Yeah?
Kinda planting my garden right now.
Thinking about becoming a farmer because groceries are expensive and I feel like I'm living through the Depression again.
Yeah?
Kinda planting my garden right now.
Thinking about becoming a farmer because groceries are expensive and I feel like I'm living through the Depression again.
Summary : Bucky’s a little in love with you. He’s also a little scared of admitting it. In the meantime, he’ll let you fall asleep on his shoulders.
Pairing : New Avengers!Bucky Barnes x New Avengers!reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Tower fic!!! Food. Just two oblivious people crushing on each other. Post-mission talk, brief mention of reader's past. Set after Thunderbolts* (Let me know if I missed anything!)
Word count : 2.6k
Note : Sorry for not posting for a while, I’ve been so busy, but enjoy!
The mission had gone fine.
There were no casualties, only minimal damage, and the target was secured. It was just one of those missions that got filed quickly and forgotten even faster.
But missions were never just fine, at least not really. They clung to you by the gunpowder in your clothes, adrenaline under your skin, and the faint tremor in your hands you can’t seem to get rid off.
Which was probably why neither you nor Bucky had gone to your rooms.
Instead, you ended up in the kitchen.
At… whatever time it was. 12AM? Maybe 12.30. Either way, it was late enough that the compound had gone eerily quiet. The lights were dimmed and the world narrowed down to the hum of the refrigerator and the buzz of the overhead lamp.
Bucky set the Chinese takeaway bag on the counter like it was precious cargo. “Got you your favourite.”
“You didn’t have to,” you said, leaning back against the opposite counter, arms loosely crossed. Your voice was softer than usual, and Bucky took note of that.
He shrugged, already pulling containers out. “You forgot to eat before the mission.”
You rolled your eyes, but there was no aggression behind it. “I had a protein bar.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“It does if I say it does.”
Bucky glanced at you, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “Yeah, well. You’d say anything counts if it means you don’t have to admit you’re wrong.”
You huffed out an amused laugh.
There it was, that comfortable rapport you and Bucky got going on. It always came there, no matter how the mission went. It was… nice, for lack of a better word.
He slid one of the containers toward you without asking.
Your favorite, the wonton soup.
Of course it was.
You looked down at it, then back up at him. “You remembered.”
He didn’t look at you this time, focusing instead on unwrapping his own food. “You order the same thing every time.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is.”
“It’s not,” you insisted, but your voice had gone softer again, almost thoughtful. “Sometimes I get the other thing.”
“What? The egg drop soup?” Bucky finally glanced up, lifting an eyebrow. “You complain about it every time you get it and say you should’ve gotten this instead.”
You paused. He did have a point.
His mouth twitched up again only barely, like he was trying not to let himself smile too much.
And then, because you couldn’t help yourself, you smiled too.
You both settled around the small coffee table on the corner of the room, the one that was technically too small for two people but somehow always ended up being shared anyway.
Bucky leaned back slightly in his chair, stretching one arm along the backrest beside him. The metal of his other hand rested on the table, fingers tapping once, then twice.
“You did good today,” you said after a moment, stirring at your soup more than actually eating it.
“So did you.”
“I almost missed that shot.”
“You didn’t.”
“Almost.”
“Doesn’t count.”
You huffed softly, glancing up at him. “Right,” you muttered, looking back down, even though you could still feel his eyes on you.
A moment passed in silence, until it was too uncomfortable for either of you to bear.
“You didn’t have to—” you started again, nodding toward the food, like you needed to circle back to a safer topic. “—do this.”
Bucky leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on the table now.“It’s just food.”
“It’s not just food,” you took a bite full of wonton, then swallowed, “and you know it.”
He did. He could’ve just heated up frozen pizza. Or put on some fries in the new air fryer Val got. Instead, he went through all the effort to get you your favourite takeout.
He shrugged, “You were running on empty.”
You laughed, almost in disbelief. “That’s not your problem.”
Bucky can only smile. “Yeah,” he said, “I know.”
You looked up again, and he was already looking at you.
And for a second it felt like something that had been brewing between you for months might actually be said. It’s almost as if one wrong move might break it, or fix it, or—
You nudged his foot lightly under the table.
“Eat your food, Barnes,” you said, gentler now, but with that teasing edge still. “You’re gonna get all grumpy if you don’t.”
He tilted his head. “Already grumpy.”
“No, you’re not.” You nudged him again. “Not when you’re with me.”
You didn’t even know what you meant by that, but he didn’t move his foot away.
Instead, his eyes dropped briefly to where your feet touched under the table, then back up to your face.
“You worry too much,” he said.
You nodded your head. “Someone has to.”
Bucky let out a huff, almost like a laugh.
By the time the food was gone, neither of you had moved much.
Your containers sat empty, pushed off to the side. The common room had gone quieter, if that was even possible.
Bucky was still leaning back in his chair, one arm hooked over the back, the other resting on the table.
It was getting late. You should go to bed. You didn’t, though.
Bucky cleared his throat. “Uh—”
You looked up.
He was already looking at you, but the second your eyes met, his gaze flicked away, suddenly shy. His fingers tapped once against the table.
“You, uh…” He shifted slightly in his chair. “You wanna watch a movie or something?”
The words came out a little too nervous to be casual. It was like he was aiming for easy and landed just shy of it.
“Okay,” you said.
His shoulders dropped just a fraction.“Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
“Okay,” he repeated, like he needed to hear it twice.
—
That was how you ended up on the couch.
The TV lit up the room in soft blue light as the menu screen flickered to life.
Bucky handed you the remote. “Your pick.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “That’s a trap.”
“It’s not a trap.”
“If I pick something bad, you’re gonna judge me.”
“I don’t—” he started, then paused. “I don’t judge.”
You just looked at him.
He sighed. “…Okay, I judge a little.”
“Exactly.”
You turned your attention back to the screen, scrolling through options.
Rows of movies passed by. You hovered over one— Hachiko, a dog movie.
Bucky leaned slightly closer to see. “…No. The book is better.”
You turned to him. “I didn’t even pick it yet.”
“You were thinking about it.”
You scoffed. “You don’t know my thought process.”
“I do.”
“Oh, do you?”
“Yeah,” he said, a little too confidently. “You pick something sad, then pretend you’re ‘fine’ the whole time.”
“I am fine.”
“You cried at that other dog movie.”
“Airbud was emotional!”
“The dog was fine at the end.”
“That’s not the point!”
Bucky chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re not picking that.”
“Oh, so now I don’t get to pick at all?”
“You can pick,” he said, gesturing toward the screen. “Just not that.”
You stared at him for a second, then hovered over it again just to get on his nerves.
Bucky leaned forward instantly. “Don’t.”
You grinned, pretending to press the button dramatically.
“Don’t.”
You clicked away at the last second, satisfied.
“Wow,” he muttered. “Real mature.”
“Thank you.”
You kept scrolling and paused over one of the Peter Jackson Hobbit movies.
Bucky leaned in to you, close enough that you could feel his warmth, the brush of his arm against yours.
“Are you kidding?” he said.
“You didn’t even read which one it was!”
“I don’t need to,” he said stubbornly, “the books are better.”
“You’re fucking impossible, old man,” you said, faking an annoyance.
“You have terrible taste.” He didn’t really mean it.
You sunk back on the couch. “Whatever.”
Five minutes later, you were still scrolling.
Five minutes turned to ten minutes. Then fifteen.
Lego Movie? Pass. Lego Batman? Pass. Alien? Meh. Predator. Seen that too many times.
“This is getting ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath.
“You keep vetoing everything,” you shook your head.
“Everything you pick is concerning.”
You turned to him. “You suggested a documentary about trains last time.”
“It was interesting.”
“It was two hours of trains, Bucky.”
“They were different trains.”
You stared at him. He stared back.
“I’m not watching that again.”
“Your loss.”
You rolled your eyes, then kept scrolling to another row… another..
And then—
You stopped.
You slowly turned your head toward him.
“No,” you both said, in perfect sync, though neither sounded convinced.
You looked back at the screen, before looking back at each other.
“Okay, but…” you started.
“It’s a stupid choice to make,” he said.
“I know.”
“It’s really stupid. We could do better”
“I know.”
Then, quieter, like he was giving in despite himself, he broke the silence. “…You wanna watch it?”
Your smile spread immediately. “Yeah.”
He huffed. You pressed it and the movie started.
Paul Blart: Mall Cop 2.
Sam had made him watch the first one after all. He had pretended not to like it, but it became one of his guilty pleasures.
It wasn’t longer before you slapped a hand over your mouth after you snorted at a scene. “I’m sorry.”
Bucky shook his head, already smiling. “No, no. it’s—”
Another ridiculous scene played, and you both lost it.
At one point, you leaned into him without thinking, your shoulder pressing fully against his as you laughed.
Bucky froze for half a second, before relaxing into it.
His arm shifted slightly, not quite around you, but close. Close enough that if either of you moved just a little more…
But neither of you did.
The movie played on, ridiculous and dumb and perfect in a way neither of you would admit out loud.
—
The movie had been playing for, what— thirty minutes? Maybe forty.
Bucky couldn’t tell anymore, because he was now frozen.
Just two minutes ago, he was laughing at a corny joke saying something stupid about segways, when he realised you weren’t answering.
He looked to the side and saw that you were leaning on his human shoulders.
He hadn’t dared move, hadn’t even trusted himself to breathe normally. He was hyper-aware of everything: the warmth of being so close to you, the weight leaning into his arm, the faint scent of oil you couldn’t quite get out of your hair. Every nerve in his body felt like it had been switched on at once.
Your head tipped.
And before he could even process it, before he could decide whether to panic or not… his mind supplied helpfully, that you were asleep.
You were asleep on him.
Bucky stared straight ahead at the TV like it might detonate if he looked away.
Okay.
Okay, this was fine.
An adorably small exhale left you, and your head slid just slightly more onto his shoulder, settling there.
There was a very important decision to make here.
He could wake you.
That would be the normal thing to do. It was the reasonable thing to do. He should gently nudge you, say your name, pretend his heart wasn’t currently trying to punch its way out of his chest.
Or…
He glanced down, carefully.
Your cheek was pressed against his shoulder, your face relaxed in sleep. You were peaceful. Comfortable. With him.
He wasn’t stupid. He knew your past and the mental toll that came with it. He knew you were paranoid and hyper vigilant— you told him that yourself. Once, you even told him people made you uncomfortable and uneasy.
But evidently, not him.
His throat went dry.
Or… he could not wake you.
Bucky reached very, very carefully for the remote and paused the movie. The screen froze mid-scene, some convention that Blart was currently attending in the background.
He set the remote aside like it might make noise if he wasn’t cautious enough.
And then he stayed. He didn’t move. He didn’t breathe in too deep. And he didn’t even dare adjust his human arm, even though it was already starting to go a little numb.
At some point, your breathing evened out into that steady rhythm of deep sleep. You shifted slightly, and Bucky tensed, worried you’d wake, but instead you just settled more comfortably against him.
Your lips parted just a little.
Aaaand you were definitely drooling on him.
Bucky still did not move. If anything, his shoulders somehow squared further, like he was bracing himself against the concept of ever disturbing you.
Time passed, and Bucky didn’t even check the clock. His arm had long since gone numb, pins and needles creeping down into his fingers, but he refused to shift even an inch.
This was fine. He’d survived worse with Hydra, cryo, decades of nightmares… He could surely survive being a human pillow.
The door whooshed open at around 3 AM.
Bucky didn’t react. It wasn't unusual for one of the team members to get hungry and raid the kitchen before everyone else was awake.
“Hey, Buck…” Bob’s voice cut off mid-sentence. “…What are you doing?”
Bucky stared straight ahead at the frozen TV screen. “Watching a movie.”
Bob walked further into the room.“The movie is paused.”
“We’re uh… taking a break.” Bucky was obviously trying to whispers
Bob looked between the TV and you.
Then he looked back at Bucky, sitting ramrod straight like a statue, arm clearly trapped but making absolutely no attempt to fix it.
Bob raised an eyebrow. “How long have you been…?”
Bucky hesitated. “Not long.”
Bob glanced at the clock, knowing you came back from the mission little less than four hours ago.. “Are you sure?”
“Maybe an hour,” Bucky gulped.
Bob just chuckled. “You’ve been sitting there, not moving… For an hour.”
Bucky said nothing.
“Your arm is literally dead, isn’t it?”
“I can’t feel my fingers.” He admitted dryly.
“And you’re just… okay with that,” Bob tilted his head curiously.
“Yeah.”
Bob let out a small innocent laugh, reaching for sweets in the jar on the table behind them. Bob knew Bucky, and he knew you. He knew that Bucky was very particular about his personal space, and he hated the invasion of it. This, however, was less of an invasion and more of a please come into my space and stay there forever. “Have you tried telling her you’re in love with her?” He suggested, trying to be helpful.
Bucky’s head snapped toward him so fast it was almost alarming. “I’m not—”
i just have a feeling he’d be the BEST at cuddling. like he’d pull you in without even thinking, all big, warm and soft, and suddenly nothing around you matters anymore. you’d forget everything within a second, just being there with him, feeling safe and at home in his arms. ᭡
just a little reminder that i love each and every one of you, and i hope you know that. yesterday might’ve been rough on ya and maybe that feeling carried into today—but tomorrow is a new day, a different day. and through it all, you’re doing such an amazing, incredible job.
moot check-in !!!! heyyy, how you feeling? you drink any water yet? eat something? be honest. and just so we’re clear— you are loved, okay?? like deeply. and even more important… I LOVE YOUUUU !!
Warnings/tags : Fluff!!!! Cursing. Established Relationship. You have a cold. Set after Thunderbolts* (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word count : 3.6k
Note : Finally, another short-ish story! Enjoy!
You woke up feeling like absolute death.
Your throat burned, your nose was hopelessly stuffed, and your head felt heavy, as if aliens had replaced your brain with a brick sometime during the night. You groaned into your pillow and reached blindly for your phone on the nightstand.
6:42 a.m.
Normally by now, you’d already be getting ready for work. The flower shop opened early, and mornings were always busy. People would be rushing in for last-minute bouquets, anniversary flowers, or apology roses.
Today, though, you could barely breathe.
You sniffled miserably and unlocked your phone, opening your messages. You made a call before staring at Bucky’s name, sitting pinned at the top like it always did.
You stared at it for a second before typing.
You: buckyyyy
The reply came almost immediately. It was lovely to think that he was always waiting for a message for you, especially before either of you had to leave for work.
Bucky: good morning to you too
You smiled faintly despite the way your head throbbed.
You: i think im dying
There was a brief pause.
Bucky: are you okay? Where are you? Do you need any help? Do I need to bring the team?
You stifled a small giggle.
You: no baby!!! I’m okay. Just a bit of sore throat, stuffy nose, and headache. very tragic stuff.
Three dots appeared. You could almost hear the sigh of relief in his voice when he realised you were not, in fact, kidnapped by a supervillain trying to get to him. Occupational hazard, I guess.
Bucky: did you take your temperature?
You: no
Bucky: why
You: because im dying
A moment passed before Bucky replied.
Bucky: stay home from work
You sniffled again, wiping your nose with the sleeve of your sleep shirt.
You: already called in sick
Bucky: good
You set the phone down on your chest and stared at the ceiling, exhausted from doing absolutely nothing.
Being sick sucked. Especially when your job was what kept your hands busy most days.
You worked at a little florist shop a few blocks away, and until you met Bucky, it was your favorite place in the world. It always smelled like roses and eucalyptus and fresh greenery. Your hands were almost always covered in tiny scratches from thorns, and your apron pockets were constantly full of ribbon scraps.
You loved it.
There was something about being stuck at home, away from all those bright colors and soft petals, that made everything feel duller.
Your phone buzzed again.
Bucky: drink water
You huffed softly, taking a sip from your overnight bottle on the bedside table. You took an unflattering selfie of you doing exactly what he told you to.
You: happy now?
Bucky: very
You rolled onto your side, hugging your blanket tighter around yourself.
You and Bucky had been together for six months now. And he had turned out to be the most thoughtful boyfriend in existence.
He remembered everything: from your favorite snacks to your coffee order. The fact that you hated horror movies but would still watch them if you could hide behind him.
He showed up with little things constantly. He’d bring you chocolate bars when he visited the shop. He’d get your favorite bakery cake after long shifts. Most of all, he loved getting you cute cards with messy handwriting that always made you laugh. Last week, he’d even gotten you a silver necklace “just because.”
You still wore it almost every day.
Your eyes drifted toward the chain resting against your collarbone now.
He was perfect.
Which was probably why the one thing he didn’t do stuck in your mind so much.
You sighed quietly. Because in six months of dating Bucky Barnes… He had never brought you flowers, not even once.
It felt silly to be upset about. You literally work with flowers every day.
Maybe in his head it was like bringing a chef more food. Or bringing a librarian another book. But still…
You spent hours arranging bouquets for strangers to give to their partners. You put so much care and love into all of them, arranging beautiful ones, romantic ones, soft pastel ones tied with ribbon because a husband said his wife preferred yellow carnations over red roses.
And sometimes you’d look at them and think, Wow. I wish Bucky would bring me flowers like this.
Your phone buzzed again. You glanced down.
Bucky: open the door
You blinked. “What?”
Confused, you dragged yourself out of bed, blanket wrapped around your shoulders like a cloak, and shuffled toward the door of your apartment.
When you opened it, Bucky was standing there. His hair was slightly messy, jacket half zipped, looking like he’d come straight from the gym.
Your heart immediately melted.
“What are you doing here?” you croaked, voice scratchy.
He stepped inside, already reaching up to press the back of his human hand to your forehead.
“You sound terrible,” he said, concerned.
“Wow, thank you.”
He ignored that. “You’re warm.”
“I’m just sick, Buck,” you chuckled, thinking you couldn't hold back the little sneeze coming out of your throat. “I’m not dead.”
“I get worried, sweets.”
You sniffled, watching as he moved toward the kitchen and started unpacking the takeout.
“Soup,” he said simply.
Your chest tightened a little. “My favourite one?”
“Obviously.”
He set the chocolates beside it on the counter. “And these.”
You stared at them. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Sure I did,” he glanced back at you like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re sick.”
Your throat tightened, but not from the cold this time. He was a blessing. Six months of this man showing up with the sweetest, most thoughtful little gifts.
You leaned against the counter, suddenly feeling a little emotional. He was so good to you, so unbelievably good, and yet—
Your eyes drifted briefly to the empty windowsill across the apartment.
Still no flowers.
Ugh, maybe it was silly to care.
You didn’t even realize you were sniffling until Bucky looked up from the soup he was pouring into a bowl.
You were already shaking because of the cold. Your nose was stuffed up, throat scratchy, head heavy and foggy. Everything felt just a little too much when you were sick like this. Your body was tired, your brain was slow, and your emotions sat much closer to the surface than usual.
He frowned slightly. He knew that look on your face: Something’s wrong.
You quickly wiped under your eyes, hoping he’d think it was just the cold. Unfortunately for you, your boyfriend noticed the littlest of details.
He set the bowl down and walked over, both metal and flesh hands settling gently on your waist below the blankets you were currently wearing like a cape.
“Hey,” he lulled, rubbing soothing circles on your body. Before you could protest, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your temple.“l “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
Your chest tightened immediately. You hadn’t meant to say anything. It felt stupid now that he was looking at you attentively like that, but the words came out anyway.
“I just…” you rubbed, rubbing your sleeve across your nose again. “I make flowers for people all day, Buck.”
He tilted his head, clearly not following yet.
“And they’re always for someone’s girlfriend or boyfriend or partner,” you continued, whispering this time. “Anniversaries, birthdays, apologies, everything.”
He nodded slowly. “Okay…”
You shrugged weakly, suddenly embarrassed. “And I don’t even get to bring them home.” Your voice came out smaller than you meant it to. “Because they’re never for me.”
Bucky blinked.
“And you bring me so many sweet things,” you rushed on, gesturing vaguely toward the chocolates on the counter. “These and cakes and jewellery and cards and—” You sniffed again .“But you’ve never gotten me flowers.”
Bucky froze, his brows slowly pulled together as realization dawned on him. “Oh.”
You instantly regretted saying anything. “I know it’s dumb,” you said quickly. “It’s literally my job, so I get why—”
“Oh,” he said again, cutting you off before spiraling
You blinked.
Bucky looked stunned, like a billboard filled with boyfriend 101 advice had just smacked him in the face. “I… thought you’d be sick of them,” he admitted.
You stared at him. “Sick… of flowers?”
“You work with them all day.”
“Bucky.”
“Yeah?”
“That’s like saying a baker wouldn’t want cake.”
He paused. “That… makes sense.”
You huffed a laugh despite yourself.
“I didn’t realize you felt that way.” He reached up, gently brushing your hair away from your face, tilting your chin up so you were looking at him. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
Your chest warmed up, and you were pretty sure that wasn't the fever. Like, 70% sure. “You don’t have to be sorry.”
“Yes I do.” He leaned down and kissed your forehead again. “I’ll make it up to you,” he promised.
Your brows lifted slightly. “You don’t have to…”
“I promise.”
You know when he said it like that, he meant it.
Before you could argue any further, Bucky suddenly seemed to remember something. His eyes flicked toward the microwave clock behind you.
He froze. “...shit.”
You narrowed your eyes, confused. “What?”
Bucky grabbed the soup bowl quickly and guided you toward the couch. “Sit.”
“Buck—”
“Sit,” he repeated, softer this time.
You barely had time to react before he gently but firmly sat you down on the couch like you weighed nothing at all. The blanket got tugged over your legs, and the warm bowl of soup was placed carefully into your hands.
“There,” he said, satisfied.
You looked down at the soup, then back up at him. “Bucky—”
“I’m late,” he said frantically.
“How late?”
“Very.”
“Bucky—”
“Briefing started ten minutes ago.”
You let out a small laugh as he rushed around the apartment, grabbing his jacket. He made it halfway to the door before abruptly stopping, as if forgetting something.
Then he turned around and hurried back to you.
“What—”
Your words were cut off when he gently held your face and kissed you. It was quick and a little rushed, but still soft enough to make your stomach flutter.
When he pulled back, you were smiling.
“Bucky,” you laughed hoarsely, lifting the soup slightly. “You’re gonna get sick too!”
He was already backing toward the door again.
“I’m a super soldier,” He said incredulously, pointing at himself with a boyish grin. “Dont’cha worry about me, sweets.”
You rolled your eyes as he slipped out the door in a rush.
—
By the time Bucky finished his day at the Watchtower, the conversation from that morning replayed endlessly in his mind.
You’ve never brought me flowers.
Bucky groaned to himself as he stepped out onto the street, already turning in a different direction than usual.
Six whole months of dating the sweetest girl he’d ever met, and somehow he had never brought you flowers.
He dragged a hand through his hair, shaking his head at himself. In his defense, you literally worked with flowers every day. In Bucky’s mind it had made perfect sense not to bring more of them home.
But now that he thought about it?
Yeah.
That was a pretty dumb reason.
Because if there was one thing Bucky Barnes had learned in the last six months, it was that he would absolutely do anything to see you smile.
So instead of heading to yours immediately, he walked the few blocks toward the little florist shop you worked in. The lights were still on.
Good.
He pushed the door open, the little bell above it chiming softly.
The familiar scent of fresh roses and greenery hit him immediately. It smelled exactly like you did after a long shift.
Behind the counter, your coworker looked up.
“Hey—” Then she paused when she saw who it was. “Well, well, well.”
Bucky chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. He has met her a couple of times, mostly when you were having a girls day out, and she handed you over back to him at the end of the night. “Hi, Marie.”
Marie leaned her elbows on the counter, looking way too entertained. She raised an eyebrow. “The florist’s boyfriend finally buying flowers?”
Bucky laughed, a little sheepish. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Guess I’m a little late on that one.”
She shook her head now. “Took you long enough.”
Bucky crossed his arms over his chest “I’m trying to fix that right now.”
She chuckled. “So what can I help you with, Barnes?”
Bucky glanced around the shop. Buckets of flowers lined the walls, from rose to tulips, lilies, and daisies. Ribbons and greenery and half-finished arrangements sat on the big wooden table in the center.
He could already picture you standing there, sleeves rolled up, carefully tying ribbons and adjusting petals.
“I want to pick my own flowers,” he said. “Make a custom bouquet for her.”
“That’s really cute,” Marie said, though she glanced at the clock behind the counter. “Unfortunately,” she sighed, “we’re closing in like.. four minutes.”
Bucky’s eyes widened. He should have known this. Perhaps, in his guilt-ridden panic, the fact had completely got lost from his mind. “Right.”
She pointed toward the front of the shop. “But… we’ve got pre-made bouquets by the window.”
He turned to look. There were several beautiful arrangements displayed, wrapped in paper, tied with ribbons, all different colors and styles.
“Just pick one from there,” Marie said with a small shrug. “They’re all good.”
Bucky walked over, and one bouquet immediately caught his eye.
It had soft pinks and lavender, with little hints of yellow and white tucked between the blooms. It was bright and pretty in a way that reminded him of you.
Without hesitation, he picked it up.
Maria watched from the counter, smiling knowingly. “That one’s a good choice.”
Bucky looked down at the flowers again, smiling a little to himself. “Yeah?”
“Oh yeah.” She rang it up casually. “Someone’s got good taste.”
Bucky carefully took the bouquet once she handed it back to him, holding it like it was fragile glass.
—
You were still on the couch, exactly where Bucky had left you that morning.
The blanket had somehow multiplied into a full nest around you during the day, one draped over your shoulders, another tucked over your legs, the corner of a third bunched under your chin like you’d been subconsciously building a fortress against the cold that had settled into your bones.
Your hair was a mess. Your nose was still red. You were currently clutching a large mug of tea, steam curled up toward your face. You took another careful sip, wincing slightly as the warmth hit your throat. It helped, a little. It was certainly not a miracle cure, but enough to make breathing feel less like swallowing broken glass.
You sniffled and pulled the blanket tighter around yourself, sinking deeper into the couch cushions.
The apartment was silent. Late afternoon light spilled in through the windows in golden patches, warming the floorboards. Somewhere down the street, you heard a car door slam, and a faint breeze rattled the branches outside.
You were just settling in for another miserable, tea-powered recovery moment when you heard the doorhandle move.
You had left your apartment unlocked when he texted that he was going over to yours tonight.
Unwise? A little. But you were too ill and lazy to care.
Your life’s your head, “Buck?”
Sure enough when the door opened, Bucky stepped inside.
But that wasn’t the first thing you noticed.
In his hands, he was holding a bouquet.
Bucky shut the door behind him and turned around, suddenly looking a little less like the confident super soldier who could take down an entire squad of assassins and a little more like a boy wanting to take a hit to prom and not knowing if the bouquet was good enough.
“Hey,” he said.
Your voice came out hoarse. “Hi.”
He walked over, careful with the bouquet. When he reached the couch, he paused for a second, looking down at you wrapped up in blankets like a sleepy, feverish burrito.
Your cheeks were flushed from the cold and the tea. Your hair had definitely not recovered from your earlier nap.
He smiled, holding the flowers out toward you. “These are for you.”
You blinked at them for a moment before reaching out.
Your fingers curled around the stems gently, lifting the bouquet into your lap.
They were beautiful. Everything was wrapped neatly in paper and tied with ribbon, the colors cheerful and warm against the muted light of the apartment.
You adjusted your grip slightly, then your mouth curved up.
“Thank you,” you said sweetly, but there was something else in your voice. And it sounded suspiciously close to laughter.
Bucky narrowed his eyes almost immediately. “What?”
You quickly shook your head, pressing your lips together as a giggle threatened to escape. “Nothing.”
His eyes narrowed further.
You were clutching the bouquet against your chest now, shoulders tucked up inside your blanket, eyes sparkling in that very specific way that meant you were holding back.
“Why are you smiling like that?” he asked cautiously.
“I’m not smiling!”
You were.
Soon enough, a small laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
Bucky crossed his arms. “What’s that laugh for?”
“M’not!” you insisted, though another giggle slipped out immediately afterward.
He stepped closer to the couch, leaning over the back of it slightly, his metal hand braced against the cushions while his other hand reached out to poke your side.
You squeaked. “Buck!”
“What’s so funny?” he demanded, poking you again.
You squirmed under the blanket, hugging the bouquet protectively against your chest like you were shielding it from interrogation. “Nothing!”
He poked you again, more insistently.
You wriggled away with another laugh, nearly spilling your tea in the process. “Stop!” you wheezed.
Bucky huffed, clearly unconvinced, and then sat down, sliding an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into him. He buried his face into the side of your head, nuzzling into your hair affectionately while squeezing you closer.
You made a gently protesting noise, but didn’t resist.
“I just…,” he started, nudging you again with his nose. “You do like them, right?”
You tilted your head up toward him. “I do,” you said honestly.Your fingers tightened around the bouquet. “But…”
Bucky groaned instantly. “But what?” he repeated suspiciously.
You tilted your head. “Why did you get me this one?”
He blinked at the question, clearly not expecting that. “Because…” he gestured vaguely toward the flowers in your arms, “well, it’s a little pricey, but it’s got all your favorite flowers.”
You raised an eyebrow. “And?”
“And your favorite colors.”
Your smile widened slightly. “And?”
Bucky stared at you now, confusion beginning to creep in. “And it reminds me of you,” he finished, like that was the obvious conclusion.
Your eyes sparkled. “And….?”
“…And what?”
You bit the inside of your cheek, clearly enjoying this far too much. “And… why do you think that is?”
Bucky frowned, glancing down at the bouquet again. His eyes flicked back up to you. Then back to the flowers.
His brain visibly started connecting dots. “Oh, fuck.”
Your shoulders shook as you tried not to laugh.
His eyes lifted back to you, realization settling fully across his face. “You made this bouquet, didn’t you?”
You nodded proudly. “Mmhm. Made it yesterday.”
Bucky looked back down at the flowers again, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh my god.”
You couldn’t hold it in anymore, a small, wheezy laugh escaped as you snuggled deeper into your blanket.
Bucky let out a quiet groan, dropping his head forward for a moment. “I’m so stupid.”
You set the bouquet gently on the couch beside you before reaching up and grabbing the front of his jacket.
He barely had time to react before you tugged him down.
Your lips pressed against his.
The kiss was gentle and just a little clumsy because you were still sick, but it made him freeze anyway.
When you pulled back, you were smiling up at him. “I’m flattered,” you said.
He shook his head, embarrassed.
Your fingers slid up into his hair, brushing the strands away from his forehead. “I love you, Bucky.”
Then he leaned down until your foreheads touched. “I love you too, sweets.”
You glanced down at the bouquet on the side again, gently brushing your fingers over the petals. A small smile tugged at your lips.
“Pricey, huh?” you teased.
Bucky groaned beside you, scrubbing a hand down his face. “It was,” he said defensively. “That thing was like ninety dollars!”
You gasped dramatically and turned to glare at him. “Hey! Do you know how hard I worked on that?” you protested, pointing at him in the chest. “The balance of hues? The ribbon choice? The rare flowers I had to source from a dutch importer?”
Bucky blinked at you. “There are rare flowers there?”
You crossed your arms playfully. “Art takes effort, babe.”
For a second he just stared at you, and the blankets piled around your shoulders, cheeks flushed from your cold, stubbornly defending the bouquet you’d accidentally sold to your own boyfriend.
“Well,” he said,a little gruffly, “you’re priceless to me, so I figured it evened out.”
Your heart did that stupid little flip it always did when he said things like that.
You squinted at him. “Sap.”
Bucky rolled his eyes like he hated being called out, but the smile tugging at his mouth gave him away. He leaned down anyway, pressing a quick kiss to one cheek.
Then the other.
“Hey!” you laughed, trying to dodge him as he squeezed you gently against his side.
But you were still smiling when he pulled the you into his lap.
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