▸ PAIRING: Mechanic!James Bucky Barnes x Fem!Citygirl!Reader
▸ SUMMARY: Returning to your hometown wasn't high on your bucket list. In fact, it wasn't on any list at all. But being the dutiful daughter you are, you find yourself back home after five long years, hoping for nothing more than a quiet break from work.
Instead, you're greeted by a string of increasingly frustrating surprises—the biggest one being James Bucky Barnes.
Your childhood best friend is no longer the sweet, chubby-cheeked boy who followed you around and stole apples with you. He's grown into a stubborn, infuriatingly attractive man who seems determined to get under your skin at every opportunity. And the worst part?
You can't decide whether you want to scream at him... or kiss him.
▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, reader pov, angst, slow burn, friends to enemies to lovers, mean reader, grumpy x grumpy, no use of y/n, lot of arguments, daddy issues, financial debt, dad steve rogers, therapy
Hello guys. I know it's been a while, but honestly, I'm struggling with the next part for A&A. I don't know if I should explore their friendship more, or give the next part more partygoing-ish hanging out with friends type vibe. Other suggestions are also really helpful cause I'm stuck on this writer's block for the past week 😭
no lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor, to the toilet seat, from the dining room table, to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink, to the shower, from the front porch, to the balcony, vertically horizontally, quadratic, exponent, algorithmetic, while I gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, doggy, backwards, forward, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being carried against the wall, outside, in a train, on a plane, in a car, on a motorcycle, the bed of a truck, on a trampoline, in a bounce house, in the pool, bent over in the basement, against the window, have the most toe curling, back aching, leg shaking, dick throbbing, fist clenching, ear ringing, mouth drooling, ass clenching, nose sniffling, eye watering, eye rolling, hip thrusting, earthquaking, sheet gripping, knuckles cracking, jaw-dropping, hair pulling teeth jitterbug, mind boggling, soul snatching, over stimulating, vile, sloppy, moan-inducing, heart-wrenching, spine tingling, back breaking, atrocious, gushy, creamy, beastly, lip biting, nail biting, sweaty, feet kicking, mind blowing, body shivering, orgasmic, bone breaking, world ending, blackhole creating, universe destroying, devious, scrumptious, amazing, delightful, delectable, unbelievable, body numbing, bark-worthy, can't walk, head nodding, soul evaporating, volcanic erupting, sweat rolling, voice cracking, trembling, sheets soaked, hair drenched, flabbergasting, hip locking, skin peeling, eyelash removing, eye widening, pussy popping, nail snatching, spectacular, hair ripping, show stopping, magnificent, unique, extraordinary, splendid, phenomenal, malforming, heavenly, devil's tango. please.
After a great deal of overthinking (and a mild therapy session) you cook up the perfect way to apologize to James. Literally.
Armed with a homemade pie and far more courage than common sense, you show up at his shop expecting awkwardness, rejection, or, at the very least, a sarcastic remark. But, little do you know, while you've been thinking about him, James has been doing the exact same thing.
And when the two of you finally find the courage to say the words you've both been avoiding, the years of distance begin to feel a little less insurmountable. For the first time since coming home, the familiar comfort of your friendship starts to find its way back.
▸ PAIRING: Mechanic!James Bucky Barnes x Fem!Citygirl!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: Reader pov, angst, slow burn, friends to enemies to lovers, arguments, shirtless Bucky, staring (obviously), mentions of reader dating, mentions of hermit life (no offense to hermits) (image does not depict reader)
▸ CHARACTER/WORD COUNT: 26.4 K / 5.7 K
▸ A/N: Been MIA for so long, but I hope this is worth it because we're finally out of the fighting!
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After rolling around in bed with no ideas & no sleep in sight, you decided to do what you always did to tire. Baking.
It wasn’t like you were Master Chef or anything, but you were decent enough with your mom’s recipes.
"Goddammit..." you muttered under your breath as you aggressively whisked the batter. Your hands were covered in flour, and a mess of ingredients littered the counter.
The oven light cast a warm glow across the kitchen, but it did little to ease the frown creasing between your brows.
What had I even said that was so bad?
James had never walked away from an argument like that - not once in all our years knowing each other.
That was before, you were suddenly reminded, when you didn’t have arguments because he was so gullible. The more you thought about it, the worse it got. You kept replaying the whole scene in your mind over and over again.
The things you said... they'd hurt him. That look in his icy blue eyes flashed again in your mind, and guilt clawed at your chest.
You slammed the dough on the counter with a deep sigh, flattening it tiredly.
"I shouldn't have said that. I shouldn't have said that."
"He was just trying to help me and I... snapped at him like a bitch."
You put the pie in the oven, staring at the timer while you sat down on the floor.
"James is probably pissed as hell right now," you said, while waiting for the pie to bake.
"And he has every right to be."
"God, I'm an idiot."
"I didn't mean it like that. He knows that... right?"
You asked the invisible person in the kitchen. But you knew what the answer was.
No. James was stubborn as hell — if you'd hurt his feelings, he wasn't just gonna brush it off.
The pie timer beeped loudly in the quiet kitchen.
The sweet smell of baking pie filled the kitchen, but it did nothing to ease the anxiety in your chest.
You leaned against the counter, arms crossed as you stared blankly at nothing.
What were you supposed to do now? Apologize?
It did seem the only likely way, and you knew if Sam had wanted you to do it, you should.
“Okay. I’m a mature adult who can apologize when they're wrong.” you said, standing up.
Meanwhile, James was in his own personal hell.
He hadn't gone home.
Instead, he'd driven to the auto shop - his dad's old garage that was now his. The lights were on inside despite the late hour.
The wrench in his hand clanged loudly against a metal part as he tightened it aggressively.
"Fucking piece of shit..." He grumbled under his breath, more frustrated with himself than anything else.
James couldn't stop thinking about you.
He should have just ignored your damn comment and dropped you home like he planned. He should have kept his temper in check, should have walked away before things got heated.
But hearing you snap at him like that... it set him off. And then when you'd called him a lost puppy...
His jaw clenched tightly, and the wrench in his hand twisted harder than necessary.
Frustrated, he dropped the tools and ran a hand roughly over his face, a heavy sigh falling from his lips.
His heart twisted painfully every time he tried to forget your face, your voice, the look in your eyes when you'd said those words.
And he kept replaying the scene in his head, over and over again. The rain, the way you'd yelled at him, the things you said, the way you'd looked at him like he was nothing more than some lost dog trailing behind you...
His phone rang, the caller card flashing your mom's name.
For a split second, panic flashed through his mind. His mind raced with unwelcome possibilities as to why the older woman was calling him this late at night. He picked it up immediately on instinct.
“Hello? Is everything alright, Miss?” his voice came in a hurry.
You were dumbfounded for a few seconds, partially shocked at the worry in his voice. It was silent for a few moments, before you spoke, "James, it’s me.. Everything’s alright.”
James exhaled sharply through his nose, the wrench still in his hand. You continued quietly,
“I just.. called from mom’s phone cause I thought you wouldn’t pick mine.”
“Right about that.” he murmured, making you sigh softly.
“It’s not— never mind. Are you home?" you asked.
"Nah." His voice came out gruff, tired.
He cleared his throat before speaking again, trying to sound normal despite everything that had happened between you two.
"I'm at the shop."
"Oh. The shop in your garage?" you asked, slightly confused. The sound he made was somewhere between exhausted & annoyed.
“No, the shop I opened up last year. It's a few blocks away.” he murmured finally.
“You opened a shop?” you asked, sidetracked from your own thought process.
He just hummed in response.
“Oh. That’s..” you tried to process his words, or the lack thereof.
The silence was awkward — uncomfortable, even.
James ran a hand over his face, feeling tired and irritated and hurt all rolled into one. He should hang up, he really should hang up. But he couldn't.
"Did you call for a reason?" He asked gruffly, his thumb tapping incessantly on the wrench he held.
"Not really.. just.. nevermind, I'll drop it on your porch." you murmured.
James hesitated, the phone still pressed to his ear. He could hear you breathing on the other end — soft and unsure.
"Drop what?"
He didn't mean for it to come out so sharp, but he couldn't help it. After everything that had happened between you two today, it still somehow nagged his mind.
You winced internally, but replied nonetheless.
"Mom made some pie.. told me to drop some for Rebecca and you." you said.
"Tell her thanks." James' voice was flat, indifferent. He didn't want to talk about pie or Rebecca right now — he just wanted the call to be over.
He wasn't angry at your mom. Or even really mad at you. But this conversation? Right after everything? It felt weird.
You swallowed at the tone, looking down at your hand. "Ok. Good night." you mumbled.
"Good night." James said quietly, his tone softer than before, but still distant. Still hurt.
The line went dead as he hung up first this time, tossing the phone onto the workbench with a sigh.
He rubbed his face again and stared blankly at nothing for a moment... then picked up another tool to keep working on whatever car part was in front of him, anything to distract himself right now.
Ok so he was mad mad.
You stared at the steaming apple pie in front of you. It was a tiny lie really, and you didn't think he would notice. So you wrapped it up, put on some warm clothes and set out on a mission to find him and his shop.
The night was cool and dark as you left your house, the rain from earlier having made way for a clear night sky.
The walk to the auto shop was silent, the only sound coming from your own quick footsteps against the sidewalk, as you circled the 2 block radius of his house. You had an inkling of where it could be, since all the shops lined up on certain streets. Still you had to circle almost twice before you spotted the same worn sign that was once above their garage.
As you got closer, the bright lights from the auto shop came into view, casting a glow across the empty street and parking lot.
The shop was closed, but all the lights inside were on — like someone was still working despite the late hour.
You approached the shop and peered through the garage window, trying to see inside.
The first thing that stood out was the mess - tools and car parts were littered across the place, like a tornado had gone through. Then you noticed James.
He was standing near the back of the shop - his back to the entrance — and he was shirtless. His upper body and arms were covered in grease, his jeans were smeared with oil too, and he had a sweaty towel around his neck.
He was bent over the open hood of a car, fiddling with the engine.
Even from the doorway, you could see the muscles of his broad shoulders and back shifting and flexing as he worked — the grease only accentuating the hard lines of his toned body.
Your eyes roamed over the expanse of smooth, tanned skin, tracing the way his muscles moved with every flex and shift.
God, he was fit.
His jeans were hanging low on his hips, and the low light cast shadows over the deep muscle lines on his back.
Your eyes traveled lower without your permission, taking in the V-line that disappeared underneath the waistband of his jeans.
Your gaze lingered there, drinking in the view way too long before you managed to pull yourself together and snap your head up.
You shook your head, and then hesitantly knocked on the side door.
His head snapped up, the faint crease of his brow deepening as he saw your face. You took a step back from the door, mentally preparing for the conversation ahead. He walked to the door and pulled it open with movements that suggested he’d rather be anywhere else.
The pie looked freshly baked - warm even - and that made something twist inside him.
"You came all the way here?" His voice was low, gruff from working all night. Not angry anymore... just tired.
He didn't reach for the pie yet.
"Um.. hello to you too." you said, trying for casualness.
"Don't get smart with me." He grumbled back, his eyes narrowing on you.
"You shouldn't wander around at this time, 'snot safe." He murmured, glancing around.
"It was just a few blocks. I can handle myself." your response was met with a grunt.
Even like this — shirtless and covered in grime and sweat from working so late in the night — he somehow still looked like a greek demigod, which was very unfair in your opinion.
His eyes roamed over your face, searching for something.
"You really just bringing pie this late at night, or is there another reason you're here?"
"Well, mom didn’t want it to go cold, and I wanted to see what you've been up to all this time." you deflected, glancing inside.
"See what I've been up to?" James scoffed, leaning against the doorframe.
He crossed his muscular arms over his chest - grease and sweat glistening on his skin under the shop lights.
"Right now? Fixing this piece of shit car." He gestured vaguely behind him toward a rusted Honda Civic with its hood wide open. "And you know what else? Being pissed at you."
His voice was firm, unapologetic about admitting that much.
Your lips pulled down into a frown.
"Are you really that mad over name calling? Because I can remember times when you've called me worse." you said.
"Name-calling? Seriously?" James' voice rose slightly, his jaw tightening.
"You don't get to say that shit and then act like it was nothing. Like I'm some dumb dog following you around." He uncrossed his arms, gesturing wildly with one grease-covered hand.
"Yeah, I've called you names before, but never like that. Never in a way that actually hurt."
His tone was sharp now — not yelling but close to it.
You looked down, the pie feeling like a weight in your hands now.
"I didn't know you'd get so upset over it." you said.
"Of course I got upset over it." James' voice cracked slightly, the anger mixing with something more vulnerable now. "You don't just... say shit like that to me."
He rubbed his face roughly, smearing grease across his cheekbone in frustration.
"And yeah — maybe I called you worse things before, but not ever with the same tone you used tonight."
"Fine, I admit that it was harsh and rude of me to say that. I shouldn’t have done that." you said.
James exhaled sharply, his shoulders relaxing slightly.
"Good."
He reached out and took the pie from your hands, careful not to get grease on it, then stepped aside.
"Come in."
Without another word, he turned and walked back toward the workbench where tools were scattered everywhere. The shop was messy but warm from all the lights being on.
You looked up, before following him in.
There was an old coffee pot on the counter in the corner that had probably been brewing all night, and stacks of car manuals were piled high everywhere.
He grabbed a rag to wipe his hands cleaner before turning back to you, still shirtless & sweaty.
The shop smelled like motor oil and burnt coffee.
Your eyes flicked over the interior of the shop, looking everywhere as he put down the pie on the counter.
James leaned against the other side of the workbench, arms crossed as he watched you look around.
"You done staring around now?" He grumbled, one dark eyebrow raised.
The light gleamed off the muscles in his upper body as he shifted his weight.
"Well, it still looks like your garage just.. you changed.. stuff." you said to validate your staring.
James snorted. "Yeah, well. Had to."
He gestured vaguely at the shop - tools, parts everywhere.
"Barnes' Auto isn't gonna run itself."
A pause.
"You like it? The shop?"
You thought for a moment, then aimed for something neutral. "It's got.. character." you said.
"Character?" James repeated, his tone dry.
He glanced around the messy shop - oil stains on the floor, tools scattered everywhere.
"Yeah. That's one way to put it."
A beat of silence passed between you two before he sighed and pushed off from the counter, shrugging on a henley.
"You want coffee? I got a pot brewing."
"No, I'm fine, thank you." you said, glancing at the ancient pot.
"Suit yourself." James grunted back, pouring himself some coffee in a mug that said 'number one mechanic' across the side.
He leaned against the counter again, watching you glance around and avoid looking directly at him.
His eyes roamed over your figure silently, studying you quietly.
You looked smaller, somehow, in the woven cardigan, sleeves pulled to your knuckles. Delicate, his mind supplied the word unhelpfully.
"Do you keep a change of clothes here?" you asked dumbly, only now noticing that he was in different pants than before.
James took a slow sip of his coffee before answering.
"Yeah. Got a locker in the back."
He nodded toward a small storage room door covered in grease smudges.
"Sometimes I crash here if it's late and don't wanna go home."
Another pause as he studied you over the rim of his mug, steam curling up between you two.
You nodded once, eyeing the open car. "And food?"
"Yeah, got snacks and shit too. There's a mini-fridge back there."
James took another sip of his coffee, eyeing you over the mug.
"You hungry? I can make us something if you want."
He didn't sound mad anymore — just tired and maybe slightly softer than before.
"No, I was just.. asking out of curiousity." you said, before unwrapping the pie to have something to do with your hands.
James was quiet for a moment, his eyes tracking your movements as you unwrapped the pie.
He set his coffee mug down on the counter with a soft clink, before he said your name.
The way he said your name sent a shiver down your spine - he sounded a little tired.
"Can you look at me?"
You stilled, before looking up.
James stared at you, his blue eyes intense and searching.
"Look... I was pissed earlier," he started slowly, "and yeah, what you said hurt. But..."
He exhaled through his nose before continuing.
"I shouldn't have walked away like that. That wasn't cool of me."
You swallowed quietly. "No, it’s.. I am sorry for saying that. I was totally out of line, and kinda still pissed and took it out on you." you said.
James' head cocked slightly as he listened to your apology - his expression unreadable.
He crossed his arms over his chest, his muscles shifting underneath the smears of grease and sweat.
"We both should be sorry," he grunted bluntly before continuing.
"What you said to me... that bullshit about me being a lost puppy? I've known you almost all my goddamn life. You know how much that hurt?"
You huffed, trying not to deflect from the topic. "I am sorry, okay? I didn’t mean it like that. It just came out, and I knew it was rude but you agreed with my dad when he called me a naggy brat, so we should be even." you said.
James' jaw clenched at the incident you brought up.
"That was not the same thing and you know it," he said, his voice slightly sharper now.
The muscles in his shoulders tensed, and you could see a vein in his neck pulse slightly in frustration.
"You're right, it wasn't the same, because your mistake was worse." you murmured.
Your jaw worked and you looked away. You didn't like being talked to like that, especially when you were apologizing and he hadn't even bothered to do the same.
"I should go, it's late already. Enjoy the pie." you said, your voice tight.
James' face fell the second you turned to leave.
"Wait."
He stepped in front of the door, blocking your exit with his broad frame.
"You don't get to drop an apology and then bolt like that."
His voice was firm - not angry anymore, but insistent. Like he wasn't about to let you walk out on him tonight.
"You don't want it, and you don't seem like you want to apologize for bitching about me either. So why should I stay?" you retorted.
"Because I am sorry, damn it."
James bit the words out like they physically pained him to say.
He ran a grease-streaked hand through his messy hair, exhaling sharply.
"I shouldn't have talked like that when I knew it would hurt you. I shouldn't have been an asshole about it either."
A pause, then he added quietly:
"And yeah... maybe agreeing with your dad that one time was messed up too."
His hands unclenched at his sides, his throat bobbing as he continued, his voice strained from emotion.
"But you walking away right now? That's a dick move. Especially after you came here to my place, my shop..."
He paused, his eyes burning into you as he struggled to find the right words.
It was weird to see him like this - flustered, frustrated, clearly emotional.
"I... I want you to stay."
You exhaled through your nose, looking away. The weight of his words felt like a relief, like you finally felt at ease after walking on eggshells for so long.
"Okay." you said finally, walking over to a stool and sitting down.
James grabbed a chair and pulled it over, sitting across from you.
The stool creaked under his weight as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter between you two.
"Look," he started, voice lower now. "I don't wanna fight with you."
He rubbed at the back of his neck - a nervous habit of his since high school.
"I was an idiot earlier." he sounded almost like the James you left behind.
"I don't wanna fight either." you mumbled, picking at your sleeves.
"Good." James exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.
“Good.” you said, glancing at him before you both looked away.
The shop was quiet except for the hum of overhead lights and occasional drip from a leaking pipe somewhere.
He reached over to pick up a fork that was lying on the counter - probably used earlier for eating something - and handed it to you.
"You wanna eat some pie? Your mom's cooking is always good."
You nodded quietly, not correcting him. The apple pie was, miraculously, still warm as he took a bite.
James chewed slowly, savoring the warmth.
"Damn... this is good."
He swallowed before taking another bite, his earlier anger completely gone now - replaced by something softer.
Your mom always made the best pies, and he hadn't had one in a while.
"You should take some home too," he said between bites, pushing the plate slightly toward you with greasy fingers.
"That's fine, she can just make another for us." you said, wiping the fork with a napkin before taking a small bite.
James stopped midway through his bite when you said that, a small smile tugging at his lips.
"Since when are you that polite?"
He teased - just a hint of that old familiarity that you knew so well.
You frowned. "I am always polite. To the right people." you said.
James smirked, the first real one since this whole argument started.
"Right people, huh?" He took another bite of pie before continuing. "So I'm a right person now? After you called me names and almost walked out on me?"
There was humor in his tone - not mocking you, just teasing like he used to when things were good between you two.
"You walked out on me first, mister." you pointed your fork at him.
James held up his hands in mock surrender, the pie fork still dangling from his fingers.
"Okay okay! You're right - I walked out first."
He took another bite, chewing thoughtfully before continuing.
"But you did say some shit that pissed me off."
His tone wasn't angry anymore - just matter-of-fact. Like he was stating a simple truth rather than blaming you again.
"Grow a pair." you huffed jokingly.
"Grow a pair?" James repeated, raising an eyebrow.
He leaned back in his chair, mouth falling open with amused disbelief.
"You’ve really upgraded your vocabulary."
Another bite of pie - he was demolishing it at this point.
"You're lucky your mom makes good pie or we'd still be fighting."
You rolled your eyes. "Full mouth makes you shut up, huh?"
"Yeah, maybe." James smirked around the forkful of pie still in his mouth.
He chewed slowly, enjoying the food and this weirdly normal moment between you two despite everything that had happened earlier.
Swallowing, he pointed at you with his fork.
"You're lucky I like apple pies or I wouldn't be talking to you right now."
"It isn't luck, it's skill." you said.
James took another big bite of pie, chewing thoughtfully as he watched you.
"Your mom's skill is the only reason we're not still yelling at each other in a parking lot right now."
He swallowed and pointed his fork at you again.
"You really think I'd be sitting here with you if it wasn't for her cooking? Be real."
A pause - then he added with a half-smirk, "I mean... maybe. But mostly because of the pie."
You looked at the demolished dessert, before saying uncharacteristically quiet.
"I made it actually, mom's asleep right now."
James froze.
The fork in his hand hovered halfway to his mouth, pie crumbs on the tines.
"You... made this?"
His voice came out quieter than he intended. The thought of you baking - something you never used to do when you were younger - surprised him.
He hadn't known that skill was even in your wheelhouse.
"Yeah.. I.. made it out of guilt. And apples." you said with a light laugh.
James stared at the half-eaten pie, then back up at you.
"You made this... because you felt guilty?"
He sounded genuinely shocked. Not in a bad way - just surprised.
All this time, he'd assumed your mom had baked it like she always did when someone was visiting.
"Of course I did.. the look on your face could've made anyone feel guilty." you murmured.
James set the fork down carefully, wiping his greasy hands on a rag.
"You didn't have to do that," he said softly. "Bake for me."
He looked at you differently now - like seeing you in a new light.
"It's... really good though."
A compliment. Simple but sincere.
You nodded, looking everywhere but his steel blue eyes as you accepted his compliment.
James leaned back in his chair, studying you.
You looked different this way - still the same tough girl he knew all those years ago, but different at the same time. Like there was more depth to you now.
He thought of you, baking pie from scratch in your parents' kitchen... just to make him feel better.
The thought of it stirred something in his chest. Something old and familiar that he hadn't felt in years.
James exhaled slowly, the weight of everything settling over him.
He said your name softly, then stopped. How do you even begin to thank someone for something like this?
"It's been a long time since anyone did something that nice for me."
Not just the pie - but apologizing. Coming all the way here. Trying to make things right between you two after everything that happened earlier tonight.
Your gaze flickered up involuntarily, eyes holding his. It was silent for a few minutes as your gaze flickered over his face. His words were tugging at your heart strings without permission.
You didn’t know what to say to that.
"Yeah.. well, you aren’t all that bad, and neither am I." you said with a small smile.
James huffed out a small breath at the response, almost a laugh.
"Was that a compliment? I'd better savor it before you start being mean to me again."
There was no malice in his words - just humor and that familiar edge that made you roll your eyes affectionately.
"Not everyday am I willing to bake a pie, okay?" you huffed, but the smile widened on your lips.
James chuckled, a real laugh this time, warm and rich.
"Okay okay, I get it. You're not usually the pie-baking type."
He took another bite, savoring the taste.
"But damn... you should do it more often."
The compliment slipped out easily - he meant every word of it.
"You'd probably have a lot of guys lining up to get some of this pie if you made it more often."
You snorted at that. "Yeah right. The day you see me baking pies for men will be the day I got replaced by a clone." you said.
"Good. 'Cause I don't wanna see you baking pies for any other guys."
James said it so casually, like stating a fact rather than admitting something.
He took the last bite of pie, chewing slowly as he stared at you across the counter.
"I mean... unless they're family or whatever. But not random dudes."
You chuckled at that, thinking he was joking.
"In that case, you need to quit picking up women in that truck of yours—playing the helpful, sexy mechanic every time they have car trouble." you replied jokingly.
"Who says I'm picking up women?" James shot back, raising an eyebrow.
He crossed his arms - a defensive gesture. You tilted your head in confusion.
"I've been single since high school, you know that."
A fact he didn't bring up often. Not that it mattered to him - or so he told himself.
You blinked at that. "What?"
James glanced at you, his expression unreadable.
"You didn't know that?"
He shrugged slightly, as if it wasn't a big deal... even though it kinda was.
"Yeah, you're looking at a lonely bachelor."
His tone was dry and casual, but there was a hint of something else behind his eyes - something he was carefully pushing down.
"You're kidding right? Trying to make a fool of me?" you said with a small laugh.
"What do you think, smart ass?"
James' tone was still light and playful - but there was a hint of irritation too.
He wasn't kidding, and he didn't like you laughing at the idea of him being single.
"Why's that so damn hard for you to believe?"
"Because we're in our 20s, probably our peak, and you're telling me you haven't dated in 5 years?" you said, shock seeping into your tone as your voice rose slightly in pitch.
James exhaled sharply through his nose, arms still crossed.
"Yeah, I haven't dated. So what?"
He didn't understand why you were so surprised.
"Been busy with the shop. Helping my mom out with Rebecca and shit."
A pause as he studied your face.
"It's not like you have to adopt your girlfriend or something." you said, even more confused now.
James ran a hand through his greasy hair, exhaling sharply.
"Look, I never really cared about dating anyway." he said bluntly.
It wasn't that he hadn't had opportunities - there were plenty of girls in town who'd flirted with him over the years. But none of them stuck around for long, and frankly? he was fine with that.
You absorbed his words, blinking and nodding. "Wow, okay, so you wanna end up a spinster.. that's cool." you said.
James snorted, rolling his eyes at the comment.
"First of all, I'm not a spinster, dumbass. Second - yeah? Maybe I do."
He shrugged like it was no big deal.
"Not like anyone's been worth my time anyway."
A simple truth that he didn't feel ashamed of saying out loud.
“Really? Cause I remember you swearing up & down that you & Nat could be such a great couple if she gave you the chance.” you said amusedly.
James’ face immediately twisted into a grimace.
"Nat? Jesus, don't remind me of that."
He groaned, dragging both hands down his face like the mere memory physically pained him.
"That was high school stupidity! We were kids with crushes on literally everyone in our grade!" he said indignantly.
“Exactly! And now you’re telling me you’re living some kind of hermit life. I don’t believe it.” you replied.
James leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter.
"Okay, listen - high school me had a type. Brunette girls who could bench press me. That’s not exactly a personality trait."
He waved his hands dismissively before continuing, "And no, I'm not living like some hermit! I go out! To Wanda's diner all the time!"
“A diner is not going out.” you pointed out.
"Okay, fine! Maybe I don't go out go out," James admitted with a huff.
"But it's not like there are other places to go out here anyway! Unless you wanna hang at some dive bar where half the guys are married and drunk off their asses."
“A dive bar is still a better place to find girls your age.” you quipped.
James rolled his eyes again, running his fingers through his messy hair.
"I can't believe I'm arguing with you over my dating life."
Then he leaned forward, fixing you with a steely gaze as you chuckled.
"Oh, you think this is funny? Me being single?"
His tone was dry but not actually upset - more amused than anything.
"I mean... yeah, whatever. Laugh it up."
“Don’t worry, we’ll find a good one for you.” you snorted.
James huffed. "So what about you, huh? You got some boyfriend stashed somewhere I should know about?" he asked, partially because he wanted to change the topic.
"Nope. I dumped one last christmas and that was that." you shrugged.
"You dumped someone?"
James sounded skeptical bordering on doubtful. He raised an eyebrow, watching you closely.
"Let me guess, he was some stuck up college boy?"
“No, actually, he worked at a Law firm.” you said, frowning.
James scoffed.
"A lawyer, huh? Should've known."
He crossed his arms, looking at you over his greasy biceps.
"Let me guess - he was some tall pretty boy in a fancy suit who talked like a rich snob."
“That’s.. Inaccurate and very judgemental. He was nice.” you replied.
James rolled his eyes.
"Yeah, I'm sure he was real nice. Polite and proper and clean-cut, right? Wore fancy shoes and probably some dumbass fedora on his days off?"
He didn't like it. The idea of you with some polished city boy made his fingers clench involuntarily around the arms of his chair. He didn't know why it bothered him so much, but it did.
You couldn’t help but laugh at his words. “Nobody wears a fedora in the city. They’re not.. fashion criminals.”
James scoffed.
"Okay, well whatever he wore - point is, you dumped him." He said it like it was a victory.
"So what happened? Did he bore you to death with all his law firm talk?"
“Not really, he was just too serious for me. We weren’t compatible.” you said lightly.
James nodded slowly, absorbing your words.
"Yeah... that makes sense." He said it like he understood exactly what you meant - the incompatibility thing. Then a thought struck him.
"So if he was too serious for you..." James hesitated before continuing carefully, "...what do you like in guys?"
Your lips quirked a little. “Oh I’ve got a list, but I guess what really matters is that they’re not intense. Cause I’m plenty intense for the both of us.”
James gave a snort at that, the corner of his mouth tugging into a slight smile.
"Intense, huh?" He repeated dryly.
That was definitely one way to describe you. Intense, stubborn... a royal pain in his ass. But he wouldn't have you any other way.
"So you don't like intense guys. Noted."
He tried to sound casual, like the conversation wasn't slowly veering into dangerous territory. That he wasn't actually taking mental notes.
"Okay, what about... looks?"
He was pushing it and he knew it, but James couldn't stop himself from asking.
He told himself it was only curiosity - after all, you were a grown woman now, a lot could have changed since the last time you talked like this.
But another part of him just wanted to know.
“Since when are you so interested in my likes?” you tilted your head with an amused expression.
James coughed, shifting in his seat like he was suddenly uncomfortable.
"I'm just..." he started, but the excuse died in his throat.
Just what?
He sounded ridiculous, asking questions about your type of guys like he had any sort of right to know.
"Just curious, alright?" his tone was defensive. Trying too hard not to care.
He rubbed his thumb against the edge of his coffee mug nervously without realizing it.
You hummed in response, lips still quirked in an amused way at his nervousness.
“Tell you what, you ditch the hermit life and go out for a night, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
James stiffened at the suggestion.
His first instinct was to shoot it down. Tell you to forget it, he had work and stuff to do, no time for going out.
But then he glanced at you.
You looked relaxed and unguarded for once, sitting on that stool with the shop lights behind you, amusement dancing in your eyes.
You looked.. so different yet the exact same. And... maybe he didn't want to refuse your offer after all.
hi! I just want to clarify how you base your word count on your fic. cause upon checking the numbers, it looks like it is based on characters. am i right? 😅 i just finished your latest update and i genuinely thought that it's longer based on the stated word count so i thought my wifi was bugging 😭
hey! yes, i write character count in the posts, not the actual word count. i actually compared to other writers on here that i read (since it's my first time) and i think they wrote character count as well. if it helps i can add them separate.
An unexpected downpour leaves you soaked, annoyed, and in a slight need of a rescue — one James provides without hesitation. Unfortunately, his habit of taking care of you is just as intact as his ability to get on your nerves.
As the tension between you simmers dangerously close to the surface, a run-in with children only makes things more awkward. Especially when they call James uncle. Suddenly, you're forced to confront just how much time has passed and how little of this town still matches the memories you left behind.
For a moment, it almost feels like the old James is back—the one who cared for you without conditions. But you cross a line accidentally, making whatever fragile progress you've made shatter completely.
▸ PAIRING: Mechanic!James Bucky Barnes x Fem!Citygirl!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: Reader pov, angst, slow burn, friends to enemies to lovers, mean reader, no use of y/n, sexual tension but no smut, a little fat shaming but without intention, arguments, !!KIDS!! (but they're kinda nice), dad steve rogers, young father, name calling, therapy session (FINALLY ik)
(image does not depict reader)
▸ WORD COUNT: 18.2 K
▸ A/N: I'm sorry if you are getting tired of the angst, but I wanted to sort of not end it abruptly. Anger issues do take a while to quiet down, and hopefully it seems fruitful in the end! Also, I left Steve's partner unnamed because I wanted to put up a poll and let you guys decide who I should pair him with!
✧ Masterlist ✧ < Prev Next >
The bastard was smiling too.
His face screamed ‘Told you so’.
You glowered at him for a second before muttering out, "Yeah, yeah".
The rain was starting to fall quicker now, and it seemed like it was going to get heavier. Water droplets were matting your hair and sticking your clothes to your body, and you started shivering.
"Fuck." you mumbled to yourself, looking down at your shirt that was now sticking to you for a completely different reason. Still, you were thankful it wasn't poor quality and was not exposing your assets.
You felt eyes on you, and you looked up to see James staring at you with a blank expression.
His gaze darted down, where he could see the fabric of your shirt clinging tight, outlining your figure and emphasizing the curve of your breasts.
He abruptly snapped his eyes back up to your face, and you saw his neck and cheeks tinging red.
You swallowed thickly, suddenly feeling very aware of everything; your waterlogged clothes, your cold fingers, his gaze on you. The pounding of your heart…
You didn't comment on his gaze, folding your arms across your chest as you started trudging towards the park gate.
“You sure you wanna go by yourself?” He asked amidst the drizzle.
“I’ll be fine.” you said without turning.
“You’re already wet.” he commented, light footsteps staring behind you. You didn’t reply, too focused on avoiding puddles and saving your converse.
"Jesus, could you be any more stubborn?" James' voice came from behind you.
A hand suddenly touched your shoulder, and you jumped, turning around with wide eyes.
"Wha—"
But you hadn't even got the words out fully when he had scooped you up into his arms. You were pressed flush against his chest, his arms under your thighs, hands under your ass, holding you up.
Your hands automatically went up to grip onto his shoulders, fingers clutching onto his wet shirt.
Your cheeks burned as you stared at him, half flushed from annoyance, and half from something else.
"What the hell are you—" You started but he cut you off.
"Shut up for once." he grumbled, covering both your heads with his jacket.
You gaped at him, completely dumbstruck and lost for words.
Every part of your body was burning; from humiliation, from the rain, from him. His arms were strong, and you could feel the way his muscles flexed under his wet shirt. The stubble on his chin and jaw was rubbing against your cold cheek, and the only thing that managed to squeeze out of your throat was, “What the hell are you doing?"
"Saving your goddamn ass from falling sick." He murmured, and before you could retort, he started walking, carrying you along with him.
Being this close to him was a sensory overload. Every part of your body was hyperaware of him, it felt like he was everywhere.
His feet were clunking on the cement with every step, and there was so much heat rising up from his body.
"This.. I'm sure there is a better way of doing.. this." you murmured, focusing intently on his shoulder.
His arms flexed as he walked, the muscles in his back flexing and tensing next to your face.
You could feel his breath on your neck, his chest pressed against yours, his heartbeat thumping against your sternum.
"This is the fastest way." he grunted.
You swallowed painfully.
"I can't believe you're actually carrying me." you mumbled, finally settling to rest your forehead against his neck.
His hands were strong, clenching your thighs. You could feel the roughness of the pads of his fingers in your flesh, probably from being working on cars all day, you thought.
Your mind suddenly wondered what else those thick fingers would be good at.
You shook that thought out of your head.
Absolutely not… this was a one off.
He grunted, and you inhaled.
He smelled musky and masculine, somewhere between grease and fruity. This close to him, you could even smell the soap he used. It suited him.
"You're so heavy." he murmured, his words vibrating through his chest.
You scoffed, lifting your head up.
"I'm not— I’m a healthy weight." you protested indignantly.
He scoffed in reply.
"You sure are heavy as hell." he grumbled, tightening his grip on your thighs.
You swallowed at the action, your body thrumming. He was acting gruff and annoyed, but his touch was gentle, as if he was terrified of hurting you.
"You still don't know how to talk to girls." you grumbled, faintly annoyed and a lot of offended
"That's ‘cause you're no girly girl." he retorted, his hands clenching your legs again unconsciously.
"So you can call me fat?" you retorted, ignoring the way his light stubble was brushing against your cheek
"I didn't say you were fat, I said you're heavy." he grunted again, his breath fanning over the side of your neck.
Your body felt like it was on fire. You were sure he could feel the rise and fall of your chest, and the rapid pounding of your heartbeat.
His arms and fingers were still holding you up, not even a little tired yet, if he was annoyed at carrying you, his hands showed no signs of it.
"It’s the same thing." you replied dryly.
"It's not." he protested stubbornly, the vibration of his words shooting goosebumps down your spine.
His fingers flexed against your legs again, and you clenched your thighs to avoid shivering.
Goddammit, you could feel every muscle in his chest pressing up against you. It was excruciating.
"Whatever, I don't care what you think about me." you muttered, half a lie.
"How far are we?" you said instead.
"Not far." he grunted.
He seemed to step faster now, practically striding with you in his arms.
He suddenly halted, his body going stiff, and you looked up at him, bewildered.
"What—" you started.
"Sh."
Before you could protest again, his hand rose up to cover your mouth, cutting off the rest of your words. Your eyes widened, and your hands automatically reached up to grip his wet shirt.
You tried saying something indignantly, but all that came out was a muffled mess of sounds.
His hand over your mouth felt deliciously calloused, rough against your lips and cheeks. You couldn’t help but notice how close your faces were to each other now, noses almost touching, if it weren't for his hand, that is.
You could see the different flecks of color in his eyes this close, the way his eyelashes fluttered against his cheek. He was staring down at you, his brows slightly pinched.
Then, from somewhere a faint sound of children laughing caught you by surprise. You turned your head under the jacket towards the sound, then back at him.
He sighed deeply, before lowering his hand (much to your displeasure).
“Where are we? Why are there kids here?” you whispered, brows furrowed as you tried to remember who had kids this young near your neighbourhood.
He slowly shifted to the side on the sidewalk, before replying.
“That’s Steve’s kids.”
You blinked.
“Steve as in Steve Rogers? The scrawny kid?” you asked in disbelief.
“Yeah.” he muttered.
For a few seconds, neither of you moved. He just kept staring at you, a storm of unreadable emotions in his eyes. His hands flexed again, before he slowly lowered you. Your brain was still catching up with the knowledge revealed as you stood shakily.
You turned slightly, lifting the edge of the jacket as if seeing it for yourself would make you believe it. The rain was a little more than a drizzle now.
From afar, you could make out two kids in bright rain coats, one jumping in puddles while the other was trying to sail a paper boat which was far too wet. You glanced at James and back, your mouth opening and closing around words you couldn’t think of.
“Isn’t he.. wasn’t he the same age as us?” you finally managed to say.
James shrugged lightly. “Yeah. He had them with his high school sweetheart.” he replied.
You nodded dumbly, still looking at them as if staring would make it make sense.
The sight felt so familiar you felt a tug in your gut, the same plastic-y coats which would do little to keep out the rain, the same puddle splashing, except you used to do it on each other, not caring about your shoes. The same toothy grin that never seemed to leave your faces as you enjoyed the rain.
It felt so far away, but you still remembered some details, almost without meaning to. You remembered when your oddly shaped boat swam limply across the streams, when you almost slipped into a grate trying to save it. You remembered your muddy hands, Bucky's green rain coat which was way too big on him, even the tooth he broke when he fell after you.
As if they sensed your forlorn staring, the one jumping in puddles caught your gaze, her head tilting at what you imagined would be an obscure sight. You shifted away from him immediately, his jacket slipping off your head.
You heard a sigh behind you and a rustle of fabric as he took it off his head as well. It was then you noticed that he had stopped under a tree, which blocked out most of the rain. Before you could comment on it, a high pitched “Uncle Bucky!” cut through the air, followed by loud splashy footsteps.
Without much ceremony, they jumped him so hard you thought they would knock him down, but he caught them with practiced ease, a tired smile on his lips.
“Hey kiddo.” he said, hugging them back before tickling them. The two of them immediately burst into laughter, wiggling away from his grasp as their half toothy smile grew.
You felt strangely mesmerized by the sight. He talked to them so freely, so normally, that it made you feel out of place. That this version of him wasn’t meant for you to see. Your feet shifted slowly away from them, trying to camouflage into the tree.
Before you could think of an escape plan, a warm voice interrupted your thoughts.
“Holy, is it really you?” Steve said with mild surprise. You turned swiftly, trying to school your expression.
“Oh, hey Steve.” you said, slightly awkward. You weren’t really friends with him, but you knew him like everybody in this town knew everybody.
“Hey, it’s good to see you back.” he said, warm eyes like always. “It’s good to see you too.” you replied with a small smile. He had.. filled out in the best way possible, almost in the same way as James, his short golden hair adding to the charisma. For a moment you thought if your entire town had been blessed with good looks while you were gone.
“I see you’ve met the little munchkins already.” he chuckled, making you snap out of the slight daze.
You gave him a polite smile. “They’re adorable.” came automatically. Steve just smiled proudly, but you could feel Bucky’s gaze at the back of your neck.
The kids were now staring at you, making you feel weirdly self conscious, standing in damp clothes.
Steve introduced them to you with a wide smile, and you waved awkwardly at them, trying not to cringe slightly when he added Aunt to your name.
The shorter one’s head tilted. “How come she’s an aunt? We’ve never seen her.”
Your smile tightened a little. “It’s fine.. You don’t have to call me that.. Just my name is fine.” you said.
James snorted at that. “You’ve never seen her because she doesn’t live here.” he said to the child.
“You’re from somewhere else?” the other one quipped with wide eyes.
“I’m not..” it came a little sharply, directed at James, but you softened it. “I’m from here, but I work in the city.” you explained to her.
“Woah.. that’s so cool. Dad told me the city has the biggest slides!” she said, much to James’ dislike.
“Do you mean the amusement parks? Yeah, they’re very big.” I replied.
Their eyes sparkled with excitement and you felt like you had to go on. “There’s uh.. this ride that you sit on and it flips you upside down, and one where you do loop de loop in the air.” you said. They clapped their hands in excitement.
“Will you take us there! I wanna do a loop de loop.” the taller one said, making your eyes widen. You glanced at a smiling Steve and a slightly grumpy James.
“Uh.. I don’t know.” you murmured with an awkward laugh. They immediately pouted, turning to their dad. “Can we go, dad, please please please?”
He huffed out a small laugh, and before you could point out that you hadn’t agreed, Steve saved you the trouble. “We’ll go when the weather’s clear, okay?”
They immediately brightened up and nodded eagerly. And like the usual attention span of kids, moved on to jumping into puddles.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you take them.” you murmured to Steve. He waved it off with his hand.
“It’s alright, they’ll forget about it in a few days. Bucky always leads them on about ice cream trucks and they get excited without ever seeing them.” he says amusedly.
James chuckled. “I just like making life tough for you.” he said, clapping Steve’s back. Steve rolled his eyes, nudging him in the ribs.
“So, have you come to stay this time around?” Steve asked.
“Not really, I just came to visit.” you replied politely.
“Oh, that’s still good. I’m glad you got to meet my kids atleast.” he said.
“How old are they, by the way?” you asked.
“Four. They’re twins.” Steve replied, beaming. You smiled and nodded, doing the math in your head.
“Wow, that’s.. congratulations.”
“I’m glad I ran into you, but I should probably head home. Good night.” you greeted him with a smile, before turning and leaving.
Behind you, James stood beside Steve, eyeing you for a moment before turning to his friend.
“I can’t believe she’s back.” Steve said with a small smile, making him roll his eyes.
“Of course she was gonna come back at some point.” he muttered.
“You convinced me that she wasn’t, that her life was perfect there.” Steve replied, almost amusedly.
“Whatever, she still pisses me off.” he grunted, and Steve laughed.
“You two still bicker like kids.” Steve poked his ribs.
James shoved him off playfully before starting towards his house. “See you at the fest, Stevie.” he gave a short wave before stuffing his hands in his pockets.
The rain had almost completely stopped as you turned the corner on your street. A loud thunder suddenly cracked overhead, making you flinch and grip yourself tighter instinctively.
You didn’t even register the sound of muffled steps until the familiar mocking tone of James came from behind you.
"It's just some thunder, don’t tell me you still scare like a kid." he huffed amusedly.
You turned just slightly, shooting him a look. “It took me by surprise.” you replied, trying to ignore how his slightly damp shirt looked far too good. He chuckled, jacket slung on his shoulder as he walked behind you, off by a few steps.
You continued walking. “Following me now, are you?” you muttered.
“I live on this street, longer than you have actually.” he pointed out, making you roll your eyes.
“That doesn’t mean you have to walk behind me like some creep.” you replied.
“So you want me to walk with you? Like we’re friends or something? Oh wait, you said we aren’t.” he said, knowing it would push your buttons.
When you didn’t reply, he rolled his eyes. His steps faltered for a second when he carefully looked over you.
"You're shivering." he said, like he hadn’t thought about that.
"It's kinda hard not to when you're soaking." you grumbled, hands still around yourself.
He sighed, before muttering something that sounded like ‘why lord’, before catching up to you in a few strides. He didn’t stop you, just wrung out his leather jacket once and draped it over you.
You wanted to argue, but the warmth of it made you sigh softly. The fabric smelled faintly like motor oil and grease.
The streetlights flickered over the two of you as you walked.
“Thanks.” you muttered. “I didn’t know you did chivalry.”
He rolled his eyes. "Maybe I do. Got a problem with that?"
His voice was laced with slight annoyance, but there was something else underneath it too - a hint of defensiveness.
“I guess I don’t. You’re still very facetious though.” you said, glancing at him.
He stopped walking abruptly, his boots squelching in a puddle.
“Facetious?” his brows pinched, almost adorably, you thought. “You callin’ me names, after I carried your stubborn ass through the rain?” he huffed.
"I didn't ask to be carried, you did that." you pointed out.
James' face twisted a little, but his tone was still even.
"You were too slow. Staying in that goddamn rain for so long would get you sick, of course I was gonna carry you." he said like it made perfect sense, his gaze boring into you.
"But no, you have to argue with me, don't you? Even when I'm just trying to keep your ass safe."
"I don't need to be kept safe, I'm not a child." you said, stopping in front of your gate.
“You sure do act like one.” he muttered under his breath, continuing on his way to his house next door.
“I heard that.” you said, eyeing his back. He half turned, then rolled his eyes and continued walking.
“Acting like a child is still better than acting like a lost puppy who has no one else to follow.” you reported, crossing your arms.
James stopped dead in his tracks.
His face went completely blank as he turned.
For a second, he just stared at you — really stared — like he was seeing you for the first time. Like your words had physically punched him.
Then something flickered behind his eyes. Hurt? Betrayal? Disbelief?
He didn't say anything yet.
Your brain screamed at you for a moment, alarms blaring.
When he finally spoke again, his voice was quiet. Not angry anymore — just… tired.
"Okay."
One word. Flat and empty.
Then he turned on his heel to walk away without another glance at you.
You blinked, staring at his retreating back.
His shoulders were tense, posture stiff as he pushed open his gate.
Your brain scrambled for words, something, anything to say.
“Wait, your.. your jacket.” you called out.
“Don’t need it.” James said without looking your way, not slowing down.
His voice was cold now - detached. Like he'd flipped a switch and shut everything off.
You watched him disappear into the house, too stunned to move, your heart twisting violently in your chest.
You should run after him. Call out to him, get him to stop, maybe even apologize—
But you couldn't. The words got stuck in your throat, and your legs felt like lead weights.
The look on his face when you'd called him a lost puppy, like you'd… hurt him, finally crossed the line. It was stuck in your mind, replaying over and over again.
Eventually you went inside and dried off. But you couldn't stop thinking about him.
Outside, the skies had cleared again, leaving the air cool. You paced in your room, feeling a mix of guilt and sorrow.
You flopped on your bed, looking at the ceiling.
He was right, he had helped you even though you were awful to him.
You closed your eyes, trying to shut off your brain. But all that did was bring up every time you had been rude to him.
“He started it,” you said out loud. “He was rude to me first.” you tried to reason with yourself, turning on your side.
But for what? He was just upset that you left.
The hours ticked by and sleep refused to come as you argued with your brain.
Whenever you closed your eyes, images of James' face kept flashing in your mind — angry, hurt, cold, annoyed. The memory of his expression when you'd called him a lost puppy was seared into your brain.
Your stomach twisted every time you recalled all that you'd said. You hadn't even tried to stop him when he walked away…
You sat up on your bed with an annoyed huff, cursing at your mind. You knew it wouldn’t calm down until you talked it out. So you picked up your phone and dialled your therapist/friend.
“Hey Sam.. I’m sorry for bothering you this late. Do you have a minute?” you said quietly.
On the other end, you heard rustling of sheets and a small grunt. “Is everything okay?” he asked.
“No.. not exactly just..” you sighed, closing your eyes. “Coming here was more taxing than I thought.”
“Is it.. because of your parents?” he asked gently, knowing it wasn’t really an open topic for you.
“Partially.. yeah. But it’s not just him, I.. ran into my childhood friend here, and things aren’t going great with him. I don’t really feel like myself, I’m just angry all the time.. and he hasn’t even done that many things wrong, he was just upset that I left.” you said, voice growing smaller with each sentence.
Sam listened patiently before asking, “You think you’ve wronged him by leaving?”
“A little, I guess. I know I left for myself, but I didn’t mean to hurt him.” As you said that, you realized how hypocritical it sounded. You ended up retelling Sam everything that went down, up until him leaving.
Sam sighed softly. “Your friendship sounds complicated.” he said, his tone light enough to make you feel better.
“I don’t even know if it’s that anymore..” you huffed an almost laugh.
“Whatever it is, it’s hurting you both from what it seems. Now you have a choice, you either pull back completely, act like you dont want to see him ever again.” he said carefully.
“Or, you swallow your pride, just for some time, and try to apologize. And I guess you can tell which one I’d suggest you to do.” he said. You knew he would never force you to make a decision.
“Shouldn’t he apologize too? Who knows what else he’s been talking about me with my dad.” you said.
Sam called your name carefully. “I agree that was a shitty thing to do, but I can only make you understand your actions, not him. Maybe if you ask him politely he’ll understand it was shitty.”
You sighed, rolling on your side. “You don’t know him, he won’t do that.”
“Exactly, I don’t, but you do. And I know you can be the bigger person here, yeah?” he said.
“Yeah.” you murmured quietly.
“Good. Now I’m charging double for this session because you interrupted my REM sleep.” he said jokingly, making your lips quirk.
“Like your greedy ass needs more money.” you said affectionately.
He made an indignant sound .“I, at the very least, deserve a drink for sorting out your boy problems.” he said, and you could hear him smirking.
“Fine, I’ll treat you when I get back, happy Mr. Greedy?” you teased. “Very.” he replied with a laugh.
“Alright, well get your “REM sleep” then.” you said.
“Good night, grumpy.” he said, yawning. “Send me a pic of your good deeds.”
After James finds you crying alone at the children's park, he finally decides to stop holding back. Years of hurt, resentment, and unanswered questions spill out in a confession neither of you is prepared for.
But instead of bringing clarity, his honesty leaves you torn between guilt and anger. Because while James is convinced you abandoned him, you're certain he has no right to judge choices he never understood.
Yet no matter how hard you clash, no matter how many wounds are ripped open, the care between you refuses to fade. And that might be the most frustrating part of all.
▸ PAIRING: Mechanic!James Bucky Barnes x Fem!Citygirl!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: Reader pov, angst, slow burn, friends to enemies to lovers, mean reader, grumpy x grumpy, no use of y/n, not beta read, lot of arguments, reader is hotheaded and also very horny, please excuse her she's just a girl, daddy issues, financial debt, angry bucky too in this one
(image does not depict reader)
▸ WORD COUNT: 19.7K
▸ A/N: Thanks for all the suggestions on the previous parts! It really helps me understand if I’m being partial to the characters. The hate for her dad is universal, and sadly, his lines were not completely fictional. Some of those have been told to me as well, so a hug for everyone with shitty fathers 🫂
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"You been cryin'."
His words were deep, but there was no edge to them. He was just... observing.
"No." You denied. "I got sprayed by a.. sprinkler." you murmured.
James scoffed, and the rush of air across your legs made your breath hitch.
"You've still got tears on your cheeks." he pointed out gruffly. "Don't lie..."
There it was, the damned nickname again.
Your eyes were still shut, but you could sense his gaze on you. You could feel his breath on your legs, the heat of his body right in front of you, the weight of his hands on your knees.
Your face scrunched. "Stop.. calling me that. We're not kids anymore.. I don't go around calling you Bucky." You said.
He scoffed again, and you could clearly picture the way his jaw would clench at your words.
"You ain't the boss a' me." he said, and your mouth dropped at his response.
You finally opened your eyes slightly, peering at him through your lashes. He was right in front of you, his hands still gripping your knees. He was staring up at you with narrowed eyes, and your breath caught when you saw- were those .. frown lines between his brows?
"You don't get to decide what I call you." he continued, his mouth twisted.
He shifted on his knees, his hands still holding yours. He was so close you could almost count the individual dark lashes framing his eyes.
He called your nickname again, and your attention was snapped back to present, to the hurt still coiling in your chest.
His mouth was set in a frown, jaw clenched and eyes were trained right on you. The blues in them were... intense to say the least.
"What?" you managed hoarsely. God, you barely recognized your own voice.
There was a long stretch of silence as he worked his jaw, his hands squeezing your knees again involuntarily, and you almost hissed at the sensation.
"Why are you crying?" He asked, voice low and calm like his hands were working of their own accord.
"I'm not crying now. And even if I was, it’s none of your business." yYou shot back half heartedly.
His eyes narrowed, and one hand left your legs.
Before you could react, the same thick finger swiping across your damp cheeks. You gasped at the sudden contact, resisting the urge to jerk away.
His hand paused, and you could suddenly feel the roughness of his fingertips against your skin. He pulled it back, then gave you a look that said “Really?”
Your heart was in your throat now, and you couldn't seem to find words. It felt like the moment was stretching out unnecessarily.
"I.. heard you two. Talking about me." You answered his question.
There was a flash of guilt that suddenly overtook his face, and it was so brief you almost didn't catch it.
His mouth twisted into a harsh frown, but he didn't move back. He stayed right in front of you, still crouched on the ground.
"You were eavesdropping?" he demanded gruffly.
A muscle jumped in his jaw again, and his eyes darkened. His hands moved down to your knees again, and your heart nearly jumped out of your chest at the contact.
"You had no right." he growled suddenly, and for some reason the irritation in his voice made heat rise to your cheeks again.
"I had every right, you were talking about me." you shot back hotly, your irritation increasing at his words. "I can't help it, you guys were loud."
His fingers tightened around your knees, his hands almost holding your legs hostage now. You swallowed again, trying to ignore the way your brain was suddenly feeling... fuzzy.
"You didn't have to listen." he shot back, and your eyes narrowed again.
This had to be the most uncomfortable position ever. You hated to imagine what he would look like kneeling for different reasons. Still, you managed to keep a semblance of control.
"And you didn't have to bitch about me." you replied harshly.
James' jaw clenched again, and you caught the flash of anger in his eyes.
"I wasn't bitching about you!" he insisted, eyes flashing. "Don't be dramatic."
"Yeah, right.. 'cause calling me a spoiled brat and too much trouble is definitely not bitching." You retorted.
James inhaled sharply, and you could tell you'd touched a nerve. You should be feeling guilty, being a little less vicious to him. But you didn’t.
"I wasn't bitching." he repeated gruffly, his hands clenching around your knees again. "Your dad said that, and I don’t think it’s wrong to state a fact."
Your blood boiled, and you clenched your jaw at his words.
A fact? Is that how he sees you too? Spoiled, fussy, bratty?
You'd spent your whole life trying to prove otherwise.
“And you just stood there, agreeing with him?” you retorted, voice a mix of anger and hurt. “God, you are just as bad as him. Can’t even pick a damn side. It was only yesterday you said that you hated my dad for letting me go, and then you’re standing in my kitchen gossipping and taunting like high school kids.” you said, ranting off everything on your chest.
His grip tightened and his jaw worked for a moment. “So I should fight with your old man in his house for reminiscing about his daughter?” he said, and the wording set you off again.
You stood up, making him almost stumble back. "Is that what it was? “Reminiscing” by calling me bratty and stubborn? I don't know why I ever came back to this hellhole. All you guys ever care about is pulling someone else down instead of doing something for yourself." you said angrily, chest heaving, before you turned towards the exit.
He stood up too, towering over you and reaching out a hand to grab your arm.
Before you could yank it back, his fingers wrapped around your forearm. Your mouth went dry at the heat of his palm against your skin, and you felt the roughness of his skin against yours.
"You can't just.. go." he said, looking at the ground. For a moment, you thought he was feeling guilty, but then that thought practically flew out of your head when he suddenly yanked you towards him.
You stumbled on your feet at the motion, your body toppling to the side dangerously, right against him.
His free hand quickly came up to grasp your waist, stopping you from falling.
All of a sudden, you were so close, practically pressed against him, every part of your body coming into contact with his hard body. Your face was level with his chest, and god it was infuriating how he smelled so damn good.
Your mind clouded for just a second before you snapped out of it.
"I can, and I will. Because nobody fucking cares about me here, and I don't know why I even expected it." you shot back, looking away.
You tried to push back, but it was like pushing against a solid wall. He was strong.
Your hands were pressed up against his chest, and the cotton of his shirt was stretched tight against his pectorals. It was like feeling an iron pillar under his shirt, hard and unrelenting in its strength.
You shook that thought away. "Let go, James." you said, your voice somehow still steady.
He swallowed, and you saw the way his chest moved up and down as his breathing seemed to get more labored.
James seemed frozen, staring down at you intently.
"You're wrong." He says, quiet but full of meaning. You were about to retort that he was nitpicking at you again but he beat you to it.
"You're wrong. People here do care about you." he interrupted, his voice quieter now than before.
His gaze was intense on yours, and you were suddenly aware of how close you were to him because the faint scent of him, something like musk and woodsmoke was wrapping around you.
You swallowed dryly.
"Like who? Like you, who can't go two seconds without showing me how perfectly you've replaced me in my house?" the bitterness came out automatically, like the defense mechanism you always fell behind.
That seemed to hit a nerve.
His hand on your waist pulled you closer with a little jerk. Your chest was now almost pressed up to his, and your heart seemed like it was trying to bruise itself against your own rib cage.
His jaw clenched again, and you could see the way his hands were starting to shake, almost as much as your own were.
His eyes were focused on your face again, and you could see the flash of something unreadable on his sharp features. But there was also agitation. His jaw was clenched, and his fingers were trembling against your arm and waist.
Your eyes darted down to his lips, just for a second, before flickering back up to his eyes. Your mouth felt dry, his gaze felt like it was stabbing into you, and your legs were starting to feel fuzzy.
"Damn it, say something." you muttered, annoyed at his lack of response.
He swallowed, his throat bobbing. His face seemed to move a fraction closer to you.
"No." he said quietly.
"No?" you were confused.
"I won't say anything.. because I'm tired of fighting with you. If you’re.. so upset about me talking to your dad about you, I won’t do it, but can we just stop this? I just.. I just want my friend back." the words sounded like it cost him to say them.
Your jaw worked silently, your mind painfully aware of every part of you in contact with every part of him.
"That's.. that's delusional. How can you expect that when you're not the Bucky I left?" You said.
His fingers flexed against your waist, and you noticed they were shaking again.
“I’m still your Bucky. That hasn’t changed, it can never change.” he spoke quietly, blue eyes boring into yours.
Your heart squeezed painfully in your chest.
Your Bucky.
"That's .. not true, and you know it.. my.. " you almost repeated it, "my friend would never talk like that about me. I get that you're mad I left, but I didn't do anything to hurt you.. I had no choice. I don't get why you're acting like I'm your enemy—"
Before you could continue, his hands were suddenly on your shoulders, and you were spun around. You stumbled backwards, almost into the bench, but strong hands caught you, grabbing your waist again and keeping you steady. You found your back suddenly resting against his chest, and his hands were still on your waist.
And then he started speaking, words tumbling like he had been holding onto them for so long.
"I was furious. I was furious you just left." he said, his hands clenching around your waist again.
You'd never felt this kind of emotion in the words exchanged between you two before.
He let out a deep sigh behind you, his hands pressed on your shoulders, almost like he was keeping you in place.
"I was angry that you just decided to take off, without thinking about anyone else. I was angry that you just ... ran away. Didn't even bother calling home."
You felt trapped, more so by the words than the bench and him. Every word he said just made you feel guiltier.
"I missed you." he said quietly, the words almost startling you, and you felt your own breath get caught in your throat. "Missed having you around. You were the one always there, dragging my ass around and never letting me sulk after getting bullied."
This was a whole different side of him. A vulnerable one.
"No matter how many people called me fat, you stole pies with me .. you snuck into the Rogers' orchard with me, even broke your stupid shin trying to get an apple." He murmured, almost speaking to himself.
You swallowed painfully, trying to resist the urge to lean back into his chest. He went on talking, almost like you weren't even there.
"No matter what I did, you always stood by me. Always, it was the two of us against all those assholes who made fun of us.. From kindergarten to highschool, you were just.. always there, helping me, saving me from flunking Chemistry, saving me from being stood up at prom.."
He fell silent for a second, before clearing his throat, and speaking again.
"And then you just .. left. Left us all. Left me. It was like I couldn't breathe. Everything reminded me of you."
You wanted to say something, defend yourself maybe, but he continued speaking. "We used to stand there, climbing the fence to see the sunset over the houses. I never thought.. you'd go the other side, leaving me behind." he murmured.
Your heart squeezed painfully in your chest again, and you felt guilt bubble up in your gut.
"It was.. it was like I was drowning. Everywhere I went, I saw you. I didn't go out for days.. the only place that felt like before was your house." he murmured, hands moving absently on your arm.
“I.. hung out with your parents, thinking maybe you’d show up one day unannounced, surprise them. I didn’t want to be left out when that happened. It started small, I swear, just.. mowing out the lawn once in a while, taking out trash when your mom’s back was hurting. And then it became talking.. remembering how you were, how we were. I never meant to replace you.” he said quietly, making a fresh wave of hurt roll through you.
Had he really waited all this time, hoping you’d pop up?
"Then.. your mom started tellin' about all the dates you were goin' in the city." His tone went slightly rigid, and you stiffened.
"She.. she told you about them?" you breathed.
"Yeah she did." he grunted. "Every damn thing you were doin'."
He was still just touching you, his fingertips grazing your skin. But even that featherlight contact sent goosebumps all over your skin.
"Why?" you murmured, feeling weird about him knowing your love life.
"Because I kept asking." he answered.
He leaned down again, and the roughness of his stubble scraped lightly along your cheek. It made you shiver, your skin tingling from the contact.
"Kept asking about where you were, what you were doing, how you were doing. Your mom loved to talk about it, made it sound like you were living the high life now that you were away."
You could tell the bitterness that was masked in his words.
“I was studying, and working part time, just to complete my tuition, and after that I worked my ass off for the job I got. Just because I never told her about the sleepless nights or workloads doesn’t mean I was out there partying or going on dates every night.” you said, crossing your arms.
His face scrunched into a look you couldn’t quite pin. Your brows furrowed. "Don't tell me you're mad I dated people." you said.
His hands paused at the movement, his fingers burning on your skin.
"Of course I am." he gritted out, and you could practically hear the way his gaze was fixed above your shoulder again."You just ran away and suddenly you're dating god knows who and having fun in the city, like those of us here didn't even exist anymore."
"That." You exhaled deeply. "That wasn't the only thing I was doing, okay? I just told you, I was studying and working hard, don't make me sound like a villain you've painted in your mind."
“And phones exist. If you were missing me so much you could’ve just called.” you added.
He swallowed again, “I don’t have a phone.”
You blinked. “You live off-city, not off-planet. How can you not have a phone?” you said incredulously.
"That’s— irrelevant. You left." He repeated, almost like a child.
That simple fact seemed to be the core of all his rage and hurt.
You sighed deeply.
"I had to. There's nothing in this town that could contain my dreams." you whispered.
There was a beat of silence, and then his hands were finally off of you.
You felt a pang of disappointment at the absence of his hands, and you inhaled, looking up at him.
His hands were shoved into his pockets, and he was glaring down at you with those darkened blue eyes. The same intense eyes he had been boring into you with this whole time.
"People built a life here, they didn't need some big city filled with idiots to find a purpose." he said defensively.
You scoffed, suddenly feeling defensive, too.
"So that means I shouldn't try to build a life for myself, huh? I should've just stayed in town and found a nice man, had some little kids and been done with it?" you asked, your voice slightly sharp.
"I'm just sayin' you could've stayed." he gritted out, and it sounded like the words were forced.
"You stayed. Tell me, how's that working out for you?" you said, slightly taunting.
He fell silent again, the muscle in his jaw twitched, and you knew he was angry now.
"Yeah. That's what I thought." you said, almost mockingly.
Damn him. He was acting like you were some spoiled brat for leaving, with no good reasons, and all that guilt you had been feeling earlier had vanished. All you could feel now was irritation.
"Don't be like that." He muttered annoyedly, making you scoff.
"I have no other choice, every one in this town seems hell bent on acting like I murdered somebody, while all you guys are doing is drowning in debt and working at fucking car repair shops." you blurted out before thinking it through.
"Jesus Christ." he snapped, finally raising his voice.
"You think I wanted to stay? You think I had a choice?" His hands came out of his pockets and gestured wildly between you two.
"I stayed because this is my home! Because my mom needed me! Because Rebecca needed someone who gave a damn about her!"
Your face twisted. "So you're implying I don't care about my parents? I was fucking ready to give up all of my savings just so mom could get her shop out of debt." you retorted.
James froze, his anger evaporating in an instant.
His mouth opened slightly, but nothing came out. His hands dropped to his sides again.
For the first time since you'd been back... he looked shocked. Like he genuinely hadn't known that about you.
You hadn't meant to say that.
"Go ahead, now call me a bitch for counting the favours. But I know what I am." You muttered. “Which is someone who isn’t using them as an excuse to hold back. You can act like you’re a better person but it doesn’t change the fact that we both made our choices, like adults.” you said.
"I’m.. not trying to act like I’m better than you. I’m just trying to tell you that you hurt me."
His voice was softer now, all the anger gone. He sounded ... guilty? Confused?
"And you don't have to do that. I never knew you wanted to give them money." he looked down.
"Of course you don't, you're too busy hating me to actually see what I'm doing now." you said, looking away.
James exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.
"I don't hate you." he said firmly. "I never hated you. I hated what you did."
He took a step closer.
"I was just ... pissed that you left without looking back."
"I saw my chance and I took it. And I'm not ashamed about it." you said, crossing your arms
James exhaled slowly, his expression softening even more.
"I get that." he said quietly. "I do."
He shifted on his feet, looking down at the ground for a second before meeting your eyes again.
"But you never told me... any of it."
"Like you would listen." you said, voice tempering down.
"All you had was stars in your eyes whenever my dad was around. Even now you can’t see how he acts towards me. It’s like I don’t even exist to him, and when I do, he remembers that it’s an inconvenience."
"Your dad was a good guy." James said stubbornly, but his voice lacked conviction now. "I don't know what you're talkin' about."
He looked genuinely confused, like the idea that your father wasn't some saint had never crossed his mind.
Christ, he really had been blind.
You laughed humourlessly and rolled your eyes.
"You may look different now, but you're still that naive Bucky who stuffed his face and didn't think more than he had to." you said bitterly before turning to leave, shaking your head.
James' face twisted.
"I am not naive," he snapped, immediately stepping in front of you to block your path. "You can't just say that and walk away."
"I can, because you're acting like it." you said, shooting him a glare. “He says a few nice words to you and now you’re siding with him over me? Has resentment made you so blind?”
"How would you be feeling if I left without a word? Huh? Just up and left and never looked back?" he demanded.
"I would respect your choice, not blame you for wanting a different life." you replied.
He scoffed, some of his anger returning.
"Bullshit." he grumbled through clenched teeth. "You wouldn't have respected jackshit."
You rolled your eyes at his statement.
"You don't get to just get up and leave one day, without even saying goodbye, and then show your face here again and act like you did nothing wrong."
The words sent something twisting painfully through your chest.
He was right. But that still didn't justify his anger.
"What do you want me to do, beg for your forgiveness?" you said.
He took a step even closer to you, and despite the irritation running through your veins, your heartbeat increased.
You had to crane your neck to look up at him; his shoulders looked so broad now, his arms so big.
James' hands suddenly shot out and grabbed your forearms now, effectively
trapping you in place. Your heart hammered in your chest at his touch.
"I want you to... act like you have the decency to acknowledge you did something wrong." James said, and your nostrils flared.
His gaze was burning into yours. And you wanted to look away, look anywhere but at him, but he was holding you in place firmly.
"I am not apologizing for something I didn't do. It's not my fault you want to live in this hole in the ground for the rest of your life." you said.
His jaw worked, and he looked like he was on the verge of telling you off again, when suddenly, he closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. His head tilted upwards, gracing you with the view of his adam's apple, the light stubble disappearing beneath his chin.
Your throat went dry for a few seconds, before you shook yourself out of it.
"Praying to god, are you?" you muttered, and he exhaled in slight annoyance.
"It's going to rain." He murmured out of the blue.
You blinked, thrown off by his random statement.
"No it's not. It's the middle of May." you muttered.
He lifted his head back up, opening up those piercing blue eyes again. It did nothing for your brain right now, just made the heat in your body rise to the surface.
"It's gonna.. I can feel it." he replied.
He seemed to be concentrating on something, his brows furrowed and his grip still around your forearms.
His eyes darted left and then right, before looking at you again.
"You should get home."
You stared at him with furrowed brows, confused.
"Why?" you asked stupidly, the word tumbling out of your mouth automatically.
James' hands suddenly let go of your arms, and you immediately felt the cold air at the loss. You resisted the urge to shiver.
"Just... you shouldn't be out here when it's about to rain." he said, not really answering your question. He took a step backward.
"Maybe I want to stand out in this non-existent rain." you said, crossing your arms.
He gave you a look. "You can't be serious. You're wearing cotton clothes.."
You rolled your eyes irritably at his concern. He was starting to act like his old self again.
"I'm an adult. I can take care of myself." you retorted.
He scoffed again, the familiar sound making your irritation rise again.
"Oh, can you? The adultest adult to ever adult." He mocked.
"Wow, that's such a mature thing to say." you mocked him back
His forehead furrowed indignantly at your sarcasm, and you felt the urge to smirk.
There was the James you were familiar with.
"It's not about maturity," he gritted out. "It's about common sense."
"Yeah, and common sense says there's no rain right now." you replied.
He clenched his jaw, a muscle jumping in his cheek in annoyance. You wanted to run your hand along it.
"You're bein' stubborn. It's going to." He shot out through clenched teeth. "You should get home before it starts."
Your brows furrowed, the irritation increasing. Was he really trying to kick you off the street so quickly?
"I'll be fine—" you started, and suddenly a drop of water dropped onto your face, stopping you in your tracks. Your eyes darted upwards.
You closed your eyes, a scowl on your face.
That son of a gun was right.
A couple of other raindrops fell onto your nose and cheeks. You reached up a hand to brush your hair out of your face, and when you felt a few bigger droplets hit the back of your hand, you groaned lowly.
James, meanwhile, was staring at you with a smug, satisfied expression.
"Now will you please get out of the rain?" He asked smugly, his eyes glinting with something that resembled mischief.
Bastard, you thought.
The bastard was smiling too.
A/N: I wrote 24K for this part but I thought that was too long so sorry for the slightly abrupt cut. Side note - Sebastian's Cartier pictures ARE KILLING ME. Can't focus on anything istg 😩 Thanx for supporting, next part out soon!
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.
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“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'."
Part 3 is out!
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?
Introductory lines written by @cassthastrophe
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 back 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.
