Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Warnings: Slight angst and suggestiveness.
Summary: Bucky reflects on a Saturday, and thinks about Sunday. Written for @buckygrantbarnes‘s writing challenge!
The tick-tock, tick-tock of the clock on the wall fills the room with rhythmic constancy - niggling in his ear as he thumbs a page, and the rustle of the paper is a delicate break in silence between the ticks of the clock. The loose fall of a breath, warm against his neck, and absently Bucky smiles, letting the words he’s reading sink into his mind like the tenderest fall of rain.
The weight is so slight, he might not even notice - but it’s the heat of your cheek against his soft cotton shirt, sinking through the fibers to kiss his skin so sweetly. It’s the rise and fall of your breath as the television continues to play black-and-white reruns of The Dick Van Dyke Show, which he’d muted as soon as you’d fallen asleep. Hadn’t had the heart to turn off the television all the way. Just in case you wake up.
Which you won’t. It’s nearly midnight now; a long day of errands and rushing and a near-squall in the liminal space of a grocery store aisle over whether dry beans had to be soaked before cooking - a slightly-sour memory, which clenches Bucky’s stomach with regret, that today hadn’t been entirely perfect. Even though it had been just a few moments, and had been lost in a joke soon afterwards - it’s still a blip. A blip between omelets for breakfast, eaten with bare feet brushing absently between the table, between a shared sandwich at a shop down the street, and between a lazy dinner he’d insisted on making, and you’d sat at the countertop bar, watching with hazy eyes as he expertly chopped vegetables…
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