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𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐛𝐨𝐱: OPEN
𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬: OPEN
𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬: (🌱🐛)🍄 💌 🎄
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 ｡.°˚ man of oil - animal collective
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 ｡.°˚ daredevil born again
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 ｡.°˚ the secret history
i have so many wips i wanna talk about but if i talk about them i cant write them but i wanna talk about them cus i think they’re so cool but i feel like im just gonna edge everyone but trust when i say they’re being written i SWEAR😭
Summary: After an unfortunate mixup of pain medication and your friend's party substances at Pitt Fest, you're rushed to the Pitt and placed in the care of Jack Abbot. As he oversees your care, you get a little too touchy, and a little too honest.
Word Count: 6.6k
Content: accidental drug use (MDMA), mention of alcohol consumption, age gap (reader is mid 20s), fluff, comfort, a hint of smut (18+ MDNI) - literally like two seconds of thigh riding, mention of ovulation
A/N: listen… I’ve never done MDMA. I did a lot of research, but I had to fudge some stuff for plot. don’t do drugs kids
Pitt Fest was not your idea. When your friend Beth offered you her spare ticket, you waffled at first. You're not really a crowds person, or a partying person. Beth was always the partier in college. But you do like live music, and she pointed out that your top Spotify artist from last year is in the concert lineup.
So you’d caved.
That decision is coming back to bite you in the ass, and bite hard.
It’s hot as balls outside. You’re covered in sweat, which mingles in a sticky and unpleasant mix with the sunscreen you’ve been dutifully applying since the afternoon to avoid frying like an egg. When the sun finally set, you no longer had to worry about the burgeoning threat of skin cancer, but the heat doesn’t break. In fact, it almost seems to get worse, because more and more people arrive to crowd you as night descends and the bigger names with larger fanbases grace the stage.
You’re waiting for Beth outside of the bathroom facilities. She's been ingesting a steady stream of margaritas since sundown, so she leaves you holding the bag, literally. At least it's a nice excuse to separate yourself from the throng of jumping, sweaty bodies gathered by the stage.
It’s nearly two in the morning. You’re hungry. Your feet are killing you. You have a headache from the festival’s sugary cocktails. You’re sweating through the top Beth lent you. And on top of everything else, your ovulation cramps are kicking in like a motherfucker.
Growing desperate, you dig through Beth's bag, searching for the little Altoid tin that she always keeps her pain meds in. At long last, your hands make contact with the metal tin at the bottom of her tote. Nearly crying with relief, you pop an aspirin in your mouth and wash it down with the tepid bottled water you’ve been clutching for the last hour.
Beth's voice rings out from behind you, talking over the din of the nearby DJ set. “What are you doing?”
You turn towards her, and see Beth staring at the tin in your hand. “I have cramps,” you explain, and just as you’re about to shove the tin back in her bag and hand it to her, she grabs your wrist.
“…please tell me you didn’t just take one of those,” she says urgently.
You raise an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Because those are not aspirin, babe.”
Your blood runs cold. Your brain quickly does the math — Beth had told you how much she’s looking forward to meeting up with her rave friends tomorrow for the second night of Pitt Fest. Beth has always been quite the partier. And she often partied with her good friend Molly.
Your eyes widen in horror. “Oh no.”
Pitt Fest, as always, is a huge pain in the ass for the night shift.
Handoff gets messy. There's a shit ton of substance cases, even more of heatstroke. Robby stays longer than he should and snaps at everyone, clearly in his feelings remembering last year’s Pitt Fest. Understandable, yes, but it also makes everyone’s life that much harder when they’re within sniping distance of him.
Needless to say, Jack is already over this shift, and it’s not even halfway done. It doesn't help that his favorite resident happens to have the night off, which deposits his mood firmly in the hospital basement. Which, coincidentally, happens to be the location of the morgue.
Now that Robby has been politely ordered to go the fuck home, Jack feels like he can finally focus on his job instead of doing damage control with the med students. As he walks down the hall, Lena catches his attention from the hub desk.
“We have an ambulance two minutes out with a mid-20s female, collapsed at Pitt Fest,” she informs him. “Probable dehydration, likely drug-related, because, well… Pitt Fest.”
This festival truly is the gift that keeps on giving. Jack cracks his knuckles and eyes the ambulance bay doors. “All right. Let's get ready to receive the party girl.”
A few minutes later, the gurney is wheeled in by two paramedics and received by Lena and Parker. Parker shoots an alarmed and confused look over her shoulder at Jack, who steps forward to supervise.
“Dr. Abbot!"
Of all the things Jack expected to see tonight, this is at the bottom of the list. You're strapped to the gurney, scantily clad and gleaming with sweat, a goofy smile on your face and your pupils blown so wide they nearly swallow your irises.
Jack scrubs a hand through his hair. “You're shitting me.”
This is quite the surprising turn of events.
After Lena sets you up in South 16, Jack discreetly shoos away Parker so he can handle your examination himself. He doubts you would be comfortable with one of your fellow residents seeing you like this, considering your condition and your current state of dress.
Jack closes the door behind him and saunters over to you. His eyes snag on your tight, strappy top, and the strategically placed cutouts baring sections of your midriff and chest. He’s holding onto his professionalism by a thread, especially with the way you’re shifting around on the exam table, causing the hem of your miniskirt to ride up.
He has no choice but to focus up. You need medical attention, not the kind of attention his brain and body really want to give you right now. First, Lena takes your temperature and shows him the number on the display. 100.2 degrees F. It's coming down from what the paramedics recorded in the ambulance, and not so high that he’s still worried about heat stroke. But you’ll need cooling down regardless.
“That’s quite the outfit you got on,” he mutters as he gently raises your chin and shines his penlight into your pupils.
“Do you like it?” you ask, beaming up at him even as you squint. “I borrowed it from my friend. She’s so nice.”
Your pupils are so dilated that your eyes are almost completely black.
“Yup.” Jack clicks off the light and sighs, turning to Lena. “She’s rolling, all right. Let’s get a tox to make sure there’s nothing else to be worried about.”
You don’t seem to even register the pain of the needle prick, but you let out a delighted little hum when Lena smooths a bandage over your arm and adds gentle pressure over top of it.
“That feels good,” you murmur with a lazy smile.
“I bet.” Jack crosses his arms and tries to give you a stern look. “Can I ask what my best resident is doing taking ecstasy at a music festival?”
“I didn’t take it on purpose, I swear,” you protest, your eyes widening in a brief panic. “It was my friend’s. I thought it was aspirin, for my cramps.”
“You’re menstruating?” he asks, picking up his tablet and sitting in the edge of the exam table next to you to amend your chart.
You shake your head and say matter-of-factly, “Ovulation cramps.”
His eyebrows shoot up towards the ceiling in surprise.
You continue babbling, unaware of the grenade you just lobbed at Jack. “She tried to get me to throw it up, but I couldn’t because I don’t really have a gag reflex.”
Jack takes a deep breath to prevent his brain from completely short-circuiting.
Your face breaks into a sheepish smile, and you giggle, “Oops. Sorry, that was probably too much information.” Leaning forward on the exam table, you bring your face inches away from his and observe with a sigh, “Your eyes are really pretty.”
From behind him, Jack hears Lena snickering under her breath. He clears his throat and straightens up to standing.
Avoiding Lena's eyes, he instructs her, “Let’s, uh, get her some fluids and cooling packs, huh? Maybe a Saf-T-Pop, too. Keep her mouth occupied, so she won’t say any more nonsense she’ll regret in the morning.”
Lena just shoots him an amused look and heads off to gather supplies. Nurses, he thinks ruefully to himself. They see everything.
Movement and sound draw his attention back to you. You're laid back on the exam table, eyes fluttering closed. And you’re running your hands through your hair, letting out a pleased little noise like the sensation is better than sex.
Jack breathes carefully through his nose. He needs out of this room with you, before this becomes mortifying for everyone involved. His phone buzzes in his pocket, giving him the perfect excuse for escape.
His voice is thin when he speaks, and for a moment, he’s glad you’re too high to notice. “You sit tight, sunshine.”
As he turns to leave the room, your hand catches the edge of his scrubs.
“You’re leaving?” your mouth turns down into a pout, those huge eyes shining up at him. He very nearly gives in, very nearly reaches out a hand to stroke a thumb across your cheek just to hear the kind of sound it would pull from you. But his phone buzzes insistently, so he briefly pats your knee instead.
“I have other patients to see. But I'll be back before you know it,” he assures you, pulling open the door and diving headfirst back into the glorious chaos.
At least it’ll be a convenient distraction from the thought of you, eagerly waiting in south fifteen for him to return.
He shakes his head in disbelief. Ovulation cramps. You’re gonna be the death of him.
An MVA, a ketamine overdose, and a cardiac event later, the Pitt finally slows down enough for Jack to breathe. Enough to check your tox screen and sigh with relief that the MDMA you mistakenly took wasn’t cut with anything. Alcohol is the only other thing in your system, in levels not high enough to be concerning. Although, combined with the ecstasy, it means you probably won’t remember much of this exciting little escapade.
At long last, he manages to find some time to check on you.
In his absence, Lena had set you up with a gown to preserve a little more of your modesty. You’re laying on the exam table amongst the cooling packs, an IV attached to your arm and a Saf-T-Pop in your mouth that’s turning your tongue red.
A smile breaks like sunrise over your face as soon as you see him.
“Hey there, sunshine,” he greets you, approaching you with a little more warmth now that Lena's sharp eyes aren’t here to observe.
“Hi. I missed you,” you sigh.
Jack smirks. “Did you now?”
You nod happily. “Mm-hmm.”
“How are you feeling?” he asks, his gaze attentive, checking you over.
“Cold,” you answer, wrapping your arms around yourself.
He reaches up a hand to feel your forehead. Still warm, but still steadily coming down over time. He’s satisfied enough with your progress. You'll be out of here in no time.
The prospect disappoints him just a little.
“Yeah, your body is having trouble regulating its temperature,” he explains, his thumb stroking delicately along your hairline. “We’ll need to keep these cool packs on you a little while longer.”
Just as his hand retreats, your hand catches his wrist. You press his palm to your cheek, almost nuzzling into it like an affectionate kitten.
“Your hands are so warm,” you murmur, eyelids slipping shut as you revel in the sensation.
The gesture catches him off guard, but he doesn’t pull away. He couldn’t even if he wanted to, and he certainly doesn’t want to.
“Easy there, gorgeous,” he chuckles softly. “I need that hand for doctoring.”
Your eyelids flutter halfway open, and you look up at him with a lazy grin, clearly pleased as punch. “You think I'm gorgeous?”
Jack freezes for a moment. The word had slipped out without him even registering it, familiar and endeared and entirely too revealing.
“I plead the fifth,” he replies, warmth creeping up his neck.
You giggle again. God, that sound does things to his heart that are medically concerning.
“I think you’re gorgeous,” you mumble dreamily.
Jack blinks in surprise.
He’s been a little too fond of you for a while now, been staring a little too long when you brush past him in the halls. And he’s suspected before that it might not be completely one-sided. He sees how you receive his attention and praise differently than the other attendings, how you look at him with more than just the admiration of a mentor. But suspecting it and having it be confirmed are two different things. Especially since you wouldn’t be saying any of this if you were sober.
He tries to laugh it off before his ego can run away with the compliment. “I think you’re high.”
You shrug. “Maybe. But I always think you’re gorgeous.”
Removing his palm from your cheek, you examine it with fascination, running a finger along the deep set lines. “I think about these,” you say thoughtfully. “All the time.”
Jack is a little ashamed at how quickly that comment goes straight to his cock. His favorite resident, fantasizing about his hands, maybe even touching yourself to the thought of them, wishing your own fingers were his—
He drags his free hand over his face and mutters, "Jesus Christ."
“Can I tell you a secret?” You peer up at him again, that goofy, starstruck smile returning. “I’ve got, like, the biggest crush on you.”
Unfortunately for Jack, there is very little time to process this very interesting information before his phone buzzes again. Just beyond the doors, he can hear the familiar sound of what is likely a high-priority trauma heading into the bay. Voices overlapping in urgent tones, gurney wheels on tile floor, grunts and yelps of pain from a patient.
Jack crosses to the door in two steps, and speaks over his shoulder to you. “Hey, baby, I gotta handle something. Stay out of trouble, okay?”
As the door swings shut behind him, he just manages to catch the sound of you happily mumbling to yourself, “He called me baby.”
Which is how he heads into Trauma 1 with a smile on his face, entirely too cheerful for a man facing down a compound femur fracture.
The shift that would never fucking end is almost fucking over. And all Jack can think about is you. You and your moony, lovey-dovey eyes and your wide, childlike smile. You gazing up at him and crooning I have the biggest crush on you. You giggling and telling him point-blank that you’re ovulating.
As he rolls out of yet another demanding trauma, Lena updates him on your condition. You’re rehydrated and back to a normal temperature, pretty much ready for discharge if you can be released to someone who will take care of you. He returns to your room, finding you unhooked from your IV and cold-pack-free, happily set up with another lollipop.
“Jack, you’re back!” you exclaim, and then laugh at your accidental rhyme.
Still rolling, he thinks. He checks his watch. According to your best guess of when you took the ‘aspirin’ in your friend’s purse, it’s been about four hours. You'll be due to start coming down anytime in the next two hours or so. He's due to head out, but he can’t bring himself to go home until he knows you’re leaving in capable hands.
“Hey, sunshine.” He offers you a tired but warm smile. “Seems like you’re in pretty good shape here, and you should be tapering off pretty soon. You got anybody to take you home, keep an eye on you?”
A little crease forms between your brows as you think hard. “I don’t know where my friend went when the ambulance came. And I think my phone died,” you add pathetically, gesturing to the device in your lap and its terminally black screen.
Jack pinches the bridge of his nose. He can’t in good conscience leave you to your own devices, especially when you’ve never taken ecstasy before. At worst, there’s still a chance you could have some kind of reaction. At best, the comedown is sure to knock you on your ass.
He can only think of one thing to do. It's not the best idea. It might not even be a good idea. But his brain is too addled from the long shift to come up with anything better. And you need someone to take care of you.
“Jesus. Okay,” he mutters to himself, then sits on the edge of the exam table, bringing his face level to yours. “Listen up, sunshine.”
You gaze at him intently, attention vacillating occasionally between his eyes and his mouth. Jack has a feeling that what he’s about to say will go in one ear and right out the other. But there’s a chance you’ll retain it, so he says it anyway.
“You're gonna have a pretty serious crash when you come down. All those happy little chemicals that are making you feel good right now?” He gives you a soft little tap against your temple, and you giggle softly. He continues, “They’re gonna go on vacation for a day or two. I don't want you dealing with that on your own. So I'm gonna take you to my place, just to watch out for you until you’re feeling a little more like yourself.”
You’re quiet for a minute, your brain catching up and computing the meaning of what he just said. When it finishes, the lightbulb goes off behind your eyes, and you ask excitedly, “We’re having a sleepover?”
Of course that would be your takeaway.
He chuckles as he helps you to your feet. “That's right. You got it.”
When Jack drapes his hoodie over your shoulders and guides you out of the Pitt to his car, he’s reminded of all the reasons that this is probably a terrible idea.
He sees the watchful eyes and the knowing smirks of the nurses. He sees Parker and Crus snickering behind their hands. He sees Shen counting up his winnings from the betting pool, because he wrote down molly and tripsitter Abbot.
And he feels your hand clinging to his bicep, sees how you gaze up at him with a dreamy expression as he walks you out to his car. He’s knows he’s really going to need to behave himself for a few hours, because there’s a very good chance that you won’t, and Jack doesn’t want to accidentally take advantage of your… impaired judgement.
You spend most of the ride with your face by the cracked car window, feeling the wind on your face, eyes blissfully closed. Jack thanks his lucky stars that he thought to give the apartment a once-over before shift, so he isn’t bringing you into a total mess.
He walks you into his bedroom and gestures to the en-suite. “Bathroom’s there, if you want to take a shower. I'll find you something a little more… comfortable to wear,” he adds, peeling his eyes away from your tiny little shirt and how you’re already fussing with the straps.
As he turns to his bureau to find you a t-shirt, he feels arms wrapping around his middle, your body molding to his back as you embrace him with a sigh. “Thank you for being so nice to me.”
Jack swallows and delicately removes your hands, stepping out of your embrace and ushering you in the direction of the bathroom.
“Go on, then,” he instructs you. “While you’re still upright.”
You barely even register it as rejection, heading towards the shower and wiggling out of your top before Jack even has the chance to close the door behind you. Which he does, quickly and with his eyes glued to the floor.
His instincts were right. He will very much need to behave himself while you’re here.
He busies himself while you shower by changing out of his scrubs and assembling a meal. It's a humble offering — just a couple of sandwiches and frozen french fries heated up in the oven, but it’s better than nothing.
After about twenty minutes, you emerge from the bedroom with damp hair and your face scrubbed clean, clad in one of his t-shirts and a pair of his boxers, smelling like his soap. You lean on his kitchen island with a contented little sigh.
Jack repeats it to himself like a mantra — behave yourself.
“Time to eat something,” he says, sliding one of the plates toward you.
“I’m not hungry.”
“I know. But I'm trying to set you up for success here, so you don’t feel as awful when this is out of your system. When's the last time you ate?” he asks.
You rest your chin on your hand as you think back. “I had… lunch.”
“Thought so.” He puts the plate into your hands and steers you in the direction of the couch with a hand on your lower back. “You and I are gonna eat these sandwiches, drink some water, and watch Planet Earth.”
You gasp in delight and plop down onto the couch. “I love Planet Earth!”
He knows you do. You'd gushed about it being your favorite docuseries at work, and he’d bragged about owning the box set. It had been the first day you and he had really started to bond.
Once the tv is on, it thankfully keeps you occupied. You chew your food slowly, enraptured with the beautiful imagery on the screen. Managing a decent effort with the meal, you eat half the sandwich and most of the fries before you start to lose a little steam.
You abandon your plate on the coffee table, then take Jack completely by surprise as you lean over to lay your head in his lap.
He goes still for a moment, unsure if he should be allowing this. But he doesn’t have the heart to push you away, so he puts his plate aside and lets a hand come to rest on your shoulder.
You sigh happily and snuggle closer.
It's been so long since Jack has taken care of someone like this that he’d almost forgotten what it feels like. How good it feels to be needed. The easy intimacy of sharing a space, sharing a meal, of letting someone melt against you after a long night.
Affectionately, he brushes a stray lock of hair out of your face, and you practically purr in response, leaning into his hand. So Jack keeps doing it, keeps gently stroking his fingers through your hair, preferring to watch your relaxing form instead of the polar bears on screen.
The two of you spend nearly an hour like that, until your breath starts to take on that even, drowsy quality and Jack’s own brain starts calling for rest. He gently eases you off his lap to sit up, takes you by the hand and leads you to bed, already resigning himself to the aching back that a couch nap is going to earn him.
Jack sets you up with a glass of water and the best blankets in the linen closet. As he turns to head back to the living room, your hand grabs his arm, pulling him back.
“Stay.”
Your voice is low and warm. You're sitting up in his bed, his sheets pooled around your knees. Your eyes are dark, tempting, pleading.
Jack knows dangerous territory when he sees it.
Still, your serotonin is due to start dropping any time now, and hurt feelings are only going to be worsened once it does. Jack sits carefully on the edge of the bed, maintaining a few inches of distance, his other hand gently cradling your cheek.
“Sorry, sunshine. Not a good idea.”
You move closer, your gaze fixed firmly on his mouth. “Why?”
Best behavior, Jack.
“Because you’re still tapering off. Plus, I just worked a long shift and I need to sleep.” He takes in a deep breath as he feels your hand slide across his shoulders. “And I've got a feeling I won't be getting much rest next to you.”
In a move so surprising that Jack is momentarily powerless to stop it, you rise up onto your knees and shift to straddle one of his thighs.
“What if I promise to be really, really good?” you murmur sweetly.
Jack knows he should stop you, and he almost does. But then you rock your hips on his thigh, the tiniest little life-ruining movement, and you let out the softest, neediest little sound. Suddenly, Jack is hanging onto his sanity and self control-by a thread. And that thread is fraying rapidly.
“Baby,” he whispers, half warning and half plea. His hands come to your hips, torn between stopping you and spurring you on.
Your hips rock again, more purposeful this time. “Please,” you beg quietly, so close now that your lips just barely brush against his.
For a few shameful moments, Jack forgets about his fatigue and the ache in his leg and he wonders… how morally reprehensible would it really be to just let you get off on his thigh? You’d said yourself that you’re ovulating, probably making you even needier. Fuck, he can feel how badly you want it, wetness soaking through the boxers you’re wearing and Jack’s sweatpants. Would it really be so awful of him to sit passively as you hump his leg to get the relief you’re clearly so desperate for? To take pity on you and let you use him for your pleasure?
But he knows it would be wrong, because he’d be getting off on it even if you didn’t touch him. You're not in your right mind, and he doesn’t want to make you come for the first time when you’re whacked out on MDMA.
Summoning the will from deep inside himself, he stills your hips and eases you off of his thigh, ignoring your whines as he nudges you back onto the pillows.
“It wouldn’t be right. I'm not touching you until you’re sober,” he says firmly.
Jack gets to his feet and tucks the blankets around you. “I’ll see you in a few hours. Wake me if you need anything.” He laughs softly at the pointed pouting look you shoot his way. “Other than that.”
“You’re no fun,” you call after him as he retreats into the living room.
Once the bedroom door is shut behind him, he collapses on the couch and wrestles off his prosthetic, punching a throw pillow a few times to soften it before going horizontal. Even after what felt like the longest shift he’s had in months, he’s unsure how much sleep he’ll actually manage to get knowing you’re in the next room. Probably snuggling one of his pillows as if it’s him, probably squeezing your thighs together until the last of the drugs leave your system.
He groans and rolls over, willing his body and his still half-hard cock to go to sleep.
You wake feeling like death warmed over.
You’re in a bed that doesn’t belong to you, but smells familiar and comforting. Same with your clothes. A few memories make it through the fog, blurry and out of order. Planet Earth. Jack’s hand, warm and pleasant on your cheek. An ambulance ride. Lena ruffling your hair and handing you a lollipop. A shower with a chair and a grab bar and soap that smells like Jack.
You’re at Jack's apartment, you realize with a start.
Checking the time groggily, you observe that you've slept from the early morning until late afternoon. Thank god you’d asked for tonight off as well, anticipating you’d need recovery time after Pitt Fest.
You can vaguely recall the warm, fuzzy feelings you’d experienced last night. In the abstract, at least. Now, you feel mostly guilt and shame and embarrassment and anxiety. How could you have been so stupid?
Sounds of life echo from the kitchen, which means Jack has woken up ahead of you. Your guilt sharpens. Jack is spending his hard-earned downtime taking care of you, because of your own carelessness.
Fatigue clings to your bones as you shuffle to the bathroom. The reflection in the mirror is less than kind. Dark shadows frame your eyes, worse than the usual bags worn by the night shift crew. Your hair is a mess, and you sigh as you comb your fingers through to tame it.
Time to face the music.
You trudge out into the kitchen, where Jack is wearing an apron over a t-shirt and sweats and cooking an omelette, looking awfully chipper for having slept seven hours on the couch. He looks so good that it briefly makes you angry. Fuck him for looking so good, while you look and feel like utter dogshit.
Of course, that annoyance turns to guilt again when he looks up and smiles.
“Hey, lover girl,” he greets you warmly as you lean on the kitchen island. “How are you feeling?”
You rub your eyes and groan, “Like I got hit by a Mack truck.”
He squeezes your shoulder fondly and grabs a plate from an overhead cabinet. “Let’s get some food and water in you.”
“Thank you,” you mutter sheepishly. “I’m sorry about… all this.”
“Don't even worry about it, sunshine.”
Jack hands you a glass of water and starts making you a plate. You accept it with a grimace. “I'm not feeling very sunshine-y right about now. I can't remember half of what happened after I went down at the concert.”
“I hope we’ve learned not to go digging for meds in that particular friend’s purse.” He smirks and sets a plate in front of you. A vegetable omelette and buttered toast. Your appetite hasn’t yet returned to its normal levels, but your doctor brain knows that you really need to eat, so you reach for the toast first.
“Never again,” you vow as you take a bite.
In the light of day and out from under the influence of Beth's ‘aspirin,’ you get a good look at Jack's apartment for the first time as he assembles his own plate. It's not spotless, but it’s generally tidy, and it’s a very nice place. Good furniture, great windows with better blackout shades, a nice floor plan. Its niceness only makes you feel smaller.
You poke at your omelette, stewing. “Jack?”
“Yes?”
“Don't take this the wrong way, but…why am I here?”
He plates his own omelette and leans a hip against the kitchen island. “You’d never taken MDMA before, and I knew you’d be in for a hell of a drop. I didn't want you to be on your own.”
You resist the urge to frown. This whole saga is doing nothing to remedy your tragic crush on him. Did he have to be so nice and caring on top of everything else? It feels a little unfair at the moment.
“That’s… very considerate,” you mumble.
“What can I say? I'm a considerate guy.” He pops a bite of omelette into his mouth with a wink.
A thought occurs to you that briefly makes your stomach turn. “Does the whole Pitt know?”
Jack's expression tells you everything you need to know before he even speaks. “There… might have been a betting pool on the subject. Shen cleaned up.”
You drop your face into your hands. “Awesome. That's really awesome.”
Every single one of your coworkers knows that you spent the night rolling. Tears prick at your eyes beneath your palms, which only worsens your humiliation. The last thing you need right now is to cry in front of Jack Abbot. Even if it’s just because the chemicals in your brain are out of whack, it doesn't make it any less embarrassing.
“Hey.” Jack's hand finds your shoulder again. “Don’t worry about it. They're good people, no one is judging you.”
Despite your best efforts, a mortifying little sniffle slips out at the kindness in his voice.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Come here.”
You can’t bear to look up, but your breath hitches in surprise when Jack pulls you into his arms. Instantly, your brain begins to quiet, focusing on the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, the reassuring weight of his arms around you, the slow arc of his thumb rhythmically stroking your shoulder blade.
It's medicine. Oxytocin and dopamine, feel-good chemicals produced by physical touch, bolstering your brain against the sapped well of serotonin the ecstasy left in its wake. It also makes your heart flutter pathetically in your chest.
He holds you for a long moment, his grip tightening when you finally loop your arms around his waist and return the embrace.
“Thank you for taking care of me,” you whisper, allowing the comfort to sink into your skin and fill your lungs.
“Of course.”
Jack only pulls away when you do, gently swiping a calloused thumb underneath your eye to banish the straggling tear that managed to escape.
“Let’s get comfortable on the couch,” he says, a hand settling on your back to guide you. “You’re still on the comedown.”
You worry you might be overstaying your welcome. But Jack seems to be in no rush to get you out of his apartment, content to let you rot on his couch as long as you need to. Surely he must have better things to do on his night off than take care of you, but he sits sentry at your side without complaint.
After some consideration, Planet Earth is tabled for the time being — even if you’ve seen it before, animal death is sure to bring back the waterworks in your current state. Flipping through channels, you settle on a cheesy mid-2000s rom-com that you’ve seen before and snuggle back into the couch cushions.
Through it all, you feel the comfort of his steady presence, his hand rubbing idle circles on your back, like an IV drip of Vitamin Jack straight to your brain. You give into the feeling, too worn out to fight it, curling into his side. Eventually, you feel a gentle graze at your scalp as he idly plays with your hair. It surprises you for a moment, but you’re not complaining in the slightest. You melt into it, eyes fluttering closed until you’re slipping in and out of a light doze.
Afternoon fades to evening, to dinnertime, to nighttime, to bedtime. Even after your intermittent sleep, your fatigue is still bone deep, and Jack insists you can stay the night. You really try to convince him to let you take the couch, but he refuses, insisting that your body needs proper rest to return to baseline. At the end of the night, he sends you off to bed with a smirk.
When you wake up in Jack's bed for the second time, it’s much less disorienting. It helps that you’re much clearer than you were seventeen hours ago. The clock reads 9:05 am — you have the whole day ahead of you to shower, change, and steel yourself for the humiliation ritual that is bound to be your shift tonight.
You stumble into the living room, bleary-eyed. Jack is reclined on the couch with a laptop and readers perched on the end of his nose. Ugh, fuck him again for looking so good.
His eyes find yours over the edge of the screen. “Hey there. You sleep good?”
“Mm-hmm,” you reply, stretching. “I'm feeling much better, I think.”
His mouth curves at the corner. “Good.”
Leaning on the edge of the couch, you sigh and glance at the clock on the wall. “I should probably head home soon, get my life together before shift tonight. Would you be able to drive me home?”
“Sure thing, sunshine.”
After you eat breakfast and shower off the cast of bedrotting from the day before, you change back into the clothes you arrived in, which Jack took the liberty of washing for you. As much as you appreciate the gesture, you blanch at the idea of Jack handling your underwear, and try very hard not to think about that mental image.
As the quiet car ride progresses, you ponder your looming fate, mentally preparing yourself for the teasing you’ll get from the nurses and other residents. It's disorienting to not know what you’re walking into, to have been mentally absent for most of it.
You can’t resist the urge to ask anymore. “Was I a total mess?”
He nods, amused. “Yes. But a very cute mess.”
“God, this is so embarrassing,” you groan. “What did I say?”
“Are you sure you wanna know?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.
That makes you pause, glancing at him warily. “…was it bad?”
“You got a little fixated on hands for a while.” Jack pauses, like he isn’t sure how much to reveal, if you’re ready to handle it. “Said you think about mine all the time.”
Suddenly, you feel a bit sick, even though the car is headed in a straight line down the road. If that's just where it starts… if that’s not the worst of it, then what is?
“Oh god,” you whisper in horror.
“You said you think I'm gorgeous,” he continues, voice thick with amusement. “And that you have a big ol’ crush on me. And… you might’ve tried to seduce me a little at bedtime.”
Your cheeks flare hot. This is quite possibly the worst outcome of the situation aside from death. At the moment, death feels preferable.
You stare straight ahead, sinking in your seat and pressing your hands to your forehead to try and keep your brain from exploding. “Excuse me, I'm just gonna open the door and go lay down in traffic.”
He laughs, the sound warm and fond and doing absolutely nothing to temper your embarrassment. “It's okay.”
“It is completely not okay, Jack,” you protest, turning your body away from him and towards the passenger side door, like that will save you from this conversation.
Jack places a hand on your thigh.
All the systems in your brain go down simultaneously.
His palm rests just above your knee, not high enough to be too inappropriate, but it’s intimate. Especially because your choice of garment for Pitt Fest leaves your leg bare and exposed to his touch. Never once does he take his eyes off the road.
“It was flattering,” he says coolly, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over your knee. “And extremely cute.”
He lets the assertion hang in the silence, and he doesn’t move his hand, letting it rest warm and comfortable against the soft skin of your thigh.
After some considerable effort, you remember how to breathe. Once the oxygen makes it to your brain, you manage to peel your hands away from your face and peek sideways at him.
“…really?” you ask, because you need the confirmation. Does Jack Abbot — your mentor, the object of all your desires, and the man who just babysat you through an unwitting MDMA trip — really think you’re cute?
He gives your thigh a gentle squeeze. “Really.”
There isn’t much else to say for the rest of the car ride. Jack keeps his hand on your thigh until he turns down your street and throws the car in park. You try and fail to suppress a smile the whole way, and allow him to walk you up to your building’s front step, palms tingling with anticipation.
“I’d like to do this again sometime,” he says as you unlock the main entrance. “Minus the party drugs.”
You grin up at him, slightly emboldened by the revelations that occurred in the car. “You wanna have another sleepover?”
“Very much.” His eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles back. “See you tonight?”
“See you tonight.”
You turn to head inside, but Jack catches your elbow. “Hey. One last thing.”
Before you have time to register his closeness, a hand slides along your waist, another cupping your jaw, and Jack is kissing you.
A warm, pleasant feeling floods you from top to toe, a high rivalling the chemical one you’d experienced twenty-eight hours ago. He kisses you like he’s been thinking about it that entire twenty-eight hours. It's tender and hungry at the same time. By the time he pulls away, your lips follow after his and you almost stumble forward into his arms.
You open your eyes and blink up at him, feeling a little dazed and starstruck again.
“Had to wait until you were level,” Jack murmurs. He gives you a lingering peck at the corner of your mouth and descends down the front steps to his car.
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You know your boss likes you. His gestures go well beyond the normal professional relationship, but he’ll deny it all the way to the damn bank. That is, until you play a little game and see just how far you can push him…
ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ / ᴛᴀɢꜱ: 18+, MDNI, kinda angst, smut, pretty much PWP, there’s some plot but it’s negligible, NSFW (literally), politics but it’s brief, age gap (reader in her 20s, Bucky is ancient), age-related references (Bucky calls you ‘kid’ once and you internally refer to him as ‘old man’), nicknames (‘doll’, mostly), taboo relationship, mirror-play, fingering & oral (f!receiving), inappropriate use of a desk, high heel kink if you squint, unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it, folks), creampie (why not), Bucky is sorta mean but also a gentleman, makeshift gag, decryphilia for like a second, semi-public sex, big dick!Bucky, rough sex, reader’s clothes are described, slight objectification of reader, and maybe coercion???
ɴᴏʙʟᴇ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇꜱ: A delayed thank you for 400 followers!! This is kind of a rewrite of a prior fic of mine, or at least it started that way. Really just needed to scratch that Congressman Barnes itch. I spent so much time on this and scrapped it like three times. Beta credit to @laufeydottirs-writings . Uhh…And if this flops I’ll just never post again. :) Cheers!
Divider credit goes to @/cursed-carmine!
It wasn’t like you really tried to fall head over heels for your boss, who also just so happened to be one of the hottest politicians in D.C. Seriously, who would do that? Okay, maybe a few people came to mind - but, you swore that you weren’t one of them!
You were fresh out of college and in need of a job - really any job - and he was…Well…Lifetimes ahead of you comparatively. But, lately, he was becoming increasingly less subtle about his preference for you - and, it was kind of hard to ignore. Of course, he wouldn’t come out and say it to your face because Congressman Barnes wasn’t a man of very many words, but it was the little gestures that did all that sweet-talking for him.
It was the way he smiled at you so warmly when you brought his coffee straight to his desk each morning - just a splash or two of cream and a dash of sweetener was how he liked it. It was the way his sparkling baby-blues would flit across your silhouette like a lion sizing up prey - especially when he particularly enjoyed your outfit that day. And, if you were lucky enough, he’d give you a short, “Lookin’ sharp, kid. How are those surveys coming?” And the intense glint in his eyes as he spoke with that low Brooklyn drawl is what gave away the true infatuation hidden beneath his words.
That’s how it all started. Small gestures that were just barely noticeable, unless you were around him as often as someone in your position was - you were, after all, his personal assistant. His one, true tether to the Earth. And, given adequate time, these small gestures appeared to escalate.
A year into your humble employment, it developed into a subtle brush of his warm, calloused hand against yours while you were trying to explain something important. It became the way that same large palm would find the small of your back with such ease and his fingers began to splay across the fabric of your blouse possessively as he started walking you to your car each evening. You quickly realized he wasn’t doing any of it for you - he was doing it for himself. To make sure you were safe because if he didn’t try hard enough, then he wouldn’t be able to sleep.
If you’d been having a particularly hard day, he’d excuse himself a little early for lunch and then return an hour afterwards with a small bouquet of your favorite flowers from the florist just down the street, and your latte made exactly how you liked it. He often referred to it as a ‘morale boost’, but you saw through that excuse after it became less of an occasional treat and more of a frequent one.
You were slowly coming to the realization that this grumpy old man didn’t go out of his way for very much, but he certainly went above and beyond if it involved you.
“Late night, huh?” His gruff voice startled you, even though the only thing you could think about was how the words on your laptop screen were beginning to blur into a mess. Cohesive thoughts and bright ideas had left your brain a few hours before.
You blinked, glancing to your left where he’d entered his office in that scarily quiet way he had a habit of doing.
He’d noticed when you flinched, and he laughed softly. “Sorry, doll. I know. Need to get better ‘bout announcing myself.”
You smiled, tight but polite. “By now I think I should know you have a habit of materializing out of thin air, Houdini,” you teased.
You let out a heavy breath, one you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, and closed your laptop with a soft ‘click’ - having a short break from the screen would surely do you some good. “Also, it’s not a late night until it’s past midnight, remember? It’s only eleven.”
Bucky’s gaze darted up to the standard-issue clock ticking away just above his desk. “And so it is,” he confirmed, shooting you a half-smile before he walked over to inspect the numerous files you’d left atop his desk. “You still shouldn’t be here so late, you know. You never know who’s roaming these halls.”
You rolled your eyes. “Well, your speeches aren’t going to write themselves, and I certainly don’t think anyone nefarious is sneaking about a heavily-secured government office. Unless you’re talking about yourself.”
That squeezed yet another dry laugh out of him. “The only thing nefarious about me right now is my appetite,” he admitted, picking up one of the various navy blue folders you’d set atop the polished mahogany throughout the evening. His eyebrows furrowed and his tongue jutted out just past his blushed lips as he fanned through the top document.
His look of absolute concentration was so amusing to you, especially since most of the time you still needed to explain all of the political jargon to him. But, you appreciated his efforts to learn, in the very least. “There’s something you should take note of on page five,” you piped up.
The stiff papers rustled as Bucky flipped back through the pages, and he appeared even more confused. “Am I blind or…?”
“Oh!” You quickly shifted your laptop onto the coffee table across from you as you jumped to your plush-socked feet. You grabbed a sticky note and pen from the table before flitting over to his side. “My bad, it’s been a crazy day…”
You were wearing plaid pajama pants and an oversized tourist shirt you’d picked up from a girls trip to Vegas. You were casual on these late-night stints - and, as long as you got your job done, Bucky didn’t really seem to mind.
You gently plucked the file from his hands and hunched down over his desk as you skimmed through the bill to find the clause you wanted to highlight. As your finger danced over the black ink, your hand was visibly shaking from the sheer amount of caffeine you needed to drink in order to stay awake as long as you had.
You immediately froze when you felt his hand slide up against your lower back - steady, warm, heavy - and then heard his voice, something low and soft that you had maybe only ever heard once before. “You’re shaking, doll. I think it’s time to call it a night.”
You swallowed thickly - your tongue suddenly felt too big for your mouth and your heart was skipping beat after beat…And it certainly wasn’t from the caffeine this time. “I’m fine,” you assured him curtly, trying to keep some level of professionalism alive between you two - but, that was becoming increasingly difficult under the weight of his piercing blue stare.
He hummed, like he was thinking it over but not really. “I’m sure whatever it is can wait another seven hours for you to come back in the morning.”
You sighed, slapping the sticky note down onto the paper and then scribbling out a small notation for him. “There,” you said, like he hadn’t just given you his explicit blessing to stop. You glanced up towards him - his eyes were still boring into yours.
“I’m being serious,” he murmured, his gaze momentarily flicking down to the file and then back up to yours again. “That’s an order. Go home.”
Coming from literally anyone else, you likely would have been offended at how strongly he was coming off. But, this was Bucky. This was…Kind of normal.
You chewed on your bottom lip, pulse hammering loud in your ears. You could feel the heat radiating off his body, he was pressed so damn close to you - and the direct touch of his palm was hot enough to melt away the icy chill of the office on that autumn’s night. Finally, you gave up - you nodded and closed the file. “Alright.”
You turned to gather your laptop and your bag, but he was already doing it for you. You felt your cheeks flush hot. “Sir, really. You don’t have to-“
“Sir?” he interrupted with another laugh - wow, three in one evening. You were on a roll. “Aren’t we way past the formalities?” He cocked an eyebrow as he held your coat out to you.
Neck, cheeks, and ears dusted pink and on fire, you took the coat and shrugged it on before you reached for your bag. “Uh-uh,” he tutted with a small smile. “Let me carry this for you and I’ll walk you out to your car.”
Right. Once again, anyone else and this would have been plain creepy. But no, this was just good, old-fashioned Bucky Barnes who couldn’t stand to let chivalry die.
“Fine. But just so you know, I’m coming in early in the morning just to spite you,” you muttered, giving him a quick once-over.
If you had to be honest, he looked as if he’d just wrestled with a bear and lost. Your lips gravitated into a frown as you took a quick step towards him. You reached up, not hesitating to take the delicate, blue silk of his tie between your fingers. “Did you try to redo this yourself?” Your eyes flicked up to meet his. This pitiful knot certainly wasn’t your workmanship.
Right then, you swore that in the dim, golden light of the ancient desk lamp, you saw dark pink bloom across the apples of his cheeks. “Perhaps…” he mumbled, jaw ticking as he glanced off to the side.
You worked the tie off with ease, and you could feel your heartbeat racing under the influence of his constant stare. He definitely had a problem with that, the whole staring thing. But, you’d learned to not mind it so much. “Next time, come to me first,” you said quietly, making quick work of fixing the knot and then taking a step back to admire your work.
Bucky, who was trying very hard not to be visibly flustered by the gesture, just nodded. “Noted.”
The next morning, your heels were clicking against the polished marble as you marched your way back towards Bucky’s office. The gray light of the dawn was beginning to seep through the dusty window panes, painting the halls in a pale glow.
You weren’t much of a high heel girl yourself, but today was a rather important press conference and you knew that the Congressman always gave you a few more glances than usual when you wore them. Just for the satisfaction of making him hot and bothered, you were willing to set aside your personal qualms with one of the most heinous footwear designs ever invented.
You paused at his door, knocking exactly three times so he knew it was you - this was something you’d agreed upon within your first week once you learned he had a habit of ignoring just about anyone who bothered to knock. “Come in!” You heard faintly through the aged, wooden entrance.
You turned the tarnished, brass knob and shouldered the creaky door open all while balancing his coffee and yours, along with several binders and your purse and laptop bag. You weren’t afraid of multitasking - no, multitasking was afraid of you.
You tossed him a polite, cheery little smile. “G‘Mornin’, Congressman,” you chirped, tossing your purse and laptop bag down on an ornate armchair before you piled the binders high on his desk and promptly held his coffee out to him. “You can take the girl out of work, but not the work out of the girl,” you said as he huffed in annoyance at the binders.
“I take it that you didn’t sleep?” He took the coffee from you as his eyes searched your face for signs of adequate rest - or, the lack thereof.
You shook your head. “Not until a few hours ago. I was really engrossed in those speeches…” You pouted and perched yourself up on the edge of the solid mahogany desk. You crossed your legs over one another out of politeness only, since you were wearing a short, black pencil skirt.
You couldn’t miss the way his eyes tracked the satiny flow of your midnight blouse, or the way they followed the gentle curve of your body downwards to how the skirt hugged your ass so nicely and the lace of your stockings peeked out from just underneath the skin-tight fabric. They settled on your heels, a sharp exhale coming from his nose before his eyes flicked back up to your face.
You tilted your head. “Yes?”
His jaw ticked because he knew he couldn’t say anything. Well, he could but he was risking an HR complaint if he did. “Nothing. You look ready for the press.”
You beamed. “Oh! Do I?” You giggled. “I tried my best. You know I always do.” Your voice was honey and velvet and everything so sweet and tempting to him…
He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing as he did. “Right,” he said, clearing his throat and then pushing the new pile of binders aside. “I was reading over the press conference address this morning…”
You cocked an eyebrow in silent question.
“Am I…It doesn’t feel right to be taking this harsh of an opposing stance to something that feels…” He trailed off, trying to find the right words. Once again, political jargon was not his forte.
“Mostly bipartisan?” You interrupted with that sickly-sweet smile.
He nodded. “Yes, that.”
You took a rather pensive sip of your coffee. “Bipartisan doesn’t always translate to ‘good’, Congressman,” you quipped, and then reached across to flip through the speech pages yourself.
“Mmm, you see here?” You quickly pointed to a clause on the bill he’d be opposing. “This right here is some pretty…Sneaky business.”
He hummed, his gaze flicking between your delicate finger, the words on the paper, and your glossy lips. The tension that settled in the air between you two felt thick enough to cut with a knife…And that’s when you were rudely interrupted by your first phone call of the day.
“Congressman Barnes’ office, how may I direct your call?” you answered, sliding off the desk. Teasing him would have to wait, although as you glanced back over your shoulder to check, you could see his eyes were still making a meal out of you and your little skirt.
The press conference was a whirlwind as you’d expected it to be.
Before all the lights and the cameras, you’d stood behind him in the mirror, smoothing down the sleeves of his suit jacket with careful attention. You could tell from his stiff expression that he was uncomfortable with the level of professionalism he needed to maintain as your hands just so casually ran along his biceps. “I think navy is more your color than black,” you muttered, stepping around in front of him as you moved to fasten his cuff links in place.
He was trying to look anywhere but directly at you, but it was so hard when you looked so pretty and the aroma of your perfume was dancing dreamily about the air. “Are you saying I wear too much black?” he asked, still staring straight ahead.
You shrugged. “Maybe. But I’m not your stylist. I’m just the one who buffs out the rough edges before it’s showtime.”
You straightened his tie and then took a step back. “Go on and get ‘em, Bucky.” With a satisfied grin, you gave him a little wink and the most chaste, polite peck on the cheek you could give. Then, you left him standing there as you made your way to the media room.
In his office, Bucky stood in a silence that felt too heavy to breathe in. He was…Stunned. Every nerve in his body felt alive and buzzing with electricity - and it wasn’t because of the televised address. No, it was because he could still feel the softness of your lips lingering against his stubbled cheek; and, he could kick himself for just letting you leave after that.
During the conference, you tried to ignore the way he was staring at you more than the cameras, but he was making that awfully hard. You crossed your legs, one atop the other, and squeezed your thighs together as you desperately wished you could disappear. And, before you could even think about making a clean escape from the media room, a gloved vibranium hand was wrapped around your wrist and tugging you back from the double doors. “Prep room. Now.”
He didn’t leave room for protest as he nearly dragged you along to the back briefing room. Once the door clicked shut, he let go of your wrist, mumbling a quiet ‘sorry’ like he’d realized he was being a bit too rough. “What was that?” he questioned.
You blinked. “What was what?”
He sighed. “Before the conference?”
“I…Adjusted your tie?”
“No. You kissed my cheek.”
You couldn’t help the way your cheeks turned crimson and sold you out before you even had a chance to defend yourself. He took that as enough of an answer, beginning to pace the length of the room.
“I should fire you for that,” he said, hands clasped behind his back and his eyebrows furrowed in thought as his gaze stayed glued to the government-issued blue carpeting.
You leaned back against the conference table and crossed your arms over your chest. “But you won’t.”
That stopped him in his tracks, mid-stride. His eyes snapped over to you, piercing and icy. But the threat fell flat. “How do you know?” he huffed.
“Because if you were really pissed enough, I wouldn’t be standing here alone with you. You have a team that handles anything and everything you could need, myself being one of them. I’d have been sent home from the audience if you so wished.”
Bucky’s jaw ticked. He knew you were right. He didn’t really tolerate nonsense, in fact there wasn’t much he did tolerate. A few people. Select members of the press. Last you’d heard he was still struggling to accept therapy. He didn’t deal with things that he didn’t want to deal with, not since being freed from the mental prison of being the Winter Soldier - which, you knew very little about but just enough.
“You’re not one for a power-trip, but you also don’t put up with bullshit,” you continued, eyes meeting his as you cocked an eyebrow. “I could ask you the same question about the flowers. The lattes. Walking me to my car-“
“That’s just called bein’ nice, doll,” he said, tongue darting out across his bottom lip.
“Not when your hand is on my back. Not when I can feel you practically eye-fucking me every time I wear something nice. Which, news flash, is almost every day in this industry,” you argued back.
You watched as big, bad super soldier Bucky Barnes’ cheeks turned pink. Bright pink. And there was that tick of his jaw again.
You pushed yourself off the conference table and grabbed him by his tie, tugging him down so close you could smell the coffee and wintergreen mint on his breath. His eyes widened. “You could tell me to stop,” you whispered. “But I know damn well you won’t.”
You released the hold on his tie and walked back towards the briefing room door. “You have thirty minutes before the vote. I suggest you get going,” you called over your shoulder, smile in your voice as you flung the door open and - once again - left Bucky Barnes too stunned to speak.
The days that followed were…Long and dull and irritating. The old man was somehow grumpy all the time, seemingly moping about how you’d called him out on his little stunts. No flowers, no coffees, no offers to walk you out.
The routine was simple - you’d hand him his coffee and he’d grunt out a very half-hearted ‘thanks’. His eyes - the same ones that used to shamelessly stare - would avoid you at all costs, even if it meant gazing into blank space. He spoke only when absolutely necessary, and you continued to do your work on your laptop while quietly nestled in the armchair across from him. The tension was heavy.
Finally, you’d had enough. You turned up to work on a gloriously sunny Friday morning in your very best dress, tights, and godforsaken high heels. You appeared to be dressed for the most important press conference of your life, except not even a low-level briefing was scheduled for that day. In fact, nothing was scheduled for that day and that was exactly the point.
You set the paper coffee cup down on his desk, fingers lingering around the cardboard sleeve before retreating. “G’Mornin’, Congressman,” you greeted in your usual cheery tone, not like it mattered that much recently.
“Thanks,” he grumbled, reaching for the cup. And as he did, his eyes caught sight of your dress. For the first time in nearly a week, he gave you a quick once-over that ended in an expression of confusion. “Did I miss something on my itinerary?”
You smiled sweetly and shook your head. “Oh, no,” you assured with a little shrug, batting your eyelashes.
His brows furrowed. “Then…What is all of this?” he questioned, gesturing to your outfit.
You looked down at yourself, playing stupid even though you knew exactly what you were doing. “This?” you asked with a small laugh. “Oh, I have a lunch date. Figured I’d get a little dressed up.”
You watched with satisfaction as his jaw ticked. You’d struck a nerve. His eyes narrowed. “Didn’t even know you had a boyfriend,” he remarked, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest.
“First date.”
“Lunch for a first date?”
“Why not?”
“That’s not a very good impression.”
“And what is?”
Bucky’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, annoyance flickering behind his eyes. “I think a nice dinner would be suitable,” he muttered, and then hunched back over his desk as he pretended to shuffle some papers around. “What’s he like?”
You were a little taken aback that he was so invested in your lie, but you supposed it helped to sell the point. “He’s older. Stubborn. A little hard to talk to, but he’s hot so…”
He huffed. “Good luck with that. You’ll need it.”
Oh, yeah. You’d definitely need it…
Your lunch date ended up being between yourself and a disgustingly healthy salad from the cafe across the street, eaten quietly in the comfort of your car as you watched an episode of a sitcom.
Once the hour had gone and passed, you returned to Bucky’s office. And the second you sat back in the armchair and reached for your laptop, he was questioning you. Prying.
“How was the date?”
“It was…Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Eh…Men. You know how it goes, I’m sure.”
His piercing blue gaze was boring into you, you could practically feel it. But you paid him no direct attention as you navigated to a spreadsheet. “Oh, I’m sure. Just like I’m sure you didn’t actually go on a date.”
You felt your mouth run dry and your heart skip a beat. Your eyes flicked up from your laptop. You cocked an eyebrow. “And how are you so sure about that, Barnes? Don’t think I’ve got a line of suitors a mile long?” You really didn’t, but he definitely didn’t know that.
He chuckled, something dark and low and gravelly - honey flowing over jagged stone. “Doll,” he drawled. If you hadn’t been seated, you were sure your knees would have buckled beneath you. “I’m sure you do. But we need to start being honest with ourselves.”
You tried incredibly hard to play it cool, but you were losing it - especially over the fact he was turning this into a ‘we’ situation instead of a ‘me’ situation. You’d long since accepted that you were in love with him - it was he who needed to be honest with himself.
“And what is that supposed to mean?” you snapped back, arms folding across your chest defensively. “I’m not the one wallowing in denial.”
Bucky’s jaw did that little tick-and-set that you knew damn too well and had become awfully acquainted with over the last week in particular. Except, this wasn’t a tick of defiance. You could see it in his eyes - his resolve was crumbling, slowly but surely.
“It’s not right.”
His words sat in the air for a moment, heavy and hard to ignore. Of course he’d be obsessed over thinking through whether something was right or wrong…You knew him. He wanted to do whatever was right.
“Just because it’s not right, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist,” you replied. “Plenty of wrong things exist that we can’t just ignore and push away.”
He sighed, closing the folder he had opened before tossing it aside on his desk and scrubbing a hand down his face. He looked…Exhausted. Clearly you meant something to him in a way he couldn’t control, and the lack of control was eating him alive.
You closed your laptop, slowly unfolded your legs like you were giving yourself an extra second to back out, and then you made your way over to his desk. You propped yourself up against the corner, a finger hooking just beneath the Congressman’s chin and gently bringing his gaze to yours.
“What do you want?” you murmured, searching his face for answers. “Tell me…”
You didn’t expect it. Not in the very least - not with how conflicted he seemed. But he stood up from his chair, towering over you and leaving your hand hanging in the negative space. Then, his palms were on your cheeks - large, warm, calloused…Comforting. And he stooped down, lips colliding with yours.
He didn’t even need to use words - the kiss expressed it all. It was firm, confident. Reverent and gentle like you were a precious treasure for the taking. He pulled back just briefly, just long enough to whisper, “You.”
His lips were back on yours before you even had a chance to react - rough, claiming, and messy. It was like he was trying to make up for lost time, devouring every bit of you that he could. The kiss suffocated you and gave you life in the very same breath, and everything that followed was uncoordinated chaos.
Without breaking the kiss, his hands reached behind you and shoved everything off the desk - he sent papers, pens, binders, folders, paper clips…Everything tumbling to the floor. Luckily, the carpet muffled most of the sound.
His tongue was slipping into your mouth now, entangling itself with your own as you both moaned into the kiss. His hands grabbed roughly at your waist, picking you up and setting you down on the dead center of his desk - cold mahogany bit at the backs of your thighs through your stockings as he impatiently nudged his chair out of the way with his hip.
Although reluctant, he finally broke the kiss and knelt between your legs - he wasted no time rucking your tight dress up over your thighs. He couldn’t help himself - Lord knows he tried. He audibly groaned just at the sight of the silver garter clips biting into the delicate, black lace frill of your stockings, and how they squeezed at the plump flesh of your upper thighs just slightly. “Smart girl,” he murmured, tongue darting across his bottom lip as his eyes traced gradually upwards to where you were already soaking through your matching lacy panties. “You know what I like, don’t you?”
Your cheeks flushed dark crimson - guilty as charged! And you figured you didn’t need to actually answer that question seeing as you were already wearing the bastard child of all the clothing items that had ever gotten his attention.
Looking up for just a moment, breath hitching in your throat, you noticed the full-length mirror set just behind Bucky’s desk - the exact one you’d convinced him to get so he could keep better tabs on his appearance. And, right now, reflected back at you was a most scandalous image of yourself with Congressman Barnes nestled between your legs and your red-bottom heels dangling over his broad, muscled shoulders.
He noticed the way your breath caught and how you tensed beneath his touch, and his gaze followed your awe-struck stare to the reflective surface. A small smirk tugged at his lips. “Mmm…I see,” he said, plotting. “Wanna watch while I make a mess of you?” His voice was low, quiet.
You nodded, coming off more eager than you’d intended. “Y-Yes…” you managed to stammer out, brain still stuck two minutes ago on the kiss and the confession.
He hummed in approval, and then you felt his fingers hooking into the lace of your panties - you began to feel the soft, slow drag of the thin fabric as he guided them down your legs and left them hanging off the pointy toe of your left heel - it was like he was displaying a trophy, soaking wet and glistening in the dim light.
You watched as he shifted himself barely off to the side and tugged you closer to the edge of the desk. Now, displayed proudly in the mirror, was your dripping heat. You swallowed hard, throat running dry as Bucky watched your reaction through reflection. “She’s pretty, huh?” he cooed, bringing his flesh hand up and gently spreading your folds apart with two fingers - he was touching you like glass, something fragile.
You saw how you clenched around nothing at just his words - needy and involuntary like your body knew exactly what and who it wanted - no, needed. “She’s cryin’ f’me already,” he drawled, voice slurred in lustful wonder. “Beggin’ for somethin’…Don’t ya think?” He tilted his head, stormy blues flicking up towards you. “Look at me and answer me, doll.” He was almost pleading.
You managed to peel your gaze away from the mirror and gaze directly down at him, seeing those once icy orbs turning dark as blown pupils swallowed nearly all signs of brilliant color. “Y-Yes,” you whispered. “N-Need it…”
“Need what?”
You could feel a shameful heat blooming up your neck and across your cheeks to the tips of your ears. “Y-You…Y-Your fingers…”
“Mouth too?”
You whined and nodded, so eager yet again.
“Greedy…” he muttered, but he didn’t protest any further as he leaned in and licked a long, slow stripe up your exposed cunt.
You shuddered at his delicate touch, his breath fanning warm against your skin as he circled the tip of his tongue teasingly along your clit and then trailed back down to your entrance. You gasped, hands flying up and finding purchase in that perfect raven hair.
You hung your head back and then felt him pull away, drawing a whimper of protest from you. “Want you lookin’ over there f’me,” he said, nodding towards the mirror. “Don’t you be closing those pretty little eyes on me now.”
He leaned up and kissed you, soft and chaste but just long enough to get a good taste of yourself on his lips. And, as he sat back, you felt him slowly push a finger inside you. You moaned - soft and breathy - while glancing into the reflection across from you and watching as his digit slowly disappeared inside you. Your legs trembled a little as you felt him crook that finger up, burying even deeper against your fluttering walls. “Fuck…” you sighed out.
“That’s it, doll. Beautiful. Think you can handle one more?” he murmured, kissing at the side of your neck - wet and sloppy - as he slowly moved his finger in and out in a rocking motion that was borderline hypnotic.
“Mmm…Mmhm,” you whined, gasping as you felt him immediately slip a second finger in right beside the first. You continued to watch the obscenities play out in the mirror as his fingers stretched you open, pumping in and out of your weeping cunt - slow and deep.
“Got a tight little pussy…She’s greedy, not wantin’ to let me go…” he teased, and you swore you saw stars as he shoved them in even deeper and curled them up right against that soft, spongy spot that had your back arching towards him. He seemed pleased with that reaction. “Is that it? That where ya need me, doll?”
You nodded almost frantically, crying out as he started to bully his fingers into that spot over and over and over. “Yes! Yes! Buck-“ He quickly clapped his metal hand down over your mouth.
“Quiet, doll,” he warned, shaking his head, “Don’t wanna get caught…”
You swallowed hard, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes from the blinding hot pleasure building inside you. “B-Bucky…” you mumbled against his hand, watching as his fingers fucked in and out of you, curling deep and scissoring apart to stretch you open for him.
“Atta girl…C’mon…Just let go f’me…” he encouraged, pupils blown as he glanced between you and the mirror. “Let me see how gorgeous you are when you cum f’me…”
And so you did, screaming out against the cold vibranium vice across your mouth as you felt yourself clench down tight around his fingers. The rolling tide of your orgasm washed over you - a warm, electric wave that left you breathless and panting and pulsing around his digits.
After coaxing you through your high, Bucky slipped his fingers out and held them up in front of him as he watched your glistening slick drip down the length of them. He licked his lips. “Look at that,” he breathed, not breaking eye contact as he popped the soaked digits in his mouth and moaned as he sucked them clean.
You whimpered. God, he was so fucking hot. The salt and pepper of his beard was also coated in you, shining golden in the lamplight. Watching how his eyes fluttered shut as he savored the taste of you on his skin…
He pulled his fingers out, wiping them dry on your dress before diving in head-first and beginning to lap up all the sweet release that coated your cunt.
“A-Ah~! B-Bucky…” you gasped out, chewing down hard on your bottom lip as he made the most obscene sounds while he licked and sucked you clean - devouring you like it was his last meal.
“Sweetest little pussy I’ve ever tasted,” he mumbled against you, voice sending vibrations straight through your ruined core.
As he stood back up, you couldn’t help but feel intimidated by the way he was absolutely towering over you. You were entirely in his shadow and at his mercy.
He shrugged his suit jacket off, tossing it onto the nearby chair and then he slipped off his tie, balling it up in his fist. He looked at you with dark eyes, but there was a softness peeking through that contrasted so heavily with the words he spoke. “Open up, doll,” he drawled, low and slow. “Gotta make sure the whole of Congress doesn’t hear ya now.”
You obediently parted your lips, mouth almost being shoved open as he stuffed the balled-up silk into your mouth. You tried to moan, just to see how you’d sound. It was muffled, but just loud enough that he could still get the satisfaction of hearing it.
Then, metal clinked softly against metal as he slowly undid his belt and threw it over the chair where his jacket lay discarded. He popped open the button on his dress slacks, pulled down the fly, and then unfurled himself from inside his boxers. He wasn’t trying to put on a show, but that didn’t stop you from staring the entire time.
You weren’t sure you’d ever seen such a delicious sight in your life, let alone the glaring fact that he was huge. His cock stood, curved slightly at attention and flushed red - aching and already leaking incessantly at the thought of being buried inside your tight cunt.
Bucky took a step towards you, almost completely closing the gap between his pelvis and yours, save the length of his throbbing dick. Flesh hand wrapping around the base, he teasingly guided the fat tip of his cock up and down your folds, lubing himself up before just notching himself at your entrance.
You whined through the gag, the corners of your eyes already damp with tears.
“Hmm? I didn’t quite catch that, doll,” he murmured as he began to push himself inside inch by agonizing inch.
And it wasn’t agonizing in the sense that it hurt. No, it was agonizing because all you wanted was his entire cock sheathed between your walls, but all he was doing was feeding it to you little by little. The stretch burned, but in a way that once again had your back arching off the damn desk and your toes curling in your heels as you locked your ankles around his waist.
Once he bottomed out, hips pressed flushed to yours, his hands roughly gripped at the flesh of your thighs as he carefully pulled out and then slammed his hips back against yours. You moaned out, voice muffled by the tie. Your eyes screwed shut, tears of pleasure tracking black trails of mascara down your cheeks.
“Uh-Uh,” he grunted. “C’mon, sweet thing. Open those pretty eyes f’me again. Don’t close ‘em now…”
You whimpered at his words, but obeyed like your life depended on it - like you were tethered to him and existing there just to grant his every lustful plea. Your eyelids, although heavy, fluttered back open and you gazed up at him through wet lashes.
The pace he set was brutal and breathtaking, and it had you moaning and sputtering around the makeshift gag as he dragged out to his tip and then slammed back in so your body was flush to his. You could feel the way his cock so perfectly nudged against that soft spot inside of you, leaving your thighs trembling in his grasp.
“Perfect little pussy is takin’ me so well,” he breathed out, head dropping down by your shoulder and soft grunts falling from his lips as he continued to pound into you. “Want me to fill ya up? Hmm?” he growled. “C-Cum f’me, doll. I can feel it…Know ya want to…”
Every merciless intrusion of his cock sent sharp, white-hot sparks of pleasure straight to your core. And it didn’t take very long before you were trying - and failing - to scream his name through the spit-dampened tie. Drool was running down the corners of your mouth and dribbling onto your tits from your chin - and, your cunt clenched down around his cock as your body shook and your fingers white-knuckled the edges of the desk.
Bucky followed shortly afterwards, your name rolling off his tongue so effortlessly and entangled in sweet praises. “That’s it, doll…Mmph~ Give it all to me…” He buried himself in as deep as he could, his cock throbbing and filling you up completely with his thick, warm release.
After a moment where the two of you were catching your breaths in the electrified silence, he suddenly slipped out and tucked himself back into his slacks. You squeaked a little in shock when you felt your combined releases leaking all over the dark mahogany of the desk in pearlescent, white streaks.
Bucky looped his belt back on and then reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket to retrieve a large, embroidered handkerchief - of course he had one of those. “You made such a mess, doll,” he scolded softly, taking a corner of the soft, cotton square and dabbing up your hot, inky tears and pathetic drool before folding the hanky over itself and wiping up the cum that was still lazily dripping from your entrance.
Once you were clean enough, he retrieved your panties from the toe of your heels and helped you slip them back on. Only then did he take the tie back from your mouth.
“I expect you to have that speech done by six,” he said, like he hadn’t just fucked you right there in his office. “And then I want you to go home. You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow.”
You were shaking as you wobbled on your heels and tried your best to fix your mussed dress and hair.
As you turned to walk back to the armchair, head still floaty and fuzzy and warm in the afterglow, his hand caught your shoulder and you turned around.
“But don’t forget to let me walk you out tonight, okay?”
You could almost laugh. Bucky Barnes, always a goddamn gentleman.
im imagining nerdy roomie or bestie (or both !) bucky’s first time and wants it to be with someone he trusts and feels safe with so you’re obviously the best candidate !!!!
hes so so flustered at the scene, your tits in his face and heat on his cock, ONLY looking into your eyes, your face all smiley and soft fuck he doesnt know what to do he thinks he could cum untouched rn,, and hes so unbelievably hard, leaking pre all over his tummy, twitching and begging for some kinda relief,, and once you’re finally seated on him, squeezing him, letting your walls pulse, hes trying so damn hard not to bust inside of you. jaw set, teeth creaking together, his hands clawing at the sofa cushions, panting, eyes shut tight, heart jackrabbiting out of his chest
im thinking of reader giggling a little at his reactions bc hes sooo and the force has you tightening around him and he has to grip your hips and try to get you to still or get off him but ur sooo warmmmmm and tighttttt and your laughs are so pretty and you’re so pretty….
gurhrhhhhhh hes so cute im gonna try and write a little drabble thingie i miss my subby boy so much😭😭 THANK YOU ANON FOR THIS
thought about the possibility of him being such a little nerd, wanting to be good and right for you so he shaves and when you point it out he gets so soooo flustered and red but you reassure him by kissing his balls and he pulls you up so quick bc he doesnt wanna cum too fast i love him
I feel like simply calling JK Rowling a transphobe isn't strong enough anymore. Like. This is not your grandpa calling you by your deadname at a restaurant kind of transphobic. This is her wanting to eradicate all trans people (with an extra special hatred towards trans women specifically). This is her trying just that by personally funding transphobic hate groups with millions to push around laws in the UK. It is not hyperbolic to call her a dangerous, genocidal maniac.
It's not about cancelling a problematic writer. It's about literally trying to save lives by denying her as much money and power as possible.
pairing: bucky barnes x reader
summary: after his daughter, winnie, ripped the arm off her beloved stuffed doggy, bucky takes the day off to take care him, subsequently figuring some things out while doing so -
or, bucky sews up a new arm for his daughters favourite teddy . . .
warnings: fluff, dad!bucky, mom!reader, domestic fluff, some angst, written with congressman!bucky in mind, bucky wears glasses while working, bucky's daughter is called Winnie (win, pea, sweetheart, baby, babygirl...), Nat, Tony, Sam and Steve mentioned, aunt!nat and uncle!sam lol . . .
word count: 4k
a/n: wow a fluff thats crazy. im aware im not the best at these but i got this idea a week or so ago while going to work and it hasn't let me alone since so, i tried !
bucky m.list || masterlist || navigation
The plastic laundry basket rattles and creaks against your hip. Tapping your finger on the handle without a real rhythm, humming inquisitively and melodically, floorboards groaning under your feet as you pass down the hallway, and into the sun-warmed bedroom where stickers plastered yay high on the door, just below the painted calligraphy of dusty green you had tasked yourself on, even though you'd started waddling and huffing at every sprig of movement at the time. Winnie.
It's oddly quiet, not too unusual for a school day, but even so the padding of socked feet thumping around, excited squeals and giggles and tight little arms latched around your calf fill your days up so full and bright, the few hours of emptiness never fail to have you staring at the unmade bed and sigh with a smile.
Placing the basket down to your feet, you lean down to straighten the linens. Uncurling the stripes of red, tucking them in at the corners, folding at the pillows before starting on those next. Fluffing and placing them carefully to the wall, gathering her favourite blanket she'd pulled to the centre of the room for a late night reading session by the bonfire (her bedside lamp she had also moved) to drape across the foot of the bed.
Once done, straightening up only to stretch out the achy kinks in your muscles, you turn for the finishing touch. Dusty, Winnie's companion. The kind of teddy you must pry out of a child's hand — or at least try and swap it out with a similar weight like a Mission Impossible movie — but your little Win had a sixth sense for her darling dog. Matted fur from bone crushing (or pellet crushing, in Dusty's case) hugs, colour dulled from the years, and eyes wobbled from the thread. He may have been living up to his name, but he carries her love like no other.
But in recent days, you've noticed a difference in Dusty's appearance. His front left leg was simply… missing.
It wasn't hard to put two and two together. Your husband, brooding eyes and tired sighs, Bucky Barnes, had spent the good part of Winnie's first years acclimatising both Win, and himself, to his arm.
Holding her comfortably against his chest, in the crook of his right arm, as so his left — all shiny vibranium and gold veins — could pat and caress. Holding it up, wiggling his fingers while cooing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star just to see her chubby cheeks round out and gargle a laugh through a gummy smile. Bucky had even found himself soothing her by gently wiping the bridge of her nose with the smooth tip of his index finger, shushing down her cries, murmuring praises into the air, smiling softly as her eyes droop shut and soft croons from the back of her throat quieted into yawns, dribble on ironed work shirts and sweet, even breaths.
But Dusty and his three limbs were nowhere to be seen.
Not on the bedside table, or made as a suspicious lump underneath your neat origami of bed sheets. Not using the bunting hung from the corners as a makeshift swing set, or gathered around the lamp-made bonfire.
The laundry sat forgotten as your feet darted down the hall and down the flight of stairs, all to have been halted once you found yourself in the dining room. Your hair flew back as you caught yourself, hand holding the doorway.
Bucky sat at the table, button up shirt open at the collar, sleeves shoved to his elbow, hair the same colour as his daughters mussed back from fingers, and glasses slipping to the tip of his nose. Before you could fully appreciate the sight before you, you realised the scene. A sewing needle poked out the corner of his lip, held in place by his teeth, a large enough sheet of fabric, black with soft gold accents, laid out on the surface next to the project, cut in meticulous patterns, chalk lines fading off. And the main event was Dusty himself, and the appendage of dark cloth, sewn haphazardly with the kind of skill a boy on a mission would have, into a similar shape to the dog's right leg.
"Jesus," you exhale, holding your chest. "I thought you had work today?"
"I—Uh," He glances up at you over the top of his glasses where they perch low on the tip of his nose. Muffled by the needle in his mouth, he takes it out, leaning both elbows to the table, inhaling as if finding the correct answer. "I did. Have work."
You lean against the frame now. Arms crossed over your chest, smiling in amusement.
"But?"
"But," he imitates, looking back down at the work he's doing, holding the needle between two fingers and waving it slightly. "I have more pressing matters to attend to."
"Oh yeah?" You push off and walk your way over, sliding into the chair adjacent to his, leaning your chin on the palm of your hand. "More pressing than paperwork and board meetings? Pressing matters meaning Dusty?"
He laughs once, an exhales huff paired with an easy smile, but he keeps working. His phone was still open, propped up on a vase of cosmos and baby's breath, a paused video tutorial on sewing. You pretend not to have noticed, pretend like your heart didn't swell ten times the size in that one millisecond your eyes flittered.
"I—ah… I may have hold Win, while tucking her in last night, that I'd take Dusty to the 'hospital' today while she was at school," he shrugged, momentarily pausing to run a hand through his hair to keep it back, only for the strands to fall back over his face. "Was tired of finding stuffing on the floor."
"Tired of stuffing on the floor?"
"Mhm," he drags out, tight lipped, looping the needle through the two meeting points of the inside out fabric, pulling until slight resistance, before going again. "I also wanted to surprise her. Got up early to go out lookin' for some stuff, just to close up the hole, but I… saw the fabric, and… I mean, I understand why she—she'd take the arm off," he sighed again, looking back up at you over his glasses. When he sees you already smiling, he loosens up, smiling too, cheeks pinkening under the dusting from his beard.
"I think she'd like it."
"She'll love it, Buck," you reassure, reaching out to draw a knuckle over the back of his hand. "Didn't know you could sew, though."
The chair groans under his weight, stretching out, leaning back. "It's been a long, long time, sweetheart. Used to watch my momma when I had nothing better to do, sometimes she'd make me help her out until my fingers were all sore and poked raw, and, uh, you pick up some shit out in the field. Clothes get ripped, you know the gist," you do. He waves a dismissive hand. "Did have to remind myself though, but don't tell Winnie, I wanna look smart."
You giggle, easing up from the seat to make your way over. "You are smart, and Win already thinks the world of you,"
Leaning over, you drape your arms over his shoulders and rest your chin to his head, pausing the dismissive shake to your statement.
"It looks good. You're really good at this." You murmur into his hair with a kiss.
Bucky hums, pushing his glasses back up with a knuckle. "M'not."
"Hm, you are. And Winnie loves you, and I love you, and she's gonna love you more after this," you peck his head again.
"You know, everyday I think that theres no way I could love you more? You do all of these amazing things, you've done amazing things — things I can't even fathom — and yet you keep going above and beyond," before you could finish your words, Bucky tucks a piece of hair behind his ear, and you move. Legs walking, mind filing through memories, to the comfortable, organised mess of the living room.
When you come back, standing behind your husband, you clip the strands of hair that have been bothering him back with two tiny butterfly clips, one pink, the other green. He makes no protest, only smiling down at his work, already understanding and thankful when he heard the little snap.
You kiss his head again, in the space between the clips and stay there a little longer. Arms wrapping around his shoulders, massaging your thumbs into the muscle and to the base of his neck.
"You're amazing. I dunno how I could keep up."
He makes a noise, humorous, slightly dismissive. "You don't need to keep up. Don't need to do anything," leaning his head back to your chest, he sighs again. "I fell for you the way you are. Beautiful, talented, funny, witty in a way I have always been kinda jealous of, and so terrifying sometimes, even I get nervous at parent teacher conferences."
You scoff, running your hands down to drape across his chest.
"I'm not that scary—"
"Oh, you are," he leans to the side and kisses your forearm, lingering his lips for a few seconds, rubbing the soft skin and the coarse hairs of his beard across the inside of your arm, before pressing another kiss and mumbling into you. "I remember years ago when you ripped Tony a new one. Dunno what, somethin' about a mission being sent out too early bein' dangerous. God, I remember walkin' in and I don't think I blinked,"
A laugh rumbled through your chest, pushing at the back of Bucky's head. He pauses for a moment, holding up the black and gold cushioned paw in his left hand. The plates whir as if smiling at his work.
"That was when I knew I wanted to marry you."
"Sap," You press another kiss to his scalp, and another, then another. "If I'm remembering correctly, cause Tony just loves to piss me off, we weren't even together at that time."
Shaking his head, you can feel the apples of his cheeks fill with a smile. "Nope. Had it all planned out from there on out. Even Steve could tell I was whipped after we left the room."
You tut, straightening up. "And it took you like, what, three years to actually ask me out?"
Before he could retort, already stuttering on an answer, pushing his glasses atop his head, hands curled on the edge of the table. You walk with a bounce in your step back towards the doorway.
"Okay, you've got about an hour or so til pick up so, it might be best to get that leg on. Meanwhile, I've got laundry to do and dinner to start."
As your footsteps thump up the stairs, Bucky calls up to you.
"It was a year!"
"If you say so!" You shout back, already passing back into the colourful, warm mess of your daughter's bedroom to stifle through the little clothes on the floor.
After tossing a pink pyjama set, two pairs of dirt stained socks and a pair of cherry red jeans stained green at the knees, his voice calls out again.
"I love you!"
You giggle. Big and bright, staring down at the messy clothes of your child's, stained with inquisitive wonder and whimsy. Pens thrown on the ground next to an opened colouring book, handmade crochet blankets in a box by the bed, pre-loved books on the shelf, fairy lights and garlands draped across corners.
"I know!"
-
Amongst the crowd of parents waiting on their kids — hulking them up and on their hips, taking their little book bags out their tiny hands to help straighten their clothes — Bucky stayed leaning against the far wall.
The sun still dripped down through the clouds, leaving a cool enough breeze to ease off uncomfortable warmth. It nipped up his bare arms, still clad in his 'work' clothes, white shirt still slightly unbuttoned and sleeves still rolled up, and Dusty stayed tucked inside of the pocket in his pants, covered by his hands.
Kids laughed, squealed at times whenever their parent would pick them up or bounce them, maybe even swing them from between the two. He stayed indifferent, watching the double doors swing open to a new wave of tiny heads, watching the teachers he's come to trust (reluctantly) wave enthusiastically or high-five if the kid asked for such. He stifled a growing smile as one child missed twice.
It wasn't until the sound of quick footsteps pitter-pattered against the asphalt his attention turned and was completely swallowed by the small shooting star about to plummet straight into him.
Brown hair tied into two low braids waved behind her as her little body came running the wavering crowd. Adorned in patchwork dungarees, a stripy shirt and little red boots Nat had gotten her for her last birthday because 'kids can be badasses too'.
"Daddy!" She giggled as she ran, smile so wide it looked like it hurt.
Dropping down to one knee, he just about caught the little cannonball of energy as she leapt into his arms. Little hands around his neck, feet barely touching the ground. The force of her impact made Bucky topple back into the wall with a groan, laughing into her hair as they both squeezed.
"Hey, sweetheart," he greeted, muffled into the the crook of her shoulder, easing and patting the back of her head. "Geez, you've got a lot of energy, you had a good day?"
"Uh-huh! I found some caterpillars during recess, they were all fuzzy and climbing up a tree and I was their protector! Other kids kept tryin' to poke at them but me and some friends guarded them!"
"That's nice, Win." Bucky groaned as he pushed himself, and an energetic five year old, and her backpack up from the wall. Easing her to sit on his hip, she dangled her legs excitedly, grasping into the front of his shirt.
"And we got to play heads up seven up, but don't tell but I looked at their shoes whenever they got me so I won extra reading time, but i didn't do it all of the time! I only did it once in a while so I didn't look sus… suspi—shuss."
"It's 'suspicious', sweetpea, 'sus-pi-shush', and did Auntie Nat teach you that?"
Winnie shakes her head, still smiling, braids whipping to and fro. "Uncle Sam!"
His brows lower in defeat. "Of course he did."
Pebbles crunch beneath the soles of his dress shoes, bumping Winnie up higher on his side, she hums.
"Daddy?"
"Yeah, baby?"
"Is Dusty okay at the hospital?" She fiddles at the collar of his shirt, voice low as she asks.
"Oh, yeah. Hey, you just reminded me, I gotta… got a little surprise for you." he places her back to the ground, following her down to squat in front of her. Rummaging through his pocket, he kept one hand on her bicep to keep her close.
"A surprise?"
Once out, bucky holds out the old dog in his hands, elbows to his knees, cupping around his floppy torso carefully. At this angle, both Dusty and Bucky adorn the arms, and little Winnie watches bright-eyed as Bucky moved his fingers with a whir under Dusty's to greet with a little wave.
"You match!" She gasps before her dad could explain. "Daddy, you and Dusty match!"
He chuckles, "yeah, we do, don't we?" Holding the teddy up, he points out the new leg, nodding and playing along. "Took a little while, but he's good as new. Missed you terribly while you were out here — conning your way into more reading time," he murmurs under his breath as Winnie takes her companion from his hand to smother him in the tightest hug. "Wouldn't stop askin' for you after the procedure, he wanted to show you ASAP."
"He looks exactly just like you, daddy!"
He straightens up, taking her hand in his, making a slight face. "Well, I wouldn't say exactly just like me—"
"You both look so cool!" She exclaims, jumping in his hold excitedly, "Dusty has a cool arm like daddy now!"
His head knocks back in a soft flinch. Despite the slight tingle in his sinuses, the soft smile on his lips and the adoring look he glances down at his daughter, he doesn't cry — not yet, at least, he wont allow it. And while he wants to ask if she really means it, if his arm really is cool, if she did rip it off Dusty to be like him, if she really did love him, adore him, like you said she does; instead he keeps smiling and guiding her back to the car with his chest full of something akin to the cloudy, cotton feeling he got when he held her for the first time.
And he really did match Dusty.
"C'mon, Pea," he clears his throat, trying to hide the bundles of emotion, golden and honey thick in his chest. "Momma's probably wondering where we are."
With one last skip, she giggles, holding the dog up to her face. "Thank you for making him better, daddy."
Comically, his eyes twitch and his bottom lip just about juts out into a pout. Inhaling, exhaling, grounding himself — trying to, at least — he squeezes the little hand in his own once.
"Of course, baby."
And she squeezes back. Once around his hand, small yet mighty, and another around his heart.
-
"Momma!"
The door's barely open before the loud rapt of Winnie comes bounding over.
"In here!" You reply, voice echoing from the kitchen, stirring the pot one last time and easing the flame low on the stove.
"Ah-ah," Bucky tuts, clicking his fingers, whistling once, catching her just in the nick of time. "Shoes off and bag at the door, you know what momma's like."
With a dramatic groan — wonder where she gets that from — she copies Bucky. Toeing off her boots clumsily, before plopping her butt down on the floor to impatiently untangle the knots you had tied that morning, ultimately letting her dad pull them off her feet and place them neatly on the shoe rack.
As Bucky slipped off the last shoe, Winnie made a run for it.
"Momma!" She calls again. Bounding down the hallway, socked feet thumping off the floor. As he follows behind, Bucky wonders how such a small being can make so much noise.
"Hey, babygirl!" you beam, listening to the excited racket thud closer and closer, propping a lid on top of the pan.
A blow hits your legs, catching your breath as you laugh at her dramatics. Stroking the frizzy hairs down from her plaits.
"C'mere," you beckon, pulling her up for a hug, air constricting and tight as it might be, you reciprocate with wiggling from side to side and groaning with playful aggression. You believe you could photosynthesise on her giggles alone. "What did you get up to today, anything fun? Make friends? Change the world?"
"Look, look, look!"
Plastic beading rattles as she holds Dusty up in front of her for you to behold, pressing her little mouth to his head, copying the wave Dusty had greeted her with.
With a gasp, you wobble her happily. "Oh my goodness, Dusty's back!"
"His arm, momma, look at his arm!" She exclaims, kicking her legs happily.
"He had the best surgeon looking out for him, baby," glancing up at your husband's simper, you kiss her forehead. "Doesn't it look great?"
"It's amazing!"
Jumping her up a couple times on your hip, you hum. "Yeah? Did you thank daddy?"
Nodding her head with a beam, a smile bucky can only compare to yours with the way rooms seem to brighten when shown, she pulls her hands up for him to hold her next. "Thank you, daddy!"
"Yeah, yeah," he grunts, holding her without a complaint, "you said that fifteen times in the car already, Pea."
The room settles easily, with the quiet simmer of food bubbling and stove searing, birds whistling in the garden and traffic humming, it's familiar and easy, and it's home.
It isn't long until Winnie's restless little body squirms in Bucky's arms, and he sets her free with a quiet 'go on', sprinting back up to her room with a chorus of high pitched giggles.
Propping himself against the worksurface, arms crossed over his chest, head on the cabinets, Bucky sighs. It's a sigh of ease, contentment. The kind he would let out once the streets filled with the orange of lampposts, and he got home to find you, warm and sleepy, tucked in bed as he stripped himself of button ups and tailored suits, and swapped it out with a bare chest and sweatpants — the sigh would only come once his arms wrapped around you and his nose buried into your hair.
A smile creeps on your lips, moving to take a place next to him.
"You know, apparently she cheated at heads up seven up today. For extra reading time. But only did it enough times not to look 'suspicious'." He squints his eyes, following the word with quotation marks.
Sucking in a breath, you click your tongue against the backs of your teeth. "Ooh, don't tell me," you whisper, patting a finger on your chin in thought. "Nat?"
He shakes his head, tight lipped, "Sam."
"So we're crossing him off the babysitting list."
"Hm, I think he's doin' it on purpose," he hums, tipping his chin up, moving his hands down to find the small of your back. "Keep him on, he's doing the next gig."
Pulling you closer until you stand between his open legs. He holds your hips, rubbing small circles through your pants, holding eye contact.
"I meant what I said today." You murmur, keeping your eyes on his, holding authority. To which Bucky loses with great pleasure, sneaking glances to your lips.
"I know."
"You're amazing," you mumble again, basking in the tiny looks he holds to your mouth, how he licks his own lips and the soft, humming feeling of his thumbs making patterns, and his fingers changing position to subtly bring you closer.
"I mean it. Truly," You rest your hands on his shoulders, squeezing, careful around the soft tissue that bumps around his left. "I love you. We both do. So, so much."
Your eyes hold his, and this time he doesn't sneak away, and he doesn't try to hide with a bashful look or a glimpse at your lips, right there. Though his eyes redden at the edges, the whites of his eyes glisten off the stovetop light, and you can just about see your reflection pool inside of his pupils.
"I know." He replies, quieter than the last, and he finally leans the rest of the way and kisses you. Because it hits, not like a blow but a final blossom. He does know, and he thinks he has known this whole time. From the moment the nurse placed a whaling, sticky, tiny thing in his arms and his body tightened and loosened all at once, his lungs stuttering, and mouth instinctively formed the awkward whispers of 'you're alright, I got you, I know, it must be so cold'.
It's just only now, in the soft warmth of a kitchen, being used and not feeling like mere decoration with takeout in the fridge, the love of his life in front of him, pecking at his lips until laughter gets in the way and dinner sizzles from next to them. With a daughter, who loves to guard critters and create extravagant blanket forts, who reads to her bears and kisses them goodnight, one by one. Who ripped off her favourite teddy's left arm so he can be 'just exactly like daddy' — he's finally let himself realise just how adored he really is.
pairing: bucky barnes x reader
summary: after his daughter, winnie, ripped the arm off her beloved stuffed doggy, bucky takes the day off to take care him, subsequently figuring some things out while doing so -
or, bucky sews up a new arm for his daughters favourite teddy . . .
warnings: fluff, dad!bucky, mom!reader, domestic fluff, some angst, written with congressman!bucky in mind, bucky wears glasses while working, bucky's daughter is called Winnie (win, pea, sweetheart, baby, babygirl...), Nat, Tony, Sam and Steve mentioned, aunt!nat and uncle!sam lol . . .
word count: 4k
a/n: wow a fluff thats crazy. im aware im not the best at these but i got this idea a week or so ago while going to work and it hasn't let me alone since so, i tried !
bucky m.list || masterlist || navigation
The plastic laundry basket rattles and creaks against your hip. Tapping your finger on the handle without a real rhythm, humming inquisitively and melodically, floorboards groaning under your feet as you pass down the hallway, and into the sun-warmed bedroom where stickers plastered yay high on the door, just below the painted calligraphy of dusty green you had tasked yourself on, even though you'd started waddling and huffing at every sprig of movement at the time. Winnie.
It's oddly quiet, not too unusual for a school day, but even so the padding of socked feet thumping around, excited squeals and giggles and tight little arms latched around your calf fill your days up so full and bright, the few hours of emptiness never fail to have you staring at the unmade bed and sigh with a smile.
Placing the basket down to your feet, you lean down to straighten the linens. Uncurling the stripes of red, tucking them in at the corners, folding at the pillows before starting on those next. Fluffing and placing them carefully to the wall, gathering her favourite blanket she'd pulled to the centre of the room for a late night reading session by the bonfire (her bedside lamp she had also moved) to drape across the foot of the bed.
Once done, straightening up only to stretch out the achy kinks in your muscles, you turn for the finishing touch. Dusty, Winnie's companion. The kind of teddy you must pry out of a child's hand — or at least try and swap it out with a similar weight like a Mission Impossible movie — but your little Win had a sixth sense for her darling dog. Matted fur from bone crushing (or pellet crushing, in Dusty's case) hugs, colour dulled from the years, and eyes wobbled from the thread. He may have been living up to his name, but he carries her love like no other.
But in recent days, you've noticed a difference in Dusty's appearance. His front left leg was simply… missing.
It wasn't hard to put two and two together. Your husband, brooding eyes and tired sighs, Bucky Barnes, had spent the good part of Winnie's first years acclimatising both Win, and himself, to his arm.
Holding her comfortably against his chest, in the crook of his right arm, as so his left — all shiny vibranium and gold veins — could pat and caress. Holding it up, wiggling his fingers while cooing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star just to see her chubby cheeks round out and gargle a laugh through a gummy smile. Bucky had even found himself soothing her by gently wiping the bridge of her nose with the smooth tip of his index finger, shushing down her cries, murmuring praises into the air, smiling softly as her eyes droop shut and soft croons from the back of her throat quieted into yawns, dribble on ironed work shirts and sweet, even breaths.
But Dusty and his three limbs were nowhere to be seen.
Not on the bedside table, or made as a suspicious lump underneath your neat origami of bed sheets. Not using the bunting hung from the corners as a makeshift swing set, or gathered around the lamp-made bonfire.
The laundry sat forgotten as your feet darted down the hall and down the flight of stairs, all to have been halted once you found yourself in the dining room. Your hair flew back as you caught yourself, hand holding the doorway.
Bucky sat at the table, button up shirt open at the collar, sleeves shoved to his elbow, hair the same colour as his daughters mussed back from fingers, and glasses slipping to the tip of his nose. Before you could fully appreciate the sight before you, you realised the scene. A sewing needle poked out the corner of his lip, held in place by his teeth, a large enough sheet of fabric, black with soft gold accents, laid out on the surface next to the project, cut in meticulous patterns, chalk lines fading off. And the main event was Dusty himself, and the appendage of dark cloth, sewn haphazardly with the kind of skill a boy on a mission would have, into a similar shape to the dog's right leg.
"Jesus," you exhale, holding your chest. "I thought you had work today?"
"I—Uh," He glances up at you over the top of his glasses where they perch low on the tip of his nose. Muffled by the needle in his mouth, he takes it out, leaning both elbows to the table, inhaling as if finding the correct answer. "I did. Have work."
You lean against the frame now. Arms crossed over your chest, smiling in amusement.
"But?"
"But," he imitates, looking back down at the work he's doing, holding the needle between two fingers and waving it slightly. "I have more pressing matters to attend to."
"Oh yeah?" You push off and walk your way over, sliding into the chair adjacent to his, leaning your chin on the palm of your hand. "More pressing than paperwork and board meetings? Pressing matters meaning Dusty?"
He laughs once, an exhales huff paired with an easy smile, but he keeps working. His phone was still open, propped up on a vase of cosmos and baby's breath, a paused video tutorial on sewing. You pretend not to have noticed, pretend like your heart didn't swell ten times the size in that one millisecond your eyes flittered.
"I—ah… I may have hold Win, while tucking her in last night, that I'd take Dusty to the 'hospital' today while she was at school," he shrugged, momentarily pausing to run a hand through his hair to keep it back, only for the strands to fall back over his face. "Was tired of finding stuffing on the floor."
"Tired of stuffing on the floor?"
"Mhm," he drags out, tight lipped, looping the needle through the two meeting points of the inside out fabric, pulling until slight resistance, before going again. "I also wanted to surprise her. Got up early to go out lookin' for some stuff, just to close up the hole, but I… saw the fabric, and… I mean, I understand why she—she'd take the arm off," he sighed again, looking back up at you over his glasses. When he sees you already smiling, he loosens up, smiling too, cheeks pinkening under the dusting from his beard.
"I think she'd like it."
"She'll love it, Buck," you reassure, reaching out to draw a knuckle over the back of his hand. "Didn't know you could sew, though."
The chair groans under his weight, stretching out, leaning back. "It's been a long, long time, sweetheart. Used to watch my momma when I had nothing better to do, sometimes she'd make me help her out until my fingers were all sore and poked raw, and, uh, you pick up some shit out in the field. Clothes get ripped, you know the gist," you do. He waves a dismissive hand. "Did have to remind myself though, but don't tell Winnie, I wanna look smart."
You giggle, easing up from the seat to make your way over. "You are smart, and Win already thinks the world of you,"
Leaning over, you drape your arms over his shoulders and rest your chin to his head, pausing the dismissive shake to your statement.
"It looks good. You're really good at this." You murmur into his hair with a kiss.
Bucky hums, pushing his glasses back up with a knuckle. "M'not."
"Hm, you are. And Winnie loves you, and I love you, and she's gonna love you more after this," you peck his head again.
"You know, everyday I think that theres no way I could love you more? You do all of these amazing things, you've done amazing things — things I can't even fathom — and yet you keep going above and beyond," before you could finish your words, Bucky tucks a piece of hair behind his ear, and you move. Legs walking, mind filing through memories, to the comfortable, organised mess of the living room.
When you come back, standing behind your husband, you clip the strands of hair that have been bothering him back with two tiny butterfly clips, one pink, the other green. He makes no protest, only smiling down at his work, already understanding and thankful when he heard the little snap.
You kiss his head again, in the space between the clips and stay there a little longer. Arms wrapping around his shoulders, massaging your thumbs into the muscle and to the base of his neck.
"You're amazing. I dunno how I could keep up."
He makes a noise, humorous, slightly dismissive. "You don't need to keep up. Don't need to do anything," leaning his head back to your chest, he sighs again. "I fell for you the way you are. Beautiful, talented, funny, witty in a way I have always been kinda jealous of, and so terrifying sometimes, even I get nervous at parent teacher conferences."
You scoff, running your hands down to drape across his chest.
"I'm not that scary—"
"Oh, you are," he leans to the side and kisses your forearm, lingering his lips for a few seconds, rubbing the soft skin and the coarse hairs of his beard across the inside of your arm, before pressing another kiss and mumbling into you. "I remember years ago when you ripped Tony a new one. Dunno what, somethin' about a mission being sent out too early bein' dangerous. God, I remember walkin' in and I don't think I blinked,"
A laugh rumbled through your chest, pushing at the back of Bucky's head. He pauses for a moment, holding up the black and gold cushioned paw in his left hand. The plates whir as if smiling at his work.
"That was when I knew I wanted to marry you."
"Sap," You press another kiss to his scalp, and another, then another. "If I'm remembering correctly, cause Tony just loves to piss me off, we weren't even together at that time."
Shaking his head, you can feel the apples of his cheeks fill with a smile. "Nope. Had it all planned out from there on out. Even Steve could tell I was whipped after we left the room."
You tut, straightening up. "And it took you like, what, three years to actually ask me out?"
Before he could retort, already stuttering on an answer, pushing his glasses atop his head, hands curled on the edge of the table. You walk with a bounce in your step back towards the doorway.
"Okay, you've got about an hour or so til pick up so, it might be best to get that leg on. Meanwhile, I've got laundry to do and dinner to start."
As your footsteps thump up the stairs, Bucky calls up to you.
"It was a year!"
"If you say so!" You shout back, already passing back into the colourful, warm mess of your daughter's bedroom to stifle through the little clothes on the floor.
After tossing a pink pyjama set, two pairs of dirt stained socks and a pair of cherry red jeans stained green at the knees, his voice calls out again.
"I love you!"
You giggle. Big and bright, staring down at the messy clothes of your child's, stained with inquisitive wonder and whimsy. Pens thrown on the ground next to an opened colouring book, handmade crochet blankets in a box by the bed, pre-loved books on the shelf, fairy lights and garlands draped across corners.
"I know!"
-
Amongst the crowd of parents waiting on their kids — hulking them up and on their hips, taking their little book bags out their tiny hands to help straighten their clothes — Bucky stayed leaning against the far wall.
The sun still dripped down through the clouds, leaving a cool enough breeze to ease off uncomfortable warmth. It nipped up his bare arms, still clad in his 'work' clothes, white shirt still slightly unbuttoned and sleeves still rolled up, and Dusty stayed tucked inside of the pocket in his pants, covered by his hands.
Kids laughed, squealed at times whenever their parent would pick them up or bounce them, maybe even swing them from between the two. He stayed indifferent, watching the double doors swing open to a new wave of tiny heads, watching the teachers he's come to trust (reluctantly) wave enthusiastically or high-five if the kid asked for such. He stifled a growing smile as one child missed twice.
It wasn't until the sound of quick footsteps pitter-pattered against the asphalt his attention turned and was completely swallowed by the small shooting star about to plummet straight into him.
Brown hair tied into two low braids waved behind her as her little body came running the wavering crowd. Adorned in patchwork dungarees, a stripy shirt and little red boots Nat had gotten her for her last birthday because 'kids can be badasses too'.
"Daddy!" She giggled as she ran, smile so wide it looked like it hurt.
Dropping down to one knee, he just about caught the little cannonball of energy as she leapt into his arms. Little hands around his neck, feet barely touching the ground. The force of her impact made Bucky topple back into the wall with a groan, laughing into her hair as they both squeezed.
"Hey, sweetheart," he greeted, muffled into the the crook of her shoulder, easing and patting the back of her head. "Geez, you've got a lot of energy, you had a good day?"
"Uh-huh! I found some caterpillars during recess, they were all fuzzy and climbing up a tree and I was their protector! Other kids kept tryin' to poke at them but me and some friends guarded them!"
"That's nice, Win." Bucky groaned as he pushed himself, and an energetic five year old, and her backpack up from the wall. Easing her to sit on his hip, she dangled her legs excitedly, grasping into the front of his shirt.
"And we got to play heads up seven up, but don't tell but I looked at their shoes whenever they got me so I won extra reading time, but i didn't do it all of the time! I only did it once in a while so I didn't look sus… suspi—shuss."
"It's 'suspicious', sweetpea, 'sus-pi-shush', and did Auntie Nat teach you that?"
Winnie shakes her head, still smiling, braids whipping to and fro. "Uncle Sam!"
His brows lower in defeat. "Of course he did."
Pebbles crunch beneath the soles of his dress shoes, bumping Winnie up higher on his side, she hums.
"Daddy?"
"Yeah, baby?"
"Is Dusty okay at the hospital?" She fiddles at the collar of his shirt, voice low as she asks.
"Oh, yeah. Hey, you just reminded me, I gotta… got a little surprise for you." he places her back to the ground, following her down to squat in front of her. Rummaging through his pocket, he kept one hand on her bicep to keep her close.
"A surprise?"
Once out, bucky holds out the old dog in his hands, elbows to his knees, cupping around his floppy torso carefully. At this angle, both Dusty and Bucky adorn the arms, and little Winnie watches bright-eyed as Bucky moved his fingers with a whir under Dusty's to greet with a little wave.
"You match!" She gasps before her dad could explain. "Daddy, you and Dusty match!"
He chuckles, "yeah, we do, don't we?" Holding the teddy up, he points out the new leg, nodding and playing along. "Took a little while, but he's good as new. Missed you terribly while you were out here — conning your way into more reading time," he murmurs under his breath as Winnie takes her companion from his hand to smother him in the tightest hug. "Wouldn't stop askin' for you after the procedure, he wanted to show you ASAP."
"He looks exactly just like you, daddy!"
He straightens up, taking her hand in his, making a slight face. "Well, I wouldn't say exactly just like me—"
"You both look so cool!" She exclaims, jumping in his hold excitedly, "Dusty has a cool arm like daddy now!"
His head knocks back in a soft flinch. Despite the slight tingle in his sinuses, the soft smile on his lips and the adoring look he glances down at his daughter, he doesn't cry — not yet, at least, he wont allow it. And while he wants to ask if she really means it, if his arm really is cool, if she did rip it off Dusty to be like him, if she really did love him, adore him, like you said she does; instead he keeps smiling and guiding her back to the car with his chest full of something akin to the cloudy, cotton feeling he got when he held her for the first time.
And he really did match Dusty.
"C'mon, Pea," he clears his throat, trying to hide the bundles of emotion, golden and honey thick in his chest. "Momma's probably wondering where we are."
With one last skip, she giggles, holding the dog up to her face. "Thank you for making him better, daddy."
Comically, his eyes twitch and his bottom lip just about juts out into a pout. Inhaling, exhaling, grounding himself — trying to, at least — he squeezes the little hand in his own once.
"Of course, baby."
And she squeezes back. Once around his hand, small yet mighty, and another around his heart.
-
"Momma!"
The door's barely open before the loud rapt of Winnie comes bounding over.
"In here!" You reply, voice echoing from the kitchen, stirring the pot one last time and easing the flame low on the stove.
"Ah-ah," Bucky tuts, clicking his fingers, whistling once, catching her just in the nick of time. "Shoes off and bag at the door, you know what momma's like."
With a dramatic groan — wonder where she gets that from — she copies Bucky. Toeing off her boots clumsily, before plopping her butt down on the floor to impatiently untangle the knots you had tied that morning, ultimately letting her dad pull them off her feet and place them neatly on the shoe rack.
As Bucky slipped off the last shoe, Winnie made a run for it.
"Momma!" She calls again. Bounding down the hallway, socked feet thumping off the floor. As he follows behind, Bucky wonders how such a small being can make so much noise.
"Hey, babygirl!" you beam, listening to the excited racket thud closer and closer, propping a lid on top of the pan.
A blow hits your legs, catching your breath as you laugh at her dramatics. Stroking the frizzy hairs down from her plaits.
"C'mere," you beckon, pulling her up for a hug, air constricting and tight as it might be, you reciprocate with wiggling from side to side and groaning with playful aggression. You believe you could photosynthesise on her giggles alone. "What did you get up to today, anything fun? Make friends? Change the world?"
"Look, look, look!"
Plastic beading rattles as she holds Dusty up in front of her for you to behold, pressing her little mouth to his head, copying the wave Dusty had greeted her with.
With a gasp, you wobble her happily. "Oh my goodness, Dusty's back!"
"His arm, momma, look at his arm!" She exclaims, kicking her legs happily.
"He had the best surgeon looking out for him, baby," glancing up at your husband's simper, you kiss her forehead. "Doesn't it look great?"
"It's amazing!"
Jumping her up a couple times on your hip, you hum. "Yeah? Did you thank daddy?"
Nodding her head with a beam, a smile bucky can only compare to yours with the way rooms seem to brighten when shown, she pulls her hands up for him to hold her next. "Thank you, daddy!"
"Yeah, yeah," he grunts, holding her without a complaint, "you said that fifteen times in the car already, Pea."
The room settles easily, with the quiet simmer of food bubbling and stove searing, birds whistling in the garden and traffic humming, it's familiar and easy, and it's home.
It isn't long until Winnie's restless little body squirms in Bucky's arms, and he sets her free with a quiet 'go on', sprinting back up to her room with a chorus of high pitched giggles.
Propping himself against the worksurface, arms crossed over his chest, head on the cabinets, Bucky sighs. It's a sigh of ease, contentment. The kind he would let out once the streets filled with the orange of lampposts, and he got home to find you, warm and sleepy, tucked in bed as he stripped himself of button ups and tailored suits, and swapped it out with a bare chest and sweatpants — the sigh would only come once his arms wrapped around you and his nose buried into your hair.
A smile creeps on your lips, moving to take a place next to him.
"You know, apparently she cheated at heads up seven up today. For extra reading time. But only did it enough times not to look 'suspicious'." He squints his eyes, following the word with quotation marks.
Sucking in a breath, you click your tongue against the backs of your teeth. "Ooh, don't tell me," you whisper, patting a finger on your chin in thought. "Nat?"
He shakes his head, tight lipped, "Sam."
"So we're crossing him off the babysitting list."
"Hm, I think he's doin' it on purpose," he hums, tipping his chin up, moving his hands down to find the small of your back. "Keep him on, he's doing the next gig."
Pulling you closer until you stand between his open legs. He holds your hips, rubbing small circles through your pants, holding eye contact.
"I meant what I said today." You murmur, keeping your eyes on his, holding authority. To which Bucky loses with great pleasure, sneaking glances to your lips.
"I know."
"You're amazing," you mumble again, basking in the tiny looks he holds to your mouth, how he licks his own lips and the soft, humming feeling of his thumbs making patterns, and his fingers changing position to subtly bring you closer.
"I mean it. Truly," You rest your hands on his shoulders, squeezing, careful around the soft tissue that bumps around his left. "I love you. We both do. So, so much."
Your eyes hold his, and this time he doesn't sneak away, and he doesn't try to hide with a bashful look or a glimpse at your lips, right there. Though his eyes redden at the edges, the whites of his eyes glisten off the stovetop light, and you can just about see your reflection pool inside of his pupils.
"I know." He replies, quieter than the last, and he finally leans the rest of the way and kisses you. Because it hits, not like a blow but a final blossom. He does know, and he thinks he has known this whole time. From the moment the nurse placed a whaling, sticky, tiny thing in his arms and his body tightened and loosened all at once, his lungs stuttering, and mouth instinctively formed the awkward whispers of 'you're alright, I got you, I know, it must be so cold'.
It's just only now, in the soft warmth of a kitchen, being used and not feeling like mere decoration with takeout in the fridge, the love of his life in front of him, pecking at his lips until laughter gets in the way and dinner sizzles from next to them. With a daughter, who loves to guard critters and create extravagant blanket forts, who reads to her bears and kisses them goodnight, one by one. Who ripped off her favourite teddy's left arm so he can be 'just exactly like daddy' — he's finally let himself realise just how adored he really is.
pairing: bucky barnes x reader
summary: after his daughter, winnie, ripped the arm off her beloved stuffed doggy, bucky takes the day off to take care him, subsequently figuring some things out while doing so -
or, bucky sews up a new arm for his daughters favourite teddy . . .
warnings: fluff, dad!bucky, mom!reader, domestic fluff, some angst, written with congressman!bucky in mind, bucky wears glasses while working, bucky's daughter is called Winnie (win, pea, sweetheart, baby, babygirl...), Nat, Tony, Sam and Steve mentioned, aunt!nat and uncle!sam lol . . .
word count: 4k
a/n: wow a fluff thats crazy. im aware im not the best at these but i got this idea a week or so ago while going to work and it hasn't let me alone since so, i tried !
bucky m.list || masterlist || navigation
The plastic laundry basket rattles and creaks against your hip. Tapping your finger on the handle without a real rhythm, humming inquisitively and melodically, floorboards groaning under your feet as you pass down the hallway, and into the sun-warmed bedroom where stickers plastered yay high on the door, just below the painted calligraphy of dusty green you had tasked yourself on, even though you'd started waddling and huffing at every sprig of movement at the time. Winnie.
It's oddly quiet, not too unusual for a school day, but even so the padding of socked feet thumping around, excited squeals and giggles and tight little arms latched around your calf fill your days up so full and bright, the few hours of emptiness never fail to have you staring at the unmade bed and sigh with a smile.
Placing the basket down to your feet, you lean down to straighten the linens. Uncurling the stripes of red, tucking them in at the corners, folding at the pillows before starting on those next. Fluffing and placing them carefully to the wall, gathering her favourite blanket she'd pulled to the centre of the room for a late night reading session by the bonfire (her bedside lamp she had also moved) to drape across the foot of the bed.
Once done, straightening up only to stretch out the achy kinks in your muscles, you turn for the finishing touch. Dusty, Winnie's companion. The kind of teddy you must pry out of a child's hand — or at least try and swap it out with a similar weight like a Mission Impossible movie — but your little Win had a sixth sense for her darling dog. Matted fur from bone crushing (or pellet crushing, in Dusty's case) hugs, colour dulled from the years, and eyes wobbled from the thread. He may have been living up to his name, but he carries her love like no other.
But in recent days, you've noticed a difference in Dusty's appearance. His front left leg was simply… missing.
It wasn't hard to put two and two together. Your husband, brooding eyes and tired sighs, Bucky Barnes, had spent the good part of Winnie's first years acclimatising both Win, and himself, to his arm.
Holding her comfortably against his chest, in the crook of his right arm, as so his left — all shiny vibranium and gold veins — could pat and caress. Holding it up, wiggling his fingers while cooing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star just to see her chubby cheeks round out and gargle a laugh through a gummy smile. Bucky had even found himself soothing her by gently wiping the bridge of her nose with the smooth tip of his index finger, shushing down her cries, murmuring praises into the air, smiling softly as her eyes droop shut and soft croons from the back of her throat quieted into yawns, dribble on ironed work shirts and sweet, even breaths.
But Dusty and his three limbs were nowhere to be seen.
Not on the bedside table, or made as a suspicious lump underneath your neat origami of bed sheets. Not using the bunting hung from the corners as a makeshift swing set, or gathered around the lamp-made bonfire.
The laundry sat forgotten as your feet darted down the hall and down the flight of stairs, all to have been halted once you found yourself in the dining room. Your hair flew back as you caught yourself, hand holding the doorway.
Bucky sat at the table, button up shirt open at the collar, sleeves shoved to his elbow, hair the same colour as his daughters mussed back from fingers, and glasses slipping to the tip of his nose. Before you could fully appreciate the sight before you, you realised the scene. A sewing needle poked out the corner of his lip, held in place by his teeth, a large enough sheet of fabric, black with soft gold accents, laid out on the surface next to the project, cut in meticulous patterns, chalk lines fading off. And the main event was Dusty himself, and the appendage of dark cloth, sewn haphazardly with the kind of skill a boy on a mission would have, into a similar shape to the dog's right leg.
"Jesus," you exhale, holding your chest. "I thought you had work today?"
"I—Uh," He glances up at you over the top of his glasses where they perch low on the tip of his nose. Muffled by the needle in his mouth, he takes it out, leaning both elbows to the table, inhaling as if finding the correct answer. "I did. Have work."
You lean against the frame now. Arms crossed over your chest, smiling in amusement.
"But?"
"But," he imitates, looking back down at the work he's doing, holding the needle between two fingers and waving it slightly. "I have more pressing matters to attend to."
"Oh yeah?" You push off and walk your way over, sliding into the chair adjacent to his, leaning your chin on the palm of your hand. "More pressing than paperwork and board meetings? Pressing matters meaning Dusty?"
He laughs once, an exhales huff paired with an easy smile, but he keeps working. His phone was still open, propped up on a vase of cosmos and baby's breath, a paused video tutorial on sewing. You pretend not to have noticed, pretend like your heart didn't swell ten times the size in that one millisecond your eyes flittered.
"I—ah… I may have hold Win, while tucking her in last night, that I'd take Dusty to the 'hospital' today while she was at school," he shrugged, momentarily pausing to run a hand through his hair to keep it back, only for the strands to fall back over his face. "Was tired of finding stuffing on the floor."
"Tired of stuffing on the floor?"
"Mhm," he drags out, tight lipped, looping the needle through the two meeting points of the inside out fabric, pulling until slight resistance, before going again. "I also wanted to surprise her. Got up early to go out lookin' for some stuff, just to close up the hole, but I… saw the fabric, and… I mean, I understand why she—she'd take the arm off," he sighed again, looking back up at you over his glasses. When he sees you already smiling, he loosens up, smiling too, cheeks pinkening under the dusting from his beard.
"I think she'd like it."
"She'll love it, Buck," you reassure, reaching out to draw a knuckle over the back of his hand. "Didn't know you could sew, though."
The chair groans under his weight, stretching out, leaning back. "It's been a long, long time, sweetheart. Used to watch my momma when I had nothing better to do, sometimes she'd make me help her out until my fingers were all sore and poked raw, and, uh, you pick up some shit out in the field. Clothes get ripped, you know the gist," you do. He waves a dismissive hand. "Did have to remind myself though, but don't tell Winnie, I wanna look smart."
You giggle, easing up from the seat to make your way over. "You are smart, and Win already thinks the world of you,"
Leaning over, you drape your arms over his shoulders and rest your chin to his head, pausing the dismissive shake to your statement.
"It looks good. You're really good at this." You murmur into his hair with a kiss.
Bucky hums, pushing his glasses back up with a knuckle. "M'not."
"Hm, you are. And Winnie loves you, and I love you, and she's gonna love you more after this," you peck his head again.
"You know, everyday I think that theres no way I could love you more? You do all of these amazing things, you've done amazing things — things I can't even fathom — and yet you keep going above and beyond," before you could finish your words, Bucky tucks a piece of hair behind his ear, and you move. Legs walking, mind filing through memories, to the comfortable, organised mess of the living room.
When you come back, standing behind your husband, you clip the strands of hair that have been bothering him back with two tiny butterfly clips, one pink, the other green. He makes no protest, only smiling down at his work, already understanding and thankful when he heard the little snap.
You kiss his head again, in the space between the clips and stay there a little longer. Arms wrapping around his shoulders, massaging your thumbs into the muscle and to the base of his neck.
"You're amazing. I dunno how I could keep up."
He makes a noise, humorous, slightly dismissive. "You don't need to keep up. Don't need to do anything," leaning his head back to your chest, he sighs again. "I fell for you the way you are. Beautiful, talented, funny, witty in a way I have always been kinda jealous of, and so terrifying sometimes, even I get nervous at parent teacher conferences."
You scoff, running your hands down to drape across his chest.
"I'm not that scary—"
"Oh, you are," he leans to the side and kisses your forearm, lingering his lips for a few seconds, rubbing the soft skin and the coarse hairs of his beard across the inside of your arm, before pressing another kiss and mumbling into you. "I remember years ago when you ripped Tony a new one. Dunno what, somethin' about a mission being sent out too early bein' dangerous. God, I remember walkin' in and I don't think I blinked,"
A laugh rumbled through your chest, pushing at the back of Bucky's head. He pauses for a moment, holding up the black and gold cushioned paw in his left hand. The plates whir as if smiling at his work.
"That was when I knew I wanted to marry you."
"Sap," You press another kiss to his scalp, and another, then another. "If I'm remembering correctly, cause Tony just loves to piss me off, we weren't even together at that time."
Shaking his head, you can feel the apples of his cheeks fill with a smile. "Nope. Had it all planned out from there on out. Even Steve could tell I was whipped after we left the room."
You tut, straightening up. "And it took you like, what, three years to actually ask me out?"
Before he could retort, already stuttering on an answer, pushing his glasses atop his head, hands curled on the edge of the table. You walk with a bounce in your step back towards the doorway.
"Okay, you've got about an hour or so til pick up so, it might be best to get that leg on. Meanwhile, I've got laundry to do and dinner to start."
As your footsteps thump up the stairs, Bucky calls up to you.
"It was a year!"
"If you say so!" You shout back, already passing back into the colourful, warm mess of your daughter's bedroom to stifle through the little clothes on the floor.
After tossing a pink pyjama set, two pairs of dirt stained socks and a pair of cherry red jeans stained green at the knees, his voice calls out again.
"I love you!"
You giggle. Big and bright, staring down at the messy clothes of your child's, stained with inquisitive wonder and whimsy. Pens thrown on the ground next to an opened colouring book, handmade crochet blankets in a box by the bed, pre-loved books on the shelf, fairy lights and garlands draped across corners.
"I know!"
-
Amongst the crowd of parents waiting on their kids — hulking them up and on their hips, taking their little book bags out their tiny hands to help straighten their clothes — Bucky stayed leaning against the far wall.
The sun still dripped down through the clouds, leaving a cool enough breeze to ease off uncomfortable warmth. It nipped up his bare arms, still clad in his 'work' clothes, white shirt still slightly unbuttoned and sleeves still rolled up, and Dusty stayed tucked inside of the pocket in his pants, covered by his hands.
Kids laughed, squealed at times whenever their parent would pick them up or bounce them, maybe even swing them from between the two. He stayed indifferent, watching the double doors swing open to a new wave of tiny heads, watching the teachers he's come to trust (reluctantly) wave enthusiastically or high-five if the kid asked for such. He stifled a growing smile as one child missed twice.
It wasn't until the sound of quick footsteps pitter-pattered against the asphalt his attention turned and was completely swallowed by the small shooting star about to plummet straight into him.
Brown hair tied into two low braids waved behind her as her little body came running the wavering crowd. Adorned in patchwork dungarees, a stripy shirt and little red boots Nat had gotten her for her last birthday because 'kids can be badasses too'.
"Daddy!" She giggled as she ran, smile so wide it looked like it hurt.
Dropping down to one knee, he just about caught the little cannonball of energy as she leapt into his arms. Little hands around his neck, feet barely touching the ground. The force of her impact made Bucky topple back into the wall with a groan, laughing into her hair as they both squeezed.
"Hey, sweetheart," he greeted, muffled into the the crook of her shoulder, easing and patting the back of her head. "Geez, you've got a lot of energy, you had a good day?"
"Uh-huh! I found some caterpillars during recess, they were all fuzzy and climbing up a tree and I was their protector! Other kids kept tryin' to poke at them but me and some friends guarded them!"
"That's nice, Win." Bucky groaned as he pushed himself, and an energetic five year old, and her backpack up from the wall. Easing her to sit on his hip, she dangled her legs excitedly, grasping into the front of his shirt.
"And we got to play heads up seven up, but don't tell but I looked at their shoes whenever they got me so I won extra reading time, but i didn't do it all of the time! I only did it once in a while so I didn't look sus… suspi—shuss."
"It's 'suspicious', sweetpea, 'sus-pi-shush', and did Auntie Nat teach you that?"
Winnie shakes her head, still smiling, braids whipping to and fro. "Uncle Sam!"
His brows lower in defeat. "Of course he did."
Pebbles crunch beneath the soles of his dress shoes, bumping Winnie up higher on his side, she hums.
"Daddy?"
"Yeah, baby?"
"Is Dusty okay at the hospital?" She fiddles at the collar of his shirt, voice low as she asks.
"Oh, yeah. Hey, you just reminded me, I gotta… got a little surprise for you." he places her back to the ground, following her down to squat in front of her. Rummaging through his pocket, he kept one hand on her bicep to keep her close.
"A surprise?"
Once out, bucky holds out the old dog in his hands, elbows to his knees, cupping around his floppy torso carefully. At this angle, both Dusty and Bucky adorn the arms, and little Winnie watches bright-eyed as Bucky moved his fingers with a whir under Dusty's to greet with a little wave.
"You match!" She gasps before her dad could explain. "Daddy, you and Dusty match!"
He chuckles, "yeah, we do, don't we?" Holding the teddy up, he points out the new leg, nodding and playing along. "Took a little while, but he's good as new. Missed you terribly while you were out here — conning your way into more reading time," he murmurs under his breath as Winnie takes her companion from his hand to smother him in the tightest hug. "Wouldn't stop askin' for you after the procedure, he wanted to show you ASAP."
"He looks exactly just like you, daddy!"
He straightens up, taking her hand in his, making a slight face. "Well, I wouldn't say exactly just like me—"
"You both look so cool!" She exclaims, jumping in his hold excitedly, "Dusty has a cool arm like daddy now!"
His head knocks back in a soft flinch. Despite the slight tingle in his sinuses, the soft smile on his lips and the adoring look he glances down at his daughter, he doesn't cry — not yet, at least, he wont allow it. And while he wants to ask if she really means it, if his arm really is cool, if she did rip it off Dusty to be like him, if she really did love him, adore him, like you said she does; instead he keeps smiling and guiding her back to the car with his chest full of something akin to the cloudy, cotton feeling he got when he held her for the first time.
And he really did match Dusty.
"C'mon, Pea," he clears his throat, trying to hide the bundles of emotion, golden and honey thick in his chest. "Momma's probably wondering where we are."
With one last skip, she giggles, holding the dog up to her face. "Thank you for making him better, daddy."
Comically, his eyes twitch and his bottom lip just about juts out into a pout. Inhaling, exhaling, grounding himself — trying to, at least — he squeezes the little hand in his own once.
"Of course, baby."
And she squeezes back. Once around his hand, small yet mighty, and another around his heart.
-
"Momma!"
The door's barely open before the loud rapt of Winnie comes bounding over.
"In here!" You reply, voice echoing from the kitchen, stirring the pot one last time and easing the flame low on the stove.
"Ah-ah," Bucky tuts, clicking his fingers, whistling once, catching her just in the nick of time. "Shoes off and bag at the door, you know what momma's like."
With a dramatic groan — wonder where she gets that from — she copies Bucky. Toeing off her boots clumsily, before plopping her butt down on the floor to impatiently untangle the knots you had tied that morning, ultimately letting her dad pull them off her feet and place them neatly on the shoe rack.
As Bucky slipped off the last shoe, Winnie made a run for it.
"Momma!" She calls again. Bounding down the hallway, socked feet thumping off the floor. As he follows behind, Bucky wonders how such a small being can make so much noise.
"Hey, babygirl!" you beam, listening to the excited racket thud closer and closer, propping a lid on top of the pan.
A blow hits your legs, catching your breath as you laugh at her dramatics. Stroking the frizzy hairs down from her plaits.
"C'mere," you beckon, pulling her up for a hug, air constricting and tight as it might be, you reciprocate with wiggling from side to side and groaning with playful aggression. You believe you could photosynthesise on her giggles alone. "What did you get up to today, anything fun? Make friends? Change the world?"
"Look, look, look!"
Plastic beading rattles as she holds Dusty up in front of her for you to behold, pressing her little mouth to his head, copying the wave Dusty had greeted her with.
With a gasp, you wobble her happily. "Oh my goodness, Dusty's back!"
"His arm, momma, look at his arm!" She exclaims, kicking her legs happily.
"He had the best surgeon looking out for him, baby," glancing up at your husband's simper, you kiss her forehead. "Doesn't it look great?"
"It's amazing!"
Jumping her up a couple times on your hip, you hum. "Yeah? Did you thank daddy?"
Nodding her head with a beam, a smile bucky can only compare to yours with the way rooms seem to brighten when shown, she pulls her hands up for him to hold her next. "Thank you, daddy!"
"Yeah, yeah," he grunts, holding her without a complaint, "you said that fifteen times in the car already, Pea."
The room settles easily, with the quiet simmer of food bubbling and stove searing, birds whistling in the garden and traffic humming, it's familiar and easy, and it's home.
It isn't long until Winnie's restless little body squirms in Bucky's arms, and he sets her free with a quiet 'go on', sprinting back up to her room with a chorus of high pitched giggles.
Propping himself against the worksurface, arms crossed over his chest, head on the cabinets, Bucky sighs. It's a sigh of ease, contentment. The kind he would let out once the streets filled with the orange of lampposts, and he got home to find you, warm and sleepy, tucked in bed as he stripped himself of button ups and tailored suits, and swapped it out with a bare chest and sweatpants — the sigh would only come once his arms wrapped around you and his nose buried into your hair.
A smile creeps on your lips, moving to take a place next to him.
"You know, apparently she cheated at heads up seven up today. For extra reading time. But only did it enough times not to look 'suspicious'." He squints his eyes, following the word with quotation marks.
Sucking in a breath, you click your tongue against the backs of your teeth. "Ooh, don't tell me," you whisper, patting a finger on your chin in thought. "Nat?"
He shakes his head, tight lipped, "Sam."
"So we're crossing him off the babysitting list."
"Hm, I think he's doin' it on purpose," he hums, tipping his chin up, moving his hands down to find the small of your back. "Keep him on, he's doing the next gig."
Pulling you closer until you stand between his open legs. He holds your hips, rubbing small circles through your pants, holding eye contact.
"I meant what I said today." You murmur, keeping your eyes on his, holding authority. To which Bucky loses with great pleasure, sneaking glances to your lips.
"I know."
"You're amazing," you mumble again, basking in the tiny looks he holds to your mouth, how he licks his own lips and the soft, humming feeling of his thumbs making patterns, and his fingers changing position to subtly bring you closer.
"I mean it. Truly," You rest your hands on his shoulders, squeezing, careful around the soft tissue that bumps around his left. "I love you. We both do. So, so much."
Your eyes hold his, and this time he doesn't sneak away, and he doesn't try to hide with a bashful look or a glimpse at your lips, right there. Though his eyes redden at the edges, the whites of his eyes glisten off the stovetop light, and you can just about see your reflection pool inside of his pupils.
"I know." He replies, quieter than the last, and he finally leans the rest of the way and kisses you. Because it hits, not like a blow but a final blossom. He does know, and he thinks he has known this whole time. From the moment the nurse placed a whaling, sticky, tiny thing in his arms and his body tightened and loosened all at once, his lungs stuttering, and mouth instinctively formed the awkward whispers of 'you're alright, I got you, I know, it must be so cold'.
It's just only now, in the soft warmth of a kitchen, being used and not feeling like mere decoration with takeout in the fridge, the love of his life in front of him, pecking at his lips until laughter gets in the way and dinner sizzles from next to them. With a daughter, who loves to guard critters and create extravagant blanket forts, who reads to her bears and kisses them goodnight, one by one. Who ripped off her favourite teddy's left arm so he can be 'just exactly like daddy' — he's finally let himself realise just how adored he really is.
pairing: bucky barnes x reader
summary: after his daughter, winnie, ripped the arm off her beloved stuffed doggy, bucky takes the day off to take care him, subsequently figuring some things out while doing so -
or, bucky sews up a new arm for his daughters favourite teddy . . .
warnings: fluff, dad!bucky, mom!reader, domestic fluff, some angst, written with congressman!bucky in mind, bucky wears glasses while working, bucky's daughter is called Winnie (win, pea, sweetheart, baby, babygirl...), Nat, Tony, Sam and Steve mentioned, aunt!nat and uncle!sam lol . . .
word count: 4k
a/n: wow a fluff thats crazy. im aware im not the best at these but i got this idea a week or so ago while going to work and it hasn't let me alone since so, i tried !
bucky m.list || masterlist || navigation
The plastic laundry basket rattles and creaks against your hip. Tapping your finger on the handle without a real rhythm, humming inquisitively and melodically, floorboards groaning under your feet as you pass down the hallway, and into the sun-warmed bedroom where stickers plastered yay high on the door, just below the painted calligraphy of dusty green you had tasked yourself on, even though you'd started waddling and huffing at every sprig of movement at the time. Winnie.
It's oddly quiet, not too unusual for a school day, but even so the padding of socked feet thumping around, excited squeals and giggles and tight little arms latched around your calf fill your days up so full and bright, the few hours of emptiness never fail to have you staring at the unmade bed and sigh with a smile.
Placing the basket down to your feet, you lean down to straighten the linens. Uncurling the stripes of red, tucking them in at the corners, folding at the pillows before starting on those next. Fluffing and placing them carefully to the wall, gathering her favourite blanket she'd pulled to the centre of the room for a late night reading session by the bonfire (her bedside lamp she had also moved) to drape across the foot of the bed.
Once done, straightening up only to stretch out the achy kinks in your muscles, you turn for the finishing touch. Dusty, Winnie's companion. The kind of teddy you must pry out of a child's hand — or at least try and swap it out with a similar weight like a Mission Impossible movie — but your little Win had a sixth sense for her darling dog. Matted fur from bone crushing (or pellet crushing, in Dusty's case) hugs, colour dulled from the years, and eyes wobbled from the thread. He may have been living up to his name, but he carries her love like no other.
But in recent days, you've noticed a difference in Dusty's appearance. His front left leg was simply… missing.
It wasn't hard to put two and two together. Your husband, brooding eyes and tired sighs, Bucky Barnes, had spent the good part of Winnie's first years acclimatising both Win, and himself, to his arm.
Holding her comfortably against his chest, in the crook of his right arm, as so his left — all shiny vibranium and gold veins — could pat and caress. Holding it up, wiggling his fingers while cooing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star just to see her chubby cheeks round out and gargle a laugh through a gummy smile. Bucky had even found himself soothing her by gently wiping the bridge of her nose with the smooth tip of his index finger, shushing down her cries, murmuring praises into the air, smiling softly as her eyes droop shut and soft croons from the back of her throat quieted into yawns, dribble on ironed work shirts and sweet, even breaths.
But Dusty and his three limbs were nowhere to be seen.
Not on the bedside table, or made as a suspicious lump underneath your neat origami of bed sheets. Not using the bunting hung from the corners as a makeshift swing set, or gathered around the lamp-made bonfire.
The laundry sat forgotten as your feet darted down the hall and down the flight of stairs, all to have been halted once you found yourself in the dining room. Your hair flew back as you caught yourself, hand holding the doorway.
Bucky sat at the table, button up shirt open at the collar, sleeves shoved to his elbow, hair the same colour as his daughters mussed back from fingers, and glasses slipping to the tip of his nose. Before you could fully appreciate the sight before you, you realised the scene. A sewing needle poked out the corner of his lip, held in place by his teeth, a large enough sheet of fabric, black with soft gold accents, laid out on the surface next to the project, cut in meticulous patterns, chalk lines fading off. And the main event was Dusty himself, and the appendage of dark cloth, sewn haphazardly with the kind of skill a boy on a mission would have, into a similar shape to the dog's right leg.
"Jesus," you exhale, holding your chest. "I thought you had work today?"
"I—Uh," He glances up at you over the top of his glasses where they perch low on the tip of his nose. Muffled by the needle in his mouth, he takes it out, leaning both elbows to the table, inhaling as if finding the correct answer. "I did. Have work."
You lean against the frame now. Arms crossed over your chest, smiling in amusement.
"But?"
"But," he imitates, looking back down at the work he's doing, holding the needle between two fingers and waving it slightly. "I have more pressing matters to attend to."
"Oh yeah?" You push off and walk your way over, sliding into the chair adjacent to his, leaning your chin on the palm of your hand. "More pressing than paperwork and board meetings? Pressing matters meaning Dusty?"
He laughs once, an exhales huff paired with an easy smile, but he keeps working. His phone was still open, propped up on a vase of cosmos and baby's breath, a paused video tutorial on sewing. You pretend not to have noticed, pretend like your heart didn't swell ten times the size in that one millisecond your eyes flittered.
"I—ah… I may have hold Win, while tucking her in last night, that I'd take Dusty to the 'hospital' today while she was at school," he shrugged, momentarily pausing to run a hand through his hair to keep it back, only for the strands to fall back over his face. "Was tired of finding stuffing on the floor."
"Tired of stuffing on the floor?"
"Mhm," he drags out, tight lipped, looping the needle through the two meeting points of the inside out fabric, pulling until slight resistance, before going again. "I also wanted to surprise her. Got up early to go out lookin' for some stuff, just to close up the hole, but I… saw the fabric, and… I mean, I understand why she—she'd take the arm off," he sighed again, looking back up at you over his glasses. When he sees you already smiling, he loosens up, smiling too, cheeks pinkening under the dusting from his beard.
"I think she'd like it."
"She'll love it, Buck," you reassure, reaching out to draw a knuckle over the back of his hand. "Didn't know you could sew, though."
The chair groans under his weight, stretching out, leaning back. "It's been a long, long time, sweetheart. Used to watch my momma when I had nothing better to do, sometimes she'd make me help her out until my fingers were all sore and poked raw, and, uh, you pick up some shit out in the field. Clothes get ripped, you know the gist," you do. He waves a dismissive hand. "Did have to remind myself though, but don't tell Winnie, I wanna look smart."
You giggle, easing up from the seat to make your way over. "You are smart, and Win already thinks the world of you,"
Leaning over, you drape your arms over his shoulders and rest your chin to his head, pausing the dismissive shake to your statement.
"It looks good. You're really good at this." You murmur into his hair with a kiss.
Bucky hums, pushing his glasses back up with a knuckle. "M'not."
"Hm, you are. And Winnie loves you, and I love you, and she's gonna love you more after this," you peck his head again.
"You know, everyday I think that theres no way I could love you more? You do all of these amazing things, you've done amazing things — things I can't even fathom — and yet you keep going above and beyond," before you could finish your words, Bucky tucks a piece of hair behind his ear, and you move. Legs walking, mind filing through memories, to the comfortable, organised mess of the living room.
When you come back, standing behind your husband, you clip the strands of hair that have been bothering him back with two tiny butterfly clips, one pink, the other green. He makes no protest, only smiling down at his work, already understanding and thankful when he heard the little snap.
You kiss his head again, in the space between the clips and stay there a little longer. Arms wrapping around his shoulders, massaging your thumbs into the muscle and to the base of his neck.
"You're amazing. I dunno how I could keep up."
He makes a noise, humorous, slightly dismissive. "You don't need to keep up. Don't need to do anything," leaning his head back to your chest, he sighs again. "I fell for you the way you are. Beautiful, talented, funny, witty in a way I have always been kinda jealous of, and so terrifying sometimes, even I get nervous at parent teacher conferences."
You scoff, running your hands down to drape across his chest.
"I'm not that scary—"
"Oh, you are," he leans to the side and kisses your forearm, lingering his lips for a few seconds, rubbing the soft skin and the coarse hairs of his beard across the inside of your arm, before pressing another kiss and mumbling into you. "I remember years ago when you ripped Tony a new one. Dunno what, somethin' about a mission being sent out too early bein' dangerous. God, I remember walkin' in and I don't think I blinked,"
A laugh rumbled through your chest, pushing at the back of Bucky's head. He pauses for a moment, holding up the black and gold cushioned paw in his left hand. The plates whir as if smiling at his work.
"That was when I knew I wanted to marry you."
"Sap," You press another kiss to his scalp, and another, then another. "If I'm remembering correctly, cause Tony just loves to piss me off, we weren't even together at that time."
Shaking his head, you can feel the apples of his cheeks fill with a smile. "Nope. Had it all planned out from there on out. Even Steve could tell I was whipped after we left the room."
You tut, straightening up. "And it took you like, what, three years to actually ask me out?"
Before he could retort, already stuttering on an answer, pushing his glasses atop his head, hands curled on the edge of the table. You walk with a bounce in your step back towards the doorway.
"Okay, you've got about an hour or so til pick up so, it might be best to get that leg on. Meanwhile, I've got laundry to do and dinner to start."
As your footsteps thump up the stairs, Bucky calls up to you.
"It was a year!"
"If you say so!" You shout back, already passing back into the colourful, warm mess of your daughter's bedroom to stifle through the little clothes on the floor.
After tossing a pink pyjama set, two pairs of dirt stained socks and a pair of cherry red jeans stained green at the knees, his voice calls out again.
"I love you!"
You giggle. Big and bright, staring down at the messy clothes of your child's, stained with inquisitive wonder and whimsy. Pens thrown on the ground next to an opened colouring book, handmade crochet blankets in a box by the bed, pre-loved books on the shelf, fairy lights and garlands draped across corners.
"I know!"
-
Amongst the crowd of parents waiting on their kids — hulking them up and on their hips, taking their little book bags out their tiny hands to help straighten their clothes — Bucky stayed leaning against the far wall.
The sun still dripped down through the clouds, leaving a cool enough breeze to ease off uncomfortable warmth. It nipped up his bare arms, still clad in his 'work' clothes, white shirt still slightly unbuttoned and sleeves still rolled up, and Dusty stayed tucked inside of the pocket in his pants, covered by his hands.
Kids laughed, squealed at times whenever their parent would pick them up or bounce them, maybe even swing them from between the two. He stayed indifferent, watching the double doors swing open to a new wave of tiny heads, watching the teachers he's come to trust (reluctantly) wave enthusiastically or high-five if the kid asked for such. He stifled a growing smile as one child missed twice.
It wasn't until the sound of quick footsteps pitter-pattered against the asphalt his attention turned and was completely swallowed by the small shooting star about to plummet straight into him.
Brown hair tied into two low braids waved behind her as her little body came running the wavering crowd. Adorned in patchwork dungarees, a stripy shirt and little red boots Nat had gotten her for her last birthday because 'kids can be badasses too'.
"Daddy!" She giggled as she ran, smile so wide it looked like it hurt.
Dropping down to one knee, he just about caught the little cannonball of energy as she leapt into his arms. Little hands around his neck, feet barely touching the ground. The force of her impact made Bucky topple back into the wall with a groan, laughing into her hair as they both squeezed.
"Hey, sweetheart," he greeted, muffled into the the crook of her shoulder, easing and patting the back of her head. "Geez, you've got a lot of energy, you had a good day?"
"Uh-huh! I found some caterpillars during recess, they were all fuzzy and climbing up a tree and I was their protector! Other kids kept tryin' to poke at them but me and some friends guarded them!"
"That's nice, Win." Bucky groaned as he pushed himself, and an energetic five year old, and her backpack up from the wall. Easing her to sit on his hip, she dangled her legs excitedly, grasping into the front of his shirt.
"And we got to play heads up seven up, but don't tell but I looked at their shoes whenever they got me so I won extra reading time, but i didn't do it all of the time! I only did it once in a while so I didn't look sus… suspi—shuss."
"It's 'suspicious', sweetpea, 'sus-pi-shush', and did Auntie Nat teach you that?"
Winnie shakes her head, still smiling, braids whipping to and fro. "Uncle Sam!"
His brows lower in defeat. "Of course he did."
Pebbles crunch beneath the soles of his dress shoes, bumping Winnie up higher on his side, she hums.
"Daddy?"
"Yeah, baby?"
"Is Dusty okay at the hospital?" She fiddles at the collar of his shirt, voice low as she asks.
"Oh, yeah. Hey, you just reminded me, I gotta… got a little surprise for you." he places her back to the ground, following her down to squat in front of her. Rummaging through his pocket, he kept one hand on her bicep to keep her close.
"A surprise?"
Once out, bucky holds out the old dog in his hands, elbows to his knees, cupping around his floppy torso carefully. At this angle, both Dusty and Bucky adorn the arms, and little Winnie watches bright-eyed as Bucky moved his fingers with a whir under Dusty's to greet with a little wave.
"You match!" She gasps before her dad could explain. "Daddy, you and Dusty match!"
He chuckles, "yeah, we do, don't we?" Holding the teddy up, he points out the new leg, nodding and playing along. "Took a little while, but he's good as new. Missed you terribly while you were out here — conning your way into more reading time," he murmurs under his breath as Winnie takes her companion from his hand to smother him in the tightest hug. "Wouldn't stop askin' for you after the procedure, he wanted to show you ASAP."
"He looks exactly just like you, daddy!"
He straightens up, taking her hand in his, making a slight face. "Well, I wouldn't say exactly just like me—"
"You both look so cool!" She exclaims, jumping in his hold excitedly, "Dusty has a cool arm like daddy now!"
His head knocks back in a soft flinch. Despite the slight tingle in his sinuses, the soft smile on his lips and the adoring look he glances down at his daughter, he doesn't cry — not yet, at least, he wont allow it. And while he wants to ask if she really means it, if his arm really is cool, if she did rip it off Dusty to be like him, if she really did love him, adore him, like you said she does; instead he keeps smiling and guiding her back to the car with his chest full of something akin to the cloudy, cotton feeling he got when he held her for the first time.
And he really did match Dusty.
"C'mon, Pea," he clears his throat, trying to hide the bundles of emotion, golden and honey thick in his chest. "Momma's probably wondering where we are."
With one last skip, she giggles, holding the dog up to her face. "Thank you for making him better, daddy."
Comically, his eyes twitch and his bottom lip just about juts out into a pout. Inhaling, exhaling, grounding himself — trying to, at least — he squeezes the little hand in his own once.
"Of course, baby."
And she squeezes back. Once around his hand, small yet mighty, and another around his heart.
-
"Momma!"
The door's barely open before the loud rapt of Winnie comes bounding over.
"In here!" You reply, voice echoing from the kitchen, stirring the pot one last time and easing the flame low on the stove.
"Ah-ah," Bucky tuts, clicking his fingers, whistling once, catching her just in the nick of time. "Shoes off and bag at the door, you know what momma's like."
With a dramatic groan — wonder where she gets that from — she copies Bucky. Toeing off her boots clumsily, before plopping her butt down on the floor to impatiently untangle the knots you had tied that morning, ultimately letting her dad pull them off her feet and place them neatly on the shoe rack.
As Bucky slipped off the last shoe, Winnie made a run for it.
"Momma!" She calls again. Bounding down the hallway, socked feet thumping off the floor. As he follows behind, Bucky wonders how such a small being can make so much noise.
"Hey, babygirl!" you beam, listening to the excited racket thud closer and closer, propping a lid on top of the pan.
A blow hits your legs, catching your breath as you laugh at her dramatics. Stroking the frizzy hairs down from her plaits.
"C'mere," you beckon, pulling her up for a hug, air constricting and tight as it might be, you reciprocate with wiggling from side to side and groaning with playful aggression. You believe you could photosynthesise on her giggles alone. "What did you get up to today, anything fun? Make friends? Change the world?"
"Look, look, look!"
Plastic beading rattles as she holds Dusty up in front of her for you to behold, pressing her little mouth to his head, copying the wave Dusty had greeted her with.
With a gasp, you wobble her happily. "Oh my goodness, Dusty's back!"
"His arm, momma, look at his arm!" She exclaims, kicking her legs happily.
"He had the best surgeon looking out for him, baby," glancing up at your husband's simper, you kiss her forehead. "Doesn't it look great?"
"It's amazing!"
Jumping her up a couple times on your hip, you hum. "Yeah? Did you thank daddy?"
Nodding her head with a beam, a smile bucky can only compare to yours with the way rooms seem to brighten when shown, she pulls her hands up for him to hold her next. "Thank you, daddy!"
"Yeah, yeah," he grunts, holding her without a complaint, "you said that fifteen times in the car already, Pea."
The room settles easily, with the quiet simmer of food bubbling and stove searing, birds whistling in the garden and traffic humming, it's familiar and easy, and it's home.
It isn't long until Winnie's restless little body squirms in Bucky's arms, and he sets her free with a quiet 'go on', sprinting back up to her room with a chorus of high pitched giggles.
Propping himself against the worksurface, arms crossed over his chest, head on the cabinets, Bucky sighs. It's a sigh of ease, contentment. The kind he would let out once the streets filled with the orange of lampposts, and he got home to find you, warm and sleepy, tucked in bed as he stripped himself of button ups and tailored suits, and swapped it out with a bare chest and sweatpants — the sigh would only come once his arms wrapped around you and his nose buried into your hair.
A smile creeps on your lips, moving to take a place next to him.
"You know, apparently she cheated at heads up seven up today. For extra reading time. But only did it enough times not to look 'suspicious'." He squints his eyes, following the word with quotation marks.
Sucking in a breath, you click your tongue against the backs of your teeth. "Ooh, don't tell me," you whisper, patting a finger on your chin in thought. "Nat?"
He shakes his head, tight lipped, "Sam."
"So we're crossing him off the babysitting list."
"Hm, I think he's doin' it on purpose," he hums, tipping his chin up, moving his hands down to find the small of your back. "Keep him on, he's doing the next gig."
Pulling you closer until you stand between his open legs. He holds your hips, rubbing small circles through your pants, holding eye contact.
"I meant what I said today." You murmur, keeping your eyes on his, holding authority. To which Bucky loses with great pleasure, sneaking glances to your lips.
"I know."
"You're amazing," you mumble again, basking in the tiny looks he holds to your mouth, how he licks his own lips and the soft, humming feeling of his thumbs making patterns, and his fingers changing position to subtly bring you closer.
"I mean it. Truly," You rest your hands on his shoulders, squeezing, careful around the soft tissue that bumps around his left. "I love you. We both do. So, so much."
Your eyes hold his, and this time he doesn't sneak away, and he doesn't try to hide with a bashful look or a glimpse at your lips, right there. Though his eyes redden at the edges, the whites of his eyes glisten off the stovetop light, and you can just about see your reflection pool inside of his pupils.
"I know." He replies, quieter than the last, and he finally leans the rest of the way and kisses you. Because it hits, not like a blow but a final blossom. He does know, and he thinks he has known this whole time. From the moment the nurse placed a whaling, sticky, tiny thing in his arms and his body tightened and loosened all at once, his lungs stuttering, and mouth instinctively formed the awkward whispers of 'you're alright, I got you, I know, it must be so cold'.
It's just only now, in the soft warmth of a kitchen, being used and not feeling like mere decoration with takeout in the fridge, the love of his life in front of him, pecking at his lips until laughter gets in the way and dinner sizzles from next to them. With a daughter, who loves to guard critters and create extravagant blanket forts, who reads to her bears and kisses them goodnight, one by one. Who ripped off her favourite teddy's left arm so he can be 'just exactly like daddy' — he's finally let himself realise just how adored he really is.
Oh, this was so cute and adorable, Bucky with glasses and sewing up a little teddy bear leg to match with himself. And having mismatch clips in his hair while he does it. We want/need more dad Bucky, he deserves all the love and the family life🥰
pairing: bucky barnes x reader
summary: after his daughter, winnie, ripped the arm off her beloved stuffed doggy, bucky takes the day off to take care him, subsequently figuring some things out while doing so -
or, bucky sews up a new arm for his daughters favourite teddy . . .
warnings: fluff, dad!bucky, mom!reader, domestic fluff, some angst, written with congressman!bucky in mind, bucky wears glasses while working, bucky's daughter is called Winnie (win, pea, sweetheart, baby, babygirl...), Nat, Tony, Sam and Steve mentioned, aunt!nat and uncle!sam lol . . .
word count: 4k
a/n: wow a fluff thats crazy. im aware im not the best at these but i got this idea a week or so ago while going to work and it hasn't let me alone since so, i tried !
bucky m.list || masterlist || navigation
The plastic laundry basket rattles and creaks against your hip. Tapping your finger on the handle without a real rhythm, humming inquisitively and melodically, floorboards groaning under your feet as you pass down the hallway, and into the sun-warmed bedroom where stickers plastered yay high on the door, just below the painted calligraphy of dusty green you had tasked yourself on, even though you'd started waddling and huffing at every sprig of movement at the time. Winnie.
It's oddly quiet, not too unusual for a school day, but even so the padding of socked feet thumping around, excited squeals and giggles and tight little arms latched around your calf fill your days up so full and bright, the few hours of emptiness never fail to have you staring at the unmade bed and sigh with a smile.
Placing the basket down to your feet, you lean down to straighten the linens. Uncurling the stripes of red, tucking them in at the corners, folding at the pillows before starting on those next. Fluffing and placing them carefully to the wall, gathering her favourite blanket she'd pulled to the centre of the room for a late night reading session by the bonfire (her bedside lamp she had also moved) to drape across the foot of the bed.
Once done, straightening up only to stretch out the achy kinks in your muscles, you turn for the finishing touch. Dusty, Winnie's companion. The kind of teddy you must pry out of a child's hand — or at least try and swap it out with a similar weight like a Mission Impossible movie — but your little Win had a sixth sense for her darling dog. Matted fur from bone crushing (or pellet crushing, in Dusty's case) hugs, colour dulled from the years, and eyes wobbled from the thread. He may have been living up to his name, but he carries her love like no other.
But in recent days, you've noticed a difference in Dusty's appearance. His front left leg was simply… missing.
It wasn't hard to put two and two together. Your husband, brooding eyes and tired sighs, Bucky Barnes, had spent the good part of Winnie's first years acclimatising both Win, and himself, to his arm.
Holding her comfortably against his chest, in the crook of his right arm, as so his left — all shiny vibranium and gold veins — could pat and caress. Holding it up, wiggling his fingers while cooing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star just to see her chubby cheeks round out and gargle a laugh through a gummy smile. Bucky had even found himself soothing her by gently wiping the bridge of her nose with the smooth tip of his index finger, shushing down her cries, murmuring praises into the air, smiling softly as her eyes droop shut and soft croons from the back of her throat quieted into yawns, dribble on ironed work shirts and sweet, even breaths.
But Dusty and his three limbs were nowhere to be seen.
Not on the bedside table, or made as a suspicious lump underneath your neat origami of bed sheets. Not using the bunting hung from the corners as a makeshift swing set, or gathered around the lamp-made bonfire.
The laundry sat forgotten as your feet darted down the hall and down the flight of stairs, all to have been halted once you found yourself in the dining room. Your hair flew back as you caught yourself, hand holding the doorway.
Bucky sat at the table, button up shirt open at the collar, sleeves shoved to his elbow, hair the same colour as his daughters mussed back from fingers, and glasses slipping to the tip of his nose. Before you could fully appreciate the sight before you, you realised the scene. A sewing needle poked out the corner of his lip, held in place by his teeth, a large enough sheet of fabric, black with soft gold accents, laid out on the surface next to the project, cut in meticulous patterns, chalk lines fading off. And the main event was Dusty himself, and the appendage of dark cloth, sewn haphazardly with the kind of skill a boy on a mission would have, into a similar shape to the dog's right leg.
"Jesus," you exhale, holding your chest. "I thought you had work today?"
"I—Uh," He glances up at you over the top of his glasses where they perch low on the tip of his nose. Muffled by the needle in his mouth, he takes it out, leaning both elbows to the table, inhaling as if finding the correct answer. "I did. Have work."
You lean against the frame now. Arms crossed over your chest, smiling in amusement.
"But?"
"But," he imitates, looking back down at the work he's doing, holding the needle between two fingers and waving it slightly. "I have more pressing matters to attend to."
"Oh yeah?" You push off and walk your way over, sliding into the chair adjacent to his, leaning your chin on the palm of your hand. "More pressing than paperwork and board meetings? Pressing matters meaning Dusty?"
He laughs once, an exhales huff paired with an easy smile, but he keeps working. His phone was still open, propped up on a vase of cosmos and baby's breath, a paused video tutorial on sewing. You pretend not to have noticed, pretend like your heart didn't swell ten times the size in that one millisecond your eyes flittered.
"I—ah… I may have hold Win, while tucking her in last night, that I'd take Dusty to the 'hospital' today while she was at school," he shrugged, momentarily pausing to run a hand through his hair to keep it back, only for the strands to fall back over his face. "Was tired of finding stuffing on the floor."
"Tired of stuffing on the floor?"
"Mhm," he drags out, tight lipped, looping the needle through the two meeting points of the inside out fabric, pulling until slight resistance, before going again. "I also wanted to surprise her. Got up early to go out lookin' for some stuff, just to close up the hole, but I… saw the fabric, and… I mean, I understand why she—she'd take the arm off," he sighed again, looking back up at you over his glasses. When he sees you already smiling, he loosens up, smiling too, cheeks pinkening under the dusting from his beard.
"I think she'd like it."
"She'll love it, Buck," you reassure, reaching out to draw a knuckle over the back of his hand. "Didn't know you could sew, though."
The chair groans under his weight, stretching out, leaning back. "It's been a long, long time, sweetheart. Used to watch my momma when I had nothing better to do, sometimes she'd make me help her out until my fingers were all sore and poked raw, and, uh, you pick up some shit out in the field. Clothes get ripped, you know the gist," you do. He waves a dismissive hand. "Did have to remind myself though, but don't tell Winnie, I wanna look smart."
You giggle, easing up from the seat to make your way over. "You are smart, and Win already thinks the world of you,"
Leaning over, you drape your arms over his shoulders and rest your chin to his head, pausing the dismissive shake to your statement.
"It looks good. You're really good at this." You murmur into his hair with a kiss.
Bucky hums, pushing his glasses back up with a knuckle. "M'not."
"Hm, you are. And Winnie loves you, and I love you, and she's gonna love you more after this," you peck his head again.
"You know, everyday I think that theres no way I could love you more? You do all of these amazing things, you've done amazing things — things I can't even fathom — and yet you keep going above and beyond," before you could finish your words, Bucky tucks a piece of hair behind his ear, and you move. Legs walking, mind filing through memories, to the comfortable, organised mess of the living room.
When you come back, standing behind your husband, you clip the strands of hair that have been bothering him back with two tiny butterfly clips, one pink, the other green. He makes no protest, only smiling down at his work, already understanding and thankful when he heard the little snap.
You kiss his head again, in the space between the clips and stay there a little longer. Arms wrapping around his shoulders, massaging your thumbs into the muscle and to the base of his neck.
"You're amazing. I dunno how I could keep up."
He makes a noise, humorous, slightly dismissive. "You don't need to keep up. Don't need to do anything," leaning his head back to your chest, he sighs again. "I fell for you the way you are. Beautiful, talented, funny, witty in a way I have always been kinda jealous of, and so terrifying sometimes, even I get nervous at parent teacher conferences."
You scoff, running your hands down to drape across his chest.
"I'm not that scary—"
"Oh, you are," he leans to the side and kisses your forearm, lingering his lips for a few seconds, rubbing the soft skin and the coarse hairs of his beard across the inside of your arm, before pressing another kiss and mumbling into you. "I remember years ago when you ripped Tony a new one. Dunno what, somethin' about a mission being sent out too early bein' dangerous. God, I remember walkin' in and I don't think I blinked,"
A laugh rumbled through your chest, pushing at the back of Bucky's head. He pauses for a moment, holding up the black and gold cushioned paw in his left hand. The plates whir as if smiling at his work.
"That was when I knew I wanted to marry you."
"Sap," You press another kiss to his scalp, and another, then another. "If I'm remembering correctly, cause Tony just loves to piss me off, we weren't even together at that time."
Shaking his head, you can feel the apples of his cheeks fill with a smile. "Nope. Had it all planned out from there on out. Even Steve could tell I was whipped after we left the room."
You tut, straightening up. "And it took you like, what, three years to actually ask me out?"
Before he could retort, already stuttering on an answer, pushing his glasses atop his head, hands curled on the edge of the table. You walk with a bounce in your step back towards the doorway.
"Okay, you've got about an hour or so til pick up so, it might be best to get that leg on. Meanwhile, I've got laundry to do and dinner to start."
As your footsteps thump up the stairs, Bucky calls up to you.
"It was a year!"
"If you say so!" You shout back, already passing back into the colourful, warm mess of your daughter's bedroom to stifle through the little clothes on the floor.
After tossing a pink pyjama set, two pairs of dirt stained socks and a pair of cherry red jeans stained green at the knees, his voice calls out again.
"I love you!"
You giggle. Big and bright, staring down at the messy clothes of your child's, stained with inquisitive wonder and whimsy. Pens thrown on the ground next to an opened colouring book, handmade crochet blankets in a box by the bed, pre-loved books on the shelf, fairy lights and garlands draped across corners.
"I know!"
-
Amongst the crowd of parents waiting on their kids — hulking them up and on their hips, taking their little book bags out their tiny hands to help straighten their clothes — Bucky stayed leaning against the far wall.
The sun still dripped down through the clouds, leaving a cool enough breeze to ease off uncomfortable warmth. It nipped up his bare arms, still clad in his 'work' clothes, white shirt still slightly unbuttoned and sleeves still rolled up, and Dusty stayed tucked inside of the pocket in his pants, covered by his hands.
Kids laughed, squealed at times whenever their parent would pick them up or bounce them, maybe even swing them from between the two. He stayed indifferent, watching the double doors swing open to a new wave of tiny heads, watching the teachers he's come to trust (reluctantly) wave enthusiastically or high-five if the kid asked for such. He stifled a growing smile as one child missed twice.
It wasn't until the sound of quick footsteps pitter-pattered against the asphalt his attention turned and was completely swallowed by the small shooting star about to plummet straight into him.
Brown hair tied into two low braids waved behind her as her little body came running the wavering crowd. Adorned in patchwork dungarees, a stripy shirt and little red boots Nat had gotten her for her last birthday because 'kids can be badasses too'.
"Daddy!" She giggled as she ran, smile so wide it looked like it hurt.
Dropping down to one knee, he just about caught the little cannonball of energy as she leapt into his arms. Little hands around his neck, feet barely touching the ground. The force of her impact made Bucky topple back into the wall with a groan, laughing into her hair as they both squeezed.
"Hey, sweetheart," he greeted, muffled into the the crook of her shoulder, easing and patting the back of her head. "Geez, you've got a lot of energy, you had a good day?"
"Uh-huh! I found some caterpillars during recess, they were all fuzzy and climbing up a tree and I was their protector! Other kids kept tryin' to poke at them but me and some friends guarded them!"
"That's nice, Win." Bucky groaned as he pushed himself, and an energetic five year old, and her backpack up from the wall. Easing her to sit on his hip, she dangled her legs excitedly, grasping into the front of his shirt.
"And we got to play heads up seven up, but don't tell but I looked at their shoes whenever they got me so I won extra reading time, but i didn't do it all of the time! I only did it once in a while so I didn't look sus… suspi—shuss."
"It's 'suspicious', sweetpea, 'sus-pi-shush', and did Auntie Nat teach you that?"
Winnie shakes her head, still smiling, braids whipping to and fro. "Uncle Sam!"
His brows lower in defeat. "Of course he did."
Pebbles crunch beneath the soles of his dress shoes, bumping Winnie up higher on his side, she hums.
"Daddy?"
"Yeah, baby?"
"Is Dusty okay at the hospital?" She fiddles at the collar of his shirt, voice low as she asks.
"Oh, yeah. Hey, you just reminded me, I gotta… got a little surprise for you." he places her back to the ground, following her down to squat in front of her. Rummaging through his pocket, he kept one hand on her bicep to keep her close.
"A surprise?"
Once out, bucky holds out the old dog in his hands, elbows to his knees, cupping around his floppy torso carefully. At this angle, both Dusty and Bucky adorn the arms, and little Winnie watches bright-eyed as Bucky moved his fingers with a whir under Dusty's to greet with a little wave.
"You match!" She gasps before her dad could explain. "Daddy, you and Dusty match!"
He chuckles, "yeah, we do, don't we?" Holding the teddy up, he points out the new leg, nodding and playing along. "Took a little while, but he's good as new. Missed you terribly while you were out here — conning your way into more reading time," he murmurs under his breath as Winnie takes her companion from his hand to smother him in the tightest hug. "Wouldn't stop askin' for you after the procedure, he wanted to show you ASAP."
"He looks exactly just like you, daddy!"
He straightens up, taking her hand in his, making a slight face. "Well, I wouldn't say exactly just like me—"
"You both look so cool!" She exclaims, jumping in his hold excitedly, "Dusty has a cool arm like daddy now!"
His head knocks back in a soft flinch. Despite the slight tingle in his sinuses, the soft smile on his lips and the adoring look he glances down at his daughter, he doesn't cry — not yet, at least, he wont allow it. And while he wants to ask if she really means it, if his arm really is cool, if she did rip it off Dusty to be like him, if she really did love him, adore him, like you said she does; instead he keeps smiling and guiding her back to the car with his chest full of something akin to the cloudy, cotton feeling he got when he held her for the first time.
And he really did match Dusty.
"C'mon, Pea," he clears his throat, trying to hide the bundles of emotion, golden and honey thick in his chest. "Momma's probably wondering where we are."
With one last skip, she giggles, holding the dog up to her face. "Thank you for making him better, daddy."
Comically, his eyes twitch and his bottom lip just about juts out into a pout. Inhaling, exhaling, grounding himself — trying to, at least — he squeezes the little hand in his own once.
"Of course, baby."
And she squeezes back. Once around his hand, small yet mighty, and another around his heart.
-
"Momma!"
The door's barely open before the loud rapt of Winnie comes bounding over.
"In here!" You reply, voice echoing from the kitchen, stirring the pot one last time and easing the flame low on the stove.
"Ah-ah," Bucky tuts, clicking his fingers, whistling once, catching her just in the nick of time. "Shoes off and bag at the door, you know what momma's like."
With a dramatic groan — wonder where she gets that from — she copies Bucky. Toeing off her boots clumsily, before plopping her butt down on the floor to impatiently untangle the knots you had tied that morning, ultimately letting her dad pull them off her feet and place them neatly on the shoe rack.
As Bucky slipped off the last shoe, Winnie made a run for it.
"Momma!" She calls again. Bounding down the hallway, socked feet thumping off the floor. As he follows behind, Bucky wonders how such a small being can make so much noise.
"Hey, babygirl!" you beam, listening to the excited racket thud closer and closer, propping a lid on top of the pan.
A blow hits your legs, catching your breath as you laugh at her dramatics. Stroking the frizzy hairs down from her plaits.
"C'mere," you beckon, pulling her up for a hug, air constricting and tight as it might be, you reciprocate with wiggling from side to side and groaning with playful aggression. You believe you could photosynthesise on her giggles alone. "What did you get up to today, anything fun? Make friends? Change the world?"
"Look, look, look!"
Plastic beading rattles as she holds Dusty up in front of her for you to behold, pressing her little mouth to his head, copying the wave Dusty had greeted her with.
With a gasp, you wobble her happily. "Oh my goodness, Dusty's back!"
"His arm, momma, look at his arm!" She exclaims, kicking her legs happily.
"He had the best surgeon looking out for him, baby," glancing up at your husband's simper, you kiss her forehead. "Doesn't it look great?"
"It's amazing!"
Jumping her up a couple times on your hip, you hum. "Yeah? Did you thank daddy?"
Nodding her head with a beam, a smile bucky can only compare to yours with the way rooms seem to brighten when shown, she pulls her hands up for him to hold her next. "Thank you, daddy!"
"Yeah, yeah," he grunts, holding her without a complaint, "you said that fifteen times in the car already, Pea."
The room settles easily, with the quiet simmer of food bubbling and stove searing, birds whistling in the garden and traffic humming, it's familiar and easy, and it's home.
It isn't long until Winnie's restless little body squirms in Bucky's arms, and he sets her free with a quiet 'go on', sprinting back up to her room with a chorus of high pitched giggles.
Propping himself against the worksurface, arms crossed over his chest, head on the cabinets, Bucky sighs. It's a sigh of ease, contentment. The kind he would let out once the streets filled with the orange of lampposts, and he got home to find you, warm and sleepy, tucked in bed as he stripped himself of button ups and tailored suits, and swapped it out with a bare chest and sweatpants — the sigh would only come once his arms wrapped around you and his nose buried into your hair.
A smile creeps on your lips, moving to take a place next to him.
"You know, apparently she cheated at heads up seven up today. For extra reading time. But only did it enough times not to look 'suspicious'." He squints his eyes, following the word with quotation marks.
Sucking in a breath, you click your tongue against the backs of your teeth. "Ooh, don't tell me," you whisper, patting a finger on your chin in thought. "Nat?"
He shakes his head, tight lipped, "Sam."
"So we're crossing him off the babysitting list."
"Hm, I think he's doin' it on purpose," he hums, tipping his chin up, moving his hands down to find the small of your back. "Keep him on, he's doing the next gig."
Pulling you closer until you stand between his open legs. He holds your hips, rubbing small circles through your pants, holding eye contact.
"I meant what I said today." You murmur, keeping your eyes on his, holding authority. To which Bucky loses with great pleasure, sneaking glances to your lips.
"I know."
"You're amazing," you mumble again, basking in the tiny looks he holds to your mouth, how he licks his own lips and the soft, humming feeling of his thumbs making patterns, and his fingers changing position to subtly bring you closer.
"I mean it. Truly," You rest your hands on his shoulders, squeezing, careful around the soft tissue that bumps around his left. "I love you. We both do. So, so much."
Your eyes hold his, and this time he doesn't sneak away, and he doesn't try to hide with a bashful look or a glimpse at your lips, right there. Though his eyes redden at the edges, the whites of his eyes glisten off the stovetop light, and you can just about see your reflection pool inside of his pupils.
"I know." He replies, quieter than the last, and he finally leans the rest of the way and kisses you. Because it hits, not like a blow but a final blossom. He does know, and he thinks he has known this whole time. From the moment the nurse placed a whaling, sticky, tiny thing in his arms and his body tightened and loosened all at once, his lungs stuttering, and mouth instinctively formed the awkward whispers of 'you're alright, I got you, I know, it must be so cold'.
It's just only now, in the soft warmth of a kitchen, being used and not feeling like mere decoration with takeout in the fridge, the love of his life in front of him, pecking at his lips until laughter gets in the way and dinner sizzles from next to them. With a daughter, who loves to guard critters and create extravagant blanket forts, who reads to her bears and kisses them goodnight, one by one. Who ripped off her favourite teddy's left arm so he can be 'just exactly like daddy' — he's finally let himself realise just how adored he really is.
When you come back, standing behind your husband, you clip the strands of hair that have been bothering him back with two tiny butterfly clips, one pink, the other green. He makes no protest, only smiling down at his work, already understanding and thankful when he heard the little snap.
Bucky with mismatched butterfly clips in his hair?!?!
My heart would simply give out 😫
Also dusty and winnie remind me of myself and my stuffed noddy whose button nose fell out one time and we were inseparable so I was so heartbroken I was practically mourning him and my nonna had to sew his nose back on at that very moment and amidst all the chaos his nose was sewed a little more to the left and it ended up crooked 😭😭😭
I loved him anyway (mostly because i didn't realise it was crooked lmao)
and right as i get the motivation to write again my life gets so super busy😭😭
i have so many ideas i wanna get through and requests i want to get done (many of which are sub!bucky) so i hope and pray the tides ebb for a moment this week 🥹
chubby twins… chubby twins who love southern food and would make rich stews and meals, who always got spoiled at dinner by nana and aunts, who went over to francis’, henry’s, bunny’s and even richard’s with trays of food or dessert in that good old southern hospitality manner, apple-cheeked and shy as they held them up, “thank you for invitin’ us to dinner/lunch/study!”
camilla with a round face and rolls and stretch marks, one of those little girls who would jump up when the teacher asked for a strong boy. staring at statues of aphrodite, old paintings where beautiful women were painted with bigger bodies, stars in her eyes… looking so pleased when henry would lift her with ease and say she was light as a feather
charles with fat on his arms, a big tummy, big thighs, his uncle used to take him to help out on a farm as a kid to “become a man” until he got knocked off a horse and was too scared to continue… francis would tell him he reminded him of homer’s descriptions of odysseus when they were on good terms,,,
Horny slutty afab Henry who will send you videos and voice notes of him fucking himself if you aren't home bc he's mad you aren't there to touch him
So while you're literally working or in class you can hear the sound of him fucking himself with one of your shared toys and you can hear it clear as day bc he's so wet 😳
