summary: after the king returns to reclaim the throne, he condemns jack to a cruel punishment—imprisonment with his best friend turned fiancée with a forced intimacy in means to break him. instead, you help to anchor him, offering childhood loyalty and trustworthy comfort during quiet moments in which he mourns for a different life.
warnings: family issues, forced intimacy, mentions of suicide, best-friends forced to be engaged, jack needs a hug, beard!reader, childhood best-friends (yes, there's a warning for that), royal status causes chaos. no homophobia will be tolerated. thank you.
a/n:: fluff! this was kind of based on like lucinda's role in kings, (the 2009 tv show, i've been watching over the span of a month) but also before she came into play; just a "what if" there was someone who knew about jack being gay and liking joseph, cause his sister didn't even know. anyways, basically reader is a childhood best friend of jack & michelle's and is the only person who knows jack loved joseph and supports him through everything. ends up being his fiancée on a whim, as a beard. and the last bit of ep. 13 is what's going on here. (iykyk) enjoy !!! :)
playlist!
luna - smashing pumpkins
let down - radiohead
i'm not in love - 10cc
THE DOOR had barely sealed shut when the echoes of the confrontation outside replayed in your mind, sharp and unrelenting.
just before the guards marched you both away, jack had turned to thomasina in the corridor, his voice breaking as he pleaded, "please, don't do this." but she had walked away, her parting words a cruel whisper that sliced through the air: "just dream about someone who's dead."
you knew exactly who she meant—joseph—your own friend and the ghost that still haunted jack's every shadow, every thought. your stomach twisted into knots at her callousness, pitying him like he was some fragile relic instead of the vulnerable man he truly was.
it ignited a quiet fury in you; how could she reduce his pain to that? jack's jaw had clenched, his eyes flashing with barely contained rage, but he said nothing more as they shoved you into the room.
now, inside this barren prison, the anger simmered beneath his skin like a storm waiting to break. you could see it in the way he avoided your gaze, his fists balled at his sides as he resumed pacing the length of the chamber. no extra clothes had been provided; just the attire you both wore, a deliberate cruelty from silas to underscore the king's singular—painful—expectation.
the bed loomed like an accusation, the only soft thing in a space designed for discomfort and coercion. water, tea and bread sat untouched on the table, the window mocking you with its unreachable moonlight.
"jack," you said softly, stepping closer but not too close, giving him room to breathe. he was pissed, rightfully so, and pushing him now would only fracture the fragile trust between you.
you'd witnessed it all firsthand—the family's unraveling, silas' underlying iron grip tightening on his son, thomasina's misguided barbs born from her own desperation to protect the throne.
earlier, in the days leading up to this nightmare, you'd tried to reach him, urging him to rise above his father's legacy, to be a better king if the crown ever fell to him. But those words felt like distant echoes now; repeating them would only prod at his raw nerves, making him retreat further.
he stopped pacing abruptly, his back to you, shoulders tense. "she hasn't the slightest idea," he gritted through his teeth, voice thick with bitterness. "none of them do. dreaming about him—dead? right, that's all i have left." the reference to joseph hung unspoken, but it pierced you both.
you remembered the nights after the news of your friends death, when jack had collapsed into your arms in the garden, his sobs soaking your shirt as the rain poured down. you'd held him then, whispering assurances that he wasn't alone, that his heart—flawed but resolute—was still worthy.
you wanted to bridge the gap, to tell him thomasina was wrong, that his vulnerability wasn't a weakness. but instead, you chose silence for a moment, letting the quiet settle; for his sake and your own.
to avoid the mounting tension, you moved to the far side of the room, leaning against the cool stone wall and staring at the sliver of sky. it wasn't avoidance out of fear, but a deliberate space to let him process without feeling cornered.
you knew everything—the abuse, the losses, the secrets—and that knowledge was the bond between you two, not a burden to wield.
minutes stretched into what felt like hours, the air heavy with unspoken grief. finally, jack exhaled sharply and crossed the room, sinking down beside you on the floor. his head dropped into his hands, and you heard the first hitch in his breath—a telltale sign of the dam breaking.
without a word, you shifted closer, opening your arms. he leaned into you, his body folding against yours as the tears came, hot and unfiltered. "why does it always come back to this?" he whispered, voice muffled against your shoulder. "i can't... fucking pretend anymore. not even for silas—he's g-gone!" he hiccuped, his breath stuttering as he choked on his words.
you wrapped your arms around him, holding steady as he cried, the way you always had since those childhood days on the soccer field, in prep school and over summers.
here, in this forced intimacy that neither of you desired, he could be his truest self—no prince, no heir, just jack.
the platonic line between you was a sanctuary, unbreakable even under silas's shrewd order. "you're not pretending with me," you whispered, stroking his hair gently. "and you don't have to. we'll get through this together, one breath at a time, like always."
as his sobs quieted into exhausted sighs, the tension ebbed away, replaced by a weary camaraderie. the bed waited, but you both claimed spots on the carpeted floor that night, backs against the wall, sharing the thin blanket from the mattress.
no deed was done, no boundaries crossed—just the simple solace of presence. in the darkness, with jack's steady breathing beside you, sleep came unexpectedly sound, a rare peace forged in trustworthiness and quiet understanding. even in the king's cruelest punishment, your closest friendship endured, a light against the encroaching shadows.
i just wanna wrap him up in a fluffy blanket and make him some hot cocoa. :( poor bby needs a hug. (sebastian and his emotionally wrecked characters) he cries so pretty though.
funny lil guy
he looks like a bunny sorry. | cred: (@bromcommie)
i approve some of your pairing listed but i was wondering about tj and jack since i don't think i've ever saw that anywhere. sorry about the q i'm just curioous lol
Oh you're totally fine, nonnie! I'm sorry it took me so long to answer this, and I don't wanna extend too much into it (because I could write a novel about these two alone) but basically it's like that trend going around: same character, different font. I have to thank two roleplayers back in 2012 who played the pairing and randomly stumbbled across their blogs, so I started stalking their interactions, and it was such a treat!
They're both sons of very influential political families, with expectations thrown over their shoulders, the eyes of their respective countries. Jack obviouly has it worse because of Gilboa being a kingdom, family legacy and his family being total h*mophobic.
What's there NOT to love about such a toxic dynamic? TJ is free about his sexuality but he carries his own demons due to his depression and addictions, his desired to be loved but scared of opening up again after Sean. So they're both troubled, traumatized, sad and angry. And you can expect I will dwell into something heart wrenching for them
hi there do you take requests of prompts and headcanons?
I'm so sorry anon this reply came super late!! My life has been hectic so now I'm able to read this. Anyways, answering your question: Yes! If it's something that falls whithin the things I listed in the rules section, you can send them over.
Additionally, if you're part of those waiting for the fic I promised, I couldn't work much on it, but I'm wrapping up the third act at the moment.
masterlist | series masterlist | previous part | epilogue
word count: 3.3K
summary: Alpine commits arson. You finally get laid. Bucky takes one small step for man, one giant leap in his emotional growth.
You’ve been glued to the TV for the past couple days.
Today is no different.
The overcast light filters into your apartment in the early morning, rain pattering gently against the walls of the building. You’ve tucked yourself into a corner of the couch, a blanket wrapped loosely around your shoulders, Alpine curled to your side as you absentmindedly watch the soft murmur of the news playing in the background. You pull a sweatshirt (one that is too large for you and smells distinctly of your neighbor when you tuck your nose into the collar and take a deep breath) tighter around yourself.
“Breaking this morning–more arrests in connection to the international network led by Lucien Virell…”
A news anchor is reporting updates on the Virell trafficking ring takedown. They’ve been reporting this for days now, and Bucky understands you well enough to make you breakfast in the morning and bring takeout over for dinner so you don’t have to miss anything. He knows you need to see all the men in suits being handcuffed at high-profile raids and boxes of documents being seized.
Bucky joins you on the couch holding two mismatched mugs. One says “World’s Okay-est Neighbor” and he takes a sip of his coffee out of it. The other is yours, faded pink ceramic. He sets it down gently in front of you on the coffee table without saying anything.
You give him a soft smile of acknowledgement before turning back to the TV. A shot of the courtroom cuts to footage of victims being reunited with their families. And that’s when you see her.
She’s older now, but it’s her. Her hair is longer, there’s a faint scar near her eye. She’s crying as she embraces a woman. Her mother. A journalist asks her a question and she manages to choke out an answer between sobs of relief and joy. Her hand tightens on her mother’s coat like a lifeline.
You sit up, remote falling off your lap. Alpine meows in discontent at your movement. Your breath catches. You exhale slowly. Bucky notices. His eyes flick from you to the girl on the screen.
“That’s her,” he says, less of a question and more of a statement.
You can’t speak at the moment so you just nod. He reaches across the cat to lace his fingers with yours. You brush your thumb gently over his knuckles.
“We got her out,” you say softly.
You remember how to breathe. He gives your hand a gentle squeeze.
“Yeah. We did.”
Bucky moves closer now, wrapping one arm around your shoulders and pulling you to his side. He presses a kiss against your forehead, his stumbling scratching against your skin lightly.
“She’s safe now,” he says.
“Took long enough.”
There’s just the slightest edge of hardness in your voice. Guilt. Anger.
“You never stopped trying,” Bucky reminds you gently.
You lean your head into his shoulder letting it rest there. Letting yourself rest there.
Alpine, annoyed, shifts, and climbs into Bucky’s lap. He doesn’t fight her, just adjusts his posture with a quiet sigh.
“She’s so clingy now,” he mutters.
“She gets it from you,” you shoot back.
He lets out a low laugh, not arguing.
The news continues in the background but neither of you are paying much attention anymore. The past is burning itself down quietly. Your fingers thread in tighter with his. He nudges you gently.
“You okay?”
You nod. “Getting there.”
Your nightmares become more and more infrequent.
-
It’s early summer, but New York is already starting to get warm.
Luckily, Bucky’s dimly lit kitchen retains some much needed coolness. The apartment is quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the old floorboards. On the counter, the file labeled Starling sits like something radioactive.
You and Bucky stand shoulder to shoulder in silence, both barefoot. Anticipation hangs between the two of you.
Alpine hops onto the counter to examine the file. She sniffs it at first, then attempts to take a bite out of the corner of the folder before deciding she doesn’t like the taste of it. Without warning, she bats it into the stainless-steel sink, as if she’s been planning this action all day.
You and Bucky stop to look at each other. You both blink. Then at the same time, you both break out laughing at your cat’s actions.
Finally, you strike a match.
You glance at Bucky. He nods once. His hand finds the small of your back in support.
You toss the match in.
The file ignites. Pages curl and blacken. The label STARLING – Recovered Property withers into ash. The ink vanishes like a ghost. Smoke swirls upward, faint and final.
You exhale slowly.
“That’s my girl,” Bucky says gently.
You raise a brow.
“Me? Or the cat?”
He smiles.
“Yes.”
“Smooth, Barnes. Real smooth.”
“I try.”
He’s leaning against the counter now, arms crossed over his chest, gaze fixed on you.
You step in between his legs, into his space. He doesn’t move away.
“What now?”
“I don’t know,” you start, “was thinking of teaching the cat to do taxes–”
Bucky closes the space between you. He kisses you mid-sentence with no warning. It’s warm and soft, and his arms stay folded over his chest.
You make a startled sound before kissing him back harder. You pull his hands away from his chest and guide them to your hips. His hands run up your back tentatively. Something shifts.
He slows down, his touch is lighter. You can feel it. He’s holding back.
Bucky pulls away just slightly.
“Why’d you stop?” You ask breathlessly.
“I didn’t stop. I’m… I’m trying not to ruin this.”
“You won’t,” you insist.
Bucky’s reply is gentle but strained.
“I want to touch you. You don’t know how bad I want to touch you. But I know what it’s like to be touched when you didn't choose it. I won’t be that to you.”
Your chest tightens at his admission. He thinks he’s protecting you. He’s trying to. But you want more. You need it.
“Bucky, I’m not made of glass,” you say, the slightest bit of frustration slipping into your tone.
“I know, but I can’t unsee the way you tense up when someone gets too close. I don’t want to go too far, I don’t want to hurt y–”
You close the gap again, once more guiding his hand lower, over your waist. Your hip. Your thigh.
“I know the difference between being taken and being wanted.” Your voice is firm, eyes burning. “I want this.”
You press your lips against his neck while he allows himself to hold you close.
“You have no idea how much I wanted this. Back at the hotel…” His voice drops. “...you in that damn dress.”
You’re smirking against his skin.
“What about it?”
His jaw is clenched, eyes dark.
“I wanted to take it off you so bad I thought I’d go insane. Nearly forgot how to breathe.”
You press yourself against him now, lips brushing his.
“Don’t hold back now.”
He lifts you like you weigh nothing, your legs wrapping around his waist. You’re hyper aware of how close your center is to him. The counter disappears. The hallway blurs. The bedroom door slams shut.
“I thought about this for so long,” he murmurs into your skin. “You have no idea how bad I’ve wanted you.
He sets you down and kisses you like he’s drowning and your kisses are oxygen. But again, he hesitates. His hands don’t roam. Not yet.
“You can touch me, Bucky.”
His breath hitches at the sound of his name on your lips.
“Say it again.”
You pull him closer.
“Touch me, Bucky.”
He’s quiet for half a second.
Then it all crashes down.
His mouth is on yours before your back hits the mattress. He pins you to the bed firmly, kissing you like he’s making up for every second he had to wait. His hands trail over your body.
Bucky tugs your shirt off first and you help him with his. He pauses for a second to take in your form beneath him, memorizing every dip and curve and scar. Bucky leaves kisses on your collarbone, then kisses down lower. His hands find their way to your breasts, cupping them hungrily. Something awakens in you at the touch of cool metal against your skin. You gasp.
His hands pause. Concern flickers across his face.
“Too much?”
You shake your head, trying to find words.
“Not enough.”
He takes this as encouragement to unbutton your pants and pull them off your legs. All slowness and tenderness has gone out the window and all that is left is eagerness and desperation.
Bucky’s hands pin your hips to the bed as he presses urgent kisses to your hips, getting dangerously close to where you need him. His fingers pull at the lace of your underwear and he looks up to you for permission. You can only manage an overwhelmed nod, and he makes quick work discarding them.
One hand keeps your hips in place on the bed while the other slides two fingers inside you. You gasp and he’s quick to silence you with his mouth.
“You’re so wet,” he says, voice strained.
His thumb finds your clit and his fingers find a steady pace. Your legs are already shaking as you moan into his mouth.
You pull away just enough to place one hand on his chest.
“Bucky. Please. I need you inside me.”
Bucky doesn’t need to be told twice. He removes his fingers from you. You have a moment of reprieve as he stands to remove the rest of his clothes. Then you feel the mattress dip between your legs. He pulls you by your hips to be closer to him.
He lines himself up, and with each breath you can feel the head of his cock against your eager folds.
“Tell me… Tell me to stop,” his voice is hoarse.
You know that if you tell him to stop right now, he will. Even though you can hear in his voice how desperate he is. How much he needs you right now.
“Bucky, don’t you dare stop.”
That’s it. That’s all he needed.
He’s pushing into you slowly, and you have to remind yourself to breathe as you feel yourself stretch around him. In one hand, he has your hands pinned above your head and you have nothing to hold onto as he pushes his final inch into you. You take a deep breath, adjusting to the feeling of fullness–
He pushes in deeper.
That was not the final inch.
You gasp, squirming under him.
“Bucky… I-I… please.”
He continues pressing in deeper, his breath ragged against your skin.
“You’re taking it so well,” he says. “Y’look so beautiful under me.”
You’ve lost the ability to speak and are only able to respond to him in soft whimpers and moans.
Finally, he buries himself completely inside you and holds himself there. Bucky takes your hand and guides it down to your lower stomach. He holds your hand slush against your skin so you can feel his length in you, so you can feel just how full you are. You clench around him and he grunts above you at the feeling of you so tight around him.
“I swear, Bucky,” you say breathlessly, “if you don’t fuck me like you me–”
He finally snaps his hips into you, and you desperately grab at his shoulders to find something to hold onto. You throw your head back into the mattress as something between a scream and a moan escapes from your lips. One of Bucky’s hands grips your hip while the other squeezes your breast as he continues to push himself into you at a punishing pace.
He’s worshiping you. Telling you how beautiful you look. How good you felt. You barely process a word of it as he rocks into you harder. His hand slides between your bodies and he finds your clit.
“Just like that,” his voice is breathy.
You arch your back at an especially deep thrust and come apart under him, a strangled cry escaping your mouth. Your chest arches up and brushes his as your head presses deeper into the mattress.
But he doesn’t stop.
He continues at his fast pace and you don’t have time to come down from your high. You have a hard time catching your breath as you realize his rhythm isn’t slowing down.
“Bucky-!”
You’re panting beneath him, fighting the tight feeling in your lower stomach to get the words out.
“I-I… Bucky, I don’t know if I can… oh my god.”
You don’t think you can take any more when his thrusts become sloppier, and then with one final thrust he spills inside of you, his arms struggling not to let the entire weight of his body collapse on top of you.
You’re both breathing heavily as he presses slower kisses against your collarbone. It takes both of you a couple minutes to figure out speech again.
“So,” you say, breathless, “that’s what happens when you stop holding back?”
Bucky is still trying to catch his breath but you hear something laugh-adjacent from him.
“...yeah. You okay?”
“More than okay,” you grin.
He finally manages to pull out of you and collapses at your side on his back.
“I meant it,” he says. “I’ve wanted to touch you like that since the day we met. I wanted you before I even understood how much.”
You close your eyes.
“Yeah. I think I did, too.”
There’s a long pause of silence as the both of you try to regain any lost composure.
Then–
“We’re definitely going to get a noise complaint from Mr. Keller if this is how loud you get.”
You laugh, freely and fully, shoving his shoulder.
-
Dr. Raynor clicks her pen as she flips through her notepad. She likes to start sessions like this, with long… heavy… silences. It reminds Bucky of interrogations.
“You’re twitchier than usual,” she finally says. “That means either something bad happened…or something good did.”
She glances up and raises an eyebrow.
“You look different.”
“Got a haircut.”
“Try again,” her tone is flat.
“I had a salad yesterday.”
“Wow. Stop the presses. A haircut and leafy greens in one week.”
Bucky shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
“I’ve been… sleeping better.”
“Sleeping better, huh? Since when?”
“Since… recently.”
Dr. Raynor narrows her eyes. She knows. He knows she knows.
“Nightmares?” She asks.
“Still there. Just…quieter.”
She taps her pen on her notepad, then flips back a few pages.
“You mentioned her again last time.”
“She’s around,” he replies, fidgeting a little.
“Around like Alpine? Or around like you’re pretending she’s not living in your apartment?”
“She’s not living in my apartment.”
“Mhm,” Dr. Raynor nods slowly. “She just spends the night. With her cat.”
“My cat,” Bucky corrects.
She raises an eyebrow.
“Our cat,” he concedes.
“Let me guess. She keeps a toothbrush at your place and one suspiciously fluffy bathrobe?”
“She gets cold,” he mutters.
“And I’m sure that robe just climbed through the window on its own.”
He glares at the floor, not attempting to deny it.
“She still doesn’t ask questions?”
“Nope. But she knows when something’s off. Always.”
“And you like that?”
“Yeah.”
“Still putting your guard up when someone reaches for your left hand?”
A pause.
“...not when it’s her.”
“Oh my God,” Dr. Raynor says dryly, “you’re in love.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’m a licensed professional. It’s my expert opinion.”
“I hate it here.”
“No, you love our chats.”
“Only when you’re not making fun of me.”
“It’s my job,” she insists.
She taps her pen against her notebook, slowly working up to something.
“You’re thinking about asking her something.”
“Am I?” Bucky responds more guardedly, surprised that Dr. Raynor read him so easily.
“Come on, Barnes. You’re fidgeting like a kid about to ask his crush to prom.”
“It’s not–look. I was just thinking maybe… a new place. Different layout.”
“Ah. A completely unrelated new apartment,” Dr. Raynor nods.
“It has skylights,” he says, deadpan.
“For the cat?”
“Obviously.”
She scribbles something in her notebook. Bucky eyes it warily.
“Let me see that.”
“Absolutely not.”
He narrows his eyes.
“What’d you write?”
“‘Subject deflects with feline-based excuses.’”
“Funny.”
“I thought so.”
Her tone softens. Just a little.
“Look. You’re doing good. Don’t panic and run just because something finally feels right.”
“Well don’t jinx it.”
“Not a jinx. Just a reminder. You’ve done the work. You deserve this.”
-
“You’re going to wear a hole through the ground if you keep pacing like that.”
You’re sipping tea from a mug, curled up on the couch in Bucky’s t-shirt. Alpine is dramatically draped across your lap, batting at your hand as she waits for attention. Bucky’s been pacing back and forth in the kitchen for the last ten minutes, clearly nervous about something, and for some reason, he thought you wouldn’t notice.
“Whatever it is, can you just get it off your chest already?”
He stops pacing.
“So I’ve been thinking,” he says, straining to sound casual, “about moving.”
You freeze, mid-sip of tea and narrow your eyes. Is this some kind of prank to get you back for considering moving a couple weeks ago?
“You…what? You’re leaving me?”
“No–no!” Bucky stumbles over his words. “I meant–like–upstairs. 4A. Bigger windows. New appliances. Still the same building.”
You raise a suspicious brow.
“So. You’re running away from me… one floor up.”
He clears his throat.
“Well. I figured maybe… you’d miss Alpine. So you’d want to be closer…”
He’s not very good at this.
“Closer?”
You blink once.
“Is this your way of asking me to move in without actually asking me to move in?”
He looks cornered.
“Well. Not not that.”
You tilt your head.
“It’s got two bedrooms,” he continues, “I figured–you know. If you wanted your own space. Or for guests. Or Alpine. Whatever.”
You smirk.
“Oh. I see. You don’t want to share a room with me.”
His eyes eiden.
“No! That’s not–yes! I mean–of course I do.”
He rubs the back of his neck, his cheeks tinges with the slightest pink.
“I just thought… in case you wanted it. But I’d rather… I’d rather share with you. Always.”
You set your tea down and shift Alpine off your lap.
“So the second bedroom’s a peace offering?”
“Something like that. A bribe, maybe.”
You walk over, stopping just in front of him.
“You sure?”
He shrugs. “Not like you’d be leaving my bed much either way.”
Your breath hitches. He notices.
“You really want this?”
“I’ve never wanted anything more,” he answers honestly.
You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“If we do this, you’re carrying all my heavy boxes.”
He scoffs, tugging you flush against him.
“That was always going to be the plan, Birdie.”
He kisses you deeper, his hands find your hips like muscle memory. You let out a soft sound–half gasp, half moan. He backs you up toward the couch, lips brushing over your jaw, then down your neck. His vibranium hand slides under the hem of your shirt.
“Bucky…” you whisper his name like a spell.
That’s all it takes. He groans softly and scoops you up effortlessly, carrying you toward the bedroom. Alpine blinks once at the disappearance of her parents, then moves to hop up onto the counter to spread out next to the minimal warmth the candle left flickering in the kitchen offers. It smells of soft linen and vetiver, with just the trace of something smoky underneath. Like the echo of something burned away, made room for something more. The label reads New Beginnings.
masterlist | series masterlist | previous part | next part
word count: 3.5k
summary: Finally.
Dim evening light filters into the hotel suite. Scattered comms gear and weapons are scattered across the coffee table. Torres is sprawled on the couch messing with some tactical gear. You’re perched on the armchair eating gummy worms from the minibar.
You and Torres are discussing the last episode of a reality tv show you’ve both been watching. Bucky stands at the window, scanning the street below.
“Stop brooding near the window. You look like you’re about to start narrating a noir.”
Torres chuckles at your joke.
“I’m wondering which will be more painful: jumping out this window, or continuing to listen to the two of you discuss Sex Lives of Mormon Wives.”
Bucky’s eyebrows knit together. “Then why are they always talking about their sex lives?”
Torres gapes at him. “You watch it too?”
Bucky turns back to the window and mutters under his breath that you made him. You watch as he goes back to contemplating jumping.
“Go ahead and jump,” you tell him, “but if you break your leg, I’m not carrying you.”
“You couldn’t.”
“Excuse you–”
“You eat like an unsupervised raccoon, and I’ve seen you try to open a pickle jar. You’re not carrying me anywhere.”
“And you sleep in jeans and wear gloves all the time like a Victorian widow.”
He glares at you. You glare back. It’s deeply unproductive.
“You two bicker like you’ve been married fifteen years,” Sam steals a gummy worm from you. “Now, do you two need to bang one out of your systems, or are you good?”
Stunned silence. You blink. Both you and Bucky look at him. Then at each other. Then away.
“We’re good,” Bucky grumbles.
“I’m great. He’s tense.”
“She’s annoying.”
“Do you fight like this in front of Alpine?” Sam asks, scrolling through the blueprint layouts of the hotel.
You shrug. “She’s seen worse.”
“I’m gonna have to call Cat Protective Services,” Sam laughs at his own joke. “Unfortunately, I don’t have time to be your couples counselor today.”
Sam’s tone shifts and he sets the blueprints down. “Virell isn’t going to come east. We need to isolate him. Quietly. The rooftop gives us vertical clearance, no civilian exposure. Best shot we’ve got.”
“If we can separate him, I can handle the extraction with Sam,” Torres adds.
A beat. And then–
“I’ll get him up there,” you say.
Bucky’s response is immediate.
“No.”
“Barnes–” Torres tries.
“We’re not doing this again. She’s not bait,” Bucky says flatly.
“I’m not,” you agree, “I’m the distraction. There’s a difference.”
“She’s the only one he might follow without hesitation,” Torres says tentatively. “It’s… a cruel advantage, but it will work.”
Bucky’s quiet for a moment and his resolve slowly falls, realizing you’re not going to change your mind. When he speaks again, it’s lower, to you.
“Just–stay close tonight.”
“Trust me, I have no plans of getting sold off again.”
The room goes still. Any previous laughter in the room has evaporated completely. You rise from the chair, stretch slightly, like shaking off a memory, grab your dress from the closet, and head to the bathroom to change.
Bucky stares after you, hands twitching like he wants to follow, but doesn’t know what he’d say if he did. The bathroom door clicks shut behind you. You and your very obvious effect on Bucky disappear from view.
Sam nudges Torres with his elbow and whispers loud enough for Bucky to hear:
“She’s not even outta the room and he’s already brooding harder than usual.”
“He told her to ‘stay close tonight.’”
Torres joins in, making a heart with his hands.
“That’s practically a marriage proposal in Barnes-speak,” Sam grins, then, in a gruff Bucky impression, he grabs Torres’ hand and locks eyes with him. “Hey. Stay close tonight.”
Torres responds in a high-pitched imitation of your voice.
“Oh? How close do you want me, Barnes? You want me to hold your vibranium hand in case you get scared?”
Bucky’s face is expressionless as he glances between them. He calmly picks up a pen from the desk.
“You know what’s wild about ballpoint pens?” Bucky asks them.
Neither of them respond.
“They can puncture a lung if you angle ‘em right.”
They both freeze, then Sam asks tentatively:
“Is that a threat?”
“No,” Bucky responds, they both relax a little, but then he adds on, “it’s a field-tested promise.”
Torres raises his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, message received.”
Bucky glances toward the closed door again, hands stuffed in his pockets.
“She’s got you real bad, huh?” Torres asks softly.
Bucky sighs. “She doesn’t even know.”
The bathroom door handle turns. The conversation drops instantly. Everyone shifts like they’ve been reviewing floor plans the whole time.
Bucky’s eyes trace the gown first–of course they do. How could they not? That dark glinting fabric that moves like water and shadow clinging to you like it remembers your shape better than he does. The green and blue glimmers catch in the low light, pulsing like something alive, something elemental. He’s seen warpaint that looked less deliberate.
It’s the way you wear it that undoes him. The sharp lines of the bodice cross like a secret vow and the high slit a challenge. You are art and intention. And he is ruined.
Absolutely, utterly ruined.
You don’t ask how you look. You just meet his gaze, head tilted slightly, eyes unreadable. There’s a stillness in the tightening of his jaw, in the breath he forgets to take until you turn away–
You know.
Sam looks up from the blueprints, glances at you, then to the completely whipped expression on Bucky’s face, and mutters: “Damn.”
-
The ballroom is a continuation of the party from the night before: shimmering chandeliers, glittering champagne flute, a string quartet, silk gowns. Everything is a little more grand tonight.
But you’re not looking at the decor. You’re looking at him. And he’s been watching you since you left the hotel room.
Bucky doesn’t say anything, just silently holds out a gloved palm. Steady. Waiting. An invitation. You take it.
His hand slides to your waist, his other curls around yours gently. Your other hand finds the back of his neck, fingers brushing the soft undercut of his hair. He swallows hard like the touch startled him. He leads you out onto the dance floor.
The two of you fall into rhythm easily.
“You’ve done this before,” you say teasingly, voice low.
A slight smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“All the time. Back in the day.”
You grin.
“Old soul.”
He shrugs.
“Steady feet.”
Your bodies sway together like memory.
“So… who’d you dance with back then? Any dames I should be jealous of?”
“One or two dames. Some dames’ sisters. A guy named Roy who didn’t realize I was just being polite.”
You laugh. A full bodied real one. The music swells. His heart does the same in his chest.
“I bet Roy was heartbroken.”
The dance carries you across the floor, slow and intentional. Every step is a negotiation. Every touch is something you can’t say. Bucky’s thumb traces small circles at your waist. You feel it. You pretend you don’t.
Your fingers slide just a little deeper into the hair at the nape of his neck. He feels it. He doesn’t pretend anything. He’s getting tired of playing pretend. There’s too much unsaid.
He clears his throat.
“You still thinking about leaving when all this is over?”
You falter. Just a little. He notices.
“Maybe. I’ve never stayed anywhere long.”
“Why?”
“The last time I stayed too long… I ended up in a cage.”
You don’t elaborate further. His grip tightens at your waist. Protective. Angry. Not at you.
“That wasn’t your fault,” he says, wanting to make sure you know that.
“Didn’t say it was. Just said it happened.”
Your eyes find his again. The space between you shrinks.
“Some places are different now,” he says quietly.
You don’t ask what he means. You know.
He means this. Tonight. Him.
You want to tell him you feel it too. But you can’t. You’ve never been allowed to want something like this. Someone like him.
Your chests brush faintly every time you breathe. Your eyes drop to his lips just for a second before they meet his eyes again. Your foreheads almost touch when he leans in slightly to murmur something he doesn’t say.
Bucky wants to say don’t go. He wants to say stay with me. And you want him to say these words as well. You gently pull your bottom lip into your mouth and stare at him imploringly, silently begging him to ask you to stay.
It never comes.
Your eyes drop when you realize he’s not going to say it.
“You know,” you say finally, “if this was real… we’d be dangerous.”
“We already are.”
He means it. Not in the way the world sees him. But in the way he feels you close enough to ruin him forever.
“You always this poetic on dance floors?” You deflect.
“Only when I’m trying not to kiss someone.”
Your eyes snap to his. Startled. Caught.
“Don’t.” You say too quickly.
The word hurts you, but you mean it. Not because you don’t want him to, but because it would make it that much harder to leave.
“I won’t.”
The spell wears off quickly when Bucky sees him across the room.
Lucien Virell.
Tall. Polished. Snake-like stillness. He walks like he owns the room.
Bucky’s grip on your waist tightens instinctively. His whole body goes still.
You don’t need to ask. You already know.
Your body tenses. The old instinct humming behind your ribs. Fear doesn’t claw–it smiles. You lift your chin.
You turn your head just slightly and lock eyes with Virell. And you smile.
Not sweet. Not naive. The kind of smile he trained you to use. The one he thinks means submission. His eyes light up. Hungry. Possessive.
He lifts a drink from a tray. Doesn’t sip. Just watches you for a beat.
You press your hand softly to Bucky’s chest. He doesn’t want to let go of you.
“Remember the plan,” you tell him.
“I don’t like the plan.”
“Noted.”
He reluctantly lets you step away. Your posture shifts. You fall back into the body language Virell will recognize. Familiar. Seductive.
Your eyes meet Virell’s once more and you gently mouth “roof.”
He tilts his head. Amused.
You leave the ballroom headed toward the elevators. Virell doesn’t follow you immediately, taking the time to finish his drink before quietly slipping out of the room in pursuit of you. He’s always liked a chase.
The moment the elevator doors close behind Virell, Bucky’s already moving. Through the crowd. Past Sam and Torres’ startled glances. Into the stairwell. Sprinting two steps at a time.
He’s not losing you. Not now.
Not ever.
-
The rooftop is cool and slick with dew. Dark, but the city pulses below allowing for flickers of light and shadows. The wind whips at you, pulling strands from your updo.
You’ve paused at the center, turning slightly to face the access door behind her.
Lucien Virell enters moments later, deliberate footsteps. A predatory pace. He straightens his tie, his coat fluttering like wings. Calm. You know that calm. It’s the stillness before a kill.
His voice is smooth and cruel as he emerges.
“Starling.”
“Lucien.”
You circle each other slowly like fencing opponents. You, keeping your distance. Him, closing it. Slowly. He studies you like you’re still something he owns.
“If I had known all you needed was a firm hand and to play dress-up every now and then, I could have arranged that,” he tells you. “When we get back to the Menagerie, I’ll make sure you have all the pretty dresses. That is, once you’ve learned your place again.”
Your posture stills. A flicker of fear. Memory. But you hold the line.
Virell delights in your discomfort, and goes on to mention specific girls who are still at the Menagerie. You can still picture their faces.
“The newer collections don’t last as long as you,” he says, going on to hint at systems he still has in place. Like you never left. He mentions how he’ll have to keep you on a tighter leash to make sure you “don’t fly off again.”
“Maybe your new friend will come and visit. If he can afford you.” Virell tilts his head, eyes glitter. “Who would’ve thought? My Starling… and the Winter Soldier. What a pair.”
Your breath catches.
He laughs. Cold and amused.
“It’s in the eyes. You can always spot one of Hydra’s dogs.”
“He’s not the Winter Soldier anymore,” you say firmly.
He notices your protectiveness and affection and pounces.
“Oh this is rich. You’ve got feelings. For him.” He laughs cruelly. “You actually think he cares about you, don’t you?”
You don’t respond, but your silence gives him more than words ever could.
“What is it you think he sees in you? Strength? Courage. Please.” He draws closer, deliberately invading your space. “You’re not lovable. You’re marketable. And that’s not the same thing.”
He lifts a hand to your chin–slow and condescending.
“You can wear a dress like that. You can wrap your arms around him. But freedom? Freedom’s a role you’re playing, Starling. Deep down, you know the truth. You will always belong to me.”
You don’t recoil, but your jaw locks. Eyes sharp. You meet his gaze and slowly lower his hand from your face with two fingers. A deliberate act of rejection.
Footsteps echo below. Bucky. But not here yet.
You tilt your head slightly, shifting your weight like a predator ready to strike. The air stills and you take a quiet, steady breath, hand drifting toward the concealed weapon at your thigh.
And then the door bursts open with a metallic slam. Bucky storms through, slightly out of breath, eyes immediately scanning for you.
“Get your damn hands off her!”
You pause. And raise an eyebrow. “Did you just… did you just quote Back to the Future?”
Bucky locks eyes with you, relieved that you’re okay enough to clock his plagiarism.
“Yeah. Well. I've been a little too busy to come up with something original,” he pants.
You scoff. “Well, it took you long enough.”
“Sorry, Birdie,” he gives you a withering look. “Just had to climb twenty-four flights.”
Which, apparently, is a lot. Even for a super soldier.
He rolls his shoulder, already stepping forward like he’s winding up to tear someone apart. The tension crackles like a live wire. Virell gives Bucky an amused sneer, delighted at the emotional volatility.
They clash immediately. Bucky lunges. Brutal, efficient, personal. A series of tight strikes, elbow jabs, throws. Bucky is relentless, all muscle memory and grit.
But Virell moves fast. Almost too fast.
“You think you’re the only one with upgrades?” Virell grins.
The stairwell door bursts open again. Virell’s men flood onto the rooftop. Sam and Torres follow quickly, both suited up and ready, already engaging multiple targets.
Virell steps back and activates hidden suit enhancements: an electroshock gauntlet pulse blue and you can see reflex-enhancing stimulants pump into his bloodstream. His pupils dilate and veins rise dark beneath his skin.
Virell lands a hit on Bucky as a flashbang is thrown. Bucky falters for a moment, and grits through the pain–they’re forced apart. Sam grabs one of Virell’s men and slams him into a vent. Bucky is pulled into a separate brawl with two baton wielding men.
You try to keep your eyes on him, but suddenly, Virell is in front of you.
He lunges, you dodge. Barely. A swing of his gauntlet misses your face by an inch. You grip the knife that had previously been concealed underneath your dress and swing back. Virell grabs your wrist mid-strike and slams you against the wall.
Your ribs scream but you don’t have time to recover because Virell has a tight fist wrapped around your neck, his fingers tightening around your throat and cutting off air in your windpipe.
“You were always the prettiest thing I owned,” Virell says. He leans closer, voice laced with venom and mockery. “Do you still wake up aching for the cage, Starling? For my touch?”
Bucky’s eyes finally find you, spotting Virell’s hand clamped around your throat. He sees the way you claw at the hand around your throat. He drops his gun.
Eyes darken, breath shallow as he stalks his way over.
“You should’ve stayed dead.”
His voice is almost unrecognizable.
Metal fist connects with bone. Crunch.
Virell’s hand falls away, leaving you gasping for air. It burns in your throat.
Bucky hits him again. Brutally. Virell staggers. Blood spatters the rooftop tiles.
You’re pulling yourself to your feet and that’s when you see it.
Something in Bucky’s eyes flickers and for a second, it’s not Bucky you see, but the Winter Soldier. His expression is even and still, no emotion behind his eyes. Another punch. Virell drops to one knee. One more, and he’ll die.
You’re scrambling between them now, a hand pushing against Bucky’s chest.
“Stop,” you say hoarsely, throat still raw.
He takes a step forward, pushing against your hand. You know you can’t physically stop him.
“Stop,” you plead again softly. “He doesn’t get to break you, too.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Recognition. He wakes up. He’s himself again. Bucky takes a step back, fist dropping, shoulders heaving, breath ragged. He stops.
Virell is sprawled on the ground, bloodied. His expression switches from one of fear to smugness.
“My Starling,” Virell coughs out a broken laugh, “would never hurt me.”
You turn to face him, taking a step forward. Eyes dark, voice frozen steel:
“I was never yours.”
Virell doesn’t get the chance to respond as you deliver a punch with all the fury and weight of years of captivity. His head snaps sideways and he slumps unconscious.
You stand to your full height, taking a step back. You’re blinking down at your hand.
“Ow. Shit,” you pant. “I think I broke my hand.”
Bucky is still catching his breath, watching you carefully.
“Worth it?” He asks.
You shake it out, wincing, but smiling through the pain.
“Totally worth it.”
The door slams shut behind Sam and Torres as they haul Virell and his men off. The distant sound of footsteps fade.
The rooftop is suddenly still. Silent. The wind catches your hair as you stand there in the wreckage. Blood and starlight smeared down your arm, dress torn at the hip, your ribs aching with every breath. But it’s his eyes that land the hardest.
Bucky approaches slowly, something reverent in his steps. His hand lifts to gently take your bruised one in his. His thumb brushes your knuckles, inspecting the swelling.
“Remind me not to piss you off,” he says with a soft huff of a smile.
You wince, and he immediately softens.
“We should get that looked at–”
“You trying to ruin my moment of glory?” You say dryly.
He laughs quietly, then lifts his eyes to yours. Serious now. He really looks at you. The torn dress. The sweat. The blood.
“You’ve never looked more free,” he says.
You laugh. Quiet and exhausted.
“Flattery, Barnes?”
“Not this time.”
Something shifts between you. Something slow. Heavy. Inevitable.
Your eyes hold his.
There are no masks now. No aliases or earpieces or cover stories. Just you and him
You swallow.
“Thanks, Bucky.”
He freezes. Bucky. Not Barnes. It hits him like a punch to the ribs. His eyes widen and his breath catches. You’ve never called him that before.
His voice is barely above a whisper.
“...say that again.”
You step closer to him. Slow and sure. A smile pulling at the edge of your mouth.
“Bucky.”
He blinks slowly, like he’s trying to absorb the sound of his name on your lips. His hand still around yours. His other lifts to your jaw, fingers soft against the blood-damp skin there. He tilts your face up, just slightly, searching your expression like a map he’s walked a thousand times but never understood until now.
His eyes flick to your lips once.
You tilt your face up, ever so slightly. Invitation.
“Now is this the part where–” You start.
His lips meet yours like he’s starving for it.
There’s no performance here. No mission. No pretend. Just the press of his mouth to yours, warm and shaking with restraint, with grief, with every unspoken thing between you. His hand slides from your jaw to the nape of your neck, the cool touch of vibranium fingers threading into your hair and destroying whatever remnants were left of the style that had long since been undone.
You melt forward, gripping the front of his jacket like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the moment.
The kiss deepens, slowly, desperately unfurling. Promises carved between breaths. He pulls you tighter, life if he can just hold you close enough, long enough, it might undo the years.
Just for a second, it does.
His kiss is the break in the storm. The flood and the stillness. The shudder of breath after years of holding it.
When you finally part, neither of you speaks right way. Foreheads rest together. His hand stays wrapped in yours. He’s not letting go.
He pulls back enough to look at you. His gaze is pleading, his whisper devastatingly raw.
masterlist | series masterlist | previous part | next part
word count: 2.8k
summary: Fake relationship. Real feelings. One bed. All the tropes.
The hotel is all marble floors, golding lighting, and professional employees who don’t blink at fake names and beautiful couples.
Bucky’s got one hand on the strap of a leather duffel bag slung over his shoulder. The other, gloved, is wrapped around your waist. His hand placement is intimate but not inappropriate.
“Checking in for Mr. and Mrs. Alpine,” Bucky tells the concierge.
You arch an eyebrow but wait to say anything. The concierge looks up your reservation, hands you over key cards, and tells you both to enjoy your stay.
You loop your arm into Bucky’s as he leads you over to the elevators.
“Really,” you say dryly, “you named us after the cat?”
He doesn’t even look up.
“She deserves better than shared custody.”
A smile pulls at your lips. “Mm, I’m sure she’s tired of being a child of divorce.”
Bucky–Mr. Alpine–shrugs.
“This is a healing moment for her.”
This elicits a soft laugh from you. You lean into his shoulder and lower your voice.
“Smile, sweetheart. Wouldn’t want them thinking we’re in this for the free minibar.”
“I’m smiling on the inside.”
“Great. Now try that on the outside too.”
He attempts a sharp, forced smile. It’s horrifying.
You snort.
“Okay, I take it back. Never do that again.”
The elevator rise up is short and you make your way to the hotel room. You enter the room. Clean. Elegant. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A balcony. One bed.
You both notice it at the same time.
“Guess we’re really selling this marriage thing,” you say, tossing your bag onto the bed. “I’m going to change.
You slip into the bathroom with your change of clothes while Bucky assembles tiny ear-comms, scans for bugs with a handheld reader. The hotel room is clean, but he checks twice.
A few moments later you step out of the bathroom in dusk spun into silk–a dusty blue gown that looks almost like glass when it catches the light. Sheer sleeves float off your shoulders, barely tethered to the sweetheart neckline.
“So… how do I look?”
He turns. Freezes a beat too long. His eyes sweep over you once. Slowly.
“Be honest. Too much for fake-wife espionage?” You ask.
Bucky forces himself to look away. “Nah. You’ll blend right in with all the other supermodels taking down trafficking rings.”
He turns to grab his suit hanging in the closet and pauses in the bathroom doorway. He turns to face you, a small, boyish smile on his lips.
“Remind me to frisk you before we leave.”
You throw your head back and laugh. “Buy me dinner first.”
“Let’s just get through this mission, Birdie.”
He reemerges shortly after threading cufflinks in his shirt. A crisp, black tie. Gloves on both hands.
“You ever take those off?” You ask curiously.
Bucky doesn’t look up. There’s a beat.
“Not when I’m someone else.”
Your tone is softer, slightly teasing. “So if this were real, you’d take them off?”
He takes a step toward you, one of his gloved hands tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. When Bucky speaks his voice is low.
“If this were real,” he says, eyes flickering over your dress once more, “they wouldn’t be the only things I’d be taking off.”
At his words you’re frozen and you barely register the hand that is still at your cheek gently tucking a comm into your ear. It crackles to life and you don’t get the opportunity to respond.
“You two lovebirds ready?”
You hear Sam’s voice in your ear. Bucky grumbles a confirmation.
“One of the donors from Virell’s network is at the welcome reception tonight,” Sam continues, “You’re lifting a card key from his wife’s bag. No screw-ups.”
“We never screw up,” you reply sweetly, “just…improvise. With flair.”
You hear Sam scoff.
“I’m logging that for when this goes sideways.”
You enter the elevator with Bucky and lean against him just slightly. Your arm brushes his chest. You feel him freeze behind you.
“Always this stiff on vacation, honey?” You ask innocently.
“I’d be less stiff if you stopped poking me with that knife in your garter, doll.”
He exaggerates the pet name, rolling his eyes performatively. You shift closer. Real close now.
“S’that what you would call me? If you were deeply, tragically in love with me?”
You keep pushing.
“Doll? Not love? Not darling?”
His eyes flick to yours. Unblinking.
“I’d just call you Birdie.”
You go still. He’s already looking away. The elevator doors roll open. Showtime.
-
The ballroom has high ceilings and gilded accents. Waiters mill about the room in white jackets, crystal chandeliers brighten the space, a string quartet is playing a familiar Vivaldi piece. You and Bucky are arm in arm.
“Remember,” you whisper to him, “you’re crazy about me.”
“Of course I am.”
You bump his arm with your shoulder, grinning. “You didn’t even hesitate.”
The two of you drift around the perimeter of the party, champagne glasses in hand. You find a reason to fix his tie. He’s watching you instead of the room, gently adjusting a strand of your hair and murmuring something about “obscuring your comms.”
Your eyes scan the room until they zero in on your target. A woman in her mid-50s, silver dress, hair spun like glass. She’s on the arm of a large, red-faced man. You nudge Bucky gently.
“Silver clutch. Five o’clock.”
In sync, you both shift your direction with ease. Like a dance you’ve practiced.
Bucky intercepts a waiter and, with effortless coordination, “accidentally” lets a champagne flute crash dramatically to the marble floor. Crystal shatters. Heads turn.
Your target gasps. Her husband mutters something about “hiring better staff.”
Everyone is distracted and you move like a ghost. Your fingers catch the strap of her purse just right. Lift. Twist. Slip. The keycard is yours. You slide away toward a side curtain. Bucky joins you soon after.
“You got it?”
“Of course I got it. You planning on thanking me or just brooding attractively for the rest of the night?”
“Depends. How do you want me to thank you?”
Once more this evening, you’re stunned into silence. You blink. He looks at you, expression unreadable but certainly not innocent. You don’t reply, and Bucky takes your hand and turns down a hallway and beckons you to follow him.
You both slip into a service elevator. You don’t let go of his hand. Neither does he.
Neither of you mention it.
The elevator whirs to life.
The doors open to your floor. The mission isn’t over. You still have the keycard. You still have a job to do. But something changed between the two of you this evening. Or maybe it started changing long before that.
For now, you don’t talk about it. You just keep walking down the hallway together. Slowly. Quietly. Fingers still intertwined.
-
You’re barefoot on the balcony, leaning against the stone railing. Bucky’s inside going over details of the mission on the phone with Sam.
The dusty blue dress still clings to your body, the fabric getting swept up in the cool evening air. The city buzzes. Glass towers reflect the horizon. You focus on your breathing.
You’re not sure if you’re calming down or winding up. Tomorrow is your chance to take down Virell and his operation once and for all. But something about the quiet unnerves you.
The weight of the dress. The memory of Virell’s voice. The feel of Bucky’s fingers laced with yours. The feel of cool metal against your skin from nights before.
The door creaks behind you.
Bucky steps onto the balcony. He wraps his arms around your waist from behind, slow and sure. His chest presses into your back so close you can count his heartbeats.
He lowers his head. A soft kiss to the exposed skin on your shoulder. Another to your neck. His voice low as his lips brush against your ear.
“They’re watching the hotel,” he says coolly.
Your body melts into his on instinct, hands finding his.
Your eyes flick across the street. Three figures. All in black suits. Tinted windows. Virell’s men, watching the lobby.
Bucky brushes his lips against your temple.
“Come to bed with me, doll,” he murmurs softly.
You recognize the callback to the elevator. Fake couple. Real danger.
You turn in his arms to face him, playing along. One hand trails over his chest, the other behind his neck.
“If you wanted me, you should’ve just said,” you say gently.
You kiss the sharp edge of his jaw, just enough to blur the lines between the mission and reality.
His breath hitches–barely. A low hum escapes his chest. He kisses your cheek. Then your neck. Collarbone. Shoulder. Everywhere but your mouth, although he gets awfully close.
His hands curl under your thighs and lift you without much effort. You wrap your legs around his waist as he carries you inside.
Bucky carries you to the bed and lays you down gently like you’re something fragile. The bed dips beneath your weight. The fabric of your dress pools around you like a lake.
He leans down and places one more kiss to your jaw, his stubble brushes against your skin.
Then he’s gone, moving toward the windows. He draws the curtains shut slowly. Deliberately. He doesn’t look at you. Not once.
“If I didn’t know any better, Barnes,” you say coyly, “I’d say you enjoyed that.”
Bucky doesn’t reply. Jaw tight. He doesn’t meet your eyes. Instead, he walks stiffly to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. You hear the shower start. Steam curls out from the edge of the door.
You exhale and touch the space on your jaw where he kissed you. You lay back fully on the bed and stare at the ceiling. It’s getting harder to separate what’s pretend and what’s real.
-
Later, the bathroom door opens with a soft click.
Steam spills out behind him, curling toward the ceiling like smoke. Bucky steps out shirtless in low light that catches the water beads across his shoulders. A subtle glint where metal meets skin at his left arm. Sweatpants. That ride just a little too low on his hips. He’s still drying his hair roughly with the towel before hanging it on the hook on the door.
He glances toward the bed.
You’re lying there, half tangled in the sheets, facing the empty space beside you like you’re daring it to stay empty.
You blink once, slowly. Your brain short-circuits halfway through forming a thought and reroutes to something safe, something boring.
He doesn’t notice your stare. Or maybe he does and is pretending not to. Which might be worse.
You don’t say anything. You watch him from the corner of your eye. Your breath is steady. Your heart rate is not.
He crosses the room slowly. Avoids your gaze. There’s only one bed. It’s not that big.
You scoot slightly to one side, giving him more space.
“I won’t bite,” you murmur.
He doesn’t miss a beat.
“I’d let you.”
It’s not fair, the way your whole body flushes.
You turn slightly toward him, trying to play it off like it didn’t affect you. Trying to be normal. Chill. Capable of human speech.
He doesn’t meet your gaze, just climbs into bed like he didn’t just set your skin ablaze.
The mattress shifts under his weight. The space between you narrows. You lie back on your pillow, close enough to feel his breath, not close enough to calm your heartbeat.
And God help you, he smells good. He smells like clean soap and warm skin. Cool metal and rain that hasn’t touched down yet.
You shift. So does he. Your knees brush. Neither of you pulls away.
“You okay?” He asks quietly.
You pause. Then nod. He probably can’t see it in the dark.
“You?” You ask, just as quietly.
“No.”
You both fall quiet again. The truth hangs heavy between you.
He lets out a breath. You think maybe this will be it and he’ll head to bed without another word. You pull some courage out from somewhere deep in your stomach.
Softly:
“You ever think about what it’d be like?”
He blinks.
“What what’d be like?”
You smile faintly.
“If this was real.”
His breath catches.
The silence feels deafening. Charged.
Your heart beats like a caged bird against your ribcage. You feel something shift between the two of you. You think you’ve made a huge mistake, just ruined something good, and you open your mouth to say as much.
“I–I just meant–”
“All the time.”
His voice is even. You can hear the truth on his lips. You’re both inches away from something that will break everything or fix everything. Or both.
Neither of you speak again, silently agreeing not to speak about this further.
At least for now.
Under the sheets, his fingers brush lightly against yours.
-
You jolt awake well past midnight. A sharp, soft gasp.
Your chest is heaving, pulse thudding in your ears.
The sheets are tangled around your legs, damp with sweat. One hand clenched tight against your ribs like you can hold in the fear.
Bucky’s awake in seconds, his body rigid scanning the room for a threat. It softens once he realizes it’s still only the two of you.
He turns toward you carefully, not touching you yet. He watches carefully, doing his best not to crowd you. His voice is low and gentle.
“Hey. You’re okay. It’s just me. Just a dream.”
You clench your eyes tightly closed, hand shaking slightly as you lift it to wipe your face of a tear you don’t completely notice is there.
“Didn’t feel like one,” you mutter hoarsely.
Bucky sits up slightly, propping himself on an elbow. He doesn’t ask you what it was about. He knows.
He slowly extends his hand but pauses. His vibranium hand is closest to yours. He moves to pull it back but you grip it in your hand, pulling him closer. You don’t move to pull away and he gently threads his fingers through your hand, his thumb rubbing gently circles into your skin. It’s cool and grounding.
“Breath with me, okay? In…out…” He tells you.
You follow slowly at first. Then steadier. You match his rhythm.
You’re aware of the cool metal against your skin. It’s not scary. It’s safe. Real. It’s hurt people before, but never you. It only provides comfort.
Eventually your eyes begin to flutter shut again. Exhaustion ebbing in gentle and slow. Your voice is drowsy when you speak again.
“Thanks.” Almost inaudible.
“Not going anywhere,” he responds.
-
You wake first.
Still on your side, curled against Bucky. His arm is slung loosely around your waist, the other tucked under the pillow.
His breathing is deep and even. He’s fully asleep. Maybe the first real rest he’s had in a while, too.
You shift carefully, trying not to wake him, but:
“You always this wiggly in the morning?” His voice is gruff, still laced with sleep.
“Only when I wake up with someone’s arm wrapped around me like a weighted blanket.”
He groans and stretches, keeping one arm looped lazily around your waist.
You can’t remember the last time you’ve woken up this peacefully.
Then you whisper into the quiet morning:
“We forgot to feed Alpine.”
Bucky’s eyes remain shut. “Soraya’s got her.”
A pause.
“I miss her.”
“She’s got a better bed than we do.”
“She deserves it.”
His eyes finally open and you share a look. It lingers.
You stretch your arms above your head and the blanket slips slightly. Enough to catch his attention. He looks, then immediately looks away. You caught it.
“Are you checking me out, Sergeant?” You ask mischievously.
“Just checking for weapons,” he deflects.
“Smooth recovery.”
You finally roll out of bed with a groan and start rummaging through your bag for clothes.
Shortly after there’s a knock at the door. You glance at Bucky. He frowns and moves quickly, grabbing a gun from his bedside table.
“Subtle,” you say.
“Habit,” he replies.
He checks the peephole and sighs.
“Sam.”
Bucky opens the door and Sam and Torres enter, Sam’s got two coffees and a folder tucked under his arm. He hands one to Bucky. Torres has a grin and a latte for you.
“Good morning, sunshine,” Torres says to you. “Hope Barnes didn’t hog all the blankets.”
“She was warm enough,” Bucky says, unamused.
He gives Torres a look that says try that again and I’ll put you through a window.
Sam ignores both of them. “You two look cozy. Bed bugs treating you well?”
“They unionized,” you say, deadpan. “We let them have the minibar.”
“That’s generous,” Sam replies. “I’ll be sure to put that in the mission report.”
Sam sets the folder down on the desk and opens it. A full file of updated intel. Maps, guest lists, surveillance stills.”
“Virell’s confirmed. He’ll be at the gala tonight,” he informs you.
You and Bucky exchange a look, the calm of the morning dissolves piece by piece. The weight of what comes next settles in.
Sam begins to brief the two of you. Torres hands you your latte and backs away. Smart man. You take a long sip.
Somehow Bucky has made his way to your side, your shoulders brushing slightly.
“We’re gonna burn it all down, right?” You murmur to him.
Woop woop it's part five! I'm so grateful for the love that this little series has received and I'm so thankful people are reading and enjoying this! Thank you for taking the time <3 Likes & reblogs are always appreciated!
Wordcount: 2.9k
Warnings: Reader referred to as y/n & uses she/her pronouns, smut, kissing, sick kids, hospitals (and thus me pretending I know about hospitals), swearing i think, grammer - proofread but not well.
masterlist part one part two part three part four part six
I woke up at 4am to the shrill sound of my phone ringing.
“Bucky?”
“I’m sorry, I know it’s late but I just, I didn’t, I didn’t know who else to call.”
“Is everything okay?” I sat up, accidentally waking Cheryl who was asleep at the bottom of my bed. I got up, turning the light on.
“I’m in the hospital and I-”
“What?”
“No well, not me, Becky’s-”
“I’m on my way.”
“Thanks, sugar.”
I called a taxi, getting dressed as quick as I could, trying not to let my brain race. Before long the taxi gets there, and I sprint out of my apartment.
It doesn’t take long to get to the hospital, and it doesn’t take long to find the Barnes’ either. Bucky sat in a chair by the bed that Becky was asleep in, an IV hooked to her little arm.
I all but ran over to Bucky, kneeling down in front of him, grabbing his hands into mine.
“Hey,” I whisper. He startles at my presence, and pulls me up into a bone-crushing hug the second he realises it’s me. I wrap one arm around his neck, the other rubbing his back. “What happened?”
Before he could answer, a doctor walked into the room. “Mrs Barnes, glad you could make it.” She doesn’t give me a chance to correct her before continuing, “Good news, Becky’s going to be fine. It’s gastroenteritis. Stomach bug.” I feel Bucky’s body relax just a little. “She’s dehydrated, which is what the IV here is for, and we’d like to keep her overnight and then reassess tomorrow morning.”
“So she’s okay?” I ask, looking over the girl in the bed. She’s not very big as is, but seeing her in the hospital bed makes her seem even smaller.
“She’s stopped throwing up, so looks like she’s on the mend. I’ll get another bed brought in for you.”
The doctor leaves, and Bucky sits back down, grabbing onto her hand. “I don’t know how it happened, she didn’t eat anything bad at home, maybe I wasn’t paying attention.” He whispers, head hung low.
“Stomach bugs don’t happen just through eating, babe. She could’ve caught it off someone at school, kids get sick so easily.” I place my hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. He looked up at me, his eyes glassy. “She’s going to be okay, Bucky. Once she gets all hydrated, she’s going to be okay. It’s not your fault.”
“I should’ve known.”
“How? You can’t feel her stomach for her Buck.”
He shakes his head, a tear escaping. “I should’ve known something was off with her.” He wipes at his face as a nurse walks in, pushing in a bed. I nod toward it when he leaves, “Lie down at least.”
Bucky looks over, brows furrowed.
“I’m not saying go to sleep, just lie down. I’ll go grab you some water, or something. Do you want a snack?” He shakes his head again, lying down on the second bed, not taking his eyes off Becky.
I leave them for a moment, walking over to the vending machine. I grab a water, and some crisps too. The overhead lights flicker a bit, the place buzzing. It smells clean, like bleach almost, sterilised. There are soft beeps echoing through the hallways, paired with hushed words and sniffles from the waiting area.
“Here.” I hold out the water to Bucky, but I’m met with silence as I take in his sleeping form. He looks exhausted. And massive. His legs don’t really fit and his back is bent, trying to squeeze himself onto the bed. I shrug off the cardigan I’m wearing and place it over his torso, walking over to sit down by Becky’s bed.
“Hey sweet girl,” I whisper, taking her hand into mine. “Quite a scare you’ve given us there. Remind me to bring Cheryl over to you when you’re better, lift your spirits up.”
I sit like that for a while, holding her hand and talking to her. She can’t really hear me, but that doesn’t stop me. I don’t notice the sun come up until I feel Becky’s fingers twitch.
“Daddy?”
“He’s on your other side, baby.”
“Y/n! I missed you.” She giggles, her smile taking over her face.
“I missed you too Becky, how are you feeling?”
“‘M tired.”
“I bet. How’s your tummy?”
“No more wobbles i think.”
I chuckle, thumb stroking over the back of her hand. “Do you want me to wake your dad?”
She shakes her head no, looking at me with big eyes. “Cuddle please.”
I pause. There’s no part of me that wants to turn down a toddler cuddle, but there’s also no part of me that wants to overstep boundaries, she’s not my kid, I have to remind myself.
“With me?”
She nods her little head and pats the bed next to her. I make my way over, squeezing between her bed and Bucky’s, and gently climb in, trying not to move the bed. I don’t have much of a chance to situate myself before she’s pressed up against my side, her left arm over my middle. I move my hand to gently stroke her hair.
“My daddy likes you.”
My heart catches in my chest, as I glance toward to the sleeping man. “Yeah?”
“I like you too.”
“Thanks Becky.” I whisper, looking over at the girl again. “Shall we try and get some sleep?”
She nods, then promptly tucks herself even closer to me. She drifts off quickly, and it doesn’t take much longer until I follow suit.
*
The opening and closing of the hospital room door wakes me up.
“Hi, sugar.”
I look over at the voice coming from the chair, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. “Hi, Buck.”
“Cute outfit.” I glance down at the cat print shorts and “I <3 dilfs” T-shirt I was wearing. I groan at myself, rubbing my hand over my face.
“I was wearing it before I left last night, I didn’t even realise, sorry.” A faint blush heats up my cheeks.
“No need to be. I’m thankful you came. Think I would’ve been a blubbering mess if it wasn’t for you.”
“Anytime, Bucky. I’m just glad she’s okay.” I look to the snoring girl beside me, her hair all over the pillow and all over me as a result. I can feel Bucky’s eyes burning into us, so I turn to look.
“Come home with us today.”
“What?”
“Come home with us today. Becky would like it, I’d like it. Hell, bring the dog if she’s okay with it.”
“Bucky I, I don’t know. I don’t think Becky would appreciate that. I mean, she’s not 100% yet I don’t wanna intrude.”
“Sleepovers!” Becky yells out from next to me, making me jump. My hand flies up to my chest. “Please, y/n, pleaseeeeeeeeee.” Her little voice drags out the word and I can’t find it in myself to say no.
“Alright,” I laugh at the identical smile on both their faces. “But I don’t think I can bring Cheryl, she doesn’t like sleeping in unfamiliar places.”
“Aw no puppy?”
“I’ll bring her over sometime so you guys can play in the daytime.”
That seems to satiate her as she starts to create a whole schedule for the day, hands flying everywhere as she talks.
“Looks like someone’s feeling better,” the doctor walks into the room, clipboard in hand. She performs a few tests, then removes the needle from Becky’s arm and I can physically feel the worry swallowing Bucky as his body tenses and his hands don’t stop fidgeting.
“Alright. I’ll have the release forms ready in a couple minutes and I’ll bring them over to you guys.” Bucky sighs, his shoulders sagging, as he leans back in the chair, watching the doctor leave. It’s a few seconds before Becky starts chatting away again, clearly excited to get home.
Bucky doesn’t stop bouncing his leg even when he’s signing her out, or while he’s driving us home. He only seems to calm down when we walk through the front door, and Becky makes a bee-line for the sofa where her frog teddy bear lay forgotten.
He takes a minute, watching her from the hallway as she lies down. “I really don’t know what I’d do if I lost her, y/n. I swear, I’ve never been so damn scared.”
“She’s your daughter Bucky it’s natural for you to be scared. It was worrying. But she’s home now,” I nod toward where she’s sat on the floor now, preoccupied with a previous colouring project she’d left. “Safe and sound, because you did the right thing and took her to get help.”
He turns to me, eyes still full of worry. “I also don’t know what I’d have done without you. Thank you, plum, thanks for picking up in the middle of the night.”
“For you, Bucky? Always.”
His hands cup my jaw as he steps closer, pulling me for a chaste kiss.
“I’m dying for a coffee though. Sit with Becky?”
I walk over to where she sits on the floor, colouring in a pink unicorn. “Unicorns can’t be purple, you know.”
“Oh?” I raise my brows, “Why’s that then?”
“Well because they’re pink. And white. But most they’re pink. Sometimes their horns have glitter.”
“Can the horn be purple glitter sometimes?”
She taps a finger against her chin, taking a minute to think. “Yeah I think that’s okay. Colour this one.” She pushes another colouring book toward me, one with trucks this time. “This one reminds me of daddy ‘cos he likes cars lots.”
“I do baby, but I like your pretty unicorns too.” Bucky hands me a steaming mug, and places a bottle of water down by Becky. He doesn’t join us on the floor, but sits behind us on the sofa instead, watching.
My coffee grows cold as colouring turns into Lego, which turns into a puzzle, which turns into a dinner and a movie, which promptly led to Becky asleep on the sofa, head in my lap and feet in Bucky’s. I let my hands stroke her hair gently as the television plays in the background.
“I’m so grateful your car broke down.”
“Well…”
Bucky raises a brow.
“I’m really grateful for where it’s led but honestly it’s kind of annoying not having a car.”
He laughs then, the rest of his worry dissipating. “It’ll be done tomorrow, sugar. Can drive to your hearts content.”
“How much?”
“Well as much as you want. Although the car itself isn’t a great one so I wouldn’t go any longer than a day or two.”
I slap at his arm playfully, knowing that he knows it’s not what I meant. “Money, Bucky. How much will it cost? I lost the form you gave me.”
“Eh, what's meant to be will be.”
“Bucky.” I sigh, knowing I’m fighting a losing battle.
“What goes around comes around.”
“None of these phrases apply to this. Will you let me pay you?”
He shakes his head no, muttering a ‘I’ll be right back’ and carrying his daughter off to her bed. Two seconds later he reappears.
“D’ya want a shower or anything? I have a spare toothbrush and can give you some clothes?”
I look down at myself and realise I never changed from the hospital clothes.
“Yeah actually.” I follow him to his room as he grabs me a shirt of his and some boxers, then leads me to the bathroom.
“So, turn right for hot water, left for cold. There’s towels here, and a toothbrush in the cabinet. Shout if you need.”
The door closes behind him with a soft click and i turn the shower on, waiting for the water to heat up. I brush my teeth while I wait, looking at myself in the mirror. The bags under my eyes were bad, and my hair was sticking out in every direction it could. I needed this shower more than I realised.
I step in and let the hot water just run over me for a second, not moving. I let the heat relax my muscles, and drench my hair. Slowly, I wash myself, taking a second to appreciate the sandalwood smell that encompasses the bathroom now. I wash my hair next, not enjoying the 3-in-1 but still enjoying the way it smelled like Bucky. The way I smelled like Bucky. I dry off and get into his clothes, shirt falling to mid thigh, just enough for his boxers to peek through under.
I creep quietly from the bathroom to his bedroom, not wanting to wake Becky. I push the door open, and am greeted with a shirtless Bucky, lying back on his bed.
“C’mere.” He pats the spot next to him.
“I hope you know your pillows gonna be wet.”
He smiles, “I don’t care, would you please just come here?”
I get in next to him, a sigh of relief escaping me. “I didn’t realise how much I wanted to just sit back, I guess.”
“Yeah, sugar, ‘m tired too. It’s been a long day.” He lies down fully now, and I follow. We face each other after he turns his bedside light off. “I meant it when I said I’m grateful, y’know.”
“I know.”
“Dunno how or why, but seeing you has become the best part of the day, sugar. Like a little lifeline,” he pauses, then says “I don’t want this to end when you get your car back.”
“It’s not going to. I’m not with you because you’re fixing my car. Or well technically I guess I am but you know what I mean. I like you, Bucky. And I really don’t think that’s gonna stop the second you give me those keys back.”
“You like me?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
“I like you too, sugar. A whole lot more than I can describe.” His hand cups my jaw again as he presses his mouth to mine, kissing me slowly, noses softly brushing up against each other. My arms come to rest around his neck as he moves now, propping himself up with his hands next to my head. His stubble drags along my jaw, then my neck, as he kisses softly, nipping every so often.
“You smell good.”
“I smell like you, Buck.” I giggle, a little breathless. He groans at my response, sending a short vibration through my neck and chest, making me tilt my head back a little.
“You like this, sugar? Feel good?”
I hum in appreciation as he sucks little marks over my neck, finding the pulse point just underneath my jaw, one hand coming to turn my face sideways a bit, giving him more space.
“Good, ‘cuz I think I’d like to express my gratitude to you.”
“Huh?”
“Can I touch you, plum? Will you let me touch you?” He looks at me earnestly, searching my eyes for any sort of discomfort.
“Yeah, please.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice, tugging at the hem of my shirt. I sit up and lift my arms up, letting him take it off.
“You are so pretty,” he takes his time looking at my chest, fingertips tracing ever so lightly over my boobs, leaving soft, wet kisses as he moves downward, all over my abdomen. He bites down on my hips, gently still, as his fingers snap the waistband of my boxers.
“Can I-”
He chuckles when I lift my hips up, not waiting for him to ask his question. He peels off the shorts, throwing them on the floor.
“Oh, fuck me, sugar,” he presses a kiss to my inner thigh, “look how beautiful you are.” Then presses one to the other.
“Are you still okay with this? You can change your mind, y’know.”
“Bucky if you don’t touch me, I will.”
And it’s enough to get him moving. He leans into my core, pressing a feather light kiss to my bud before licking a stripe up. My hands find their home in his hair, tugging gently as he continues to lick into me, nudging his nose against me every so often.
“Bucky I,” I gasp out, biting down on my bottom lip, trying to keep quiet. He moans into my core, tongue in me as he makes out with my pussy. I pull harder on his hair as my hips move against his face, chasing my own high. Bucky moves, lips ghosting over my clit as he pushes a finger into me, both of us moaning out.
“Sugar, you’re tight, so fuckin’ warm.” His finger starts moving slowly, feeling every inch of me. He adds another, and I arch into him again, silently begging him for more.
“Greedy baby, want my mouth again?”
I pull his hair in confirmation, pushing him toward my core. His tongue laps at my clit now, fingers pumping into me faster and faster. One of my hands flies up to my mouth, quieting my moans as much as I can.
“That’s it sugar, nice and quiet for me, hm?” He sucks on my clit and I come with a silent cry, grinding on his face through the aftershocks. He leans back up, kissing me sweetly and I can taste myself on his mouth. Bucky turns, lying down on his back.
“Bucky that was, I, thank you.” I say, still breathless as I turn to face him, “let me-”
“No.”
“Oh, what?”
“I told you, plum. I wanted to show my gratitude.”
“Wait are you sure? Cuz I don-”
“There’ll be plenty chances, I promise, sugar. Now let’s go to sleep yeah?”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Goodnight, Buck.”
“Night.”
I fall asleep fairly quickly, the added noise of cars driving by outside lulling me to sleep.
Bucky on the other hand stayed up, just a little longer, watching the girl in his bed sleep away, her leg in between his calves.
Part four is yours. This might be my favourite chapter yet to be honest. Likes & reblogs are always appreciated <3
Word Count: 2.1k
Warnings: suggestive content, swearing, reader is referred to as y/n and uses she/her pronouns, men being gross, Bucky being protective, I pretend to know about cars again, Bucky is a girl dad.
masterlist part one part two part three part five part six
Grease, Part four.
The day had been awful from the start. Alarm wasn’t set properly, Cheryl barked at very noise, neighbours decided it was appropriate to listen to heavy metal at two in the morning. All of that to say, I hadn’t slept. Add in a group of builders parading in and out of the cafe, leaving half empty cups on every other table every twenty minutes, and you’re left with a y/n who’s taken three crying breaks in the bathroom already. The only thing calming murderous intent was the memories of Bucky’s lips on mine, his hands rough and large and everywhere.
The bell above the door chimed, and I wiped my hands over my face, preparing to make another flat white that wouldn’t be finished.
“Hi, how ca- Bucky!”
The brunette rested his hands on the counter, leaning himself forward.
“Hi sugar.”
Tears started to well up in my eyes at the sound of his voice, I try to blink them away, shaking my head.
“It’s so good to see you, you have no idea. Sit, let me bring you a coffee.”
He sat at an empty table, eyes not leaving me as I move around, bringing him his cup and a muffin.
“What’s wrong, plum? Look like you’ve been crying.” Bucky still doesn’t move his gaze off me, his brows knitted together in worry.
“Ha, yeah. Sorry about that,” I rub at my eyes, feeling grateful for the lack of makeup. “Bad day, bad sleep, bad customers.”
His hand reaches up to hold mine, thumb stroking over my knuckles. The moment doesn’t last long, the bell of evil ringing out again. I press a quick kiss to his temple before going back to work.
Bucky sits there for the better part of an hour, just observing. He takes in the cafe, wondering how he never noticed the cloud wallpaper, the blue chairs, the pale yellow ceiling. It was a cute place, and the curly-haired waitress buzzing around added to the charm, he thought. He was about to leave, coffee empty and muffin finished - a sure sign to get back to work, but there was a man with a white helmet sat two tables across from him who wouldn’t stop staring at the counter. Bucky turned his head then, and nearly keeled over at the sight.
She had taken her hair down. Frizzy, free, no two strands of hair the same, y/n looked like the physical embodiment of pure, unadulterated joy. The sunlight beaming in from the glass doors casting a downright angelic glow all over her.
That, and she was more or less bent over the back counters, reaching for something behind one of the machines, giving Bucky and the white-helmet-freak a good view of her ass. He couldn’t leave then, not when his joy was being ogled at by some douche who was drooling. He kept his gaze on the man, watching.
“Hey, Miss,” one of the man called out, signalling me over when I turned around. I grabbed a pot of coffee, briefly looking at Bucky before walking over there. “When’d you get off, hotness?”
“Sorry?” I felt a heat creep up on me, but not the good kind.
“I’m going to a party tonight, you should come. Intimate gathering type shit.”
“No, thank you.”
“Aw come on now, it’d be a laugh.”
“Yeah, no thanks.”
“You’re too se-”
“She said no, buddy. Move along.” A deep voice called out from next to me, and I swear I could’ve fallen to my knees then and there. The man at the table grumbled a ‘you’re ugly anyways’ before leaving. Bucky’s arms turn me around so I’m facing him, enveloping me in a hug.
“You smell good.” I muffle out into his chest.
“Thanks, it’s grease and sweat.”
“Mm, I love it when you talk dirty to me.” I don’t get a chance to laugh at my own joke before he plants a quick kiss on my lips, "thanks for stepping in."
“When do you finish?”
I check my watch, “four more hours.”
“Your engine came earlier. Come over after when you’re done, sugar. Let’s see if we can make this better for you.”
I nod, waving him bye as he leaves. I take the cup and plate into the back room, barely managing to walk in before my coworker, Taylor walks in.
“He’s hot.”
“Who?”
She raises a single brow at me, a smile on her mouth. “The dilf that just left?”
“Oh sure, yeah. He’s hot.”
“Boyfriend?”
“No.”
“Husband?”
“No! We’ve just been, like, hanging out? I think.”
She laughs at me then, “you’re sleeping together.”
I scrunch my face, her mouth dropping.
“Girl, what? How do you let him walk around like that and not?”
“We’re taking it slow, I suppose. I’m seeing him later and honestly it’s the only thing that’s gonna get me through this shift.”
“Heard. It’s a nightmare and I don’t know where all these people have come from.” She shakes her head and leaves me to my thoughts.
*
The shift flies by, the rush was over fairly quick, leaving me, Taylor, and a few others to bask in the slowness. I rid my head of work thoughts as I push open the garage doors. It feels different than the last time I was here, personal, almost. It doesn’t take long for Bucky to spot me, pulling over to his little corner where my car was. It was missing the hood, but it looked fine.
“Is it done?” Bucky chuckles, wiping his hands on a rag, chucking it on his shoulder that was barely covered by a once-white vest. He looked criminally good, the vest stretching over his broadness, black pants struggling over the thickness of his legs.
“Haven’t started. You wanted action sugar, you’re getting it.” He nods over to the open bonnet, grabbing his tool box.
“So, I’ve taken the hood off and drained it. Don’t want any spillages, or leaks, do we?” I shake my head, “so now I’m gonna disconnect some of the lines, and then I’m gonna get you to do the wiring.”
“Me?”
“Yeah sugar, you.” He leans over the hood, rag in hand as he tampers round with the lines. There’s a light layer of sweat forming on his forehead, grunting lightly as the pipes struggle to disconnect. He works at it for a minute, forearms tense as the veins in his arms show up. The building gets warmer, and the sweat on him glistens.
“Alright see these?” He points around to a few wires plugged into various things on the inside of my car. “You’re gonna pull ‘em out.”
“What if I break it?”
“Then I’m here to fix it. But I’m not gonna need to, cuz you’re not gonna break anything, come on.”
He moves my body to the middle of the car, his chest pressed to my back. His hand points to the first wire, and I pull it out slowly, careful not to damage it. “That’s a good girl, this one next.” His voice is low, and I can feel his breath on my ear as his head dips lower, kissing my neck, barely. I pull the next one, still as careful, still as slow. Bucky hums in approval, pointing to the last four wires, “You know what to do.” I take them out one by one, struggling through it while Bucky’s face is buried in my neck, kissing, biting, sucking, marking. I tilt my head back into him, stretching my neck, softly moaning as he goes on, his hands wrapping round my waist.
“Told you ya wouldn’t break a thing.”
He pulls away from me, handing me a clean rag for my hands.
“You’re evil, Barnes.” He chuckles, leaning against a table.
“How so, sugar?”
“You’re just gonna do all that,” I point to where we were two minutes ago, “and then just stand there?”
“Well I could sit if you’d prefer.”
I roll my eyes at him, gently throwing the rag on the table next to him.
“I told you i’m waitin’.”
I nod.
“Don’t ever think I’m not achin’ for you, sugar.” He stands upright now, stepping forward until I’m pressed against the passenger door of my car, head lowered till I could feel his voice by my ear and smell the sweat off his neck. “Don’t think I don’t fall asleep thinkin’ ‘bout the day I get to bury myself in your pu-”
“Who’s this, Barnes?” A voice rings through the garage. Our heads whip round at the sound, my eyes landing on a man, rag thrown over his shoulder the same as everyone else in the place.
“Sam, this is y/n, y/n, Sam.” He nods to the smiling man, face still flushed.
“Nice to meet you,” Sam offered his hand to me and I shake it.
“Yeah you too. I really should be going though.” I look back to Bucky as he nods, demeanour thrown off by the interruption.
“Text me when you’re home, plum, and lock your door.” I nod at him, waving bye to Sam before heading out.
“‘Plum’?” Sam asks Bucky.
“Shut it.” Bucky shakes his head, eyes scanning over the hood-less car, before opening his tool box again.
“Real cute Barnes. She your girlfriend?”
“No.”
“So, what then?”
“We’re friends.”
“Last I checked friends don’t pin each other to cars like that, man.”
“We’re good friends.”
“Right, okay.” Sam slaps Bucky on the back, stifling a laugh at the way the older man jumps at the contact. “In all seriousness Bucky, we’re all glad you’re putting yourself out there.”
“Who the fuck is we?”
He points to the other side of the garage, where the rest of the boys are stood in a huddle, whistling and cheering. Bucky doesn’t bother replying to any of them, settling for a scowl in their direction instead.
*
Bucky walks through the front door of his home, the smell of pizza wafting through the entire place. He follows the scent to the kitchen where Becky and her sitter, Louise were washing dishes.
“Hey, guys.”
“Daddy!” Becky jumps off her stool, wet hands covering the floor in water.
“Hi, baby. Missed you too much,” he lifts the girl into the air, holding her tight against his chest, absolutely enamored with the little piece of his heart that lives outside his body. She giggles and swats at him.
“Made pizza for you!”
“Yeah I can smell it, doll. Who’s idea was it?” Bucky looks at Louise then, a smile on both their mouths as Becky delves into an explanation on why pizza, and why today.
Louise stays for dinner, but only after Bucky insists, she helped make it after all. He was entirely grateful to her, and the time and care she showed Becky day in, day out. He showed it by stuffing an extra twenty in her coat pocket before she left.
“C’mon baby, bedtime.” Becky happily abides, holding onto her dad’s hand as he leads her into bed, tucking her in amongst pink bedsheets and a pretty purple blanket. “You want a story or no?” He lets her think while he switches off the big light, turning on the fairly lights that he’d recently put up on the wall. Becky nods her head, pointing to a copy of ‘the hobbit for kids!’. Bucky laughed, picking up the book and sitting on the floor beside her bed. She settled down, big blue eyes wide and hanging onto every word that came out of her dads mouth. Bucky didn’t get a chapter in before he heard little tired snores coming out of the girl. “I love you, baby. Sleep well now,” he whispered, kissing her softly on the head, turning the lights off before leaving.
Bucky put himself to bed early that night too, not really wanting to do much else. His mind wandered as he lay in the dark room.
He didn’t believe in love at first sight that was for damn sure, not even Becky’s mum had changed his mind on that. But there was something about y/n he couldn’t quite place. Maybe it was the way she managed to calm his heart, even when she just sat quietly, not saying a word. Or maybe it was the way she was with his kid, soft and gentle, but not afraid. Maybe it was the way he felt when he thought of her - the way his heart physically jumped in his chest and he felt tingly inside. He didn’t know, but he didn’t really care.
He just knew she was for keeps.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ .
taglist: IF YOU'D LIKE TO BE TAGGED LET ME KNOW <3
masterlist | series masterlist | previous part | next part
word count: 2.5k
summary: Bucky burns pancakes. You malfunction mid-flirt. The both of you finally trauma dump. Sam shows up with important news.
tw: Trafficking (past, referenced), sexual assault (implied)
Early the next morning, Bucky stirs on the couch when morning light slips through the curtains. He’s curled awkwardly under a blanket that’s too small and smells like you. He blinks up at the ceiling – unfamiliar, but warmer than his own apartment.
The distant sound of your steady breathing in the other room reassures him. He’s careful when he moves, not wanting to wake you or Alpine (who has migrated up to snuggle against your shoulder).
He’s folding up his blanket and watching you carefully. You’re still here. Still sleeping. Still breathing. He told you he wouldn’t leave and he meant it.
Bucky slips out into the hallway to head back to his apartment. He’s halfway to his door when a voice calls behind him.
“Long night, Barnes?”
Soraya’s standing in her doorframe still in slippers, sipping from a Hex the Patriarchy! mug. Hair wrapped in a colorful silk scarf. Dark eyebrows raised.
Bucky freezes like a teenager caught sneaking home.
“S’not what it looks like.”
“Sure it’s not. You keep saying that. Eventually I might believe you.”
“I was on the couch,” he tries.
“Mmhmm.”
Soraya takes a long sip from her mug, unconvinced.
“Just going to shower,” he mutters.
“I’d suggest holy water.”
She raises her mug to him and disappears inside. Bucky sighs and slips into his apartment.
Shortly after, Bucky’s cleaned up and changed. Hair damp. T-shirt soft and worn. He carries a small grocery bag (milk, eggs, blueberries). Your apartment is still quiet, but Alpine is awake now.
She hops off the couch and chirps at him, tail held high.
“She’s still asleep?” Bucky asks.
Alpine chirps in reply.
Bucky makes his way into the kitchen and starts making pancakes. He’s not good at it. Burns the first three. Doesn’t stop trying. The smoke detector goes off.
He curses under his breath and grabs a kitchen towel, urgently waving it under the smoke detector until it stops beeping.
Alpine watches him from the counter.
“You’re judging me. I can feel it.”
He keeps the least-burned batch warm in the oven, the rest he keeps for himself.
You enter the kitchen, rubbing sleep from your eyes, and pause in the doorway. Bucky, in your kitchen, flipping something with focus and tension like it’s a bomb he’s disarming.
“You trying to burn the place down, or is that just your cooking style?” You yawn.
“You want perfect pancakes or not?”
“I want you to stop setting off the smoke detector.”
He hands you a mug of coffee. A peace offering. You sip and watch him work. He gestures to a small plate of mediocre pancakes.
“They’re… edible.”
“You’re lucky I’m emotionally vulnerable, Barnes,” you say, adding on, “and low on blood sugar.”
He doesn’t argue, simply sets a plate in front of you and retrieves his own. You both eat, leaning on the counter. You’ve taken over the speakers already and music plays softly between the two of you. Alpine places a paw on Bucky’s vibranium arm, meows, and looks longingly at his plate of pancakes. He sneaks her a bite.
“You’re such a pushover.”
He shrugs.
“She’s small and manipulative. Like someone else I know.”
You share the silence while you continue eating.
“Thanks for staying,” you say quietly.
“Told you I would,” he responds, not looking up.
You nudge his arm gently and he lets it linger.
“So what’s the plan today?”
“Eat. Rest. Keep the cat alive.”
You feel a small smile tugging at your lips. “Big goals.”
-
It’s a few days post-mission and Bucky is much more familiar with your apartment. He’s still sleeping on the couch – unofficially moved in. You’ve told him it’s not necessary to stay, he didn’t respond, just never left. He finds a new, bigger blanket for him on the couch one day. Neither of you address it.
The same way neither of you have brought up that night, but everything has changed since it. You can still feel the cool touch of vibranium against the skin of your neck when you close your eyes. You can’t be thinking about him like this. He’s your best friend.
You’re on your knees fixing a drawer in your kitchen that sticks. You’re half under the counter, using a butter knife to wiggle loose a warped track. Bucky’s helping. And by helping, that means leaning against the counter watching you with a judgemental expression.
“What, you don’t think I know what I’m doing?”
“Oh, I know you don’t.”
You grunt. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”
A beat.
He doesn’t respond. You twist to look at him.
“You always stand around looking that good, or is this just a handyman fantasy I’ve walked into?” You give him a mischievous smile, expecting him to freeze. Maybe roll his eyes and call you ridiculous.
He doesn’t.
Instead he pushes himself off the counter and joins you underneath the counter. Calm. Sure. Eyes steady. He hands you the screwdriver that you had refused earlier. His voice comes out low and smooth.
“Only when there’s a chance I might get my hands dirty.”
Now he’s the one wearing a smug smirk. He continues.
“If I’m already on my knees in your kitchen, might as well make it worth your while.
You stare. Speechless. Eyes widen. Mouth hanging open ever so slightly. Actually flustered.
“What? You start it – I just finish things.”
Your cheeks are warm. “You’re… I–shut up.”
“You short circuiting, Birdie?” He’s grinning.
“No. Just… buffering. I–I hate you.”
“Nah, you like the view.”
Your eyes narrow at him. “You’re banned. From kitchens. Forever.”
He laughs, a low warm sound that you can feel heating your skin. Bucky pulls himself from out under the counter and moves to the stove to start dinner.
“Then you’re on your own to fix that drawer.”
Later that evening, dinner’s done. Music is low. Candles flicker like they’re trying not to eavesdrop. It’s one of those nights.
You’re both seated on the floor, backs against the couch, legs stretched out, your usual distance narrower than it used to be. There’s a kind of gravity to the quiet now. A familiarity.
You twist your fork around in your hand mindlessly. A nervous tic. He watches you, not in a tense, assessing way he used to, but with a gentleness that says you can take your time.
“You know how a cage doesn’t have to look like one?” You say softly.
You don’t look at him when you speak. Bucky just listens. You don’t tell it like a story, just letting it out in pieces. No tears. Not this time. Just quiet, factual wreckage. Like pressure escaping through a crack.
“His place was gold. And velvet. Soft hands and silk collars. But it was like a lock clicking shut in your chest every time he smiled.”
You pause. Swallow. Take a breath. Repeat. Bucky doesn’t move.
“I was seventeen when I got taken. Nineteen when I stopped counting. I think it was easier not knowing how old I was. Virell kept a collection. His Menagerie, he called it. Girls like me. Stolen, trained, displayed. He had rules. Smile. Kneel. Don’t speak unless spoken to. And I was his prized bird, called me Starling. Said I had the right shape for the cage.”
You’re tugging at the hem of your sweatshirt now. Voice steady, but it shakes around the edges. You continue to tell him about the Menagerie. About the girls there. And what they did to them. You tell him how you got out one night when everything went wrong – or right. You don’t know. You tell him how you ran and how you never stopped running.
“I thought he was dead,” you admit. “Thought that maybe–just maybe–I was finally free. Finally safe. Until I saw that file in your kitchen.”
You don’t look at him when you say it, afraid of what his face might show.
“I’m sorry,” he says. Quiet, ragged.
“It’s not your fault,” you reply automatically. But he keeps going.
“No–I’m sorry he existed. That anyone could look at you and see something they could take.”
It hits differently than you expect. You blink at it, startled. A raw kindness that just feels…true.
More silence, then Bucky speaks again. Slowly. Like prying open an old wound.
“They turned me into something I can’t un-be. Took me apart. Put me back together wrong. Hydra didn’t care who I was. Just what I could do.
His voice cracks. Just barely. He looks away. His mouth presses tight between each sentence like he has to fight it to speak.
“They made me a weapon.”
His voice catches. Then he laughs, bitter.
“You know what’s worse than killing people you can’t remember?”
He pauses.
“Remembering some of them.”
You don’t rush him. Just wait.
His gaze drops to his hands. One flesh, one metal. Slowly, he flexes the fingers on the vibranium, plates shifting almost inaudibly.
“I wear the glove because this hand’s hurt people. Sometimes without meaning to.”
Bucky closes it into a fist, slowly, deliberately.
“I don’t like the way it feels. I don’t like remembering what it’s done.”
He doesn’t say I don’t want it to hurt you. But the silence that follows hums with it. He looks away like he’s preparing for you to stand up and leave.
“I’ve killed people. Ruined lives. I’ve done things you can’t imagine,” he says softly.
You shift toward him, eyes steady.
“I was sold to people like that. I can imagine plenty.”
It silences him as he lets your words sink in. You lean into his side, just slightly. Shoulder against shoulder, your sweatshirt brushing his t-shirt.
“I’m not afraid of you.”
His response is barely a whisper.
“I’m afraid of me.”
“Then you’re not the kind of person I should be afraid of,” you say, soft and unwavering. “Monsters don’t fear what they’ve done. But you do. You always will. It makes you human. That’s not weakness, Barnes. That’s conscience.”
That lands hard. He breathes sharp and slow. Like that broke something in him in a good way.
Bucky turns his head to look at you, eyes searching yours. Looking for fear, maybe. He’s only met with understanding. He’s closer now. Your knees touch. He’s memorizing the shape of your face.
His eyes flick to your lips. Just for a second. Then away.
You tilt your head slightly.
“This the part where you kiss me?”
Your tone is teasing, an amused smile tugging at your lips. His lips twitch.
“No. This is the part where I think about it.”
You smile and it reaches your tired eyes.
“Don’t think too hard.”
He chuckles softly. Shakes his head.
“Wouldn’t want to do it wrong.”
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You stay like that. Close. Wound together by proximity and silence and knowing. His hand finds yours and he laces your fingers together without looking like he means to keep them there.
You don’t let go.
-
Sunlight slants golden through the half-open blinds. A record hums softly in the background.
You’re standing in front of Bucky’s open fridge like it’s a crime scene and you’re the lead detective on the case.
He’s perched at the kitchen table behind you, sipping coffee that’s gone lukewarm, waiting for your verdict.
“Alright, I have questions.”
“Of course you do,” he says.
You turn to him, holding up a jar.
“First of all–six kinds of mustard? Are you running a sandwich cartel?”
He shrugs unbothered. “They’re different.”
“They’re identical. And they’re all expired.”
“One of them’s spicy.” He takes another sip of his coffee.
You dig further into the fridge and produce a bottle of sriracha that appears to be a fossil from the Triassic period.
“You own this, you don’t need a spicy mustard.”
Bucky feigns a thought. “Redundancy is good in fieldwork.”
“This isn’t a mission, Barnes. It’s a condiment graveyard.”
He cracks a small smile. A subtle exhale of amusement. Still feels rare enough that it slows your investigation of his fridge.
You glance over your shoulder and catch him watching you – not in that hyper-vigilant way from earlier weeks, but something lighter. It settles in your chest like warmth and you try not to acknowledge it.
You hold up a sad bag of wilted spinach and shake it gently in his direction.
“This is a war crime.”
“It’s compost.”
“You don’t have a compost bin.”
“Exactly. And I’m not adding another system I won’t maintain.”
You snort and shut the fridge, leaning a hip against his counter.
“Well, I cleaned out your apocalypse bunker. You owe me a coffee at least.”
“Thought I owed you dinner,” he murmurs.
“Yeah. That too. You’re racking up debts, Barnes.”
He shrugs again but you can tell he doesn’t mind being indebted to you. You see the way his eyes soften when he looks at you.
You move to tidy something else in the apartment and to avoid his eyes.
“So,” you start, casual and distracted. “I’ve been thinking… might start looking for a new place soon. Somewhere quieter.”
He stills.
“Yeah?”
“Could be good. Fresh start. Something with more natural light, maybe.”
You don’t mean for it to land like a bomb, but it does. Bucky’s gone quiet. He’s not angry. Just… completely gutted. He looks down at his hands like they’ll tell him what to say.
You notice his silence and turn to read his face.
“It’s not about you,” you say gently.
“Didn’t say it was.”
You sigh.
“I just… I just don’t always know how to stay. And I’ve never had a reason to try.”
He opens his mouth. He wants to tell you that you do now, but he’s not ready. Not yet. And besides, maybe there’s a part of you that doesn’t feel safe in this city after the run in with the handler. He couldn’t blame you for wanting to escape that. He nods instead.
A knock at the door saves Bucky from having to respond. The door is open, and Sam lets himself in unceremoniously holding a manila folder and a tablet.
“Hope I’m not interrupting anything… intimate.”
He’s grinning, but today there’s an air of seriousness about him.
“You are,” Bucky says flatly.
You bite back a smile. “Please continue.”
Sam holds up the folder and drops it on the counter.
“We’ve got something. Information off the flash drive you recovered.” Sam nods to you. “Virell’s coming up for air. He’ll be at a private gala in the city in three days. Not just attending–funding the whole thing.”
You go still. The energy in the room shifts.
“That’s our window,” you say.
“That’s the whole damn house,” Sam replies. “We take him out, we dismantle everything. Top down.”
“I want in,” you say immediately.
Sam nods. “Didn’t think you’d wait for permission.”
Bucky doesn’t argue this time. He knows what this means to you. He meets your gaze and nods.
“Then we do it right. Together,” he says evenly.
Sam doesn’t stick around long and heads out to coordinate the logistics.
You and Bucky are left alone again. The calm is gone. Replaced with focus. Resolve.
As you walk toward the door, Bucky stops you with a hand on your wrist.
“You’re not moving out before this is over.”
His voice is low. You tilt your head.
“No?”
“No. I want you to know what it’s like to stay somewhere and be safe.”
part three is here because someone (me) couldn't stop themselves. Enjoy! Likes & reblogs are always appreciated!!! Also if a taglist is something anyone would be interested in, PLEASE let me know.
Word count: 2000
Warnings: Use of y/n, reader has she/her pronouns. Swearing, suggestive content. Bucky again being flirty.
masterlist part one part two part four part five part six
Grease, part three.
To say I was nervous about this date was understatement. The thought of spending the evening one-on-one with Bucky made me giddy. And a little nauseous. I’d spent the whole day at work, bouncing off the walls and now when it came to it, i stood in front of my mirror for the last ten minutes not moving. Three outfit changes in, i’d settled for a simple dress that fell mid-shin, some sweet mary-janes, and frilly socks to match. I was in the middle of messing with my hair when my phone went off.
Outside. - Bucky
I took one last look, grabbed my purse and left. I took my time walking down the stairs, taking deep breaths and re-applying lipgloss before I got outside. I paused a little before leaving the building, looking at Bucky through the glass doors. He was leaning against the passenger side door, waiting. He'd let some stubble grow, not too long, just enough to look more appetising than he usually did. He hadn’t forgone his boots, but his jeans were a nicer pair, and his shirt was ironed. And hugging his biceps just right while not cutting off his circulation. The corners of his mouth lift up into a smile when I push the doors open, making my way over to him.
“Y’look beautiful y/n.” He takes my hand and twirls me around once, eyes moving up my figure as I spin. I chuckle, thanking him.
“Not too bad yourself, Buck. Didn’t know you had shirts that weren’t covered in grease.” He smiles at that, opening the car door and helping me in.
The drive wasn’t too long, and it was spent mostly in a comfortable silence. We pull up to a restaurant, the outside of it catching my breath for a minute. White brick, with three sets of glass windows casting arch-shaped golden glows on the street from the lamps inside. The door was frosted glass, and the roof had wisteria growing on it, slowly creeping along the white walls.
“Bucky, this-” I turn to him, to find him already looking at me, “it’s beautiful.” He takes my hand in his, not giving me a chance to warn him they’re clammy, and leads me in. We sit in a quiet corner, the place massive yet feeling oddly intimate. Everyone spoke in hushed tones, each minding their own business, respectful.
“You know I would’ve been okay with pizza and a movie?”
“Yeah sugar I know, but I wanted to put some effort in, at least for our first date. Next time we can do lazy.” His foot softly knocks against mine and he smiles at me. I look into his eyes, eyes that were still ocean waves on a wintery morning, and try to fight off the blush creeping up my neck at the possibility of a second date.
He doesn’t let me see a single price tag, orders for me, and waits for my food to arrive before he starts eating his. He doesn’t bat an eyelid at any of his actions, clearly normal date etiquette for him.
“I know we haven’t been here long, but I can’t remember the last date I had that went this well. So, thanks for this.”
“We literally just finished eating, what are you talking about?”
“Made it further than my last three dates.” I shrug.
“Damn, sugar, how bad have you had it?”
“The last guy got a call from his ex ten minutes in and left.” Bucky lets out a low whistle, shaking his head, his eyebrows furrowed as he leans back in his chair.
“Boys, sweetheart,” he smirks at my reaction. “You were messin’ with boys. Time for a man don’t ya think?”
“Maybe. You the man for me, Barnes?”
He leans forward, elbows on the table. “Are you gonna let me be, hm?” his eyes don’t leave mine, except to briefly gaze at my lips before he adds, “Are you gonna let me show you what you’ve been missin’, sugar?”
All my body can do is nod, and feel stupid as I do it, head empty as the waiter brings us our bill. I reach for my bag.
“You better just be gettin’ lipgloss out, plum.” Bucky grumbles, not looking up at me.
I lift up my purse in return, unzipping it. He kicks me under the table.
“Put it away.”
“At least fifty-fifty.” He looked at me like i’d grown another head, and then gone on to murder his family.
“What the hell are you talking about? This is a date.”
“It’s normal, Bucky. Modern.”
“Stupidest concept i’ve ever fuckin’ heard of. Put that away,” he nods at my purse. “Halves on a date. What have those stupid boys put you through?” He mutters under his breath before helping me out of my chair. He takes my hand back into his, and my heart can’t help but pound against my chest so loud I’m certain he can hear it.
“Wanna get ice-cream?” he offers, nodding to an ice-cream parlour up the street. I don’t give him time to respond before I drag him over, entranced by the flashing neon sign. He laughs behind me, but doesn't slow me down.
We take our time standing in front of the counter, going back and forth about flavours. “All I’m saying Buck, is rum and raisin is an old-man ice-cream and that’s fine if that’s what you’re into.”
“I am an old man, plum. Besides, it’s not like mint choc chip screams young and youthful is it?”
“More youthful than an ice cream that has raisins in it.” I scrunch my face, making him laugh.
We sit in one of the worn-out booths, knees knocking under the table. I lose track of my thoughts as i stare down at the paper-cup on the table in front. A gentle nudge to my leg takes me out of it.
“Where’d you go?”
“Just thinking.” He raises his eyebrows, urging me to go on. “Did you go on many dates after Becky’s mum?”
He puts his orange spoon down. “No. Maybe two, or three. I would just sit there and know I couldn’t introduce Becky to them, so I gave up.” He starts picking at his ice-cream again.
“It’s different with you. None of that worry, she likes you already. She keeps asking if you and Cheryl can stay forever.”
“She does?”
He nods, crinkles by his eyes forming when he smiles. “When I told her I’m takin’ you on a date she got real serious.”
“Oh?”
“Mhm. Made me promise to make you laugh.”
I laugh at the thought of Becky standing there, all four foot of her, hands on hips, giving Bucky dating tips. “Well, you can tell her you kept your promise. You’ve been great, Bucky. Funny, sweet, shameless flirt, all of it.” Redness creeps up on his cheeks as he stacks our now empty cups, pushing them to one side.
“Can’t help myself. Pretty girl sat opposite me makes me say stupid things.”
“I’m not complaining. Pretty girl opposite you loves to hear stupid things.”
His hand reaches over to mine, rough thumb stroking gently over my knuckles. “Soft.” He whispers. I look at his face, while he looks down at our hands. He was somewhat wrinkled, the lines across his skin showing age, but it was endearing. One look and you knew he’d lived a full life; full of love, pain, growth. I let my mind wander off for a moment. I wondered how he looks when he’s just waking up, with sun streaming through curtains, hair tousled and voice raspy. How he looks when he’s angry, when his eyes hold storms and his fists clenched so hard his knuckles threaten to pop. How he looks when he’s fuelled by desire, when he’s on his knees, and when he’s gasping for more.
“Ya didn’t hear a thing I just said did you, plum?”
“Sorry, I uhm, no.”
“I said, I should take you home, we both have early shifts tomorrow.”
I can’t help the pout that takes over my face.
“Your engine gets here tomorrow evening. So in a couple days you can come by. How’s that sound?”
“Like I have to wait too long.”
He chuckles, standing up out of the booth, holding his hands out to me. “I’ll stop by on my lunch tomorrow, sugar. You can pour me coffee and I can shamelessly check you out while you work, how’s that?”
“Better.”
We walk back to his car and he drives me home. He pulls up outside my building and we both look toward the door.
“Can I walk you in? I’d feel better knowing I've walked you to your door. Can hear it lock.”
“You’re so old-fashioned.” I giggle, but I let him do it anyway. We walk up hand-in-hand, arms bumping as we walk and talk, eyes either on the floor or looking ahead. We stop at my door, and I unlock it.
“I’ve had a real good time Bucky, I don’t know if i could thank you enough.”
“Just when I thought you couldn’t get sweeter.” His hand reaches up to my jaw, tilting my head up at him. His eyes drop to my lips, tongue darting out to wet his own.
“Are you gonna kiss me now?” I whisper, making him look at me again.
“Depends sugar, you gonna let me?” He leans in closer, the gap between us almost non-existent. I can feel the heat radiating off him, can feel every inhale, and i swear i can almost hear his brain working as I nod at him.
He wastes no time in ridding us of the space. His lips softly slot onto mine, and I can’t help the soft gasp that escapes me at the contact. My hands clutch onto his shirt, balling it up in my fists as I kiss him back. It’s soft, and sweet, and I can’t help myself from swiping my tongue over his bottom lip. He groans then, his other hand coming to rest on my back as he pulls my hips closer to his. It’s almost obscene then, when he lets my tongue into his mouth, letting me explore like i’m a damn cave diver. His tongue tangles with mine, fighting back for control. I don't put up much of a fight, letting him lick into my mouth. My hands reach up, raking my nails through the hair at the nape of his neck. He groans, deep and low, into the kiss, the hand that was on my back reaching down to lift and wrap my thigh around his waist, making me feel his entire body. I lean back, letting him trap me against the door.
“You keep going sugar, and i’m not gonna be able to leave.”
“I think that’s the point.”
He shakes his head, placing a soft kiss along my jaw, “Believe me, it’s killin’ me to walk away, but not on the first date.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothin’. Just not my style, sugar. Besides, the anticipation’s fun isn’t it?” Another kiss, lower on my neck, followed by a soft nip, “Think how much more satisfying it’ll feel if you wait. Just a little longer.”
“How long?”
He smirks at me, his hand coming back to cup my jaw, placing a kiss on the corner of my mouth. “Just a little, promise.” He kisses me again, ending it way too abruptly.
“Goodnight, y/n.”
“Night, Buck.” I walk into the apartment, shutting the door and leaning against it.
“Lock the door, plum.”
I twist the lock, and do the latch, listening out for his retreating footsteps, trying to catch my breath. This man may very well be my undoing.
woop woop part two is here. These two have been taking up my thoughts big time since part one, and im super excited about it! Likes and reblogs are always appreciated!<3
wordcount: 2192
warnings: Bucky's a flirt, toddler has food on mouth, proofread but barely. Use of y/n, and reader has she/her pronouns.
masterlist part one part three part four part five part six
Grease, part two.
Saturdays were saved for two things - breakfast bagels and the dog park. The sizzle of bacon filled the small kitchen, as Cheryl napped on the sofa, gathering energy for her favourite time of the week. My bagel popped out of the toaster, and I constructed my sandwich to perfection, slapping some cheese on it, then leaving it in the oven a minute longer for the cheese to melt. I poured myself a coffee, grabbing my sandwich out the oven and sat down at the island, feet swinging as I listened to the radio.
I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the way that Bucky looked at me, the way I wanted him to do more than look at me, since he left last night. Cheryl’s bark snapped me out of my thoughts and I knew she was getting restless, so I finished up breakfast and got my trainers on.
I let Cheryl off her leash as she jogged around the park, keeping to herself, stopping to smell the grass every minute or so. I sat on a bench facing her, closing my eyes and letting the sun warm my face. I open my eyes again, taking in the sight of Cheryl basking in the sunlight, much like I’d just been doing, and a sense of gratitude filled my body.
“Y/n?” My heart picks up at the sound of the familiar voice saying my name, but I urge myself to calm down. I turn to look at him, but my eyes fall on Becky first, her blonde hair glowing in the sun much like a disney princesses’ would.
“Hi guys,” I wave to them, “what’re you doing here?”
“Watching the doggies! Sometimes one or two of them say hello to me. Daddy won’t get me a puppy.” The girl says, climbing onto the bench next to me, eyes saddened at the fact Bucky wouldn’t give into her whims. “Why are you sitting on your own?” she asks. Bucky looks like he’s exasperated, about to tell her there’s nothing wrong with sitting alone, but I don’t give him a chance.
“I’m not alone,” I tell her, “here with a special someone actually.”
“A boyfriend!”
“What?” Bucky manages to croak out, squinting at me.
“What? No, not a boyfriend,” I laugh, calling over Cheryl, “dog.” I grab Cheryl by the collar, stopping her before she gets too close to Becky. “You can say hello. I know she’s big, and might look quite scary, but I promise she’s friendly.” Explaining that felt like wasted breath though, because the little girl wasted no time in lunging for the dog, scratching her ears and patting her head, giggling at the way the dog’s tongue sticks out. I look up at Bucky and we both laugh at the sight.
“She’s not scared of ‘em,” he starts to explain, “keeping her away from them is the issue. Every dog she sees is her new favourite, i swear.” I giggle at the thought of Becky running up to every puppy they pass on the sidewalk.
“How are you?” He asks, while his daughter is distracted, “sleep well?”
“Yeah fine, good. I don’t have work today, and the sun’s out so, dog park it was. How about you?”
“Good, yeah. Becky was gettin’ restless so I figured this would tire her out, except now she might end up stealing Cheryl.” He let out a dry chuckle, forcing himself to look away from y/n, which felt like going to war, especially when her laugh sounded like someone had opened the gates of heaven for him, just briefly.
I looked back at Becky then, a smile stuck on my face. “I wouldn’t mind to be honest. If she ever wants to borrow Cheryl she can. So what’s next for you guys?”
Bucky shrugs, running a hand through his hair, “lunch, then i’m dropping her at a friends house. I swear, she’s got more friends than I do. But yeah, I’ll probably just hang around at home while she’s there. Unless,” Bucky stops himself speaking, eyes catching mine. I wait for him to continue, not breaking the silence, “ah, unless you wanted to join us. I know Becky’d love to have you over, and I could do with company after she goes.”
“Yeah, yeah i think that would be nice actually. Maybe I’d get to make fun of your music taste now,” I giggle, “I can meet you guys at yours? I need to get Cheryl a sitter.” Bucky nods and gives me his address, i say goodbye to Becky and go back home. Getting Cheryl a sitter wasn’t as long as I made it out to be. I knew my neighbour would do it without hesitation, I just needed a moment. I looked in the mirror before getting my bag together. Jeans and a white blouse would have to do, I didn’t want to risk getting changed and make the wrong impression, but then, what were the chances he’d notice? I packed my bag and left.
*
Twenty minutes later, i stand outside a modest little bungalow. I know it’s right because Bucky’s jeep is parked up outside, and there’s a pink kids car parked up next to it. I take a breath and ring the doorbell.
“Y/n!” A little voice calls out as the door opens, welcoming me inside. It’s warm inside, in every sense of the word. I walk through to the living room, the green walls covered in pictures, drawings, certificates. The archway into the kitchen was home to a height chart, done in different colours for each age. Bucky stands over the stove, his broad back facing us as Becky walks me through the rest of the place.
“You have a beautiful home Bucky,” i startle him, stifling a laugh at the way he jumps at the sound of my voice, “it’s so-”
“Small?”
“Charming.”
I walk over to a shelf in the living room, mostly filled with framed photos of Becky with various family members. There’s one of her and Bucky with two older people.
“My parents,” he stands behind me, his chest not quite touching my back but i can feel him, his warmth, his cologne. “it was the last time we saw them.” My heart sinks at the words, knowing it can’t be easy for him to see that everyday. “Don’t look so sad,” his hands rest on my upper arms, squeezing softly, “it was a good day. Now come on, lunch is ready.” He moves us so i’m in front of him, but his hands don’t leave my body as he guides me into the kitchen, seating me at the table before getting Becky.
“y/n?” Becky says from her seat, bits of sauce on her mouth still, “can i ask you a question?” I nod at her, my own mouth full.
“Why don’t you have a boyfriend?”
I choke on the chicken in my mouth, hearing Bucky laugh. I threw my napkin at his face while he just smirked to me and I turned back to the girl. “I don’t know, guess I just haven’t met the right man.” She nods her little head, and I could physically feel the cogs turning in her brain.
“But you’re pretty.”
Bucky interjects now, “she is, but not all pretty people have partners, plum. Not all people even want partners. Now, wipe your mouth please, otherwise no friends today.” That appeases her, as she wipes at her mouth feverishly. I can’t focus on much but the blush that’s inevitably creeping up my face at his compliment. He gathers our plates, setting them in the dishwasher before getting Becky ready and dropping her off.
I stay behind while he does, taking time to poke around a little. I glanced into Becky’s room first, almost blinded by the pink walls and purple carpet, the room littered with stuffed animals. I peek into Bucky’s bedroom next, the place a complete contrast from his daughter’s. Almost bare save from a bed, a nightstand, and a modest pile of books on his dresser. Had it been anyone else’s room it would’ve looked incomplete, but it made sense for Bucky.
“Snooping?”
I whip my body round, colliding with a hard figure, not expecting him to be stood so close. He laughs at me, “s’alright you can look.” He walks into the room first, opening the door wider.
“You don’t have much.”
“Don’t need much.” I nod at his response, looking at the books. It’s the entire Lord of the Rings series, with the spines worn and pages all dog-eared and bent.
“Didn’t really take you for a nerd.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know, darlin,” he nods to the door, “come on.”
He leads us into the living room, passing me a beer before sitting down on the sofa next to me, flicking through the television. He lands on some old detective movie.
“First fantasy books, now noir movies? What next?”
“Guess you’ll have to stick around and find out, huh?” He smirks at me, taking a sip of his drink. “Can I ask you something?”
“What is it with the Barnes’ and asking questions?” I joke, trying to ignore the heat creeping through my body.
“Well, it’s actually the same question. Why don’t you have a boyfriend?”
I shake my head a little bit, trying to gather my thoughts. “I don’t know, I guess I’m not really the pursuing type.”
“What do you mean?”
“No-one really approaches me, y’know? But i’m too stubborn to pursue people either, so being single seems easier.”
He grunts in response, “they’re stupid.”
“Excuse me?”
“The people,” he vaguely gestures at the air, eyes burning into mine, “the ones not approaching you? They’re stupid.” I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything, just look at him as I take another sip of my drink.
“I mean it, y/n,” his hand hesitates before it moves to my face, pushing some hair out of my face before resting on my jaw, calloused thumb tracing softly over my burning cheek. “You’re real warm, sugar.” His body leans closer, the movement almost imperceptible.
“Yeah, it’s uhm, it’s warm, today” I stutter through my sentence, not daring to move. He chuckles, his voice rough, as he moves his hand and leans back against the couch. It takes everything in me to not grab his hand and bring it back to me.
“How’s the car?” I ask, trying to cut through the silence that rested between us now.
“Your brake belt is replaced. Just waiting on the engine to arrive tomorrow, or day after, can’t remember. Then I’ll change it for ya, should take maybe a day or two.”
“You sound like you know what you’re doing.”
“I have to know what I’m doing, sugar, otherwise I’d be a lousy mechanic don’t you think?”
“Yeah you’re right. Can I come by?”
“You are by.”
I purse my lips, “not your house, Barnes, the garage.”
“Why? Wanna see me all greased and sweaty?” He winks at me, and if I didn’t know better i’d think he was making me blush on purpose.
“No! I’m just curious to see how it all works.”
“Yeah, course you can. I'll let you know when the engine’s here. Not much action for you to see before then.”
I nod, letting quiet grow over us again. I try to keep focused on the telly, but it’s hard when his thigh is resting against mine, and his right arm is thrown over the back of the sofa, playing with a strand of my hair. I can feel his stare on the side of my head, so i turn to face him.
“Is there something on my face?”
“No, I was just thinking,” he takes a breath, turning to me, “I like spending time with you. I don’t really know how we got… here. But I like it.”
“I like it too, Bucky.” My voice now is just louder than a whisper. There’s something quaint about this moment that I don’t dare break. I could see his brain working overtime, and his mouth open and close, sort of like a fish.
“Wouldyouliketogoonadatewithme?”
“Sorry? You’re gonna have to say that slower, please”
“Would you like to go on a date with me? Please?”
I take in the man sitting beside me, his hands in his lap, thumbs twiddling. His face is reddened, but only a little.
“Yeah.”
“Wait what?” He does a double-take at me, eyes wide like he’d expected me to laugh at the thought.
I laughed at him then, “I would like to go on a date with you Bucky.” He nods slowly, like the words are just sinking in.
“How about Monday? I’ll text you the time, come pick you up?”
“Monday it is then.”
Bucky’s phone rings then, he swears lightly as he reaches for it. He says all of three words before hanging up.
“‘M sorry, sugar, I need to go get Becky.”
“Don’t worry about it, I’ll see you on Monday.” I join him in standing up, leaning up on my tiptoes to softly peck his cheek before waving bye, and going home.
This is my first time writing a fic since like 2021, but I haven't been able to get this out of my head for the entire day, so please, enjoy. Likes & reblogs are always appreciated <3
Word Count: At least 20 for sureeeee!
Warnings: There's brief swearing, brief mentions of death and parental abandonment. Reader is referred to as y/n, with she/her pronouns, and has curly hair. Bucky's a dad? I'm pretending I know how cars work + bad grammar (i have a creative writing degree and still can't tell if the full stop goes after a speech mark or before)
masterlist link part two part three part four part five part six
Grease, Part One.
It was one thing to have a car breakdown on you. It was another thing for it to happen at half eleven. In the evening. Outside a garage. That was shut.
“C’mon don’t do this to me, man,” I begged the car as I hit the steering wheel, and tried the engine again to no prevail, “I’m gonna sell you, I swear.”
I looked at the garage my car broke down outside of, eyes narrowing in on the “CLOSED” sign on the door. I could see a faint light inside, and there was a nagging in the back of my head that drove me to knock on the door. It was barely thirty seconds before a greased up man opened the door.
“We’re closed.” He gruffed out, wiping his hands on what looked like a vest.
“I know, and I swear I usually wouldn’t do this but my car just stopped and I don’t really know what’s wrong with it and I’m here, and please?”
“What are you asking me to do exactly?” The man asked, amused.
“Well, realistically what can you do with it right now?”
“I can push it into the garage and ask you to come back in the morning, where I’ll be able to tell you what’s wrong with it.”
“Are you serious?” I looked at him with a level of shock in my eyes that he clearly wasn’t expecting, as he sort of grimaced at me, like he was uncomfortable.
“Nine in the morning.” His tone was stone-cold, so I thanked him again, gave him my car key, got my bag and left, walking home. It didn’t take long to get back to my apartment, twenty minutes, ten if you run because it’s the middle of the night and you’re scared. I was greeted by a series of barks and leg rubs as I walked in, leaning down to pet the giant dog that was at my feet, “Hi Cheryl.”
It didn’t take long to get ready for bed either, I speed-ran feeding the dog, getting changed and brushing my teeth, not really wanting to waste time considering I had work in the morning. As I lied in bed, I couldn’t stop thinking about the man who opened the door.
I didn’t realise I’d fallen asleep until my alarm rang, signalling it was time to get ready for work. I walked into my kitchen to the smell of my coffee machine doing Gods work, and the dog asleep on the floor. I reached over to pet her head as I poured myself a cup, downing it almost instantly. It wasn’t nice when drank all at once, but the energy boost was always welcome. I brushed my teeth, got changed, fed Cheryl, and left for work.
Opening shifts at the coffee shop were always my favourites. Me on my own, and the music I choose, having a slow hour before the day. I opened the cafe, letting the few early-waking elderly come in and order their usual pots of tea and pastries, taking my time with them. The time flew by, as it often does when old ladies are recounting their youth to you, and I left my coworkers on their own to go see a man about a car.
*
The bell above the door gave away my presence as I walked into the garage, the smell of grease and petrol almost knocking me clean out. I scan around the room before I see the brunette from last night, making my way over to him.
“Uh, hi,” I said, awkwardly waiting for him to turn round.
“Oh,” he checked his watch, “right on time.” All I could think to do was nod at him, waiting expectedly.
He cleared his throat before carrying on, “so, the problem is your engine. Can’t tell the main cause, but it seems like it overheated. You also need your brake belt replaced.”
“Right, sure.” The far off look on my face must’ve given away my cluelessness as he carried on.
“I’m gonna replace your engine, because it short-circuited basically. Got too hot and broke which meant your car couldn’t start.”
I opened my mouth to reply before I felt a little hand poking my leg. I jumped a little, entirely focused on the man in front of me to notice the carbon copy of him, just with blonde curly hair, standing at my feet.
“Hi! I’m Becky!” The little voice called out next to me. I crouched down next to her, “Hi Becky, I’m Y/N.” I offered my hand, she didn’t hesitate to take it in hers and give it a shake. “Wow, Becky, gotta say I think that’s the firmest handshake I’ve had in a while. You clearly mean business.” She nods at me, then runs over to the man in front as I stand back up.
“Daddy, she’s got hair like me.” She whispered to him. The man looked up at me, taking in the curls on my head that I hadn’t bothered to try with today. He nods, “Yeah, sugar, she’s got curly hair like you.” She turned back to me, holding out a colouring book, “Do you wanna see my colouring? It’s princesses.”
The man looks at me taken aback, “You can,” he says, “I’ve gotta fill out some paperwork for your car anyway.”
Becky leads me into a little office in the back of the garage, the place covered in scribbly drawings, all signed “Rebecca Barnes” at the bottom. We sit on the floor and she flicks through the book, showing me her favourites.
“Becky, what’s your dads name?” I ask her while she points out a green unicorn.
“Bucky.” She giggles.
“Yo-your dads name is Bucky? And he named you Becky?”
“Technically, I named her Rebecca. And my name is James,” Bucky smiles at his daughter from the doorframe he’s leaning on, “my middle name is Buchanan, so everyone calls me Bucky.”
I snort, “your middle name is Buchanan?”
“Don’t laugh,” he chuckles, “my parents were old fashioned.” I can’t help but let out the laugh building in my chest as I take in the attractive man standing a few feet away from us. Easily six foot, and covered in grease, it made sense he’d have a daughter by now. My thoughts weren’t finished fully forming before Becky runs off to another mechanic.
“She’s sweet,” I say, watching her potter about, “how old is she?”
“Too old,” he looked at her with a soft glimmer in his blue eyes, “she turns six in a couple months.” He turned back to me now, “you know she doesn’t take to strangers often. Usually takes her, like, three interactions with someone to warm up to them.”
There’s something warm blooming in me at the thought of this girl taking kindly to me and it makes me smile. “I used to work at a kindergarten, maybe that’s why.” He chuckles, a deep sound, raspy, “yeah maybe she can smell the teacher-vibe.”
He walks around me, going to sit at the desk, grabbing a form and quickly scribbling on it before standing in front of me again. “So, technically this was just a consultation, ‘cuz I didn’t do any actual work on it so I’m not charging you for this,” he thrusts the form toward me, “I do need you to fill this out though so I can start on it today. It’s just basics, phone number, email, all that.”
I nod at him, my face scrunching up at the price written at the bottom of the paper, and I don’t get a chance to voice myself before he interrupts.
“It’s steep, I know. But we need to buy you a whole new engine.”
“No I get it, it’s just, you know, it doesn’t make it any less scary.” I lean forward on the desk, filling out the rest of the form, handing him the paper.
“It should be around a week, but I’ll keep you updated as I go.”
“Thanks,” I say, looking him in the eyes “Not just for this but for taking it in last night, I think you literally saved my life.”
He chuckles again, “I don’t know if I’d go that far.” A faint blush creeps up on his cheeks.
“I would Bucky, seriously. I think a lot of people would’ve just told me to fuck off and come back in the morning, so, thank you,” I turn around to start leaving, “you should come by Cafe Cloud sometime, have a coffee on me, you know, if you want.”
I don’t give him a chance to reply, waving bye to Becky and walking back to work.
*
Getting settled back into work was nothing short of horrid. Two machines broken, the register jammed, and the staff bathroom in disarray. The next seven hours sped by, but not in the good way, in the way that left your head pounding and your feet burning. We were open still, but by now the crowds had gone, and the only people left were students who had their faces buried in laptops. The little bell above the drew my attention, as I watched Bucky walk up to the counter.
“Hey,” he said, voice rough, “I’m taking you up on that coffee if it still stands.”
“Course it does, what would you like?”
“Filter’s fine, thanks.”
I nod, “take a seat I’ll bring it out to you.”
It doesn’t take long for the filter to brew, and while it does I bring Bucky his cup and saucer, setting it down. While I grab the carafe, I grab him a blueberry muffin too. Filling up his coffee, I set the muffin down in front of him.
“Oh I didn’t-”
“I know, but it’s end of day. It’s either give them away or throw them out. They’ll be getting some too,” I nod around to the other 3 people left in the cafe. “Shout if you want more.”
“Actually, I uh,” he starts, looking pained at the fact he’s speaking “I wondered if you wanted to sit with me, if you’re not busy or anything.”
“Sure, just give me a second.” I turn around and walk back behind the counter, pouring myself a cup and making sure my co-worker was okay on her own, before sitting down with Bucky.
“I just, I don’t know, what I’m doing here actually.”
I raise my eyebrows at him, laughing at his facial expression, looking like he’d rather be anywhere but here.
“I wasn’t going to come, but then I thought, Becky’s at a friends for dinner, and I don’t really wanna sit at home on my own, so I’m here now and I’m blabbing your ear off.” He laughs a little at himself, taking a sip of his coffee, “Shit this is good, what the hell?”
I laugh at the change in his attitude as I watch him take another sip, “On your own? Becky’s mum not home?”
His face contorts into something unreadable while he splits the muffin in half, pushing one half to me, keeping the other for himself. “Ah no, she uhm, she’s not really around, anymore. Not for a while now.”
My face scrunches up at his revelation, “Damn, I’m sorry. Is she still with us?”
Bucky chokes on his coffee, “Yeah, yeah she’s still kickin’ somewhere. She just,” he shrugs, wiping at his mouth with a napkin, “decided she didn’t want anything to do with us so she left.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“That must’ve been awful, I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head, “Honestly she’s been gone for longer than she was around. It feels a little like it’s always just been me and Becky against everything else.” His face lights up a little at the mention of his daughter, the corners of his mouth lifting into a smile. “I don’t think she really remembers her mum anyway, or at least she’s real good at pretending she doesn’t.”
“How long has it been just you two?”
“About four years.”
I think for a second, “If Becky does remember her mum then it’s probably very little anyway. Don’t think kids really start having conscious thoughts until they’re about two. You tried asking her?”
He shakes his head no, and finishes off picking at his half of the muffin, “I keep meaning to, I just, I don’t want to make her sad, make her feel like she’s missing out on what other kids have, you know?” He looked at me then, his stormy-blue eyes looking mine.
“I don’t think you’d make her sad, as long as you were careful about the reason why her mum left. As for the missing out, she’s going to feel like that anyway,” I hold my hands out in front of me at the horrified look on his face, “Maybe not now, and hell maybe I’m incredibly wrong and she’ll never feel like that, but when I was a teenager and I didn’t have my mum around, I was so jealous of my friends it was ridiculous.”
“Your ma leave you too?”
“Not voluntarily. She passed when I was about ten. So when I was a little older and discovering literally everything, it made me angry at the world, ‘cuz why did everyone else get a mum that lived but me? You know?”
“I’m sorry, Y/N. I lost my parents too, a while ago. It’s not easy.”
I shake my head, “no it’s not, but my point is it’s probably going to happen to Becky too. I just wonder if it would be any consolation to her if you talked about her mum more. But again, it’s not really my place to say, so please, ignore me.”
By now the last of the customers had gone, and it was just me, Bucky and my coworker Morgan left in the place. Bucky and I had spent the last two hours talking about nothing, and I ended the day feeling like I’d made a new friend, even if he was almost twenty years older than me. He sat and watched as Morgan and I closed, laughing here and there at our music choices and berating us when we got distracted.
“Alright, I’m ready to go,” I say to Bucky, my work apron now off, bag on my shoulder.
He opens the door for me, letting me out first.
“So, I’m up a couple blocks that way,” I point up the road. “It was nice to see you again, and please, come by anytime.” I start to walk off but I don’t get very far before a strong hand wraps around my arm, stopping me in my tracks.
“What are you doing?” He asks, his eyebrows furrowed.
“Going home?”
“You’re walking?”
“Well my car is under your care so unless you’d like me to somersault home.”
“I’ll drive you.”
Bucky doesn’t give me time to respond, placing one arm softly on my back, barely perceptible, as he guides me across the street to his jeep. He opens the passenger door, and gives me his hand as he helps me in, shutting the door and walking round to his side. I give him the address, and we drive off, but not before he grumbles about the part of town I’ve chosen to live in.
It takes us all of three minutes to drive back to my apartment.
“Do you wanna come up, for a glass of water or anything?”
“Yeah. That’d be nice.”
He opens my car door, letting me step out and walk us over to the building. I lead him up the stairs and down the hall to my door. I wince as I realise I’d forgotten about the St Bernard currently waiting for me.
“Any chance you’re scared of dogs?”
“Not at all. Why?”
I smile as sweetly as I can, opening the door and walking in to meet Cheryl, the dog currently jumping up and down at the sight of her owner. I pet her, holding her by the collar as Bucky shuts the door.
“Bucky, meet Cheryl. Cheryl,” I kneel down, scratching behind her ears, “You be the good girl I know you are, this is Bucky, he’s no danger.”
Cheryl tentatively walks to Bucky, who’s holding his hand out for her to sniff and get used to. She sniffs for a few seconds, before flopping down onto her back, inviting Bucky to rub her belly. I laugh at her, but the sight of Cheryl getting along with Bucky makes my chest feel oddly warm. I go to pour him a glass of water and leave it on the kitchen island.
“Hey sweet girl,” he talks to Cheryl, “You’re gorgeous aren’t you?” Cheryl barks playfully,
“Yeah you are, attagirl.” He pets her head again before standing up and walking back over to me, taking a sip of the water.
“Cheryl?”
There’s a sheepish smile on my face as I say, “I used to love Cheryl Cole. It felt right.”
He laughs then, the lines by his eyes evident when he does. He puts the glass of water down as he walks around the apartment, taking it in, the dog trailing behind him, tail wagging furiously.
It isn’t fancy, by any means. The kitchen and living room were right there when you walked in, and there was one bedroom and one bathroom. But after a few coats of a warm yellow paint, a few days of bookshelf building, and hours of various trinket organising, it had become home.
Bucky stood by a shelf of records, taking his time looking through them. “Radiohead?” he scoffs playfully, rolling his eyes, “Let me guess, you’re a creep? A weirdo even?”
I can’t help but laugh at him, walking over to stand by his side. I take the vinyl out of his hands and put it back on the shelf, “leave me alone, I think they’re good. There are literal millions of people who agree with me.”
He turns to face me, arms crossed over his chest. “There are also millions of people doing crystal meth. That doesn’t make it good.” He laughs at my reaction then, tipping his head back and placing his hand on his stomach.
When he finally composes himself, his gaze settles on my face. I physically watch his eyes as they take in all my features, from my hair to my eyes, to my nose, my lips. His gaze doesn’t drop any further, but it takes a while for him to look back into my eyes and when he does, his own have grown darker.
“I should go,” he says, clearing his throat. “It’s getting late and I still need to pick up Becky so,” his voice trails off as he walks to the door.
He opens it, then turns around, “thank you for tonight, I needed that.”
I offer him a smile as he leaves, and I move to lock my door. Cheryl runs up to me, panting and her tail wagging. I kneel down to give her a kiss, whispering to her “I think I may have just met your dad.”
Summary: TJ’s ex boyfriend leaked evidence that some Stark technology assets are being sold off the book to shady buyers and corrupt security firms, and before he could make it public, he disappears. TJ was listed as an emergency contact, and even though they’ve been separated for a while, now someone’s poking into his life. The Hammond family moved their contacts to get Captain America’s help. While Sam’s off to investigate the case and track down whoever’s behind it, he leaves TJ under Bucky’s watch for safety.
Notes: This is the first fic I'm working on, so wanted to test the waters posting this excerpt, and see if people would be interested in it as I continue writing it. As a side note, the initial part (which is not part of this teaser) gave me some TJxSam feels, so I might work on something for them later on. Comments, feedback are appreciated.
─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────
The gravel cracked under the weight of the SUV tires as it rolled to a slow stop in front of the cabin. TJ sighed deeply at the sight. No cellphone, no internet, and if he was lucky enough to have a TV in there, it probably would be an analog from the 80s. This was going to be torture.
“You know,” he broke the silence as he unbuckled the belt, “this is exactly the perfect place for a horror movie setting.”
Sam huffed, unbuckling. “Don’t be dramatic. It's temporary. A few days, tops.” If they were lucky enough to catch the trail. Though he wasn’t going to say that to TJ.
“And then what?” TJ shot back.
“You get your life back. Assuming you don’t blow your cover trying to order Thai off a burner phone.”
TJ rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. He knew the risks.
“Make yourself at home while I get your stuff from the trunk.”
The moment TJ entered the cabin, he could tell it had been abandoned for years. Yes, they had made sure to add some furniture to make it livable, but it all looked and smelled old, the wooden floor cracking with every step he took.
By the window, Bucky Barnes was inspecting the latch, making sure it was secure. He didn’t turn around. “You’re early,” he said, voice flat.
“So you’re the babysitter,” TJ shot back.
“And you’re the reason I’m gonna miss silence,” Bucky replied, finally facing him. There was no overt hostility in his tone, just a dry edge that said don’t test me.
He had read TJ’s file. Not just the former first son’s scandals that made it to the headlines, but the real one —the Secret Service assessments and reports. Enough to know the kid wasn’t dangerous, but he was impulsive, sharp mouthed, and entirely too used to playing at the limit. If Bucky wanted to keep him breathing, he was going to have to stay three steps ahead.
“Charmed already,” TJ muttered.
“So… guess you two have already been introduced,” Sam interjected, dropping TJ’s duffel in the hallway. He had barely eavesdropped on some of their conversation, so he was glad to step in. “Gotta get goin’ now, but Buck will show you the place. I’m sure you’re gonna play nice.” He shot a quick glance at Bucky, then flicked his gaze toward TJ. “Both of you. You’re in good hands, TJ.”
Bucky shut the blinds. “Rules are simple. Don’t open the door. Don’t go outside.”
“Don’t breathe, don’t blink,” TJ muttered in a mocking tone, not quite imitating the other’s voice, but clearly not subtle. “Do I get to pick the bed at least?”
Pairing: Professor!Bucky Barnes x GN!Teachers Aid Reader
Summary: In the quiet of the night , a teacher and his assistant find themselves tangled in a web of soft confessions and lingering glances, finally crossing the line they’d been dancing around for months.
Word Count: 3.4k+
Warnings: power roles dynamic , drinking , kissing when tipsy , makeout ish? , fluffy and lingering and tension and fluff!!
If i missed anything let me know
A/N: haiii omg saw these new seb pics and ran to write this so enjoyy hehehehe
read my bucky series here! MY MASTERLIST requests open!
The office was silent except for the low hum of the fans overhead and the faint delicate tapping of your fingers against the keys on your laptops keyboard.
Outside though , it was a different world , the city was still alive and bright as the sun set low past the horizon line.
Lights in distant windows flickering like fireflies dancing across the sleek glass and steel buildings.
The air was warm but slowly cooling where you were currently perched inside the old college building , it filled with the faint scent of dark fresh coffee and the dusty paper smell of old worn books.
You shifted slightly in your chair , your legs falling asleep from your same position hours on end.
Your eyes scan the messy sprawl of papers and essays in front of you. Diagrams half-sketched in the lined margins , paragraphs marked up in red and blue ink.
You’d spent the entire afternoon and most of the evening now hunched over this desk with Professor Barnes , you were his teacher aid this last year but somehow it never felt like work when you were with him.
He was seated beside you , one elbow propped on the desk holding up his head upright , shining was his silver cartier wrist watch as it gleamed on his arm , his face close enough that you could feel the gentle rise and fall of his breath.
His ivory shirt sleeves were rolled up , his red suit jacket draped over the back of his chair , and the soft lamplight cast warm shadows across his forearms , the veins there standing out as they ran up to his hands.
“This part here ,” he murmured , his voice low and rumbling against your head , “It’s good , but I think you could tighten the argument a bit. It rambles off a bit , see?”
You laughed softly , shaking your head , tapping the page with your black pen. “Coming from the man who wrote an entire paragraph just now in what can only be described as chicken scratch?”
He gave you a look , amused, exasperated. “It’s an art form sweetheart ,” he said, mouth twitching at the corners. “You just don’t have the refined eye for it.”
You leaned in to his voice , your head tilted slightly , your hair brushing your cheek as you smiled up at him. “I’m pretty sure I’ve spent half my time as your TA just trying to decipher your notes. You might as well write in ancient Greek , your poor students.”
“Better than chewing the tip of your pen until it looks like a dog’s chew toy,” he shot back , flicking his gaze and a pointer finger to the pen you were twirling absently in your fingers , the end bent and marked with your teeth.
Your lips parted , heat rising to your face dusting your cheeks pink with his observation. “It helps me think,” you said defensively , though your heart was thudding a little harder at the way his eyes darkened as they lingered on your mouth.
“Hmm,” he hummed softly, and there was a flicker of something in his eyes. “I suppose I can forgive that. If it means you’re focused on the work and edit that page.”
You let out a shaky breath , your pulse skittering. The way he said it ,like the work was only part of it , like there was something else he was focused on.
The space between you seemed to crackle , every small touch magnified. When you leaned forward to hand him the next stack of notes he asked for , your fingers brushed, and you felt it like a jolt—sharp and sweet, making your stomach flip.
It was always like this with you two , ever since your very first day. This dance of touches , jokes and lingering moments that made you both question what was the intent behind it , only for reality to come knocking and remind you of both your roles. Teacher and his aid.
Hours slipped by quicker than you would have liked , passing by in that golden pool of desktop lamplight.
The clock on the wall ticked steadily , but you ignored it. Time always seemed to blur when you were with him. You hated it.
Every so often as you both did your own thing next to each other , he would lean close to check a line you’d highlighted for him , his shoulder pressing right against the back of yours.
You could feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of your black blouse , every brush of his arm sending goosebumps down your skin and your heart rate rattling against your ribs..
He reached across you to grab a textbook from the nearby bookshelf. His hand grazed your cheek , and your breath caught , audible enough for him to hear.
He paused, his eyes flicking down to you catching the movement and sound that slipped past your lips.
“Sorry,” he whispered , his voice lower now , more intimate. “Didn’t mean to…”
“It’s fine,” you said quickly , too quickly cutting him off. Your fingers tightened on your pen almost snapping it , your pulse loud in your ears. “Really , its okay.” You said again more for yourself then him.
He held your gaze for a long , silent moment sweeping over your face. In the soft light , his blue eyes looked almost glowing , like he was seeing straight through you.
Then he nodded , sitting back down with the book , but he didn’t move away. If anything, he seemed to draw closer to your side.
“You know,” he said, his voice light and teasing but with a rough edge to it, “I’m not sure I’ve ever met anyone who can make footnotes sound this… compelling.”
You laughed , ducking your head down to the writing you were hastily scribbling down. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Good ,” he said , his lips twitching. “Because it is.”
Your stomach fluttered.
You’d always had an easy rapport with him , jokes and teasing as natural as breathing.
But God , tonight , it felt different—like every laugh , every playful jab was balanced on the edge of something sharper and more deep.
Every time your arms brushed again or your knees touched under the table , it was like a live wire crackling between you.
You were hyper-aware now of every small and big movement he made: the way his jaw tightened when he read what you wrote intently, the way his tongue darted out to wet his lips when he was deep in thought, brows furrowed. And he was watching you, too with the same closeness , you could feel it in the way his gaze would linger just a fraction too long on your mouth , the way his fingers would tap restlessly on the table after like he was holding back something.
He was. Desperately.
It was well past midnight when you finally leaned back in your chair , letting out a quiet sigh slinging your arms over your eyes.
“I um , I should probably tell you something,” you yawned trough your sentence , voice a little unsteady.
He looked up , eyebrows raised. “And what’s that?”
You hesitated , fingers twisting together in your lap. “Next semester after summer… I won’t be your assistant anymore.”
He went still , the only sound the distant wail of a siren passing by outside.
“Oh?” he replied softly, almost questioning.
“Yeah Mr. Wash called me before class ended tonight and he said I’m getting my own classroom next year , White's old room.”
You stammered out , trying to smile. “Right down the hall. They offered me the course I proposed last spring. So… I’m not going to be your TA anymore.”
For a moment , he didn’t speak. His jaw tightened , and he nodded slowly, calculated , like he was trying to process the words and their meaning. “That’s… incredible Y/N ,” he said at last. “You deserve it.”
You swallowed, watching him carefully. “I’m excited. It’s what I’ve been working for.” You forced a smile. “But… I’m going to miss this. You.”
His eyes searched for yours , something flickering behind the careful professionalism. You didn't say you would miss working with him but just him , altogether.
“I’ll miss it , too,” he said quietly , his voice low but rough.
The room felt smaller after the ball dropped , the air thicker and more tense.
You could feel your pulse beating in your throat , your chest tight with everything you weren’t saying. He was so close , close enough that you could see the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes , the greys in his beard , the way his lips parted like he was about to speak up but ended up just closing.
After the clock struck 1:00am you both pried yourself from the work and bid a quick goodnight.
He had a hard time sleeping that night , you were leaving him , his days would be empty without you and your smiles , jokes help. You slowly turned into his lifeline , his comfort and it was more than a coworker or helper.
That next morning on Saturday he texted you an invitation.
Mr. Barnes: Dinner at my place tonight ? A small celebration for your new path.
Nothing fancy :) hows 7pm?
You checked your phone as it buzzed ,but after reading the invite you hesitated only a moment before your feelings took control and replying
You: I’d love that.
He smiled at your response and sent his address then asked you if what he had planned to make was okay with you. You replied with a thumbs up and smiley face and his heart raced.
You were coming to his place , just you two. Finally.
When you arrived at his apartment that evening , your stomach was a mess of nerves and excitement. He answered the door with a smile , wearing a soft , aged button-down with the sleeves rolled up high.
You stepped inside with a smile , the scent of something rich and savory filling the air.
He poured you a glass of red wine after asking if you would like some. You sat down , your handbag and sat at his bar counter looking around the nice home.
His fingers brushed yours as he handed it over by the delicate stem. “To new beginnings,” he murmured , his voice warm and a little husky.
“To new beginnings,” you echoed , smiling as you took a sip from the glass , your heart aching at the thought of leaving him.
Dinner was… easy. As was everything when it was just you two.
Roaring laughter over a now empty bottle of red wine , and many teasing comments currently about your mutual caffeine codependency.
But the undercurrent was there lingering , every time his knee bumped yours under the dinner table , every time his hand brushed your wrist as he reached for his fork , your breath caught hard in your chest.
When the plates were cleared , you ended up in the kitchen , standing close by the counter as he cleaned them with precision. You had offered to but he insisted.
You asked where the bathroom was and he pointed to the hall. “First door on the left , and I don't mind you looking around if you want” He gave you a quick wink turning back to the sink , the rational part of your mind knew you had to have made the wink up in your tipsy mind.
You shook off the new feeling bubbling in your stomach and padded to the restroom.
When walking back after taking a quick look around you saw , he had a study , a large bedroom and another guest bedroom that was bigger than yours at home.
You sauntered back into the living area and kitchen , the world outside the window bathed in blue moonlight.
He reached for your empty glass after you took your final sip , and his hand lingered on yours both holding the glass.
Neither of you moved away. Not this time.
“I’m really going to miss working with you,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper of the wine in your system having helped fuel the confession.
He swallowed hard , his thumb brushing over the back of your hand as he sat the glass down with his other , then bring it back to hold both your hands in his.
“You know…” he began , his voice quiet , “I don’t… I don’t want to let you go just yet, maybe even ever.”
Your breath hitched. “What do you mean?”
He took a step closer , his chest brushing yours , his eyes dark and intense.
“I mean,” he said, his voice rough, “that I’ve been trying to be professional. Trying to respect the lines. But… I can’t, not anymore. Not if you’re leaving me.”
You felt like the world had narrowed to just the little to no space between you. “You drive me crazy,” he said, his voice low, ragged. “The way you look at me. The way you smile. The way you… chew on your pen when you’re thinking.” Letting out a breathy laugh at bringing little habit up yet again.
Your lips parted slightly , heart way past beating fast it was thudding so hard you could barely breathe.
“I’ve wanted you , too,” you whispered , your fingers dropping from his hands and dragging up his chest curling into the front of his shirt. “For so long.”
He let out a shaky breath, his forehead resting against yours. “God,” he murmured, “you have no idea how much I’ve….”
Then you looked up , his eyes flashed to your lips then back to your big eyes , you nodded and that was all it took , that permission he craved.
His lips were on yours in an instant , and it was like something inside both of you snapped.
The kiss was hot and desperate , months and months of tension pouring out all at once it was almost too overwhelming. His hands cupped your face , fingers tangling in your hair as he tilted your head back , deepening the kiss with more and more want.
Your hands fisted in his shirt tighter , pulling him closer , wanting more—needing more.
He kissed you like he’d been starved for it , his lips moving over yours with a hunger that made your knees go weak and buckle.
You gasped when he nipped at your lower lip , and he swallowed the sound happily, his hands sliding down to grip your waist , lifting you so you were perched on the edge of the counter.
“God,” he breathed against your lips , his voice rough and unsteady. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”
“Tell me,” you said , your hands raking in his hair, your breath coming in shallow gasps.
He pressed his forehead to yours , breathing ragged. “Every time you laughed at one of my stupid jokes. Every time you looked at me like you saw me—not just the professor you were paid to work by. I tried to fight it. I tried so… hard.”
You kissed him again , soft and sweet this time , your fingers threading through the soft brown brown hair at the nape of his neck. “I wanted you , too , want you too,” you whispered.
“All those nights in the office… every time you touched me, I wanted more than just wishing you a goodnight James.”
He let out a low groan at the name , you finally not calling him by his last name or formality , kissing your jaw , his hands sliding up under your shirt to touch the warm skin of your back. “You drive me crazy,” he murmured against your mouth. “You know that?”
“Yeah,” you smile against his lips. “You do to me too, don't worry.”
Breathless , you finally pulled back from his lips , both of you flushed and panting slightly. Your hands were still tangled in his hair , his fists in the fabric of your shirt.
The air between you was thick with heat and the weight of everything you’d been holding back and now poured all out.
“Now what?” you whispered , your voice soft and almost shy as you looked up at him. Your lips were still tingling, from his kisses.
He let out a soft laugh, as he leaned in and kissed your temple. “Now…” he said, his voice low and earnest, “now I want to take you out on a date. A real date. No more lines. No more pretending we’re just colleagues.”
You felt your heart stutter, your breath catching in your throat. “You want that?”
He cupped your face , his thumb pad brushing over your cheekbones. “I do,” he said, his voice sure. “If you do. I want you to be mine. Actually mine. Not just late-night conversations and shared coffee cups. I want to know what your mornings look like. Your afternoons.Your nights. I want it all.”
Your chest felt like it might burst. You leaned into his touch , your fingers tracing his scruffy jaw. “I want that,” you said, your voice trembling with relief
“I want to be yours.”
The storm outside had started as a low rumble breaking your shared silence, but now rain was tapping insistently at the windowpanes , the wind howling softly through the gaps. He glanced toward the window, then back at you. “Looks like the weather’s not letting up anytime soon,” he said, his thumb still stroking your soft skin.
You followed his gaze, feeling the cozy hush of the storm seep into your bones. “No,” you agreed softly. “It’s not.”
He paused, his hand slipping down to rest at your waist. “You don’t have to go,” he said, his voice careful, like he didn’t want to push. “You can stay. If you want.”
You didn’t even have to think about it. “I’d like that,” you said, nodding , your words quiet but sure.
A slow smile spread across his face, relief and joy mingling in his eyes. “Good,” he murmured, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. “Because I don’t think I’m ready to let you go just yet.”
He fetched a soft blue fleece blanket and you both settled onto the brown couch , the soft flicker of candlelight filling the room as the power flickered once or twice in the storm.
The couch was more than big enough for the two of you to stretch out, and when he pulled you into his arms, it felt like every jagged piece of you finally fell into place.
You tucked your head under his chin, his steady heartbeat under your cheek. His hand traced lazy circles on your back, his breath soft fanning in your hair.
Every time you shifted , you could feel the familiar comforting heat of his body, the gentle press of his lips against your forehead or the curve of your shoulder.
“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured into the quiet, his voice rough with honesty. “You have no idea.”
“I think I do,” you whispered back, your hand resting over his heart. “Because I’ve wanted it, too, just as much.”
He pulled back just enough to look down at you, his eyes soft and warm. “Mine,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “Finally.”
“Finally,” you echoed, and he kissed you again , slow and soft a promise rather than a plea.
You must have drifted off at some point before him , the warmth of his arms and the steady drum of rain lulling you right to sleep.
When you woke , the storm had passed , leaving the world washed clean and bright. Pale yellow , morning light filtered through the curtains, turning the room soft and golden.
You shifted on the couch, the blanket still wrapped snug around you , and realized he wasn’t there. Panic flared for a brief moment , had it all been a dream? But then you saw the worn folded piece of paper propped up against the pillow beside you.
You reached for it , unfolding it.
In that endearing handwriting of his he wrote out:
“hey honey , ran out to grab us some breakfast. Couldn’t have you without something sweet to wake up to. Don’t move. I’ll be back soon—don’t want my doll waiting too long.
-Yours , jbb
Your heart stuttered as you read it, your lips curving into a sleepy, half smile.
My Doll.
It echoed in your head, a warm ache spreading in your chest. You traced the careful scrawl of his handwriting—so much neater here than in the margins of your lecture notes.
You sank back against the couch , pulling the blanket tighter around you , and let yourself close your eyes again.
For the first time , you didn’t feel like you were waiting for something to happen between you two , for a line to be crossed.
You’d crossed it last night , together.
And when he walked back through the door with coffee and pastries and that lopsided smile , you knew you were exactly where you were meant to be.
-end
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masterlist | series masterlist | previous part | next part
word count: 3.2k
summary: You break into Bucky’s apartment to retrieve your cat and uncover your trauma file on his kitchen counter. An undercover mission ensues.
TW: Trafficking (past, referenced), sexual assault (implied)
The last couple days, things have been weird between you and Barnes.
He’s been keeping a closer eye on you and you pretend not to notice. Quieter, too, and he’s been avoiding looking you in the eyes. It’s been weird, but you don’t address it, sure that he’ll bring up whatever it is that’s bothering him eventually.
Your main concern right now is tracking down Alpine. You’re crouched in your doorway, peering down both ends of the hall, calling her name softly under your breath.
“Alpine, c’mon, you little war criminal. I fed you today. Don’t do this.”
Mr. Keller steps out of his apartment and eyes you warily.
“That cat’s a spy,” he says.
You don’t miss a beat. “Yeah, probably Russian. She’s got that dead-eyed stare.”
Maybe she learned it from her father.
“Microchipped agents, the lot of them,” Mr. Keller continues. “That’s how they’re watching us now. Through those furballs.”
“I believe it. I caught her listening to my therapy podcasts yesterday.”
“And she’s got diplomatic immunity, y’know. They all do.”
And with that, he shuffles down the hall muttering under his breath about how you can’t arrest a cat, no matter what you see.
You sigh. She’s not in the vents. That leaves… Barnes.
You glance toward 3B. The door is shut. It’s been like that the last two days, which is unusual, but you don’t question him about it. Maybe he needs a break from you.
Suddenly a crash. Something heavy. Alpine’s distressed yowl.
You’re at his door in seconds. You knock. Nothing. You knock again. Silence. You try the handle. Locked.
You frown and crouch down, pulling a bobby pin from your sleeve like a conjuring trick.
“This is still technically neighborly concern,” you rationalize.
A click. You push the door open.
“If you’ve hurt her, I swear to God–” You stop.
Alpine is perched on the fridge. She meows sweetly like she didn’t just stage a hostage situation. Sam is sitting at the kitchen counter with a spring roll in one hand and chopsticks in the other, his mouth slightly agape at the sight of you. Bucky sits at his table frozen like a raccoon rifling through confidential trauma.
“Oh good,” you say, “a party.”
Bucky stares at you incredulously. “You picked my lock?”
A wide grin takes over Sam’s face. “So this is the famous neighbor?”
“Famous?” Your eyes narrow.
“You came up in therapy, apparently,” Sam tells you.
“Sam–” Bucky starts.
“Barnes, are you emotionally processing me behind my back?” You ask.
“With guidance!” Sam cuts in.
Bucky, again, more firmly this time, “Sam.”
You ignore the two of them and turn to Alpine on the fridge.
“You’ve got one job, and it’s not espionage. Get off the fridge.”
She does not.
“You always pick locks with that much flair?” Sam asks.
“Only when I’m rescuing a stolen cat or defusing emotional bombs.”
“You’ve got good instincts. He’s been brooding since Tuesday.”
“Oh, I know. He left me groceries and wouldn’t make eye contact for 48 hours.”
Sam says quietly to Bucky, “She’s cute.”
You hear it.
“You flirting with me or trying to make him jealous?”
Bucky shifts in his seat. “I should’ve tried harder to keep you two from meeting.”
Sam ignores him. “How long you and Barnes been exchanging sad eyes and groceries?”
“Not long,” you reply, “he still pretends it’s not happening.”
“Why do I hang out with either of you?” Bucky is talking to himself at this point.
You turn to face him and notice that Bucky’s still not looking at you. You follow his line of sight.
On the counter, a file marked ASSET: STARLING – RECOVERED PROPERTY.
Your photo. Grainy. Labeled. Stamped.
The smile drops from your face and when you speak again your voice is much lower.
“What the hell is that.”
The room falls silent.
Sam’s face tightens, he knows he should’ve said something.
Bucky’s voice is quiet and cautious. “It’s… not what it looks like.”
You step closer to the file.
“It looks like my trauma. On paper. In your kitchen.”
Sam gathers his phone and takeout and walks to the door.
“I’ll give you two a minute, but I’ll be downstairs if either of you self-destruct.”
He’s gone and you continue.
“So you’ve been collecting my file like a baseball card?” There’s venom in your voice.
“It wasn’t like that.”
“My face is on your counter!” Your voice raises, but his volume doesn’t rise to match it.
“You’re part of the op. I needed to know.”
“Was I part of it before I made you pasta, Barnes?” You let out a humorless laugh. “When were you going to tell me? Or were you just going to pretend I was some footnote?”
And then you catch the name on another file. And the same one on another. Every file in the kitchen has one name in common: Lucien Virell. You freeze.
Bucky sees the subtle expression change and his voice softens.
“You know him?”
A long pause of silence. When you speak again, it’s barely above a whisper.
“He’s the one who put me in the cage.”
Something flashes across Bucky’s face… pain, anger maybe.
“You should have told me.”
“So you could add it to your casefile?” You bite out, voluming rising again.
“I was trying to protect you. You shouldn’t have to relive this.”
“You don’t get to decide that for me!”
“You don’t understand–”
“I understand perfectly. I know what they take. I know what they break.”
The volume escalates. You both say too much. Not enough. Everything in between.
A pounding on the wall and Mr. Keller’s muffled voice.
“Some of us are trying to rot in peace!”
You and Bucky settle into silence, the tension failing to dissipate between the two of you. Eventually Sam re-enters, less smug, now carrying himself with the seriousness of a soldier.
“I got the call. It’s official. Virell’s running a new op in Queens. We need to move soon.”
“Then I’m going,” you say flatly.
“No.” Bucky says firmly. “You’re not a part of this.”
“I was. And I still am.”
“You don’t have to prove–”
“This isn’t about proving anything. I know how they think. I used to be one of their trophies.”
Silence settles into the air as Bucky and Sam take in what you’re telling them. You continue.
“Let me finish what they started.”
Sam nods. Doesn’t argue.
Bucky says nothing. He’s angry, maybe not at you. But he knows you’re already going, and there’s no changing your mind.
Alpine jumps down from the fridge and you pick her up like a shield. You leave the apartment and don’t look back.
The file still lies on the counter. Unclosed. Unforgotten.
-
Your bare feet slip against something you hope is water. It isn’t.
The hallway hums with fluorescent light and silence. Forced silence. You can still hear it.
The lock on the door was old and simple. You had watched him punch in the code too many times to forget. You don’t have a plan, just a sharp piece of wire you’d hidden in your waistband and a window where no one was looking.
Your heart beats violently against your rib cage. Not brave – just done. Done waiting. Done praying. Done surviving on scraps of hope and someone else’s idea of when you deserved air.
You don’t look at any of the girls in The Menagerie. They don't lift their heads. Not anymore. Except one.
She was new. Young. Reminded you of yourself several years ago. She had whispered her name to you in the dark. You whispered yours back. You promised you’d take her with you.
But the alarms sounded too soon.
The hallway door slam shut, and you scream. You had blood caked under your nails for days after clawing at the door trying to get back to her.
You don’t know how long you run after that, but eventually your feet hit the cold pavement. A hand grabs you as you fall. Not to help. To return you.
You scream, stabbing them with something sharp.
When you wake up, you’re still screaming.
It takes you a moment to calm down. To remember that it was over. Just a nightmare. A memory.
-
Bucky hates the plan, but Sam signs off, knowing you’re the only one who can pass unnoticed. The only one they’d want to collect.
Things between you and Bucky have been tense for days, stretched so tight even the silences feel sharp. He’s leaning against the wall as you get ready, arms crossed, eyes heavy. Brooding. Watching. Waiting for you to change your mind.
“You sure you want to do this?”
It’s not a challenge. He’s giving you an out. He’s holding it out like a parachute. Hoping you’ll take it.
“I’ve done worse,” you say without turning. You mean it.
His jaw clenches. A flicker of guilt in his eyes. His response is quiet.
“You shouldn’t have had to.”
It’s not anger in his voice. It's regret. Like somehow, all of this is his fault.
You don’t respond, stepping into your closet to change. When you reemerge, Bucky’s entire demeanor shifts from quiet dread to active protest. He is ready to call off the entire mission.
“You’re not wearing that.” There’s a low growl in the back of his throat. “We’re not doing this.”
The dress is tight, black, unapologetically revealing – strategic cutouts, a plunging neckline, and thigh-high boots that click against the hardwood like punctuation. He rakes his eyes over your form once more before forcing himself to look away.
“I’m dressing the part,” you say evenly.
“Not like that, you aren’t. This was a bad idea. We’re not doing this,” he’s pacing now, thumb already halfway to his phone, “I’m calling Sam and telling him to find someone else–”
“Bucky.” Your tone is stern enough to snap him out of his spiral. You wait until he meets your eyes.
“I’m doing this. You’re not changing my mind.”
He takes a deep breath. His hand falls away from his pocket.
“Trust me, okay?”
Your voice softens to meet him where he’s at.
“Besides… you’ll be there the whole time in case anything goes wrong, right?”
You’re not sure if you’re trying to reassure him or yourself.
“Right,” he confirms.
-
The club is all shadow and sound. Basslines vibrating through the floor, velvet booths, Flickering lights that don’t show you clearly unless they mean to. It smells like perfume and sweat and cologne trying to hide the rot underneath. Men in expensive suits pretending they aren’t monsters.
You blend in with the club goers here, and you slip into the role like it’s muscle memory. The dress fits you like it was made out of silk. But this time you have comms in your ear and a super soldier at the bar watching you closely.
“Tell me you brought backup and not just your disapproval,” you say casually into your comms.
“Sam’s in the van. Torres has eyes on the back exit. I’m watching your six.”
“Try not to stare. People will talk.”
Silence on comms for a minute and then you hear Bucky once more. Low and tense.
“He’s making his way over to you.”
You don’t need to ask who.
A man slides in beside you. Mid-tier, but arrogant. The kind of man who feeds off power he didn’t earn. He orders you a drink without asking. You sip it like poison, smile like it doesn’t burn. He’s shamelessly flirting with you. You swallow the bile rising in your throat and flirt back. You can feel the heat of Bucky’s stare on your back.
You give him a name that isn’t yours. He gives you one you don’t care to remember. The handler grazes your arm with the back of his knuckles. You don’t flinch. Bucky’s grip tightens around his drink, you swear you can hear him breathing more heavily under the sounds of the pounding base.
His breath reeks of alcohol as he leans in closer to you.
“You have the look,” he says, hand sliding down your back, “Like the old collection. That’s rare now.”
Your stomach drops but you smile anyway.
His hand trails down your back. You grip the lapel of his jacket, running your hands up and down the fabric. That’s when you feel it–the subtle outline of a flash drive in his jacket pocket.
He leans in closer, lips against your ear as he whispers.
“I remember one like you. We called her Starling.”
A pause. He continues, voice lower this time.
“Had the prettiest screams.”
Your body stills and the blood drains from your face. Across the club, a stool scrapes. Somewhere in your periphery you can see Bucky moving from his spot.
“What’s your rate?” The handler murmurs. “Or are you one of those they keep for private buyers?”
You don’t have to respond. He notices something in your face, or maybe the handler has noticed The Winter Soldier closing in and realizes something is off. He pushes you off him roughly and makes a beeline toward the back exit.
He doesn’t get far. Vibranium finger close around the back of his jacket.
“I don’t know who you think you are–”
“I know exactly who you are,” Bucky cuts him off, “and I’ve met worse men. Most of them are dead.”
Sam and Torres show up just in time to pull Bucky off him. He’s quickly arrested and dragged out of the building.
Bucky turns back to go find you but you’ve already made your way to his side. He breathes–maybe for the first time that night. The two of you step out into the alley and he’s quick to examine you.
“Are you okay?”
You nod, exhale.
“Yeah.”
It’s a lie. He knows it.
He feels a pang of guilt. He should’ve tried harder to keep you out of this.
“I’m sor–”
You throw your arms around him, nearly knocking the wind out of him. You’ve run out of armor. He catches you, just barely, and holds on like it’s the only thing anchoring him.
Neither of you say anything. He tugs you tighter to his chest and decides he never wants to let go of you.
When you finally part, he notices it. The black flash drive you grip in your hand.
“What’s that?”
“Insurance.”
He watches you.
“You don’t have to steal anymore.”
You shrug. “Old habits.”
“That doesn’t mean they’re good ones.”
“They kept me alive.”
There’s a certain hardness in your voice. Exhaustion in your eyes. He doesn’t say anything out loud, but you can read his face: you shouldn't have had to learn those habits at all. You shouldn’t have had to survive anything at all.
You press the flash drive into his hand.
“Was all that necessary?” He asks.
You stiffen. Just a little. “You think I wanted to touch him?”
“I think you wanted to hurt him.”
You don’t deny it.
“You shouldn’t have to be bait,” he says quietly.
“And you shouldn’t have been turned into a weapon,” you say sharply, “but here we are.”
The words hang in the air long and heavy. The alley is still. Until, finally:
“This is the only way I know how to burn them down.”
He nods once. He knows the feeling. He hates that you share it.
-
It’s late when you finally get home. The door closes behind you with a finality.
Bucky doesn’t speak. He just locks the deadbolt with a soft click, and you both stand there in silence, holding something tight behind your ribs that neither of you can name yet.
Alpine meows once, trotting into the room, but you don’t even move. You don’t bend down to greet her, just wordlessly unzip your boots and toss them toward the door. Bucky toes off his own boots.
You move toward the couch but you don’t make it that far. Your knees hit the rug and your back slumps against the couch. Your breath catches, trembles, breaks.
And then you start to cry.
Not a single tear, but a broken open sob. It’s not cinematic, it’s ugly and raw. One hand grips the couch like it will keep you tethered to the room. Bucky’s at your side before he can think about it. He doesn’t touch you at first, just there, letting you unravel.
“I–” you choke out. It’s like trying to breathe underwater. “I left her–”
His brow furrows and he leans in. “Hey, I’ve got you, slow down–”
You shake your head violently. “She was just a kid–I told her I’d take her with me. I didn’t. I ran.”
You’re swallowing a sob, hands pulling toward your chest, your ribs, looking for a way to get your heart to stop beating, just for a moment.
“I didn’t look back.”
Bucky reaches for you slowly now, speaking softly.
“Hey, hey–look at me.”
You meet his eyes. Barely.
“You got out,” he says. “That wasn’t betrayal. That was survival.”
You squeeze your eyes shut and shake your head again.
“If you hadn’t gotten out, I wouldn’t be here. Sam wouldn’t be here,” his voice is low and steady. “That bastard tonight wouldn’t be in cuffs. You survived. That counts.”
Like a wave finally crashing, you collapse forward into his chest. It’s not graceful, like a tree giving out at the roots.
He catches you. Of course he does. You’re crying so hard your whole body shakes. He wraps his arms around you, slowly, tightly, as if putting your pieces back together with his bare hands.
“I hate them,” you say quietly. “For making me like this. Broken.”
“You’re not broken,” he murmurs into your hair.
“Then why do I feel like I don’t even fit in my own skin?”
He doesn’t answer, just holds you tighter. A hand curls at the base of your neck. A vibranium hand, no glove this time. His thumb rubs soft circles into your skin, quieting the storm. He doesn’t try to fix you, just makes sure you don’t fall apart alone.
Eventually, when your sobs begin to dull, he gently helps you to your feet. He doesn’t say much, just guides you to the bathroom, turns on the light, and starts the water for you.
He picks a candle off your shelf labeled Weightless. Sea salt, bergamot, neroli, smoke. Bucky lights it and leaves it on the edge of the sink.
You’re peeling off your dress when he leaves the room, shutting the door behind him without a word. He checks the lock on your front door, refills Alpine’s food, and folds the blanket on your couch.
When he knocks on the bathroom door an hour later, he doesn’t expect a response. He opens it gently to find you dressed in oversized pajamas, hair damp, legs curled up by the side of the tub – like you slid down the wall and just couldn’t pull yourself back up.
You don’t flinch when he lifts you. He carries you like you weigh nothing, arms secure around your back and thighs.
“This is not how I imagined you carrying me to bed, Barnes.”
Your voice is hoarse but there’s a flicker of humor at the edge of it.
Bucky almost smiles. “Another time, Birdie.”
You don’t hear him, already gone. He tucks the blanket around you, cheek pressed into the pillow, breathing soft and slow. Alpine curls up at your side like a guardian.
Bucky stands there for too long. Watching.
Finally, he moves to the couch, exhaustion sinking into his bones.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs.
True to his word, he stays. And falls asleep to the soft sound of your breathing.
masterlist | series masterlist | previous part | next part
word count: 2.3k
summary: Alpine causes a turf war, you and Bucky talk around your trauma, Sam figures out everything before Bucky's ready to admit anything.
Alpine has an all-access pass to your apartment and she makes use of it. She scratched her last box of litter into oblivion and knocked over a vase of dead flowers just to assert her dominance. Which has brought you to the 24/7 bodega around the corner at 11 p.m.
The bells chime overhead and you nod at the cashier. You know each other by insomnia.
You turn down the aisle toward the pet supplies and freeze.
Bucky is standing in front of the exact same brand of litter you came for. There’s one bag left. You both reach for it at the same time.
Hands brush.
Bucky raises an eyebrow and you raise one back.
“I swear to God, Barnes,” you say flatly.
Grudgingly, like you’ve just taken a bullet for him, “you can have it.”
He lets go and you grab it.
“S’not even your cat,” he mutters under his breath.
You shrug. “She likes my playlists.”
He scoffs, but he knows Alpine likes you too much and spends too much time at your apartment to argue with you further on this.
You grab a few more items you don’t need as he trails behind you quietly. And yet he beats you to the register with just a bottle of water and a granola bar. Bucky pulls out a worn leather wallet.
“Just these things, and whatever she’s got,” he nods to you.
“Barnes,” you say in protest.
The cashier gives you both a look that says don’t make me third-wheel this. You don’t protest further, for the cashier’s sake, and make a mental note to buy Bucky’s next bag of litter. Bucky pays and holds the door open for you on the way out.
Outside it’s cold, but not bitter. You both quietly fall into step, neither of you talking for a block. The city hums around you.
“You always do errands this late?” Bucky breaks the silence.
“Only when my cat’s got attitude problems.”
A beat of silence as Bucky decides against correcting you. His cat.
“She knocked over one of my plants this morning,” he says.
You grin, not mentioning the vase she broke in your apartment.
Instead:
“She’s testing your emotional maturity.”
He sighs. “I’m not going to pass that test.”
The two of you step inside your building and you stop to get your mail. He takes the bag of litter from you wordlessly as you fumble for your keys. Doesn’t offer–just does.
Even after you retrieve your mail, he carries the bag of litter upstairs for you, waiting for you to open your door before gently placing it inside. You don’t say thanks. He doesn’t need it.
“Night.”
“Night, Barnes.”
-
You wake up in a cold sweat, only aware that you had let out a scream because of the soft ache in the back of your throat and the sound of Alpine bolting off the sheets and disappearing under your bed.
It takes a moment for you to calm yourself. You take deep breaths. Your eyes adjust to the dark and you take inventory of your room to remind yourself that you’re not there anymore.
You sit upright. Sheets twisted around you. You try to breathe.
You don’t cry.
But you almost do.
Eventually Alpine makes her way back to the top of the bed and curls into your side. You calm down for her sake. Exhaustion hits you like a wave.
The next morning you’ve showered, but that’s about it. Alpine has forgiven you. There’s a soft, intentional knock at the door.
You pick Alpine up into your arms and open the door.
Bucky stands there with a neutral expression. He wears jeans and his leather jacket. In his hand is a paper bag from the bakery two blocks over.
“You alright?”
“Yeah.” You’re not. He knows.
“Okay,” he nods. He doesn’t push.
He hands you the bag and you hand him his cat. He walks off before you can say anything else.
That night you’ve settled into bed a little past 2:00 a.m. You’re actually asleep this time. Then, a sharp, shattering sound. Glass. Not loud enough to wake the building, but enough to jolt you upright. It’s Bucky’s apartment.
You wait.
Silence.
No yelling. No cleanup. Just silence.
You pull yourself to the edge of the bed and tug on a hoodie. You make your way across the hallway. Dim overhead light. You knock at his door, just once, but don’t wait for a response. You know he won’t answer.
From the pocket of your sweatshirt, you pull out one of Soraya’s candles from your stash. You’d been saving this one. The label reads: Grief, Extra Strength. Bergamot, tobacco, and something that smells like endings. You set it gently on the floor by his door and leave without a word.
An hour later your phone buzzes. It’s from him.
Thanks. Don’t read into it.
You don’t reply. But you do light your own candle. The one labeled For When You Can’t Say It Out Loud.
It burns quietly on your windowsill.
-
You’re barefoot in the kitchen, the lighting is low and golden. A sauce is simmering in the pan on the stove and you quietly attend to it.
Bucky’s leaning against the counter, absentmindedly working on a half-solved crossword puzzle from your leftover newspaper. Alpine curls up in the fruit bowl like she pays rent.
Your playlist is on shuffle again. This time, it’s mostly oldies. Sam Cooke, Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holliday. You didn’t mean to load the queue this way, but it happened. And he notices.
“Let me guess,” he doesn’t look up from his crossword, “you’re trying to win me over with my own era.”
You continue working on the task at hand. “No, I just like it when you hum along.”
He pauses, saying nothing. Obviously he wasn’t aware of his subconscious habit. You smirk and continue chopping vegetables with the knife he sharpened last week (who would’ve thought tactical knife oil would have come in handy?).
Bucky watches your hands out of habit, like watching them tells him everything he needs to know. You don’t flinch when Alpine startles the pan. You don’t flinch when Bucky moves behind you to get a glass.
“You’re really gonna cook with no measurements?”
“Some of us operate on vibes, Barnes.”
“Yeah, that’s how grenades work too.”
You pass him a bowl and he takes it wordlessly. It's a routine, a ritual, now. It just is.
The song changes to something slower. Billie Holliday’s I’ll Be Seeing You. Neither of you speaks for a bit. You’re stirring. He’s watching Alpine bat a pen off the counter.
Then you say it. Like an afterthought. Like an accident. Because you can feel him wanting to ask.
“It wasn’t just crime,” you say softly, “it was survival.”
Silence. You hold your breath anxiously. Of course, Bucky Barnes would be the last person to judge you for what you had to do to survive, but you’re still nervous, like at any second he’ll walk out and leave you in the solitude of your apartment with too many portions of food.
Then, quietly:
“You gonna tell me what that means?”
“Nope,” you say, gently closing the door on that conversation.
Then, after a long beat, “...alright, Birdie.”
You don’t have a reaction this time. You glance at him. You meet his eyes. And you don’t correct him. Not this time.
He clocks the lack of protest but doesn’t comment. Just nods slowly like he was waiting for this.
Alpine sneezes violently, breaking the tension.
“She’s allergic to emotional intimacy,” you say.
He laughs. “That makes two of you.”
You flip him off and the two of you settle at your table to eat. Soon enough, the pan is empty and the music’s still going. You’re on the floor now, back against the counter. Bucky’s not far away, and Alpine stretches out between the two of you.
A candle flickers near the sink. This one is called Emotionally Repressed But Trying. Sandalwood, vetiver, and vulnerability.
“Thanks for not asking,” you say quietly.
“Yeah.”
A pause, then: “You gonna tell me why you still wear gloves?”
A smile twitches at the corner of his lips as he repeats your response from earlier.
“Nope.”
-
Sam arrives with takeout from a Thai restaurant and a six-pack, shouldering into the apartment like he owns it.
“Do you know how to knock?” Bucky says.
“Do you know how to close your front door?” Sam retorts.
Bucky doesn’t admit to Sam that these days he keeps his door open while he’s home most of the time so Alpine can come and go as she pleases. And maybe it's open for other people, too.
Sam continues. “Didn’t want to give you time to pretend you weren’t home.”
“I was pretending I wasn’t home.”
“And yet, here I am. WIth pad thai.”
Sam has barely set down the food when Soraya appears in the hallway, arms full of herbs and… gourds? She lifts one gourd in greeting, as if that explains anything.
She makes eye contact with Bucky and narrows her eyes. “Barnes, you’re cute–”
“Thanks.”
“--but if you break her heart, I’ll hex your boots.”
Bucky doesn’t know what to say for a moment.
“There will be no boot hexing.”
Sam is grinning between the two of them. “Did I miss something spicy?”
Soraya’s expression lightens and she flashes Sam a smile. “Keep up.”
Her eyes briefly flicker toward your door, and she gives Sam a quick wink before continuing on to her own apartment.
Sam’s mouth hangs open, but before he can say anything, Bucky fixes him with a look that clearly expresses several unspoken threats. Sam puts his hands up in surrender and he goes back to unpacking the containers of food and flopping onto Bucky’s couch like it’s routine.
Sensing that Bucky might be off the hook, Alpine decides to scratch at your door and you open it for her, letting her out of your apartment. Sam watches her walk from apartment 3C to 3B confidently, like she does this all the time. She does, and Sam’s beginning to put this together.
Alpine hops up onto the armchair and eyes Sam warily. Sam’s eyes flick from Bucky to the cat, and back again. Any chance that Bucky was going to be able to avoid this conversation goes out the window.
“So…” Sam begins.
Bucky sighs. Here we go.
“You and 3C, huh?”
“It’s not like that.”
Sam’s grinning now. “Uh-huh. Tell that to the shared cat.”
“She followed me home,” Bucky says, and then quickly adds on, “the cat. The cat followed me home.”
“Sure. So did feelings, apparently.”
Bucky takes a swig of his beer and doesn’t dignify Sam’s comment with a response. They eat in companionable silence for a minute before the conversation shifts in tone. Softening.
“She seems good for you.”
Bucky shoots him a look. “She doesn’t ask too many questions.”
“James Buchanan Barnes, that felt like it was targeted. And I know you wouldn’t make snarky comments at me, your best friend.”
“You’re not my best friend,” Bucky mutters.
“Oh yeah?” Sam laughs. “Then who is?”
Bucky pauses for a moment. His eyes land on the cat perched on the armchair and he nods to her.
“She is. Alpine.”
“My competition is a cat?”
Now Bucky wears a small smile on his face and moves to scratch Alpine under the chin.
“Not much of a competition, huh?”
Sam narrows his eyes at the cat. His new nemesis.
They go back to eating in silence for a few more moments. Sam finishes his noodles and leans in, his expression more serious this time.
“I didn’t just come here to mock your lack of social skills.”
“Shame.”
“I got a call from Torres,” Sam says. “Something’s off.”
He pulls out his phone and opens a secure file, continuing to explain.
“Women are disappearing again. Western corridor. Romania, Slovakia, Austria. Same corridor Hydra used to use. Same hand offs.”
He slides the phone across the table. There’s a file open, a name highlighted. Lucien Virell.
“We think it’s him.”
Bucky has abandoned the pad thai completely, and when he speaks, it’s quiet.
“I thought he was dead.”
“You thought a lot of them were dead.”
Sam pulls out a small box with several physical files with all the information he has on Virell, and Bucky begins thumbing through them. Alias, background, hideouts, accomplices, etc. This continues on for maybe 30 minutes before he comes across a particular file.
File: ASSET: STARLING – Recovered Property.
He opens it and is met with a photo. Blurry, grainy. A security cam still from a warehouse in Prague.
But it’s you.
You’re younger. Thinner. Sharper collarbones. But the same tired eyes.
Bucky doesn’t move for several seconds. The paper creases under his grip. His thumb brushes the edge of your image like it might blink away if he looks too long.
“Starling,” he murmurs. Testing the weight of it.
His knuckles grip the file tighter and his breath is shorter. Sam notices.
“Bucky…?”
Bucky clenches his jaw. Unclenches it. His words are quiet and clipped.
“I think I know someone who got out.”
He lets Sam take the file from him and look it over.
“You think she knows he’s still out there?” Sam asks.
“No,” Bucky breathes, leaning forward and resting his arms on his knees. “And I don’t know how to tell her.”
“You gonna?”
“...eventually.”
The next day, in the stairwell, someone brushes too close to you. You don’t notice. You’re unlocking your door.
Bucky does.
His hand tightens at his side. Not a threat. Just a warning. Just ready.
