You swallowed dryly and turned back to James, who was still staring at you.
summary | when newly-appointed congressman bucky barnes reluctantly hires the sweetest, most radiant assistant imaginable, he doubts your place in the cutthroat world of politics—until you prove you can run it and melt his guard all at once.
tags | slow burn, grumpy x sunshine, office romance, unspoken feelings, miscommunication, overhearing a conversation, mutual pining, angst with a happy ending, emotional hurt/comfort, bucky is bad at feelings but good at kissing, reader cries a lot, it’s fine, sensitive!reader
a/n | reader’s based on our amaya papayas personality, we love our sensitive gangsta. based on this request
taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨
ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ
divider by @cafekitsune
Bucky still couldn’t figure out how he ended up here.
Congress. Of all places. The marble halls, the high ceilings, the egos inflated enough to float over the Capitol dome. And then there was him—James Buchanan Barnes—who could barely make it through a two-minute speech without sounding like a half-defrosted android.
His suit itched. The tie choked. And don’t even get him started on the shoes.
He sat behind his too-polished desk in his too-expensive office, staring blankly at an inbox full of emails with subject lines that made his eyes twitch. Urgent: Appropriations Strategy. Reminder: Agriculture Committee Briefing. Lunch with Donor—Move to Friday?
Lunch with a donor. Christ.
He rubbed a hand over his face, resisting the urge to lay his forehead flat on the desk. This wasn't him. He was a soldier, not a politician. He gave speeches like he gave orders—short, dry, and with zero charisma.
Every time he opened his mouth in public, he could see reporters wince. His team had tried coaching him. “Smile more.” “Loosen up.” “Try not to look like you're about to gut someone with a bayonet.”
So far, the best he'd managed was a half-smirk that came off more like a nervous tick.
Bucky sighed. Deep, soul-weary sigh. He looked at the framed picture on the wall—him shaking hands with someone he was pretty sure hated him. That was politics, apparently. Pretending to enjoy small talk with people who could and would stab you in the back with a regulation-sized American flag pin.
His phone buzzed again.
Another email.
Subject: Staff Assistant Interviews – You Still Haven’t Picked Anyone
Bucky groaned. That damn assistant position. He’d pushed the interviews for three weeks now, mostly because he couldn’t think of anything worse than sitting through a dozen conversations with people who’d use phrases like “synergize the legislative workflow” without flinching.
He didn’t want someone who talked like a press release. He just wanted someone who would show up, get shit done, and not ask too many questions when he had to disappear for an afternoon to punch a wall in private.
But apparently, you couldn’t say that in a job posting.
He glanced at the stack of printed resumes on his desk. He’d skimmed a few. Too polished. Too eager. Too… not him. None of them had that quality he couldn’t quite define—something real. Something normal. Someone who wouldn’t blink if he came into the office looking like he’d fought a raccoon on the metro.
The door creaked open slightly. It was Sam. Again.
“Still haven’t picked anyone?” Sam leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.
Bucky didn’t look up. “They all talk like LinkedIn threw up on a resume template.”
Sam chuckled. “Want me to just find you someone?”
“God, yes.”
And just like that, he handed off the decision. Delegated. Efficient. Which, ironically, made him feel even more like he didn’t belong here.
Bucky leaned back in his chair, exhaling like a man twice his age. He looked at the ceiling. It stared back.
Congress. Jesus.
────────────────────────
Some Days Later
Bucky didn’t look up when the door opened.
He figured it was Brenda. Maybe Sam again. Hopefully not another reporter asking for a quote he’d regret later. He was mid-email—something about committee assignments and a lunch reschedule—when he heard it.
“Hi! Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry I’m a tiny bit early—traffic was a dream, can you believe that?”
Not Brenda.
The voice was too bright, too chipper, and far too comfortable for someone stepping into a federal office for the first time.
Bucky looked up slowly, pen still in his hand, and there you were—framed in his doorway like a damn Hallmark commercial. Floral dress under a structured blazer, hair bouncing, smile like you’d just walked into brunch, not a congressional office. You carried a leather bag and a clipboard and somehow radiated the scent of confidence and cinnamon.
He blinked.
You didn’t flinch. Just walked right in like you’d been doing it your whole life.
“Congressman Barnes, right?” You extended your hand, polished nails and all. “I’m the assistant Sam recommended. So nice to meet you.”
He didn’t take your hand right away. He was still trying to process the human sunbeam in front of him. You looked like someone who hosted charity galas and had a Pinterest board for every holiday.
Eventually, he stood. Shook your hand. Warm grip. Firm. No hesitation.
“Right,” he said, voice low and flat. “Sam said you’d be coming by.”
You smiled even wider. “I brought a printed copy of my resume, just in case. I know Sam already sent it over, but you never know. Oh! And I made you a little overview—color-coded—of what your schedule might look like if we streamline some of the overlapping committee times. Brenda said Wednesdays are chaos.”
You placed the papers on his desk like you’d done this a hundred times.
Bucky glanced at the overview. It was in soft pastel shades, each block of time cleanly labeled, with footnotes. Actual footnotes.
He looked back up at you. Still smiling. Still sparkling, somehow.
“You always this organized?” he muttered.
Your laugh was soft but definite. “Only when I’m awake.”
Christ.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t really do… interviews.”
“Good,” you said, cheerful as hell. “I don’t really do bad interviews.”
He had no idea what to do with that.
“I work hard,” you went on, tone bright but grounded now. “I don’t miss deadlines. I know how to read people. I’ve handled CEOs, campaign donors, and one very angry florist. And I’m from New York, so I’m nice—but only as long as you need me to be.”
That part made him pause.
Your smile stayed sweet, but your eyes—sharp. That flicker of edge.
He exhaled. “You’re hired.”
────────────────────────
A Few Weeks Later
The thing was—Sam hadn’t exaggerated.
You were, somehow, even better than advertised.
You had shown up the next morning with a personalized planner, a labeled filing system, and two different cold brews—one for him, one “just in case he preferred oat milk.” Within three days, his inbox was tamed, his schedule was tight, and his meetings started and ended on time.
You smiled your way through logistical nightmares. You turned budget briefings into organized, annotated packets. You once managed to reschedule an entire committee meeting without pissing anyone off. That alone should’ve won you a medal.
And the worst part?
Everyone adored you.
Brenda now referred to you as her “angel girl.” The intern, Emily, had started mimicking your outfit choices. Even grumpy old Greg from Finance smiled when you passed him in the hall, and Bucky hadn’t seen Greg smile since the start of his term as Congressman.
Meanwhile, Bucky… didn’t know how to talk to you.
You were polite, always. Sweet. Occasionally too sweet—offering him snacks mid-meeting, asking if he needed a moment to breathe after intense calls. Once, you said “You’re doing amazing, by the way,” after a disastrous media interview.
He’d stared at you like you’d spoken another language.
He didn’t know what to do with that kind of warmth. He knew how to handle tension, confrontation, icy professionalism. He could navigate sharp words and sharp eyes. But compliments? Softness? Your sunny little “good morning!” every day before you sat down to absolutely decimate his workload?
It threw him off.
And you never tried to throw him off. That was what made it worse. You weren’t fake. You didn’t flirt or suck up. You were just… like this. Bouncy and competent. Bubblegum and brute force. Warmth wrapped in weaponized organization.
He wasn’t sure if it made him uncomfortable or impressed. Maybe both.
He heard you laugh in the hallway one afternoon. Loud. Joyful. Brenda was giggling too. Probably over that dumb plant someone brought in. You’d named it. Called it Marvin. Marvin the Money Tree. Bucky didn’t understand why that made everyone so happy.
He sipped his coffee. It was oat milk. He hadn’t asked for that.
You’d just noticed.
One month in, Bucky realized you might actually be magic.
You handled press requests like a PR veteran, fielded donors with the grace of a diplomat, and had somehow convinced the coffee cart guy downstairs to give the staff a “Capitol Crew” discount.
Bucky didn’t know how you did it—maybe you smiled at the guy too nicely, or maybe you just offered to reorganize his inventory out of the goodness of your glittery heart.
You never stopped smiling.
Even when the job sucked. Even when schedules collapsed, or the media spun things sideways, or the office printer jammed for the fourth time in a single day—you smiled. Not in a fake, corporate way. In a real way. Like the chaos never got to you.
It made him suspicious.
He watched you from behind his desk more often than he meant to. You always moved like you were dancing to some rhythm he couldn’t hear. Laughing with interns, giving Brenda a shoulder squeeze on a bad day, complimenting someone’s shoes before dropping a twenty-slide briefing deck into their inbox.
And every time you turned that blinding kindness on him, Bucky froze like you’d aimed a spotlight at a feral cat.
He didn’t know how to respond when you handed him color-coded notes for a hearing and said, “I highlighted your speaking points—if you want to wing it, I backed up the quotes with data so you sound casual but still super smart.”
Or when you brought him soup from that one hole-in-the-wall deli because he coughed once and you “just had a feeling.”
He grunted. He nodded. He said “Thanks,” but it always came out dry, stiff, like someone had to wring it out of him.
You didn’t seem to mind.
You never flinched. Never made it awkward. Just smiled and moved on to the next task like your kindness didn’t require a thank you. And that bugged him more than anything.
He was used to people playing politics—smiling with their teeth, angling for favor. But you? You brought him homemade banana bread on a Monday because “Mondays are brutal and I didn’t want you to suffer more than necessary.”
Who does that?
He watched you now, through the glass wall of his office. You were standing in the hallway, coaching the new comms kid on how to navigate a donor event, switching between “babe” and “sweetheart” like it was a dialect, your hands moving as fast as your mouth. You were wearing some lavender thing today. Smelled like citrus and resolve.
Bucky looked back at his laptop. He hadn’t typed in ten minutes.
He hated this.
Not you. Just this feeling.
────────────────────────
Three Months In
It started with a meeting.
A routine one—just a few junior reps and a legislative strategist who looked like he’d swallowed a thesaurus. You had prepped Bucky flawlessly. Briefing notes, talking points, key players—all in a soft yellow folder with a post-it that said, “You’ve got this :)”
He didn’t got this.
The strategist spent the whole meeting throwing jargon like darts. Bucky kept pace, mostly. You even leaned in halfway through to quietly remind him which bill number they were referencing. Still, when the room cleared, Bucky felt like he’d just walked out of a storm.
You stayed behind, re-organizing his desk without being asked. “You did really well,” you said softly. “I know this guy was wordy but you held your ground.”
Bucky nodded.
But something in his chest pulled tight.
You were too kind. Too gentle about it. It made him feel like a child being praised for tying his shoes.
He didn’t say anything then.
But it stuck.
You were good at your job—he knew that. But politics wasn’t just about competence. It was brutal. Ugly. People chewed you up and spat you out for smiling too much, for being too friendly, too soft. And you… you glowed like you didn’t know the world could be mean.
He couldn’t shake the worry. That someday soon, someone was going to say the wrong thing to you in the wrong room, and you’d come undone. Or worse—you wouldn’t. You’d just… leave. Quietly.
So a few days later, when Sam called, Bucky didn’t think twice before stepping into his office, closing the door, and letting the words out.
“She’s not cut out for this,” he said.
Right outside the door, you were balancing two coffees—his preferred dark roast and your own sugar-heavy concoction—and a muffin from the café down the street. You’d been about to knock.
You didn’t.
“She’s good at the job,” Bucky went on, his voice low but firm, “but I don’t know if this is the right setting for her. Politics isn’t about being nice, Sam. She’s too… bright. Too open. That’s not sustainable here.”
Your stomach dropped.
It was the way he said it. Like being who you were wasn’t just a mismatch—it was a liability.
Too bright. Too open. Too much.
You’d heard that before. Too sweet, too emotional, too loud, too bubbly, too soft. Always a smile, always a “thank you,” always a goddamn post-it note. And it was never enough. It never counted. People liked it until they didn’t.
You blinked hard, eyes burning suddenly. You hated how fast the tears welled—hated that he’d never even raised his voice, never said it cruelly. That somehow made it worse. He hadn’t meant to hurt you. He’d just meant it.
You stayed frozen, heart thudding.
Then Sam, through the phone, “You sure this is about her not fitting in… or you not knowing what to do with someone like her?”
You didn’t wait to hear the rest.
You set the coffee and muffin on the side table near his door, the yellow post-it stuck neatly to the lid. It said “You looked tired today. Hope this helps.”
But you didn’t knock.
And for the first time since you’d started, you walked away without smiling.
────────────────────────
It started subtly.
You didn’t stop smiling—but it didn’t reach your eyes anymore.
Bucky told himself he was imagining it at first. That maybe you were just tired, or busy, or maybe it was allergy season. But the longer he watched you—really watched you—the more certain he became that something had shifted.
You still did your job. That was never in question.
Emails answered. Calls returned. Schedules maintained like clockwork. You still handed him briefing packets with neat highlights, still walked him through the day’s chaos each morning.
But the post-its stopped.
No more “You’ve got this!” or “Don’t forget to drink water :)”
Your voice, once full of light and little jokes and endearing asides, had gone quieter. Measured. Professional. Nothing personal. You didn’t ask how his weekend was. Didn’t tease him for frowning at your color coding. You didn’t call him “bossman” anymore.
You just called him Congressman.
That one hit the hardest.
The rest of the office noticed too. Jimmy asked where your “sparkle” went. Brenda had quietly asked Bucky if you were okay. He’d just shrugged, said you were probably busy. But deep down, something pulled at him.
You hadn’t brought him coffee in nearly two weeks.
He hadn’t realized how much he noticed it until it was gone.
You still smiled at other people—still lit up when interns needed help, still made time to compliment someone’s new haircut. But with him, there was a wall now. Polite. Distant. Not cold, exactly. Just… not warm.
You didn’t linger. You didn’t laugh with him anymore. You didn’t look at him like you had before—like he was something worth rooting for.
And the worst part?
He didn’t know why.
He couldn’t remember doing anything—saying anything—that would’ve caused it. But then again, he hadn’t been paying enough attention, had he? You’d been right there, every damn day, and he’d barely looked up. Barely said more than necessary.
He didn’t realize he missed you until the version of you he knew was gone.
And now, sitting at his desk, watching you work across the office with that tight-lipped expression and that perfectly put-together posture, he felt something sharp twist in his chest.
He missed the sunshine.
And somehow, he was sure it was his fault.
────────────────────────
He should’ve canceled everything.
But he didn’t.
Bucky woke up feeling like he’d been run over by a truck, the kind that reversed and hit him twice. Fever high, head pounding, body aching like his joints had finally decided to unionize and strike.
But he had a subcommittee meeting at 10 a.m., and three calls with constituents scheduled after that, and some damn transportation proposal that needed his signature.
He could barely see straight.
He tried emailing Brenda, but it took him ten minutes to type two lines. Gave up. Called you instead.
You picked up on the second ring. “Good morning, Congressman—”
“Hey,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “I, uh… I need you to bring some files from the office. And… maybe a laptop. There’s stuff I gotta do.”
You paused. “Are you okay?”
He didn’t answer fast enough.
“Mr. Barnes?” This time your voice had real concern in it—soft but sharper, like it used to sound before he ruined everything.
“I’m fine,” he lied. “Just a cold. I just… I need the budget report and that meeting brief for the committee.”
There was a pause. Then, “Text me your address. I’m coming over.”
Before he could object, you hung up.
You showed up 40 minutes later.
He didn’t expect you to let yourself in, but you did, like you belonged there—like someone had to keep things running. You had the laptop, the folders, your phone already out and your expression focused.
You were still in your usual outfit—put-together and professional—but there was something else in your eyes when you saw him slumped on the couch, pale, sweaty, and looking every bit like a man who shouldn’t be left alone with political responsibility.
“Jesus, Mr. Barnes,” you said, setting everything down. “You look like death.”
“I told you, I’m—”
“You’re not fine,” you snapped, and for the first time in months, your voice had bite. “You’re burning up. Go. Bed. Now.”
He blinked. “You’re not my—”
“I said bed, Barnes. Don’t make me speak again.”
That shut him up.
You guided him to the bedroom with surprising gentleness, adjusted the blankets, took his temperature without flinching.
Muttered something about idiots and stubborn men as you set a glass of water on the nightstand. Then you left the door half open and walked straight into his living room like it was your war zone.
And then?
You took over.
Bucky stirred to the sound of your voice. It was steady. Calm. Businesslike. Something about the infrastructure bill and a scheduling conflict.
He blinked at the ceiling, groggy but conscious enough to realize the headache had dulled. The water glass on his nightstand was full again. The thermometer was gone. So were most of the folders.
But your voice remained.
“…no, we’re not pushing it another week. The Congressman already reviewed the amended language,” you said, sharp but not yet rude.
Bucky turned toward the open bedroom door. He could just barely see the edge of you standing in the living room, phone to your ear, one hand on your hip.
A pause.
And then—
“Okay, you know what? You don’t gotta raise your voice at me, sweetheart. That ain’t how this works.”
His eyebrows rose. That tone? That wasn’t the voice he’d grown used to over the last month.
Your next sentence came faster. Smoother. The vowels shortened. The sugar gone.
“You show up late, you miss deadlines, and now you got the audacity to talk down to me? Mm-mm. Uh-uh. Try again.”
The silence on the other end must’ve been long, because your voice dropped lower, firmer.
“You’re an extremely odd individual, and I do not wanna speak to you anymore. So here’s what you’re gonna do: fix your mistake, resubmit the form correctly, and stop wastin’ my damn time.”
There was a beat. Then you scoffed, low and dry. “Don’t get slick with me. I’m bein’ very polite right now.”
Another pause.
Then a final, clipped, “Goodbye.”
Click.
You exhaled hard. There was a rustle of papers. A muttered “weirdo” under your breath. And then the soft tap, tap, tap of you moving to the laptop again, your tone immediately shifting back into something more composed as you started your next call.
And yet, it wasn’t jarring. It was seamless. Natural. Like your sweetness wasn’t a mask, but a choice—one you could take off the second someone disrespected you.
And he’d never heard anything so impressive in his life.
You’d gone from high-level strategy to full-on verbal takedown in under five seconds and didn’t even flinch. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t soften it.
Bucky stared at the ceiling, half in awe, half in… something else he couldn’t quite name.
Maybe fever wasn’t the only reason his chest felt tight.
────────────────────────
By the time the sun had dipped low and the apartment took on that soft, golden hue, the chaos of the day had fully subsided.
You were back to yourself—at least, the version Bucky knew. Sweet. Bubbly. Moving around his apartment like it wasn’t the least bit strange that you’d just taken over a congressman’s workload in a knit cardigan and a cloud-patterned scrunchie.
He stood in the doorway now, blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a reluctant ghost, watching you tidy up the living room while humming under your breath.
You turned before he could say anything, your face lighting up like it always did when you saw him—even now, even after the day you’d had.
“Hey, sunshine,” you said softly, like he was the one who needed reassuring. “You should be in bed.”
“I’m fine,” he muttered, throat still raw.
You gave him a look that was very not convinced but didn’t press it. Instead, you stepped forward with a little tablet and a closed folder in hand.
“I wrapped everything up,” you said, tone gentle, like you didn’t want to overwhelm him. “Sorted the subcommittee notes, handled the calls, pushed your morning meetings. Everything’s in here, just in case.”
You held it out to him with both hands, like it was fragile.
“It should all run smooth when you’re back in the office,” you added. “No big hassle, I promise.”
He took it slowly, fingers brushing yours.
Then your eyes flicked toward the kitchen. “Oh! And I made soup.”
Bucky blinked. “Soup?”
You nodded, looking proud. “Chicken. With orzo. Little bit of lemon. It’s an old recipe from my ma. Helps with stomach stuff, and it’s good for fevers.”
You paused, like maybe you were worried you’d overstepped. Your hands twitched slightly in front of you.
“I mean—you don’t have to eat it now,” you said quickly, “but I left it in the fridge. Labeled it with a little sticky so you know which one it is. Not that there’s a lot of stuff in your fridge, I just… y’know. Thought it might help.”
Your voice trailed off, but your smile stayed.
Soft. Open. So completely you.
And all Bucky could do was stand there, wrapped in his stupid blanket, and wonder how the hell you’d spent the whole day being terrifyingly competent, and still ended it with soup and a nervous little glance like you weren’t sure if he’d like it.
You hesitated at the edge of the living room, hands fidgeting with something behind your back.
Bucky noticed the shift immediately.
The glow you’d carried all day—while juggling Congress from his couch and checking his temperature without breaking stride—had dimmed. Not gone. Just… pulled inward, like you were trying to protect something small and fragile inside yourself.
You stepped forward, arms unfolding to reveal a neatly sealed envelope.
Your smile this time was softer. Smaller. Like a flickering candle. “Before I forget,” you said lightly, “I meant to give this to you earlier.”
You held it out.
He didn’t take it at first. Just stared. “What is it?”
Your lashes fluttered. You tilted your head slightly, voice still calm—almost apologetic. “It’s just my formal letter of resignation. Two weeks’ notice.”
The room went still.
Like even the hum of his ancient fridge paused to register the words.
Bucky took the envelope slowly, like it might explode in his hands. His stomach dropped, even lower than it had that morning when he first woke up sweating through his sheets.
“You’re leaving,” he said, flatly, like maybe saying it again would change the shape of it in the air. “Why?”
You hesitated, and for a second, he thought you weren’t going to say anything at all.
But then your gaze lifted—slow, reluctant—and something behind your eyes dimmed. Not anger. Not even disappointment. Just a sadness so quiet it made his chest ache.
“I heard you,” you said, voice small but even. “That day on the phone. When you were talking to Sam.”
The words sank into him with slow, merciless weight.
Shit.
He opened his mouth, panic rising. “You weren’t supposed to—”
“I know,” you cut in gently, holding up a hand. “It’s alright.”
That made it worse.
You smiled, the kind of smile that tried so hard to be kind it hurt to look at. “It’s okay,” you repeated. “I get that a lot, honestly. People sayin' I’m too soft. Too nice. Too… whatever.”
He shook his head. “That’s not—”
“I know you didn’t mean it to be cruel.” Your voice was airy, almost thoughtful. “It didn’t even sound mean. You were just being honest. And you’re right, in a way. I am sweet. I care a lot. I get excited over little things. I bring baked goods to meetings and I probably hug too much and I call people sweetheart even when they’re mean to me.”
Bucky’s throat was dry. “I didn’t—”
“But I’m not naïve,” you said, and this time there was steel under the softness. Not sharp—but unbending. “I’m not stupid. I know how this world works. I just… don’t want to become like it.”
Your eyes met his fully then, warm and steady. “I like who I am. I don’t want to lose that just to survive a place that tells me kindness is a weakness.”
He opened his mouth again—anything, something—but you beat him to it, words tumbling now with gentle finality.
“I’m a big-hearted person, Mr. Barnes. I love hard. I care hard. I will go to war for the people I believe in, and I’ll still make them soup afterward. That’s who I am.”
You gave a small shrug, and your smile this time was a little sad, a little tired. “But I know not everyone wants that. Not everyone likes their coffee sweet.”
He looked at you, mouth parted, heart twisting tighter with every breath.
You tilted your head, a soft laugh escaping. “And that’s okay. Really. I don’t need everyone to like me. I just want to work somewhere I don’t feel like I have to apologize for existing.”
Bucky tried—he really tried—to find the words to take it back. To undo it. But they stuck in his throat like gravel.
All he managed was a strangled, “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”
You nodded gently, like you already knew that.
But the hurt was still there, just under the surface, quietly humming like a bruise.
────────────────────────
It’d been three days since you handed him that letter.
Three days since you smiled with that soft resignation and walked out of his apartment, leaving behind bowl of soup and a hollow ache in his chest.
And now you were in the office—laughing.
Bucky watched you through the slats of his office shutters like a goddamn surveillance drone. Brenda was telling some story that clearly wasn’t funny, but you were laughing like it was the best thing you’d heard all week. Head tilted back, hand on her shoulder, the kind of laugh that made the people around you lean in like flowers toward sunlight.
He hated how familiar that laugh felt now.
And how far away it sounded.
You’d gone back to being sweet, professional, helpful. You hadn’t missed a single beat in your work. But with him, you were still distant. Polite. You hadn’t brought him coffee. Hadn’t cracked a joke. Hadn’t touched his arm in passing the way you used to.
He was losing you.
And the worst part? It wasn’t dramatic. You weren’t bitter. You weren’t angry.
You were just… quietly leaving.
So now he sat at his desk, glaring at his screen, not reading a damn word. His mind was a storm of useless questions and even more useless ideas.
Could he offer a raise? A promotion? Make the job more creative? Incentivize something?
He rubbed his hand down his face. No, that sounded like bribery.
Maybe he could ask her to stay just until the end of the quarter. Emphasize her value. Play the logistics angle. Remind her how much smoother things have been with her here.
He leaned back in his chair. That sounded desperate.
What if—
‘Jesus,’ he thought. ‘This isn’t about keeping her.’
A beat.
Then he corrected himself instantly. ‘Keeping her as an assistant. I mean. Not— Not like—’
He groaned, scrubbing at his eyes like he could rub the feelings away.
She was just efficient. That’s all. Stable. Predictable in a way he relied on. She was good at her job and the office ran smoother with her in it and that’s why this mattered.
Not because she smelled like lemons and comfort. Not because she looked at everyone like they were worth loving. Not because he’d started measuring his mornings by whether she smiled at him.
No. No, no, no. Just work.
Strictly professional.
He glanced back out through the blinds.
You were organizing a folder stack with the intern, gently fixing the label tabs, still smiling.
Still leaving.
And Bucky felt like the office was already colder without you—even though you hadn’t gone yet.
────────────────────────
Bucky liked to think he was a decent boss.
Not fun, sure. Not particularly approachable. Maybe a little gruff. And socially awkward, definitely. But fair. Honest. He let people take their lunch breaks. He remembered birthdays when he could. He even once approved an impromptu office donut day.
So it surprised him—no, perturbed him—when he found out about your going away party… from Brenda.
Brenda, who was sixty-eight and had once said she considered EDM “an acronym for something immoral.” Brenda, who referred to clubbing as “light alcoholism with extra steps.” Brenda, who had received an invitation.
He had not.
He found out over coffee. His coffee. The one he’d fetched himself because you no longer brought it to him.
Brenda had mentioned it casually, in that unassuming way older women do when they know they’re about to light a match and walk away from a very dry haystack.
“They’re doing a little sendoff for her Friday night. At that club downtown—the neon one with the ridiculous name. Something with vowels missing.”
He’d blinked. “What sendoff?”
“The one for your assistant, dear.” Sip. “The one who’s leaving.”
The words sank in slowly. Your assistant. Leaving. Right. That was happening. Somehow he kept forgetting it was real. Or maybe refusing to process it.
Then came the kicker: “Jimmy’s organizing the whole thing. Should be fun.”
Bucky had stared. “Jimmy?”
Brenda nodded, as if it were perfectly normal that the chillest, most easygoing staffer in his entire office had turned into a party planner on your behalf. “He booked a VIP booth. Very thoughtful.”
VIP booth? Bucky didn’t even know Jimmy knew how to book things. The guy wore mismatched socks and said “vibe check” unironically.
“So… they didn’t think to tell me?”
Brenda hesitated, just for a second, which was all the answer Bucky needed.
Later, he cornered Jimmy in the hallway, trying to sound casual and not like a man deeply offended by club logistics.
Jimmy had shrugged, wide-eyed and harmless. “We just figured it wasn’t really your scene, you know?”
Bucky blinked. “It’s not Brenda’s scene either.”
Jimmy scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, Brenda knows the DJ.”
Of course she did.
Bucky didn’t say anything else. Just walked back to his office, each step echoing a little louder in his chest than it should have.
They didn’t think he’d want to come. Or maybe they didn’t think he deserved to.
And maybe they were right. Maybe he wasn’t the kind of guy you threw parties for. Maybe people just did their jobs around him and left. No post-its. No coffee. No soup.
But still… the fact that you were going to be out on a dance floor, surrounded by people who adored you, celebrating your last day—without him—hit harder than it should’ve.
Because he’d hurt you. He knew that now. And they all knew it too.
And no one invited him to say goodbye.
────────────────────────
He wasn’t even supposed to be there.
He told himself that, at least, on the way over. This wasn’t some grand gesture. He wasn’t planning a speech, wasn’t going to make a scene. He’d accepted it—you were leaving. And maybe he didn’t deserve a chance to change that.
So he’d come to do the one thing he could do.
Say goodbye.
He clutched the small, carefully wrapped box in his jacket pocket, fingers curling around the corners. It wasn’t much. But it was personal. Thoughtful. Something that reminded him of you—sweet, strange, specific.
But he remembered.
The music hit him first. The bass vibrating through the walls as soon as he stepped into the club. It was too loud, too crowded, too young. Neon lights pulsed off the walls, everything warm and blurred. He stood near the entrance, eyes scanning—feeling wildly out of place in his plain clothes and clenched jaw—until he saw you.
And then his lungs just… stopped working.
There you were.
It took one second. One.
You were standing near the booth, laughing—God, always laughing—wearing a pale blue outfit that looked like moonlight wrapped in fabric. Halter top hugging your curves, skirt tied at your hip, legs long and bare under the shifting lights. Gold hoops in your ears, bangles on your wrist, that familiar dreamy look in your eyes as you leaned into Jimmy mid-laugh.
Bucky’s feet stopped moving.
You were stunning. Effortlessly so. But it wasn’t just that. It was the freedom—the way you stood like nothing in the world could touch you here. Like you weren’t his assistant or part of a machine or tethered to other people’s expectations. You were you—unfiltered, unbothered, alive.
And he’d never seen you like this before.
Not in your pastels and blazers. Not behind your desk with your clipboard and schedule.
This version of you—this—was what he was losing.
He swallowed hard.
She’s just your assistant, he told himself. Or had been. That’s all this was. You were good at your job. That’s all.
But even he didn’t believe it anymore.
You were mid-sip of your drink when you caught sight of him, standing near the edge of the club like he was trying to melt into the wall.
Your breath caught.
And then your whole face lit up like someone had flipped a switch inside you.
“Oh my gosh, you came!”
You pushed past two people without thinking, grinning, already reaching for his arm like you couldn’t help yourself. Your bangles clinked as you tugged him gently into the glow of the booth’s lights.
“I didn’t think you were coming,” you laughed, almost breathless. “You hate places like this.”
Bucky looked at you—really looked at you—and it took him a second too long to answer.
Your eyes were sparkling, cheeks flushed, hair tousled and falling perfectly over one shoulder. You looked like the kind of girl who had the whole room on a string and didn’t even realize she was holding it.
He murmured under his breath, just low enough that it got swallowed by the music, “Maybe ‘cause I wasn’t invited.”
You tilted your head. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said quickly, shaking it off with a stiff half-shrug. “Just thought I’d… say goodbye.”
Your expression softened. Just a bit.
“Oh,” you said, the word light and airy, but touched with something else. “That’s sweet.”
Bucky nodded once. Awkward. Hands shoved in his jacket pockets like he didn’t trust them to stay still.
He should’ve left it at that.
But instead, he held out the little box he’d been carrying all night—plain black wrapping, a thin ribbon tied unevenly, like he’d done it with too much concentration and not enough skill.
You blinked, surprised. “What’s this?”
“Just a gift,” he said, not meeting your eyes. “It’s stupid.”
You took it carefully, reverently, like it might break in your hands. “Oh, you shouldn't have…”
“It’s not a bribe,” he added quickly, before you could say anything more. “I know you’re leaving. I just… thought you should have something.”
You didn’t wait.
Right there in the middle of the club, music thumping, lights flashing, you carefully tugged the ribbon free and opened the box with that bright, childlike excitement you always had when someone gave you something—even if it was small. Even if it wasn’t wrapped perfectly.
And when you saw what was inside, your breath hitched.
A delicate gold necklace. Thin, simple chain. At the center, your birthstone—tiny, gleaming, perfectly cut. Nothing flashy. Nothing loud. Just right.
You stared down at it, brows pulling together, mouth parting slightly.
And then, to Bucky’s horror, your eyes started to well.
“Wait… this is my—this is my birthstone,” you said softly, voice already wobbling. “How did you even know?”
You looked up at him with wide, glistening eyes, and Bucky’s stomach dropped.
“I—I never told you my birthday.”
He shifted awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I remembered. You mentioned it once. In passing.”
That did it.
You blinked quickly, but the tears came anyway, slipping free with no real warning. “Oh God,” you whispered, pressing your fingers to your mouth, eyes going glassy. “That’s actually… really sweet. Why would you…?”
Your voice cracked. Right in the middle of a sentence. Just folded in on itself.
And Bucky panicked.
“Hey—” he murmured, stepping closer, voice low and careful, like you were a fragile object he might accidentally break with the wrong tone. “Hey, don’t cry. Don’t—don’t do that.”
You let out a small, broken laugh, brushing at your cheeks. “Sorry, I just—this is so thoughtful. And you remembered. And now I’m crying in a club like a weirdo—”
“You’re not a weirdo,” he said quickly, awkwardly, like he was saying it on instinct and didn’t even believe he was qualified to offer emotional reassurance.
Still, he reached out—tentatively—and touched your elbow. Just barely. Like he was scared of overstepping.
You were sniffling now, trying to dab at your eyes with the corner of a cocktail napkin that immediately disintegrated. “I’m just—God, I’m such a mess—”
“You’re not,” he muttered, more firmly this time. “It’s just… a lot. I get it.”
You nodded, wiping at your nose with the back of your hand in a way that made his heart twist in his chest.
“I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he added, a little helplessly. “I was just… trying to say goodbye.”
That last word came out rougher than he meant it to.
Bucky didn’t know what to do with the way your face crumpled again.
The tears came back—hot and fast—and though you were trying to smile through it, you clearly weren’t managing. You swiped at your cheeks with both hands now, uselessly, still holding the jewelry box in one.
He hesitated. Then stepped in a little closer, hand hovering awkwardly near your back.
“Hey,” he said gently, “come on. Let’s get some air.”
You nodded, a hiccuped little sound catching in your throat, and let him guide you with a light touch on your back. You were too busy trying not to sniff too loudly, muttering something about God, I probably look insane right now, as he led you carefully past the crowd and toward the door.
The outside air hit cool and sharp. The street was quiet in comparison—just the low hum of traffic and the faint pulse of music through the walls behind you.
You sniffled again, eyes still glassy as you blinked up at him, half apologetic. “Ugh, my makeup is definitely ruined,” you mumbled. “I knew I shouldn’t have worn this mascara. But it was waterproof! It was supposed to be—why do they even say that if it’s a lie?”
Bucky gave a short breath—almost a laugh, almost not. He looked at you, really looked.
Your cheeks were a little streaked, sure. Lip gloss a bit smudged. But your eyes were shining. And that necklace—the one he’d spent way too long choosing—sat against your skin like it had always belonged there.
“You look fine,” he said, voice quiet but certain. “You look like… you.”
You smiled weakly. “That bad, huh?”
He shook his head, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “No. That good.”
You looked down at your heels, a soft little laugh escaping from behind your hand.
Then, a little quieter: “You really didn’t have to come, you know.”
“I know,” he murmured. “But I wanted to.”
You sniffled once more and tilted your head back, resting it gently against the brick wall behind you. The chill of it made your skin rise in little goosebumps, but you didn’t mind. It helped ground you.
Bucky stood a step in front of you, hands in his pockets, close but not quite touching. He looked like he was trying to memorize the shape of you in this light—the heated cheeks, the still-damp lashes, the faint shimmer of highlighter on your collarbone.
You smiled at him, a little shy now, still damp-eyed but back to your usual, airy self. The kind of smile that could make someone forget everything they were angry about.
“You’re gonna miss me, huh?”
You meant it like a joke. Playful. Light.
But he didn’t laugh.
He looked at you like the weight of that sentence had knocked the wind out of him.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, I am.”
That stopped you. Just for a second. Like you hadn’t expected honesty from him—not that much, not here.
The smile on your lips faltered.
He stepped a little closer. Just a half-step. Just enough to feel his presence around you. He wasn’t touching you, but he didn’t need to. You could feel it anyway. Could feel him—his stillness, his warmth, his quiet restraint.
And then he said it.
“Are you sure,” he asked, voice barely audible, “there’s nothing I can say to change your mind?”
Your breath caught in your throat.
The question hung in the air between you. Not loud. Not desperate. Just there.
You looked up at him, blinking too fast again. “Bucky…”
But you didn’t finish the sentence.
Because it was already happening again—your eyes glassing over, that familiar sting building behind your nose.
You sucked in a shaky breath, the cool air burning your lungs. You looked away from him, blinking rapidly, willing the tears not to spill—but it was already too late. Again.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice cracking. “God, I’m sorry, I don't wanna cry again—this is so embarrassing.”
Bucky said nothing.
Just stood there in front of you, still as stone. But his eyes… they were softer than you’d ever seen them. And it hurt.
“I would stay,” you choked, voice trembling with the weight of the truth you’d kept tucked away for weeks. “I want to stay. Of course I want to stay.”
You were crying now, tears falling hot down your cheeks as your chest tightened. “But it wouldn’t work. It can’t. It’s unethical now. It’s inappropriate. Because I—”
Your throat clenched, but you pushed through.
“—because I have this stupid crush on you, okay?”
You didn’t dare look at him.
“I have this dumb, awful, unprofessional, completely humiliating crush on my boss. I think about you way too much, and it makes it hard to do my job. I bring you coffee I know you like and highlight your notes so you won’t panic during speeches and I try to make you smile because when you do it’s like—it’s like the world gets quiet for a second.”
Your hands fluttered uselessly as you spoke, as if your body could catch your words and stuff them back in your mouth.
“And I know it’s one-sided, okay? I’m not stupid. I know you don’t feel that way, but I—”
He kissed you.
Just like that. No warning.
A sudden, quiet press of lips that silenced your breath, your words, your panic.
His hands didn’t even touch you. Not yet. He just leaned in and kissed you—firm, sure, warm—like it was the only way he knew to make it all stop.
You froze, heart crashing into your ribs, eyes wide for just a moment.
And then you melted.
Mouth softening into his, breath catching in your throat. Tears still clinging to your lashes, your hand clutching the front of his jacket like it was the only solid thing left in the world.
He pulled back slowly—barely an inch—his forehead resting lightly against yours.
“You’re wrong,” he whispered, voice rough. “It’s not one-sided.”
Your lips parted to speak—to say something, anything, maybe to ask if this was real—but you didn’t get the chance.
Bucky kissed you again.
This time deeper, firmer, more certain. His hand found the side of your jaw, fingers brushing just behind your ear, grounding you in the moment like he couldn’t stand to be any farther away. Your back pressed gently against the wall behind you, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat.
It wasn’t careful now.
It was warm and urgent and real, and it made your head spin, your knees wobble. You let out a tiny noise against his mouth, your fingers curling into the front of his jacket again, clinging like you couldn’t bear to stop.
When he pulled back—slowly, reluctantly—his breath mingled with yours, foreheads still close.
“You taste like strawberries,” he murmured, lips brushing against yours as he spoke.
Your heart stuttered. Your brain, still floating somewhere behind your eyes, couldn’t string thoughts together fast enough.
You blinked up at him, eyes hazy, lips still parted. Then, barely above a whisper, you murmured against his mouth,
“I think it’s ‘cause of my strawberry daiquiri.”
That made him smile.
Small, crooked, and stupidly tender.
And for the first time in what felt like weeks, you smiled too—real and a little dazed, like you couldn’t believe this was happening.
Bucky looked like he was about to say something else.
His mouth opened, barely.
And you didn’t let him.
You moved fast—tipping forward and throwing your arms around his neck before he could even breathe, your body colliding into his with enough force to make him stumble half a step back. His hands shot out instinctively, catching you by the waist, holding you steady.
Then you kissed him again.
Harder this time. Messier. Mouth opening against his, tongue slipping past his lips like it had been building in you for months.
He grunted softly into the kiss, grip tightening at your sides like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening—but wasn’t about to let go, either.
You pressed into him, fingers curling into the back of his neck, pulling him closer like it wasn’t close enough. His hand slid up your spine, the other anchoring at your hip, both of you half-pinned against the brick wall and completely lost in the feel of each other.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet.
It was heat and tension and all the things you’d both been swallowing back for too long.
Your mouth moved against his like you’d been waiting for this exact angle, this exact pressure. He kissed you back with equal weight, tongue meeting yours, breath shallow, one of his hands fisting lightly in the fabric at your lower back like he needed something to hold onto.
You pulled back for half a second—just enough to breathe—then dragged him right back in, catching his lower lip between yours before deepening it again, another sweep of your tongue making him tighten his hold on you.
When you finally pulled back, just enough to catch your breath, your foreheads were still touching, your fingers still curled at the nape of his neck. His hands were warm against your waist, thumbs absently brushing your sides like he didn’t want to stop touching you.
Your lips hovered against his—still wet, swollen, parted.
“My heart is going tachycardic right now,” you mumbled, voice breathy and half-delirious.
Bucky blinked, a slow exhale brushing over your cheek as he gave a short, low laugh. It was half a huff, half a genuine what are you even saying, but there was nothing mocking in it.
He had no idea what that meant. Not really.
But still, without missing a beat, he murmured against your lips, “Yeah. Me too.”
Then he kissed you again.
Soft this time. Lingering. Then again, just below your mouth. And again, near the corner. Like he couldn’t decide which part of you he wanted to taste more.
Your breath hitched, arms tightening briefly around his neck as his mouth found yours again—more lazy now, indulgent, like you had all the time in the world to learn each other one kiss at a time.
You smiled into it. Couldn’t help it.
And he didn’t stop kissing you.
Didn’t want to.
────────────────────────
Six Months Later
Bucky still couldn’t figure out how he ended up here.
The Watchtower.
New York.
Leader—unofficially—of the most emotionally unstable group of enhanced individuals the government could dig up. He didn’t want the job. Didn’t ask for it. But somehow, it was always his name they called when something needed handling.
He leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, eyes heavy from a sleepless night. Not that anyone here noticed. Ava phased through walls at 3 a.m., Walker trained like rage was cardio, and Yelena had made it her personal mission to ignore authority unless she gave it to herself.
He sighed, long and low, ready to go back to pretending he didn’t exist.
Then his phone buzzed in his pocket.
He pulled it out instinctively, screen lighting up.
Finally—cleared my schedule. I’m coming to New York this weekend. Hope you’re ready for excessive cuddling and making out and me refusing to let go of you for like 48 hours. ❤️
Bucky’s lips pulled into the faintest smile as he read your text, thumb tapping the screen just once in response.
Can’t wait.
And of course, that’s when Yelena walked in.
She stopped mid-stride, immediately squinting at him like she’d spotted a security breach.
“What the hell is that?”
Bucky didn’t look up. “What?”
“That thing on your face.” She tilted her head, arms crossed. “Are you… smiling?”
He pocketed the phone quickly. “It’s nothing.”
“No, no, no.” She was already circling him like a predator. “You look—God, what’s the word—pleasant. That’s not your baseline.”
He sighed, already regretting not hiding in the gym.
“Who texted you?”
“None of your business,” he muttered.
Yelena didn’t even pretend to buy it. She crossed her arms, watching him like he was a broken vending machine she intended to fix with violence.
“You smiled. I’ve never seen you smile. Not like that. It was very suspicious.”
Bucky took a slow sip of coffee. “Wasn’t smiling.”
“Your face moved, Bucky,” she said flatly. “It was unsettling.”
He turned away, walked over to the fridge like it held answers.
Yelena followed.
“Was it a dog video?” she asked. “No. You’re not soft enough for dogs. A meme? A mission update with someone dying? No—wait. It was a person. You smiled like someone flirted with you.”
He didn’t answer.
“Is it serious? Is it secret? Is it dangerous?“ Yelena asked, suddenly in front of him, leaning slightly into his space, “I will find out. I am very good at finding things. And people.”
Bucky just sighed, long and tired, and walked out of the kitchen without a word.
Yelena stared after him for half a beat before turning sharply and locking eyes on the next available target.
Walker.
He’d just wandered in, hoodie half-zipped, chewing on a protein bar like he hadn’t had a thought in days.
“You,” Yelena said, pointing at him. “You’ve known him longest. Does Bucky have a girlfriend?”
Walker blinked. “What?”
“A girlfriend,” she repeated, slower. “A woman. He dates her. Romantic?”
He squinted slightly. “Bucky? Uh… I mean… I dunno.”
“You don’t know?”
He shrugged, genuinely baffled. “I mean, maybe? He’s quiet. One time he left early and said he had ‘plans.’ That could mean anything though. Like… groceries. Or laundry.”
Yelena stared at him, unblinking. “You are completely useless.”
Walker nodded, still chewing. “That’s fair.”
────────────────────────
Bucky had just settled onto the couch, bowl of something vaguely edible in hand, eyes on the muted television where an old war documentary flickered across the screen. It wasn’t exactly entertainment—it was just quiet.
He barely got through three bites before he felt it.
The shift in the air.
Then the voices.
Yelena entered first, of course—arms crossed, wearing the face of someone who’d appointed herself lead investigator in a murder case that didn’t exist.
She was followed by Bob, Alexei, Ava, and Walker, who trailed in like a herd of very uncoordinated cats.
Bucky didn’t even look at them. “No.”
“We haven’t said anything yet,” Bob offered, smiling too nicely.
“Still no.”
Yelena dropped onto the armrest beside him, eyes sharp. “We’ve been talking.”
Bucky stared straight ahead. “Tragic.”
“And we’ve decided,” she continued, ignoring him completely, “that we don’t know anything about your personal life.”
“That’s because it’s personal,” he said dryly.
Alexei huffed, already pacing. “This is concerning. You are team leader. We need to know if you are emotionally stable.”
“I’m not. None of us are.”
Walker plopped into a chair. “He did smile the other day. That was weird.”
“That’s what started all this,” Yelena snapped. “He smiled. At a text. And now he won’t tell us who sent it.”
Bucky turned up the volume on the TV. Barely.
Ava appeared on the other side of the couch, silent as usual, but she arched a brow that said she was equally invested.
Bob, cheerful as ever, leaned forward with a grin. “We’re just saying… if there’s a special someone, you can tell us. We’re fun. We’re emotionally safe.”
“You’re emotionally nosy,” Bucky muttered.
“We are team,” Alexei boomed. “And you—our glorious yet emotionally constipated leader—should share with group!”
Yelena leaned in closer, narrowing her eyes. “Is it serious? Like, does she know you have zero social skills? Does she like that? Is she in therapy?”
Walker nodded. “Is she hot?”
Everyone looked at him.
“What?” he said. “It’s a valid question.”
Bucky's phone buzzed in his pocket.
He didn’t check it right away—not with five pairs of eyes watching him like he was the last episode of a series they weren’t supposed to binge but did anyway.
But then he did glance. Just one look at the screen.
And something shifted in his posture. Barely.
The corners of his mouth twitched. Not a smile, not quite—but something loosened in his shoulders. He stood up, sliding the phone back into his pocket.
“I’ve gotta go,” he said simply.
“Go where?” Yelena asked instantly, sliding off the couch and following with military-grade suspicion. “Where is Winter Soldier going all dressed up in… black?”
“I’m always dressed in black.“
But it didn’t matter.
They were already following him.
Bob was at his side with his usual skip in his step, Walker tagging along behind like a golden retriever who wasn’t sure what game they were playing. Alexei caught up quickly, talking to himself about trust and emotional openness. Ava materialized near the elevator, silent but present. And Yelena, of course, was right on Bucky’s heels.
“You’re deflecting,” she said as the elevator doors closed around them. “I can smell secrets. And this smells like a woman.”
Bucky didn’t respond. Not a word.
Just faced the elevator door, arms folded, jaw tight, clearly regretting every life choice that led him here.
“Where exactly are you going?” she pressed, arms crossed. “Is she here? Is she real?”
“You’ll see,” Bucky said flatly, not bothering to face them.
The elevator doors opened on the ground floor, and they all spilled into the main lobby of the Watchtower, a wide, sleek expanse of glass and metal and polished silence.
Then a sound cut through the air like a missile.
A high, joyful squeal.
“Bucky baby!”
Everything stopped.
The team froze.
Yelena’s face scrunched in real time. “Bucky baby?”
Before anyone could process that phrase, there was movement.
A blur of color streaked across the marble lobby. Heels clicking, earrings swinging, hair bouncing—you, in full tilt.
And without hesitation, you launched yourself straight at him.
Bucky barely had time to catch you, but he did—one arm wrapping around your waist, the other under your thighs as you jumped up and clung to him like gravity didn’t apply.
And then, right there in front of everyone, your lips were on his.
Not shy. Not sweet.
Mouth open, tongue in, both hands in his hair as you kissed him like you’d been holding your breath for hours and he was the only oxygen you wanted. You tilted his head, deepened it, bit his bottom lip and everything. It was messy and loud and had absolutely zero awareness of space or audience.
Bucky just held you there—like he’d been waiting for this all day. One hand squeezing your hip, the other steady under your thigh, mouth moving against yours like he couldn’t get enough.
Silence behind you.
Long.
Awkward.
Unblinking.
Walker looked physically stunned, eyes wide, lips parted like he couldn’t figure out what dimension he’d fallen into.
Bob had both hands over his eyes. “I feel like I’m watching something x-rated.”
Alexei, meanwhile, was grinning ear to ear. “Ah, love! Powerful! Raw! Very virile. I respect it.“
Ava stood slightly to the side, arms crossed, expression twisted into something between a wince and a grimace. “This is disgusting.”
Yelena just raised one eyebrow. “What the fuck?”
The kiss finally slowed—just a little. You pulled back to catch your breath, your forehead pressing against Bucky’s as you grinned, lips swollen, eyes dancing.
“Hi,” you whispered.
He huffed out a breath, still catching up. “Hi.”
Then, finally, he turned—still holding you, still slightly dazed—and glanced over at the very silent, very stunned lineup of teammates.
No one said anything.
You blinked, just now noticing the five-person audience.
“Oh,” you said cheerfully, breath still short. “Hi.”
Silence.
The kind that settles like static. Thick, charged, slightly horrified.
The team’s eyes slowly, almost comically, shifted from you to Bucky.
All at once.
Yelena stepped forward half a pace, pointing without subtlety. “This is your girlfriend?”
Bucky’s jaw flexed. He didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
You were still curled in his arms like you lived there, bright smile lighting up your entire face, makeup slightly smudged from the kissing, lipstick faded along Bucky’s mouth.
You held up your left hand like it was the most casual thing in the world.
Something about the first words we hear from Klaus being “Hey, you, stay strong. I believe in you, okay?” and throughout the show that’s what he does: stand up for the others, be there for them, and love them so so so much, despite everything
Something about the way those words are likely everything he wanted to hear from his siblings in season one
On the 12th hour of the first day of October 1989, 43 women around the world gave birth. This was unusual only in the fact that none of these women had been pregnant when the day first began.
/
On the 12th hour of the first day of October 1989, 16 women around the world gave birth. This was unusual only in the fact that none of these women had been pregnant when the day first began.
