VITALS: Millennial | INFJ | British | South Asian | Cancer | Healthcare girl âď¸
BESTIE ALERT: Go give @scoonsalicious all the loveâher work is chefâs kiss!
ABOUT ME:
I'm quiet by nature, loud in my head. A little tired, a little tender. I write between night shifts and daydreams, usually with tea gone cold beside me.
I write mainly for the man with too much past and not enough peace. For the ghost who wants to be held like heâs real. Bucky Barnes found a quiet place in my head and my heart and never left. So I tell storiesâ for him, and for the softness he deserves.
I love hearing from readersâ your thoughts, your feels, your favourite lines. This little corner of the internet is ours, really.
Please note: I will not interact with you if you do not have an age in your bio.
MAIN BLOG: I follow from @skittle479 and often reblog to this blog!
REQUESTS? Always welcome | COMMENTS? Feed my soul
When Iâm not writing, Iâm readingâ devouring stories like theyâre oxygen. You can find my favourites under #skittle's reading list.
If you enjoy my work and feel like showing a little love, buy me a coffee. Every bit of support means more than you know.
AO3 ACCOUNT: skittle479
LATEST SERIES: Plus-One Problems
Neighbor!Bucky Barnes x reader with fake dating tropes - now complete.
Sequel in progress
NEW FICS:
Skating the Line - Part 1 & 2
MASTERLISTS:
â SMUTLET â
â BUCKY BARNES SERIES â
â BUCKY BARNES FIC â
â STEVE ROGERS FIC â
â IMAGINES & DRABBLES â
MINORS DNI. This blog is 18+ â please respect that.
WHO I WRITE FOR:
â Bucky Barnes
â Steve Rogers
WHAT TO EXPECT:
Fluff | Angst | Smut | Comfort â most likely I will write a happy ending (because Iâm a sucker for hope, okay?)
WHAT I DONâT WRITE:
No dubcon/noncon | No real people fics | No heavy BDSM | No racism | No explicit sexual abuse/assault
Bucky Barnes, Doomsday Predictions (not!), Crack, 100 words exactly. General Audiences. No Doomsday Spoilers Were Harmed in the Writing of this Drabble. This drabble meets the requirements for the following events:
@societynsoelsscribbles June Jukebox Scribbles (Itty Bitty Pretty One);
@swoon-june (Denial/Sickfic);
@juneofdoom ("Maybe it's better this way.").
It was further inspired by the prompt from @writer-in-a-cryofreeze's Round 4: "This Will Not Happen in Doomsday." I'm not one of their authors... but if I were... đ¤ If you enjoyed this, please go check out the nine drabbles over there.
Summary:
Oh come on, who do you think taught Steve Rogers how to be dramatic???
"MaybeâŚ" Bucky coughs weakly. "Maybe it's better this way."
"No, Buck, no," sobs Steve, looking frantically for a wound to staunch. "I just got you back, you can't dieâ"
"Oh, fuck off, Rogers," groans Bucky, pained. "Did you bring the stupid back from 1955? You saved me something like, five times and each and every time you went swanning off on some mission."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" protests Steve.
"True," chirps Tony. "Don't worry, Buckeroo, I got this idiot now. Your watch is over."
"Thank God," says Bucky, and then as he dies: "Wonder if Nat likes the Batman franchise?"
<-Previous Drabble -=- Drabble Masterlist -=- Next Drabble->
Explicit | 18+ only| Bucky Barnes x fem!Avenger!Reader | Enemies-to-Lovers, 2012 Tower Life Vibes
When a whirlwind of events transforms you from an ordinary plant science researcher into a superpowered individual that the public knows as Fern, the Avengers welcome you among their ranks. Or... most of them do. Bucky Barnes doesn't quite get you, and you don't quite get him. It's totally fine, though. It was expected; flowers and winter don't really get along.
...or do they?
A collection of drabbles with a living-in-the-Avengers-Tower-2012 slice of life atmosphere to them, with an overarching plot of Reader (she/her, adult, no Y/N used) joining the team as a new member. Every drabble will be 100 words. See the series masterlist for full fic info.
SERIES WARNINGS: Explicit sexual content, Bucky has PTSD, canon-typical violence, Avengers chaos, enemies-to-lovers plot with Bucky being sort of a dick in the beginning for plot-related reasons.
Series Masterlist | AO3 | Tumblr Masterlist | Fic Sideblog
Challenges: @star-and-shield-monthly April 2026: In Bloom or In Gloom. @marveldrabblechallenge June 1st to 7th: New Teammates.
âBotany powers?â
You met Barnesâ doubt-filled eyes, refusing to waver despite him towering over you and the team staring.
âYup.â
âYou sure you can keep up with us?â
He probably wasnât trying to be a dick, but he sure as hell sounded like one.
Pursing your lips together, you moved your hand just slightly. The potted Monstera plant on the edge of the hall sprung to life, shooting out as long vines.
Bucky barely had time to yelp before they wrapped around his ankles and yanked him face-first onto the floor.
âYeah, I think Iâll keep up just fine, Sarge.â
Series Masterlist | AO3 | Tumblr Masterlist | Fic Sideblog
Baby!Clint & Barney Barton, Teen for suggested violence. 100 words exactly. This drabble meets the requirements for @societynsoelsscribbles' June 10 prompt (Pink Pony Club).
Summary:
A split-second decision leaves a small Clint in shock. Barney's reaction changes the entire trajectory of his life.
"What have you done?" Barney's eyes are wide, shocked; his entire body shakes and shivers.
Clint is frozen, scared, unable to move, despite the weight pulling down on his arms. His mouth gapes like a goldfish, staring.
"We have to go," gasps Barney, pulling at Clint's elbow, his shoulder, his shirt. "Come on, Clinty, we have to go."
Clint moves, woodenly, leaving his father's body behind. He slips-slides on the wet floor, into the rainy night, tugged into safety by Barney.
The rain washes the blood from his body into the dirt.
He doesn't remember where he drops the gun.
<-Previous Drabble -=- Drabble Masterlist -=- Next Drabble->
AN: for @societynsoelsscribbles June Jukebox Scribbles, day 10, swapped, âI donât want anybody else.â Divider courtesy of @saradika-graphics.
Warnings: NSFW for oral sex (f receiving), vaginal fingering, language, pussy pronouns (she/her).
Bucky backs you up against the wall right there in the entryway, the cool metal of his left hand sliding up your ribs while his warm right hand cups your jaw. His body is solid heat and muscle pressing into you.
Buckyâs fingers trace the expensive lace over your tits, thumb brushing your already hard nipple through the sheer fabric. His hand slides down, finding the crotchless opening immediately. He groans when his fingers meet your soaked pussy. âFuck⌠already this wet for me?â
You whimper as he circles your clit slow and firm. âI donât want anybody else.â
He drops to his knees right there in the hallway, pushing your thighs apart.
âFuck, doll⌠sheâs even prettier in person,â he murmurs. He drags two fingers slowly through your folds, spreading you open while he looks up at you like youâre his new religion. âLook how sheâs glistening for me already.â
The first slow drag of his warm tongue through your folds makes your knees buckle. He eats you like a man whoâs been dreaming about it for weeks â messy, hungry, one hand gripping your ass while the other holds one of your thighs over his shoulder.
Youâre moaning loud, fingers in his hair, hips rolling against his face. âBuckyâ oh my god, yes⌠just like that.â
You cry out, one hand fisting his hair, the other gripping his shoulder as he eats you like a starving man.
Bucky pulls back just enough to slide two thick fingers inside you, curling them perfectly against that spot that makes your eyes roll. Your eyes meet his as you look down. The sight is almost your undoing - Buckyâs got a filthy grin, lips shiny from your juices.
âSo tight around my fingers, doll. Greedy little thing.â
He stands up suddenly, lifting you like you weigh nothing and carries you straight to the bedroom. The second your back hits the mattress heâs on you, yanking the bralette down so your tits spill out. He sucks one nipple into his mouth hard while he keeps fingering you, wet squelching sounds filling the room.
Youâre writhing under him, moaning loud. âNeed your cock, Bucky.â
Bucky lets out a wrecked laugh and sits back, stripping his henley off in one move. His cock springs free: thick, heavy, and leaking at the tip. He strokes himself slowly, eyes locked on your spread thighs and that soaked, pulsing pussy.
âLook at her twitching,â he groans. âSheâs so fucking pretty when sheâs desperate. You gonna be a good girl and let me wreck her tonight, doll?â
A NAFTK drabble. Bucky/Reader, General Audiences, 100 words exactly. This takes place at the end of NAFTK, while D is on bedrest during her last few weeks of pregnancy. This drabble meets the requirements for @swoon-june's 2026 Event (First Anniversary/Pregnant).
Summary:
Truth or Dare leads to a very interesting question from Pepper... and the probability of a Dare from Bucky a few years down the line.
"Truth or dare isn't fun when I'm on bedrest," you grumble.
"Maybe not for you," says Maria Hill, on her second glass of champagne.
"Truth," says Pepper. "What day is your anniversary?"
You're flummoxed. "UhhhâŚ"
"Is it the day you and Bucky met?" pressed Pepper. "Or the day you wereâ"
"Sex pollinated," supplies Nat with a sly grin.
"We don't have one," you say before you're shouted down. "No, really! We don't!"
"Don't what?" asks Bucky, leaning through the door.
"Have an anniversary," explains Laura.
"Of course not," says Bucky (to your triumphant ha!). "She hasn't married me yet."
<-Previous Drabble -=- Drabble Masterlist -=- Next Drabble->
Stucky, Gen Audiences, pre-war 1930s. Idiots in love is the best trope. Three 100-word drabbles. These drabbles meet the requirements for @stuckygeekevents' June Pride 2026 event, for Track 1 (Hidden in Plain Sight).
Summary:
Seriously, they are so dumb. What's a mom to do?
Bucky doesn't know.
"It's a fine idea," says Mrs. Barnes. "You'll keep an eye on each other."
Steve won't, can't look at Bucky. He remembers their tiny room, the single bed, the bathtub in the kitchen.
Eyes on Bucky? He won't have a choice. Nowhere to hide now.
Winnie ruffles Bucky's hair up; he scowls and smooths it down. "You'll both come home for dinner every Friday night."
"Yes, ma'am," says Steve, as if the thought of sharing a room, a bed, a life with Bucky doesn't scare Steve joyous.
But Bucky doesn't know.
And Steve will never tell him.
*
Steve doesn't know.
"A fine idea," says Ma.
But Pop hides behind his newspaper, silent. Bucky's stomach is in knots, waiting for certain disapproval.
The idea of Steve, alone in Hell's Kitchen, churns Bucky's stomach more. Or worseâsharing that rat-trap with any other guy.
"Home for dinner, every Friday," adds Ma.
Bucky's stare could set the paper on fire by the time George turns the page and speaks. "Stop mothering them, Win. They'll be fine."
Bucky stares in disbelief⌠and hope.
If George can accept this new normal, maybeâŚ
But Steve doesn't know.
And Bucky will never tell him.
*
George doesn't know.
"It's a fine idea," says Winnie. "You can keep an eye on each other."
Not that Bucky nor Steve look at each other now; Winnie could laugh or knock their heads together. She settles with ruffling Bucky's hair; he scowls and keeps his anxious gaze on George.
They're grown, they need freedom, Winnie had said earlier. Don't disapprove just because you don't like it.
Warnings: Buckyâs a creep. But heâs hot so maybe we can look past it.
WC: 349
AN: For @societynsoelsscribbles June Jukebox Event, day 3, feat prompt: he shows them pearly whites. Thanks always to @saradika-graphics for the divider.
You spend your first afternoon hauling boxes up the porch steps while summer heat sticks your tank top to your skin. Halfway through wrestling a bookshelf inside, a deep voice says, âCareful, doll. Youâre gonna throw your back out and what a shitty welcome to the neighborhood thatâll be.â
You turn and nearly drop the shelf. Your neighbor is unfairly attractive-broad shouldered, dark shaggy hair, bright blue eyes.
âIâm Bucky,â he says, and he shows them pearly whites.
You tell him your name. The idea of being next door to an Avenger puts any anxieties of living on your own to ease. Over time, you see it all:
Bucky helps old ladies carry groceries. He fixes the war veteranâs radiator for free. He mows the lawn for the single mom who works at the hospital. The cops like him. Hell, the whole neighborhood melts for him.
Then little things go missing: A hair tie. Your pink lacy panties. The silver ring you swore you left beside the sink.
You tell yourself youâre being paranoid. You literally live next door to a superhero.
But youâve also seen the way his eyes linger. And itâs curious how he seems to know your schedule better than you do.
Tuesday yoga. Thursday laundry. Midnight tea when you canât sleep.
You never told him that last one⌠right?
One rainy night, your power cuts out. Your phone flashlight shakes in your hand as you fumble through the kitchen.
A staccato knock at your door causes you to nearly scream.
âItâs just me,â Bucky calls out. âJust wanted to make sure you were okay.â
Relief immediately washes over you as you unlock the door. He steps inside dripping rainwater and concern.
You follow his line of vision as it drifts slowly across your living room to the mug sitting beside the sink to the tiny rip in your couch cushion to the framed photo of you and your best friend.
Details nobody should know unless theyâve already been inside.
Your blood runs cold.
Because Bucky smiles softly and says, âYou moved the furniture around.â
Warnings: Bucky & Reader have a child. Canonical accuracy that the Winter Soldier assassinated JFK.
WC: 303
AN: for the @societynsoelsscribbles June Scribbles, day 2, using the line: âI canât promise I wonât do that.â Divider courtesy of @saradika-graphics
Your daughter is twelve the first time history class becomes a problem.
Youâre in the kitchen preparing dinner with Bucky. Alpine is winding around his ankles as the record player hums softly in the background. The front door opens and your daughter calls out for the two of you. There is something in the tone of her voice that makes both of you look up immediately.
âEverything okay, doll?â
âMaybe?â
You and Bucky exchange a look. She drops her backpack by the table. âSo, we started learning about the sixties today,â she replies as she pulls out her history textbook and flips through chunks of pages.
You see the page before Bucky does. Thereâs a grainy black-and-white photo of the Winter Soldier. Underneath, reads:
JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES â Soviet operative linked to numerous assassinations during the Cold War, including the assassination of President John F. Kennedy.
Your daughterâs gaze bounces between the two of you. Bucky closes his eyes and you swear that you see his soul exit his body.
âDad, you assassinated JFK?!â
âWell,â Bucky says slowly, âthatâs one hell of a way to start dinner.â After a beat, he continues, âHoney, remember that my mind was controlled by Hydra at the time.â
Your daughter, your sweet, Barnes child, walks to him, wrapping her arms around his waist.
âShe really walked us through the chapter like normal, Dad,â she mutters into his shirt. âIâm just sitting there trying to survive third period and BAM! Thereâs your government-issued murder glamour shot.â
You let out a snort.
âEveryone started asking me things about daddy, Uncle Steve, Sam. You may get a call from the school.â
Bucky lets out an exasperated sigh.
âCan I cite daddy as a primary source in my essay?â
Summary: A night in has Bucky reflecting on time lost.
Warnings: a male bodily reaction is briefly mentioned
AN: Entry for June Jukebox Scribbles over @societynsoelsscribbles, using prompt: June 1 Joy To The World - Three Dog Night/ Â âI never understood a single word he saidâ. Divider courtesy of @saradika-graphics
WC: 300
The cold, gray rain was gusting against the window of your Brooklyn apartment. Youâre tucked against Bucky on the couch, wearing nothing but his oversized hoodie, legs tangled in his lap. You are both reading, enjoying each other's company.
Buckyâs metal fingers trace patterns up your thigh, stopping just short of where you want them.
You tilt your head, listening to the low song drifting from the speaker. âI never understood a single word he said,â you quietly sing along.
âWhat year did that song come out?â Bucky asks, his eyes locking onto yours.
â1970.â
Bucky hums as his gaze drops. Instantly his mood has shifted.
âWhatâs up babe?â you asked, closing your book.
âI missed so much,â Bucky sighs. âI donât know if I was being used then, or in cryo⌠still sorting out memories.â
Your heart breaks. âBad people took choices away from you for a long time. When something terrible happens, sometimes the most important thing isnât pretending it never happened.â
Buckyâs eyes flick briefly towards you.
âItâs deciding what kind of person youâre gonna be afterward. And you,â you remark as you climb onto his lap, âare a good man.â
You press a small kiss to his lips as you settle over him.
Buckyâs eyes lock on yours, his hands at your waist, keeping you in place. He leans in, lips brushing against yours as your fingers curl into his shirt. You shift, pressing closer, feeling him hard beneath you. The ache, the desire is thick and building.
âTell me what youâre thinking right now,â you murmur, lips brushing his jaw.
âI wouldâve been 52 in 1970.â
âWell itâs a good thing Iâve always had a penchant for older men,â you tease as his metal hand slides up your back under the hoodie, warm and possessive.
summary: wherein bucky needs a steve, his goats, and a hug.
authorâs note: ngl this was written with very little planning, so weâre chugging along based on pure vibes
warnings: some ptsd, slight suicidal thoughts (tho he gets better), bucky is depresso espresso at first
chapter one: excuse me, sir? he asked for more steve in his candles
Itâs four smokes past three in the morning, half of the candles have been burned to a charred nub, and Bucky craves the sweet release of sleep. Death would work too, but Steve gets sad when Bucky says things like that, and sometimes Steve even seems to get sad when Bucky thinks things like that. When Steve is sad, his bottom lip becomes a very pathetic, disappointed puff.
In short, Bucky has stopped thinking thoughts that make Steve sad. His therapist says that basing his mental health on the happiness of others is probably codependency and not entirely healthy, but she does not have a Steve.
(Neither does he. Thatâs the problem, he supposes.)
His therapist is the one who recommended that he burn candles when flashes of cold strangling his throat and stinging his broken flesh come tumbling like waves, pressing him against his bedsheets until he thinks breathing is more painful than letting himself drown would be.
The candles didnât help. Now Buckyâs apartment just smells like too many seasons all at once. Except the Christmas candles donât smell like Christmas because Real Christmas is the scent of cheap cigarettes and penny candy. The Thanksgiving candles smell like pumpkins, but thatâs just plain wrong because Real Thanksgiving smells like firewood and cough medicine and small bowls of fresh rabbit. The Halloween candles are the worst of all because Bucky is still sure that Halloween is a made-up holiday, and wasting gallons of candy every year is a stupid tradition anyway.
The main missing factor in all of these stupid candles is a big stupid blonde lug, who once wasnât so big but was just as stupid, who used to lean on his shoulder when his lungs didnât work right and made every day feel like a holiday just by breathing. Thatâs what these candles are missing.
The bed is too soft.
(And empty. But Bucky doesnât like to think about that, either.)
Bucky leans back in his too-soft bed and remembers the feeling of grass. He remembers late night sparring sessions with the Dora Milaje, and the distant screaming of an excited Shuri who has just figured out some new science-y thing and who sometimes reminds him of Howard.
Blood on expensive black leather, red across the ground and pavement, crimson smeared on cracked noses and faces, and someone in The Soldier looks expectantly at the man who has stopped pleading, who once gave him a bottle of whisky while they sat under lamplight and talked about everything and nothing at all, and why isnât he waking up? Howardâs lazy, but he ainât a slob, câmon Howard, your deskâs all messy and and weâre waitinâ for you to come and share a drink, whatâre you doingâ
Bucky throws one of his pillows across the room. It smacks into the empty dresser.
Good thing there isnât anything on it, thinks Bucky as he strikes another match and holds it up to the cigarette dangling from his lips. Good thing thereâs nothing in this apartment worth damaging. Good thing weâre all broken and alone here.
He misses his goats. The thought strikes Bucky upside the head like one of Samâs âfriendlyâ slaps. It seems silly to be thinking about goats, but Bucky still remembers all of their names. If he closes his eyes, he can remember why he named each one.
The clock strikes four.
His therapist told him that he should try counting sheep or thinking of happy things when he canât sleep. Goats are basically sheep.
So Bucky closes his eyes and lets himself remember.
Hellooo!! May I request something where Barnes and his girl havent talk much because of a discussion, but also she had a problem at work and she didnt ask him for help, cause she didnt want to seem forced to get his attention, he find out anyway
I hope make myself understoodđi did try my best to summarize it
The Space Between Us
SUMMARY: It didn't start as an argument. No raised voices, no slammed doors. Just two people slowly convincing themselves that reaching out would only make things worse â until it wasn't just a theory anymore
NOTE: Sorry this took so long to complete, I had a lot going on with being abroad and then ending up in hospital. Getting back to normal life slowly.
It didn't start as an argument. That was the worst part of the whole situation. No one raised their voices, there was no slamming of doors. Absolutely nothing obvious happened that you could push back against or use as a foundation to build on. It was more like the path of a river, the flow of water eroding softly against the bank. Almost invisible until you looked back and saw that the course had changed the landscape completely.
That night, you were sitting on the couch. Your standard position, legs tucked under you with a book open on your lap as you snuggled under the blanket wrapped over your shoulders. The TV was on, volume low since neither of you were actually watching the random documentary that was playing.
Bucky was standing near the window. It was something he did often. Staring out into the darkness. The staring got worse when something was bothering him. So did the brooding. The book in your lap no longer had your attention as you were reading him instead. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his shoulders tense, eyes dark and stormy.
You knew him well enough, read him often enough to know what his body was saying. Everything he wasn't.
You closed the book on your lap with firmness of resolve.
"Bucky," you said softly.
He hummed in response without turning around.
You waited. Patiently, in your opinion. You tried so hard to be patient with him. Even though the words that came out of your mouth may have betrayed the fraying edges.
"You gonna tell me whatâs going on with you?"
There was a pause. Not very long. Definitely not dramatically. You could at least give him the chance to answer. He deserved that much.
But the silence went on long enough to make something in your chest tighten.
"Thereâs nothing going on," he mumbled.
A laugh threatened to burst out of your lips. Not because it was funny, but because it was depressingly familiar.
"Cause youâve been staring out that window for ten minutes," you answered with a small shrug, keeping your tone as even as possible. "Thatâs not nothing."
Finally he turned, leaning against the wall with the vibranium between him and the plaster board. He wore a look which was trying to be casual but was failing abysmally.
"I'm just thinking."
"About?"
He shrugged.
And there it was. The small dismissive gesture that indicated the conversation was over on his end.
The spark of irritation that had ignited in your chest flared, but it was being fueled by something deeper. Something older. You put down the book on the coffee table and crossed the room, blanket still wrapped over your shoulders.
"Youâve been doing that a lot lately."
"Doing what?"
"That," you gestured vaguely, feeling the pang of frustration creeping in. "Thinking⌠shutting down⌠brushing things off."
"Iâm not shutting down," he replied, a slight edge in his voice.
You stopped in a foot away from him, your arms folding instinctively around your waist.
"You kinda are," you said. "You get⌠all quiet, you go somewhere else, and the worst part is you act like Iâm imagining it."
"I didnât say you were imagining anything," Bucky snapped.
"You didnât have to."
The air between you shifted with the coldness in your tone and the anger in his. Subtle, but unmistakable. He straightened up, expression tightening. Always a soldier.
"I just donât think everything needs to be a conversation," he muttered.
You blinked in surprise. "Seriously?"
"I mean it," he continued. "Sometimes I just⌠need a minute."
"And that minute turns into hours,â you grumbled. "Days, sometimes."
"Thatâs not fair."
"Why not?" you persisted. "It feels like you just disappear on me, Buck. Not physically, but⌠it's like you just⌠check out."
"Iâm right here." He looked at you with a hint of exasperation.
"Itâs not the same thing and you know it."
The silence between you was heavy, pressing in around you. Suffocating.
Bucky shook his head, running a hand through his hair before exhaling sharply through his teeth. "I donât know what you want me to say."
"I want you to let me in," you said, your words coming out softly, earnest but intense.
You could see the falter in his gaze. "You are in," he insisted.
You shook your head. "No. I'm⌠on the outside looking in." You hesitated, looking for the least confrontational approach. "It's like you let me in when things are good, easy. But the second something's off, you pull back. Shut the door."
"Thatâs notâ"
"It is," you cut in, quietly but firmly. "That's how it feels, and Iâm tired of pretending it isnât."
This time when he looked at you, he really looked. There was something different in his eyes now. Not anger. They looked conflicted.
"Iâm trying not to drag you into my mess," he said.
The words were uttered softly, but they hit you harder than expected and for a second, you couldn't respond. Because there it wasâ the metaphorical line. Drawn in the figurative sand of the beach that represented your relationship. He said it with such conviction, framing the intention in a protective way. Careful, selfless event. But despite all of this, you still managed to hit the wall.
"Iâm already in it, Bucky," you said, your voice quieter and all the sharper for it. "You just act like I'm not."
You could see all the muscles in his jaw clench.
"Thatâs not fair," he repeated, but it sounded less certain this time.
"Why not?" you asked. "You decide what I can handle⌠what I should know⌠what I donât need to worry about. It's like I donât get any say in it."
"Iâm just tryna protect you."
"I didnât ask for that, Buck."
The words slipped out. They landed before you had the chance to soften them and the implication hung between you in a tense silence. You watched the way his body stilled, another soldier's response.
The shift in his expression came seconds later, subtle but unmistakable.
"Right," he muttered.
Just the one word. Said without anger. No change in volume. Just one word that felt like another door slammed in your face.
You felt the change instantly, and instinctive flicker rippled through you. Had you gone too far? But prideâ or maybe frustrationâ kept you from taking it back.
"I mean it," you added, even though your chest was starting to chest tighter and tighter. "I donât need you deciding what's best for me."
"Iâm not deciding anything," he said, his voice had becomes increasingly flatter now. "Iâm just⌠handling my own stuff."
"And shutting me out in the process."
"Iâm not shutting you out."
"Then why does it feel like you are?"
This time the silence between you stretched out for much longer. Felt much colder. He was the first to look away and that's when you knew you knew the truth. Not because he admitted it. Because he never admitted it.
"Okay," you said quietly. Resigned. Just as flat as his words had been.
"Okay?" He glanced back at you, his brows pulling together slightly.
"Yeah," you nodded, even though nothing about the conversation felt okay at all to you. "If thatâs how you want to handle things."
"Thatâs not..."
"Not⌠what youâre doing?"
He didn't answer, exhaling slowly after a short pause, as if he was not choosing his words carefully.
"I justâ" he started, voice measured, "maybe not everything needs to be shared straight away."
You stared at him. "Or at all."
Bucky scowled.
"Maybe thatâs how people end up alone," you added. Flat. Quiet.
Neither of you spoke. The walls felt like they were closing in around you. Suffocating.
"I donât want to fight about this," he said finally.
You felt guilty at his words. You didn't want to fight either, but you couldn't stay silent any longer.
"Then donât shut me out," you answered with a plea.
"So donât push me when Iâm not ready," he countered.
There it was. The line drawn. Final. Solid. Impenetrable.
You swallowed down the surge of disappointment that threatened to overwhelm you.
"Fine," you said flatly.
One word. Not shouted. But carried more weight than anything else youâd said so far.
He nodded. Just once.
"Fine," he echoed.
And just like that, it was over. No resolution. No apology. Just⌠a line in the sand.
The next morning was no different from any other morning. But the shift between you was immediately palpable. Not dramatic⌠just different. The two of you move around each other carefully.
"Morning," you rasped through your morning grogginess.
"Morning," he replied softly, already climbing out of bed.
The exchange was simple. Totally neutral.
Coffee was already brewing when you made it to the kitchen and your hands brushed accidentally when you both reached for the same mug. Both of you pulled back a fraction too quickly.
"Sorry," you murmured.
"Yeah," he answered, the same detached tone he had used last night.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
By the third day, things between you seemed to have settled into their new pattern. Conversations purely functional. The care between you hadn't vanished, but the intimacy was strangely absent.
"Did you eat?"
"Yeah."
"You heading out?"
"In a minute."
"Drive safe."
Neither of you lingered. There was no intimacy or lingering touches. You had stopped reaching for him without even realizing it at first. No hand on his arm when you passed. No leaning into his space when you were both in the kitchen. No absent-minded touches that used to happen without thought.
It wasn't a conscious decision. It just⌠happened.
For the first few days, you considered it, but every time you looked at the sullen expression on his face and a flicker of hesitation passed through you.
What if he pulled away?
So you didnât risk it. You couldn't. Not if you wanted to avoid aggravating the issue.
He noticed. Bucky always did. He noticed everything.
The way you sat a little further away on the couch. The way you didn't look at him for quite as long. The way you tempered your responses, measuring your every word before saying it. He told himself you needed space. That pushing you into closeness would make things worse. That you were just upset. Understandably so.
So he decided to give you space. He held back, even when every single one of his instincts screamed at him to close the distance.
By the end of the week, the silence in the apartment had spawned a life of its own. It seeped through the apartment like a poisonous mist, settling into every nook and cranny of your little world. You could both feel itâ affecting the way you moved around each other, just slightly out of sync, like you were orbiting the same space but never quite aligning.
You got home late that night. Another awful day at work where one of your colleagues just got under your skin. Bucky was already home.
"Hey," he greeted you quietly.
"Hi," you offered a tired response, dropping your bag by the door and toed off your shoes.
There was a brief moment where you made eye contact and all you wanted to do was to collapse into his arms. To let him hold you until the storm inside you calmed. And just when you were ready to walk toward him, his eyes flicked away. Back down to the book he had been reading when you walked in.
You sighed quietly and shuffled into the bathroom to wash away the day's troubles instead.
The night was the worst. You still shared a bed, but somehow the space between you felt like the Grand Canyon. You lay facing your side, away from Bucky and he did the same, facing the opposite direction. There was no discussion, no argument⌠just a quiet, non-verbal agreement you had entered unwillingly.
You fell into a fitful sleep, plagued by dreams of work that bothered your subconscious. It was enough to make you shift in your sleep until your hand brushed his arm. You surfaced from sleep just enough to register the implication and for a second, you didn't move.
A part of you wanted to stay, to keep your hand where it was. To close the gap, even just a little. But slowly you pulled back. Carefully. You didn't want to give away too much of yourself. Not when you might not get anything back.
What you didn't know was, on the other side of the bed, a set of metal fingers curled into the sheets. Bucky was awake too. Staring at the dark wall in front of him.
The following week was rough for you. A combination of the distance between you and Bucky plus the added stress at work.
Several of your colleagues had quit suddenly and none of them would speak to you about why. It meant that a portion of their workload was reallocated to you. You groaned softly and rubbed your temples as yet another email notification flashed up on your screen.
That's when you felt a presence behind you. He leaned over your shoulder to stare at your screen. Close enough that you could feel the heat of him in your personal space. Close enough to make your shoulders tighten instinctively. Too close.
"You missed a line here," he drawled, pointing at your screen.
His tone was no different than normal. Almost friendly compared to some of your previous interactions with the man. He wasn't your direct supervisor, so you didn't usually have much to do with him, which had always been a relief since he had the reputation of being a womanizer.
You nodded, offering a terse smile and shifting slightly in your chair. "Thanks."
He didnât move right away. Instead choosing to linger for a second longer than necessary. Then he stepped back, like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
You exhaled slowly, barely noticing you were holding your breath. Itâs fine, you told yourself. Heâs just⌠like that. It didn't mean anything.
You didn't think to mention it at home, as much as it unsettled you. How could you? Not with the way things were with Bucky. You were in the kitchen scrolling through your emails when Bucky came in. He walked passed you and straight to the fridge to grab a bottle of cold water.
"Hey, want one?" he asked, holding a bottle out to you.
You stared at it for a second before accepting it with a soft thanks. Your chest tightened as he grabbed another bottle for himself and went to sit on the couch. Slowly you followed, sitting in the smaller armchair rather than beside him on the couch.
For a moment, you thought about telling him. You really did. It was such a simple statement. There's a guy at work who gives me the creeps. You stole a glance at him over the rim of the water bottle. He was sitting with his feet up on the coffee table, head dropped onto the back of the couch and his eyes were closed. He looked tired. Distant. Closed off in that quiet way youâd come to recognize.
The words formed in your throat.
Hey Bucky, can Iâ
You stopped mid-thought. Because another cut it off.
Youâre not okay.
And another crowded in.
If you go to him now, itâll look like you just want his attention.
Your grip on your phone tightened and you looked away. Your mind continued it's monologue.
If he cared, heâd notice.
The voice in your head was sharp. A little unfair, maybe. But the thought settled in uninvited. So you changed track. You wouldn't burden him with your problems. You would protect him from that.
"You want me to order dinner from the Thai place you like?" you asked, holding up your phone with the virtual menu.
"Sounds good." He smiled with a nod. Small but there.
You looked back down at your phone to place the food order, not catching the way his gaze lingered on you. He could tell there was something off. Something more than just the way the two of you had left things.
He saw the tenseness in your shoulders, noticed how you were quieter than usual. He thought about saying something. Almost did. Almost. But then the memory of that conversation came back to him. Remembered how you had pulled back. Remember the way you had said you didn't need him to decide things for you.
Donât push me when Iâm not ready. Those were his words. Ones he had carelessly thrown at you. What gave him the right to push you for honesty when he wasn't couldn't provide the same. He exhaled slowly, looking away.
She doesnât want me right now, the small voice in his head spoke up.
Across the room, you stared at your phone a second longer, before locking the screen and setting it down. You picked up the television remote and flicked it on, staring absently at the screen lost in your own thoughts.
And just like that⌠both of you stayed silence. Not because neither of you cared. Not because the love between you had gone. But because somewhere along the way, both of you had started believing the same lieâ that reaching out would only make things worse.
It had been a few days. Bucky had watched you from afar. He watched the way you had withdrawn. He knew you had a thick protective shell when he had started dating you. It was similar to his. But you had opened it and let him in. But now it felt like you'd closed the door and he was somehow on the outside.
He hadn't planned on coming in. But when he saw your lunch lying on the counter, it felt like he had been left the perfect olive branch on a platter. The opportunity was too good to pass up. He picked it up without overthinking his actions, already half way out of the door before the idea had time to settle.
It wasn't exactly a grand gesture. That's not who you were. Your love language was acts of service. You showed him that a thousand times over during the time he had known you. This had to be the right way to try and bridge the gap that had formed between you.
He didn't bother texting you. He figured that if you were busy, he would just drop it off and go.
The second he stepped into your office, it felt like he was in a different world. He had never really understood what you did. You had described it as data analysis, but the second you went into detail, he had to fight to stop his eyes glazing over. He thought of the way you smiled, not minding his ignorance. He sighed, you were always so patient with him.
He looked around, everything was so much busier than he expected. Phones rang incessantly, there was a low hum of conversation in the background, the buzz surrounded him as he stepped forward.
He scanned the space as he walked down the central passage way, pulling down his sleeve to cover his left hand. He didn't want to draw attention to himself in your place of work unless it was absolutely necessary.
He got to the end and scanned the open area. He spotted you almost immediately. You were at your desk, dressed exactly as he remembered when you said goodbye that morning. But something was different. It wasn't your clothes and he couldn't see your face.
His eyes shifted to the left and he took in the man standing beside you. Not just standing⌠leaning. Too close.
The thought landed fast. Instinctive. Ugly.
Bucky had been about to take a step forward, but his momentum slowed as something tightened low in his chest as he gaze became fixed on the man leaning into your space. He acted like he belonged there. Like it was natural. Familiar.
His teeth pressed together, jaw set at a sullen angle. Of course.
The thought came uninvited. Bitter. Because he was the one who had created the space. Added to it every time he shut down. Every time he turned away instead of letting you in. You said it yourself, you felt like you were on the outside looking in.
Maybe youâd just⌠stopped looking.
His mind moved quicker than his better judgment could catch up. The last few days you'd come back exhausted. Never closing the distance. Pulling back without so much as a fight. No more pushing. No more questions. Just a quiet acceptance of the space between you.
Had it been acceptance?
Or had you found something else to fill the space he left behind? Someone else.
His grip tightened slightly around the cooler bag in his hand, the plastic crinkling under the pressure of his grip. You deserved better than half-answers. Better than silence. Better than someone who disappeared on you when things got hard.
He knew that. Maybe youâd finally realized it too.
His gaze sharpened, tracking the way the man leaned in closer, his hand on your back, head dipping toward yours like he had the right. Something dark and gnarled flared in his chest. Not quite anger. Not that. It was something heavier. Colder. Too familiar.
You pushed her away, a voice in his head said, quiet and precise. What did you think was gonna happen?
Bucky took a step forward, already feeling the tension coiling through his body. He could walk away. He definitely should. Give you space, just like heâd decided. Like you deserved. Just like he kept telling himself was the right thing to do.
But his feet kept moving anyway. Like they had a mind of their own. Because if this was what he thought it was⌠he needed to see it up close. He needed to know.
Every subsequent step Bucky took was measured, controlled. Moving in the exact opposite way his thoughts were flowingâ fast, chaotic and going in every direction he didn't care to follow. Nevertheless, his eyes stayed fixed on you and he finally started noticing something else.
The man leaned in again, speaking with his mouth close to your ear. Even with his super soldier hearing, Bucky couldn't make out his words over the low hum of the office. His fists clenched as he carefully tracked the movements of the man's hand, shifting against your back. It wasn't enough to draw attention, but enough to indicate a form of intimacy Bucky didn't want to accept.
The next step, however, changed the path of the narrative in his brain. It was your posture which gave it away. The angle of your shoulders, the way your spine was just a little too straight to say you were sitting comfortably. You weren't relaxed, you were enduring.
The man's hand moved again, to your shoulder and Bucky's jaw tightened. He was close, close enough to catch the tail end of your response to him.
"â I've got it, Brandon. Thanks."
Polite. Short. Dismissive.
But the manâ Brandonâ didn't move. And something cold settled deep in Bucky's chest.
Up close, what he was seeing was worse than all the things he had imagined. Not because of what things looked like on the surface, but because of everything he couldn't see, couldn't hear.
Your smile was there⌠technically. But it wasn't the one he knew. Even in the last week, you never smiled at him like thisâ thin, terse, professional. Nothing in your expression showed your usual softness and your tone was the kind you used when you were trying to end an interaction without any kind of escalation.
He was watching a stalemate. Neither you or Brandon had moved. Your fingers hovered over your keyboard and Bucky could have sworn there was a slight tremor in them.
You waited.
So did Brandon.
Your shoulders shifted subtly as you tried to create space without making it obvious. A movement most people would miss. He didn't.
It was like a switch flipped in his brain and a voice inside his brain was screaming at him: This isn't mutual. This isn't what you want.
The implications of the voice hit him hard. Sharp enough to slice through the lingering vestige of jealousy and leave something else in its wake.
Guilt.
Because he recognized that look. All too well. He knew exactly what it felt like to feel trapped in a moment. Not wanting to make it any bigger than it already was. He knew exactly what it looked like when you were trying to handle something alone. When it felt easier than asking for help.
The realization of it made him slow. Stop in his tracks entirely as a different question formed in the forefront of his mind.
Why didnât she tell me?
His mind answered this almost immediately.
Because you haven't been telling each other anything lately.
Brandon spoke again, dipping his face lower this time. Too close. There was an ease in his actions that made Bucky's blood boil. This man clearly was too comfortable occupying a space that he hadn't been invited into.
This was the thought that made Bucky move forward. It didn't appear rushed, or aggressive. Just purposeful.
He stepped into your line of sight, your name warm and gentle as it left his lips.
Your head snapped up at the sound of his voice. He could see the flicker of emotions, one by one as they crossed your face; surprise, confusion, a brief softness which melted quickly into relief.
Then you smoothed it all away, forcing your face into something more neutral. It happened within a single heart beat. So fast that if you blinked, you would have missed it. But Bucky hadn't missed it.
He always saw you.
"Bucky?" you breathed, pushing your chair back, jumping out of your seat as you turned toward him.
Brandon straightened, his attention also shifting to Bucky's presence. His eyes flitted back and forth between the two of you, pausing to reassess, reevaluate his next move.
Bucky didn't look at him, haze focused on you entirely.
"I think you forgot this," he said, lifting the slightly crumpled lunch bag in his fist.
Your eyes dropped to the brown paper bag as recognition settled on your face.
"My lunchâ" you sighed, your palm coming up to rest on your forehead. "I didn't even realizeâ"
"You left it on the counter. Guess you've been pretty busy and got distracted," he said quietly.
His words were simple, sounding neutral, but there was something unsaid simmering beneath them. Something that sounded suspiciously like Iâve been paying attention.
You nodded, with a small huffed out laugh, a soft flush tinging your cheeks. "Yeah. That's⌠one way to put it."
There was a beat of silence where Bucky noticed you didn't reach out to take your lunch from him and he wondered whether you were still worried about him or you just wanted to prolong the interaction.
In answer to his question, you glanced side ways.
"Ohâ uhâ this isâ"
"Brandon," the man supplied easily, stepping forward toward you with a small, practiced smile. "We work together."
Bucky turned to face the man standing beside you and looked. Really looked. There was nothing overly hostile in his expression that Bucky could detect. Nothing that would draw attention to him or cause a scene. But there was something sinister in the smile plastered over his face. Something nefarious.
"Bucky," he replied, holding out his hand for Brandon to take. "We live together."
Brandon complied, his gaze briefly flicking to the bag in his hand and then back to Bucky's face. Something unreadable passed through his expression. Calculation, maybe. There was something in the way Brandon gripped his handâ a challenge. One which Bucky met easily. He squeezed back with only a fraction of his strength, but it was enough to convey his intended message. I see you.
"Well," Brandon said, pulling his hand back. Bucky didn't miss the way Brandon wiggled this fingertips behind his back to shake off the pressure of the handshake. After a moment he looked at you, tone still light, "good thing youâve got someone looking out for you."
Brandon's words were casual, but they carried an undercurrent of a threat and Bucky pushed away the urge to rise to it. Instead, he shifted his attention back to you.
"You got everything you need?" he asked softly.
It was simple question, but it carried all the weight of the last week. Your eyes met his and for a moment, everything in the room faded way into the background. And it was just the two of you. Like it had always been. Nothing between you.
Then your breath hitched in hesitation. Just slightly. And the wall he had built felt taller than it ever had.
You nodded, answering quietly. "Yeah. Iâmâ Iâm good."
He held your gaze a second longer. Checking. Making sure. Before he gave a small nod of his own.
"Alright."
Another pause. An opening. He could tell you felt it too. An opportunity for one of you to say more. The softness in your eyes gave him hope.
A thank you that meant more than just the lunch bag.
A question that wasn't about work.
He would take anything that bridged the space that had been sitting between you for what felt like an eternity. You glanced down first and he could tell you still needed time. You might be thankful for the interruption, but you weren't ready to step all the way back to him.
"Thanks for bringing it," you said quietly, shy even.
"Yeah," he answered. "Of course."
He let another beat of silence pass before stepping back. Not far, but just enough to give you space.
"Iâll let you get back to it?" He posed it as a question. An offer of escape should you need it.
This time when you looked at him and nodded, you gave him one of those smiles. A real one. The one he had fallen in love with. Not the ones you'd been offering in the last week. "Yeah. Iâ Iâll see you later."
"Later," Bucky agreed, even more gently than you, taking a step back.
As he turned to leave, he glanced at Brandon. The look was brief, but cold, measured. Not quite a challenge, more of warning. But it was enough. Because as he walked away, he noticed that Brandon didn't step back into your space, didn't lean in, didn't linger.
He looked over his shoulder at the end of the corridor, watching as you sat back down in your chair. This time there was a careful distance between you and Brandon, a noticeable shift. Subtleâ but deliberate.
This time Bucky kept walking. Without looking back. He didn't need to. He had seen what he had needed to see. But things still sat heavily in his chest.
Not jealousy. Not anger. It was something more complicated than that. Because the problem was never that someone else stepped into the space between you. The problem wasâ he was the one who left it there in the first place.
Bucky had driven half way home before he realized that he was gripping the steering wheel so hard that he'd left a dent.
Not because of Brandon⌠well not only because of Brandon. But because of how you had looked.
The image wouldn't leave his headâ the relief on your face when you heard his voice, saw his face. The tiny flicker of happiness that you promptly buried beneath politeness and distance. He'd spent the last week and a half convincing himself that you needed space from him. That maintaining that gap was the right thing to do.
But that wasn't what he had seen today.
What he saw today was you handling something uncomfortable. Alone. Because somewhere along the line, both of you had stopped believing that you could reach for each other. No matter what.
The realization sat like an anchor in his chest. And by the time he had reached the apartment, he felt surrounded by a new kind of silence.
Bucky dropped his keys into the bowl on a table by the door, toed off his boots and sat down at the kitchen counter, staring blankly out of the window. His hands were resting on the same spot where your lunch had been sitting only ninety minutes earlier. The same place where the two of you used to have breakfast together, where your fingers used to brush his absentmindedly. Where you would lean over and steal bites from his plate while claiming you weren't hungry.
It felt different now. Everything did. He buried his face in his hands as he let out a sharp exhale. He was tired of this. Tired of standing in the same apartment as you and feeling miles away. Tired of thinking too much and saying too little. Tired of convincing himself distance was kindness.
Because maybe it wasnât. Maybe it was plain cowardice.
The realization washed over him leaving him with a sinking feeling.
For the last ten days, he'd told himself that the reason for your disagreement was because he was protecting you. From his moods, his memories, his mess. But standing beside you in your office today, watching as you shrank into yourself while some asshole invaded your spaceâŚ
You hadn't been protected. You had been alone. And he hated that. Hated that he had been the reason for that.
The front door opened just after 4pm. Bucky looked up from the couch instinctively at the first sound of your key in the latch. You stepped inside looking exhaustedâ shoulders slumped over from the weight of the day. You let you bag slip from your shoulder and drop onto the table with a dull thud
"Hey," you said softly.
Not cold or distant. Just tired.
"Hey," he breathed.
Silence settled between you again, but not with the same awkwardness that had been between you. Not sharp or hostile. Just fragile. Like something was just waiting on the edge to be cracked open. You knelt down to undo your boots, wincing slightly as you straightened up.
Bucky noticed immediately.
"Long day?"
A humorless laugh escaped you. "You have no idea," you said, shuffling towards the kitchen. But something stopped you. You turned to see that Bucky was still watching you. You could see the notch in his throat bob up and down, like he had something to say.
Say something. For once, donât let her walk away. The words ran through his brain over and over.
"Did that guy bother you again?"
You stopped dead and Bucky watched your shoulders tense instantly. Slowly you turned around to face him.
"What?"
"The guy at work," he clarified quietly. "Brandon."
Your expression shifted almost imperceptibly. A hint of surprised that morphed into something more cautious.
"Heâs justâŚ" You trailed off, searching for the right word. "Annoying."
Bucky held your gaze.
"That didnât look like annoying to me."
He watched you for a response, but silence stretched between you again and you looked away first. And that hurt more than if youâd snapped at him.
And that was when it came to him. You genuinely weren't sure if you could trust him with this anymore. And it devastated him. He watched as you folded your arms over your chest in a protective way.
"It's not a big deal."
It would have been easy for him to give up. To drop it. It's what he would have done a few days ago. Instead he said what he saw.
"You were uncomfortable."
"I can manage."
"That's not the same thing."
Your eyes flicked back to him, narrowing with suspicion. "Why does it matter now?"
Your question landed perfectly and Bucky absorbed the full weight of it. Because you were right. And because neither of you were talking about Brandon anymore.
You were talking about the last several weeks. About every moment he saw something was wrong and stayed silent anyway. About every time you needed him and he convinced himself distance was better.
You looked exhausted suddenly. Not angry. Just worn out.
"It's just been such small things. Talking to HR just seemed like an overreaction," you admitted quietly after a moment. "Then it was just one thing after anotherâŚ" you shrugged helplessly, finally admitting what you were thinking. "I didn't want to make trouble for anyone."
Bucky stared at you. Of course you didnât. You had spent the last week folding in on yourself, making yourself smaller to avoid being a burden. The exact same thing he had been doing. The realization wouldâve been funny if it wasnât so miserable.
"You shouldâve told me," he said before he could stop himself.
Your expression cracked slightly.
A sad smile touched your mouth. "You stopped⌠feeling like a safe place to land, Buck."
There was nothing venomous in your words, no spite. You were gentle with himâ as you'd always been. And that somehow made them all the more devastating. Bucky looked down immediately, metal fingers flexing against his thigh. He nodded once.
"Yeah," he said hoarsely. "I know."
The honesty of his acceptance startled you⌠it startled him too. There was no hint of defensiveness, he didn't shut down. Just truth.
You swallowed hard, your posture loosening slightly as you tried to come to terms with his responseâ like you didn't quite know what to do with his agreement.
Bucky leaned forward slowly, his forearms braced against his knees.
"I thought⌠if I kept my head down and held things together on my own," he admitted quietly, staring at the floor, "then I wouldnât drag you down with me." A humorless breath escaped him. "Guess I just ended up dragging you away instead."
The way your eyes softened at his words nearly undid him. Because even nowâ even after everything that had happened, even with the distance between youâ you still looked at him gently, with love.
"I never needed you to be perfect," you whispered.
"I know."
"I just needed you there."
The way you said it almost broke him.
Silence fell in the apartment once more, but not the same as before. This time it wasn't avoidance, it was the feeling of long awaited honesty settling into the room for the first time in weeks. Bucky rubbed a hand across his jaw slowly before looking at you properly.
"When I saw him near you todayâŚ" His voice roughened. "For a second I thought maybe youâd found somebody else."
Your eyes widened instantly. "What?"
 "I know," he muttered, already shaking his head at himself. "It was stupid."
"No, Buckâ"
"I pushed you away for weeks," he interrupted softly. "You stopped reaching for me. Stopped talking to me. And I kept telling myself it was because you needed space butâŚ" He swallowed. "I think part of me was scared you were realizing you deserved better."
The confession hung heavily between you. You stared at him like you didnât know whether to laugh or cry.
"Buckyâ" you said quietly, taking an unconscious step toward him. "I don't want somebody⌠better."
Bucky lifted his gaze to meet yours. Tender. Unwavering.
"I want you," you said. "I just⌠I need you with me. Not standing ten feet away trying to protect me from yourself."
Bucky felt his face change, his feelings flowing more freely. Not fixed. Nowhere near healed. But more open. For the first time in weeksâ months evenâ he felt hopeful. For the future. For himself.
You took another hesitant step forward.
Up close, you could see the exhaustion etched into his features. The tension in his shoulders that he carried wordlessly every single day. And you wondered how long heâd been drowning quietly while trying to make it look like swimming.
Carefully, cautiously, you reached for his hand. The metal one.
You half expected him to tense⌠flinch. Instead his fingers curled around yours instantly. Like a reflex. And tight enough to feel desperate.
The breath you had been holding finally made its way out of your lungs. Bucky closed his eyes, letting his forehead dip slightly, like he was more relieved than he knew how to say.
"I missed you," you admitted softly.
His thumb brushed across your knuckles.
"Missed you too, doll."
The endearment nearly made you cry.
Another thing that had been missing in the last days.
Your body was acting before you had a chance to think too hard about everything. You stepped between his knees, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. There was a split second of hesitationâ a lingering fear that maybe too much distance had settled between you to bridge this easilyâ one then Bucky pulled you against him with both arms like heâd been holding himself back for weeks.
Maybe he had.
But then you buried your face against his neck as his hand spread across your back, warm and grounding and familiar enough to ache. You chased away the fears he has been clutching too tightly.
Neither of you spoke for a while, just holding on. Right in the middle of the living room.
Bucky released a slow shaky exhale against your shoulder.
"Iâm sorry."
You closed your eyes. "I know," you murmured back.
"No," he murmured, pulling back just enough to look at you. "I need you to hear me say it." His jaw tightened slightly. "You were right. I did shut you out. And then I kept doing it because I didnât know how to stop."
Your hands slid up to cradle his face gently, your thumbs stroking his cheek bones.
"You donât have to do everything alone."
"Yeah." A sad smile tugged at his mouth. "Starting to figure that out."
You huffed out a watery laugh. "Bit slow for a super soldier."
"Careful," he warned softly, the faintest hint of warmth returning to his voice. "Iâm emotionally vulnerable right now."
That actually pulled a real laugh from you. And the sound visibly wrecked him. Because he hadnât heard it in weeks. Bucky rested his forehead against yours afterward, eyes closing again briefly.
"Weâre okay?" he asked quietly.
You thought about it honestly. Not fixed. Not magically healed. There were still bruises between you. Still habits to unlearn. Conversations still waiting to happen. But for the first time in weeks, neither of you were walking away from them. You brushed your nose lightly against his.
Pairing: Taxi/Cab Driver!Bucky Barnes x Passenger!Female Reader
Summary: Youâre Buckyâs favorite passenger. He knows your schedule by heart. The same day, time, and location. Youâre kind. You talk to him like heâs more than just the man behind the wheel. You always tip well.
He canât help but fall for you.
But heâs just a cab driver. You deserve better than that. Better than him. So, he keeps things professional⌠until you lean on him one fateful night when the world feels too heavy.
He doesnât just want to drive you home anymore.
He wants to be someone you can come home to.
Word Count: Over 12.2k
Warnings: Pining, mutual pining, slow(ish) burn, a bit of idiots in love, hurt/comfort, angst with comfort, emotional breakdown, crying, insecurities, sick family member, Bucky Barnes (his POV and he's a warning, okay?)
A/N: @tavners suggested Bucky as a cab driver ages ago and the Barbie Dreamhouse helped bring him to life. Huge thanks to @miraclediviner for putting it together and for being patient and letting me submit this late and @stantastic-association for letting me participate. â¤ď¸ Beta read by the lovely @mumbles411, but any and all mistakes are my own. Dividers by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
The city sky was still light as Bucky pulled onto your street, a smile touching his lips briefly. Every week for the last three months he picked you up to take you to your brotherâs apartment. Same time, same day without fail. He knew the route by heart. Could do it in his sleep.Â
Thursday had become his favorite day of the week thanks to you.Â
His favorite passenger.Â
Someone bright and soft during his long shifts and rough nights.Â
He came to a stop in front of your building, making sure he adjusted the heat so you wouldnât be too cold. There was a blanket in the back just in case it wasnât enough. He also changed the radio station to something he knew youâd enjoy but kept it low enough in case you wanted to talk.Â
He liked it when you talked to him.Â
âDo I look okay?â he asked himself, checking his hair in the mirror before he chuckled.Â
Bucky didnât dress up a lot since he drove a cab for a living, but he tried to take a bit of pride in his appearance. Clean clothes and a subtle amount of cologne. Beard and hair kept neat, too, even with the bit of gray showing more in his chestnut strands these days.Â
He liked to think it gave him a refined look.Â
Something you might notice.
The steady hum of the engine grounded him as he looked at the door, his breath catching when you stepped outside. You paused on the top step, your gaze sweeping along the street as you adjusted the bag on your shoulder. Something warm bloomed in his chest when you spotted him and gave him that familiar soft wave and smile. He wanted to believe that smile was reserved just for him.Â
Get it together. Youâre just her driver. Nothing more.
It didnât stop him from hoping.Â
He straightened up when you made your way to the car and opened the door.Â
âHappy Friday Eve, Buck,â you said, sliding into the backseat.Â
The corner of his lips twitched at the familiar greeting. Not âdriverâ or âsirâ or anything like that. Just Buck. Steve was the only other person who called him that.Â
It sounded right coming from you.Â
âYou mean Friday Junior,â he teased, trying hard not to make a show of breathing in your scent.
There were plenty of passengers who practically bathed themselves in colognes and perfumes. It was enough to choke on before he aired out the cab. But not you. You always smelled so nice. So sweet.Â
Jesus fucking Christ. Get a grip.Â
âSame thing,â you teased back, slipping your shoes off and tucking your legs beneath you.Â
The first time you asked if it was okay for you to take your shoes off, he almost laughed. It surprised him more than anything that you cared enough to ask. Like you cared about his space and him. He didnât mind as long as you were comfortable.Â
He always wanted you to feel comfortable and safe in his presence.Â
âWe made it through another day,â you sighed.Â
âAnd your prize for making it through another day is spending time with me,â he joked.
You laughed, a soft sound like music to his ears. âLucky me,â you said without a hint of sarcasm.Â
He cleared his throat, his heart skipping a beat. âBlanket back there and the heatâs on.â
âThanks,â you said, adding above a whisper, âYouâre so good to me.â
Bucky opened his mouth and closed it. âJust doing my job,â he said, the words bittersweet on his tongue.Â
âWell, I appreciate it.â You hummed a little as you dug through your bag. âAnd⌠I got something for you.â
He already knew what it was.
âProtein bar?â
âProtein bar,â you confirmed.Â
He made an offhand comment in the beginning about his favorite brand.Â
You surprised him by giving one the following week, and you have brought him one every week since then.Â
Part of him wanted to save the wrappers, but Sam shut that down by saying it was serial killer behavior.Â
Your fingers brushed his when he reached back to grab, a jolt running through his body and settling deep in his chest. âI think youâre too good to me,â he said.Â
It was a thoughtful thing for you to do.Â
âJust being a good passenger,â you said casually, but he caught the hint of affection there.Â
Something soft⌠and real.
Bucky glanced at you in the mirror, his gaze lingering longer than it shouldâve when you covered yourself with the blanket and settled into the leather with a sigh. His chest puffed out a little, a sense of pride filling him since you used the blanket. He picked the softest and warmest one he had.Â
You looked completely at ease, like you belonged there.Â
âHeading to your brotherâs place, or you gonna switch it up on me?â
âSame trip as always,â you replied.Â
Of course.
A visit to your older brotherâs place on the other side of the city. Dinner. Helping your sister-in-law with some chores. Spending quality time with your niece and nephew.Â
Every Thursday.
He knew about your routine more than he probably should, but he couldnât help but pay attention. It was nice knowing that you had family close by. Nice that you got to spend time with them.
Some nights though, you looked a little worn down by the time he brought you home.Â
He carefully pulled away from the curb and glanced in the mirror again, catching your eye. âHow was your day?â
Bucky was polite to his passengers, but didnât typically initiate small talk. It wasnât that he didnât care about the people he transported. He did. But his job was to get people where they needed to go, not force them into conversations to fill the silence. If he sensed that they wanted to talk, heâd engage. Most were glued to their phones anyway. But not you.Â
Never you.Â
You groaned, your head falling back against the seat. âWork was a pain today. Short-staffed. Didnât really get a full break. You know how that goes.â
He hummed sympathetically. âSorry you had to deal with that.â
âDonât be. Not your fault,â you said with a small shrug. âOn the plus side, weâre close to the weekend, and I can relax once I get home.â
âGlad you can still see the bright side,â he said.Â
It wasnât always easy to do that.Â
âI try.â You lifted your head with a soft smile. âHow are you?â
He swallowed hard. It was nice to have someone outside of his normal circle ask him sincerely how he was doing. âNot too bad. Some guy tried to correct my driving.â
You sat up straighter. âAre you kidding me? Youâre the best driver in the city.â
Warmth bloomed in his chest from how fiercely you defended him. You stated it like it was a fact. He wasnât one to brag, but he was an excellent driver.
âI want his name,â you added, narrowing your eyes. âIâll handle him.â
He laughed. âOh, youâll handle him, huh?â he asked, turning his blinker on.Â
âOh, yeah,â you answered, his heart racing faster.Â
âI appreciate that,â he said above a whisper.Â
You really were something.
âAnd if I canât, Alpine can scratch him up for me,â you mused lightly.Â
A wide smile broke out on his face. âAlâd make sure he never messed with anyone ever again.â
Alpine, his beautiful white cat. He found her in an alley when she was just a kitten, trying to stay warm on a chilly day. One look in her blue eyes and he knew he couldnât leave her there.Â
âMy place isnât much,â he warned her when he crouched down. âBut itâs warm and I have milk.â
She curled right in his arms and tried to burrow her face in his leather jacket.Â
She became his partner-in-crime from that day forward.
The feline flourished in his apartment, making herself right at home and sticking by his side whenever he was around. He admittedly spoiled her with toys and such, but she deserved it. She was also protective of him, quick to hiss at anyone who got too close, and could imitate his grumpy stare well. He knew sheâd adore you.
He certainly talked about you enough to her.
He talked about you with his younger sister, too.Â
âBecca messaged me a bit ago, too,â he said, smiling a little. âYou know how she likes to check in and make sure Iâm not living off just protein bars and stubbornness.â
Becca didnât live as close as your brother did, but he visited when he could. She visited, too, between work and her new boyfriend. She seemed happy, and that made him happy.Â
âAnd here I am giving you protein bars. I hope she doesnât mind.â
âNot at all,â he promised. âShe knows one extra bar a week wonât hurt.â
You smiled softly. âShe cares a lot about you, doesnât she?â
âYeah,â he said warmly. âShe does.â
And she liked that he had someone like you who cared, even when he tried to argue that you were just being nice.Â
âShe isnât just being nice, big brother. She cares.â
He liked to think so.
âHey!â you said suddenly, leaning forward in your seat. âYou know what I just realized?â
âWhat?â
âThis is the thirteenth Thursday that youâve driven me around.â
âIs that right?â he asked softly, knowing full well exactly how many Thursdays he had seen you.
Because he had been counting.
âThat is right.â You settled back into your seat with a smile. âFeels like ages⌠and not long at all.â
It seemed like only yesterday to him.
He remembered the exact shade of blue you wore on the first ride, something pleasant against the harsh city lights. How you shivered when you slid into the car, and the smile you gave him when he turned the heat on. You were so beautiful. And kind.Â
The kindest passenger he had that day.
âThanks for getting me here safely, Bucky! Happy Friday Eve!âÂ
âFriday Junior,â heâd called after you like an idiot.
âSame thing!âÂ
He was a goner.
Every week his crush grew stronger.
But every week he told himself he was just your cab driver and nothing more.Â
âThirteen Thursdays,â he said. âThat why you look so nice today?â
Your gaze flickered to your lap, smiling. âYou think I look nice?â you asked gently.Â
His heart hammered in his chest. âYeah. You always do,â he said honestly, willing himself to concentrate on the road.
Donât make it weird. Donât make her uncomfortable.Â
âThanks, Buck,â you whispered. Â
He shouldâve left it at that, but he didnât.
âYou sure Iâm taking you to your brotherâs and not some date?â he blurted out.
The air thickened in the cab, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. Something uncomfortable twisted in his gut. He paid enough attention to know that there wasnât a ring on your finger, and you hadnât mentioned having a boyfriend.Â
Not once.Â
But what if there was someone? What if one day you dressed up for someone else? What if you gave some other man that soft smile you always gave him?
His jaw clenched and he was thankful you couldnât see his expression.Â
I have no reason to be jealous. She isnât my girl. She can see whoever she wants.Â
I just wish it was me.
âA date?â Your laughter made its way to his ears. âPlease. Iâm very single.â
For a moment, all Bucky could hear was the sound of his heart slowing to a steady rhythm, effectively blocking out the moving vehicles around him. His next breath was easier, his grip loosening. It shouldnât have been such a relief to hear that, but it was.
Single. Good. Thatâs good. Stay single. Stay away from bad guys. Stay⌠here. With me.
âŚIâm in deep.Â
âHavenât dated in months,â you added.
That made him pause.Â
âMonths?â he repeated. âI find that hard to believe.â
âWell, itâs true,â you said, quieter than before and gazing out the window. âGuess I havenât caught anyoneâs eye.â
Your words wiped out his relief. You didnât have to say out loud that you were lonely. He sensed it. Recognized it.Â
It just didnât make sense to him that you were alone. You were a catch. How were guys not lining up down the block to ask you out?
Your words also werenât true. Because he was there and he saw you. Wanted you.
âOr⌠maybe you have,â he said carefully. âAnd they just havenât said anything yet.â
A beat passed. âMaybe,â you said.Â
He tapped the wheel when he stopped at a red light.
Say it. Tell her. Tell her that she caught my eye. Tell her that sheâsâŚ
He sighed to himself, the cab feeling smaller than usual. He wanted to admit how he felt, but he couldnât like this. It wasnât right when he was in the driverâs seat and you were back there.Â
âAnd what about you?â you asked, turning away from the window. âYou seeing anyone?â
He huffed out a laugh. âNo.â
Women werenât exactly fighting to date a cab driver.Â
âMy âdateâ nights are me, a book or a movie, and Al,â he told you. âThat or kicking the guys out of my place once the pizza and beer are gone.â
You smiled. âThose sound like good nights to me.â
âTheyâre not bad,â he said casually.
As if the idea of a date night with you wasnât painting a picture in his mind.
âYou know,â you said, snuggling into the blanket more. âIf you ever need anyone to critique your book or movie choices, Iâm available.â
He didnât think it was possible for his heart to trip over itself, but it did. âYeah?â he asked, keeping his voice even.
âYeah,â you said casually, but your eyes flicked to the mirror. âI mean, Iâm sure you have great taste, but it doesnât hurt to get my own confirmation.â
Bucky swallowed hard. âIâll keep that in mind.â
You smiled. âYou better.â
The cab fell into a comfortable silence after that, but something shifted. You had given him an opening that wouldâve been easy to take. But maybe you were just being nice. Maybe it didnât mean anything at all.Â
Or it might mean everything.
He eased the car to a stop at your brotherâs building minutes later. âHere we are.â
You slipped your shoes on and folded the blanket as best as you could. âThanks,â you said, holding out the cash for him.Â
He reached back automatically to grab it, feeling that spark again when your fingers touched. He didnât need to count it to know it was all there, along with a nice tip. You were generous.Â
Always.Â
âAnytime.â
You lingered when you opened the door. âHey, Buck?â
âYeah?â
âYou look nice today, too,â you said.
It was a simple compliment, but it hit him square in the chest.Â
âYeah?â he managed to ask.Â
âYeah,â you said, smiling softly. âYou always do.â
It was an echo of his own words to you.Â
Before he could respond, you slipped out and tapped the roof twice. âSee you later. Drive safe.â
âSee ya,â he whispered.
He didnât leave right away. He watched as you made your way inside safely, his hand still clutching the cash. Glancing at the protein bar on the seat beside him, he exhaled.Â
You said he looked nice. Offered to watch a movie with him. Kind of.Â
But he was just your driver.Â
Nothing more.Â
âIâm in trouble,â he muttered.Â
By the time Bucky pulled back up to your brotherâs building later that night, things felt quieter. But his mind didnât. It was too busy racing with thoughts of you and wondering how long he could keep his line drawn in the sand.Â
You waved to him when you stepped outside, your steps a little slower. Your smile wasnât as bright as earlier, but it was still soft and easy. It made sense. Family time after a long work day was tiring, even if it was nice.Â
âHey,â he said once you got in.Â
âHey,â you echoed, settling in.Â
âGood night?â he asked, easing back into the road.Â
âIt was,â you replied, laughing a little. âBut those kids wear me out.â
He smiled to himself. No way they didnât adore spending time with you. âSounds about right.â
âDid you have a good night?â
It was the best night because he got to see you again.Â
âNot too bad,â he answered.Â
You checked something on your phone and put it away. âRandom, but I have a few extra dollars in my account, so I may do takeout for dinner tomorrow as an end of the week treat for myself.â
You could have takeout with me.
âGet those noodles from the place you like on 5th,â he suggested instead. âThe number seven, right?â
Why did I say that?
âThatâs right.â You giggled. âAm I that predictable?â
He almost said, âI notice everything about you.â
âYouâre not predictable,â he replied instead, easing his foot off the gas. âI just⌠pay attention.â
Because youâre⌠you.
It was quiet for the rest of the ride.Â
He glanced back a few times and saw that your eyes were heavy. He hoped you were able to relax more when you got back to your place. You deserved the rest.Â
A pang of disappointment hit him when he got to your place, the drive seeming quicker than normal. âHere we are.â
You stifled a yawn. âThanks.âÂ
âAnytime.â
âOh. I almost forgot.â You sat up, seemingly more awake now. âI have something for you.â
He raised an eyebrow. âYou already gave me a protein bar.â
âWell, this isnât from me,â you said, handing him a folded piece of construction paper along with the cash. âItâs from my niece and nephew.â
He opened it carefully, his heart melting on the spot.Â
A drawing of a car stretched across the sheet. It was lopsided with uneven wheels and windows that were too big. There were two stick figures inside. One in the back with a large smile that was clearly you. And one in the front with brown hair, blue eyes, and a small smile.Â
It was him.Â
There was a message in crooked letters above the car, surrounded by glitter glue.Â
BUCKY DRIVING AUNTIE! YAY!
His throat tightened unexpectedly. âThatâs us?â he asked with a hint of disbelief.Â
You mentioned him to your family?
âThatâs us,â you said affectionately, making him wonder if that was for him or your niece and nephew. âThey wanted to thank you for always getting me there and back every week.â
He swallowed, his throat dry. âYou⌠talk about me?âÂ
âOf course, I do,â you said like it was obvious. âYouâre part of my week.â
He folded it back up like it was something fragile, your words slowly sinking in.Â
You talked about him. Your family knew he existed. Your niece and nephew had never met him, but still made him a card like he mattered.Â
His heart felt full.Â
And he didnât know what to do with that feeling.Â
âTell âem I said thanks,â he said quietly. âReally.â
âI will,â you promised, hesitating when you reached for the door handle.Â
You waited long enough for him to look at you over his shoulder. Long enough that his heart thudded. Hope flickered deep within.Â
She feels something, right? It canât just be me.Â
Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag, but your eyes were soft. âIâŚâ Your gaze flickered down before looking back at him, sighing a little. âIâll see you next week, Buck.â
He exhaled, trying not to let disappointment show. Something passed between you. He felt it. It was real.Â
Or⌠maybe he just imagined it.Â
âYeah,â he said, offering you a small smile. âNext week.â
âGood night.â
âGood night,â he repeated. âAnd thanks again for the card and tip.â
You smiled softly before you got out.Â
He leaned against his seat and once again stayed to make sure you got inside safely. You didnât rush inside when you got to the door. You paused instead and glanced over your shoulder at the door, like you were waiting for him. It was an opening. Maybe.Â
But he didnât take it.
He kept that line drawn.Â
You waved before you went inside, and he closed his eyes, the quiet surrounding him once again.
His fingers brushed the construction paper in his lap.
Steve and Sam would flip when he told them about it. Hell, they already did whenever he talked about you. He could practically hear them now once he gave them the recap of tonightâs events.
Sam shaking his head and saying, âShe gives you protein bars, offers to watch movies with you, her family knows about you, her niece and nephew made you a card, and you didnât ask for her number?â
Steve, a little quieter but no less insistent, with, âBuck⌠youâre allowed to want something.â
Buckyâs jaw clenched. They acted like it was simple, like he could just ask and it wouldnât change a thing. It would change everything.Â
He didnât want to risk losing you or holding you back when he didnât have you to begin with.
For now, heâd continue driving you where you needed to go and leave it at that.
Coward. Lifeâs too short.
He set the card aside and took one last look at your building.
âYeah,â he sighed. âIâm in big trouble.â
Bucky arrived a couple of minutes early the following Thursday.Â
He told himself it was habit. Being mindful of traffic. Not because he was eagerly waiting for you.Â
Not at all.
And you also werenât the reason he spent ten extra minutes picking out a shirt.
Just because she said I look niceâŚ
He made a mistake of checking the group chat he had with Steve and Sam while he waited.
Sam: âBe a man and get her number.â
He gritted his teeth, quickly typing. He almost regretted confiding in them about you. It wouldâve been easier to keep his mouth shut.Â
âFuck off, Samuel. I am a man.âÂ
The dots appeared with both of his friends writing something back.
Sam: âOOH. Samuel. My full name. Hit a sore spot, huh?â
Maybe he did.
Stevie: âJust go at your pace, jerk. We got your back.â
Some of the tension left his shoulders.Â
âThanks, punk.â
He put his phone away and smiled just a little. They were good guys. Had been with him through thick and thin. Brothers.
Sam definitely acted like an annoying brother in the most supportive way.
And as much as he adored Becca, he didnât want to bother his little sister with his lack-of-relationship woes. She had enough on her plate. Heâd be just fine.
Eventually.
His attention snapped in your direction when you left your building and everything else faded away.
There you were again.
The same familiar sweep of your eyes along the street before you found him. The soft smile. The small wave. How you always looked incredible no matter if you dressed up or down.Â
Like tonight, you had on the same soft sweater you wore last month. It reminded him of comfort. It also made you look gentle in a way that made him want to take care of you.
The instinct hit him harder than before.
Yeah. Iâm royally fucked.
He straightened up as you walked closer, his brows furrowing. You were still smiling at him, but your steps didnât look as light as normal. There was tension in your shoulders.Â
âHappy Friday Eve, Buck,â you said, unfolding the blanket with extra care.Â
There was a touch of weariness in your tone under the warmth.
It wouldâve been easy to miss if he wasnât paying attention.Â
âYou mean Friday Junior,â he said automatically.
âSame thing,â you murmured.Â
âYour brotherâs place?â he asked gently.
âSame trip as always,â you replied just as gently.
He looked at you in the mirror after pulling away from the curb. You were already gazing out the window, relaxed but not completely. His chest tightened when he spotted the slightest frown on your face.
It didnât belong there.
Is she okay? Was work extra rough?
He waited a couple of blocks before he asked, âLong day?â
Bucky didnât want to push if you didnât want to talk, but he did want to make sure you were okay. If something upset you, he wanted to fix it. If someone upset you, he wanted to handle it.
Let me help however I can.
âYeah,â you replied after a second. âLong week, actually.â
âThose are the worst.â He tapped a finger on the wheel. âBecca always tells me to take a breath and not let the week eat me alive.â
âThatâs good advice.â Something soft and a little sad flickered in your eyes. He didnât know if his words triggered a memory, but it felt important. âEspecially coming from a sibling.â
âIt is,â he replied. âSiblings just get it some days.â
You hummed in agreement, but didnât say anything else.Â
He bit his tongue. It was times like this when he wished he wasnât driving. He wanted to turn around and give you his attention. You deserved it.
âWould it make you feel any better if I said you look nice today?â he asked, hoping he didnât sound as desperate as he felt.Â
That brought a smile to your face. âIt does make me feel better,â you said, your tone almost back to normal. âThank you.â
He smiled back gently, the sound of the engine and low music filling the space for a moment. It didnât fix your long week, but he was glad the compliment helped. Heâd consider that a win.
âYou look nice, too.â You craned your head to look at him. âI really like that color on you.â
His pulse jumped. The usual ease was coming back, the cab lighter. And you noticed his shirt.Â
I chose well.Â
âOh, this old thing?â he teased, like it wasnât a big deal. âReally brings out my eyes.â
You giggled. âIt sure does.â
He stole another glance at you when you looked out the window again. You were tired, but you were okay. Still warm. Still you.
He felt like he could breathe again.
âHey,â he said after another block, reaching into the console. âI, uh⌠made you a list.â
âA list?â Your eyebrows went up. âWhat kind of list?â
âMovies. Some I like. Some I think youâd like,â he clarified, passing it back to you before he could change his mind. âYou did offer to critique them.â
âAnd youâre taking me up on it?â You gasped, putting a hand to your chest. âIâm both shocked and flattered.â
âYou should be,â he deadpanned before grinning.
You smiled, a little tired but genuine. âThe first title has a star next to it.â
âBecause itâs my favorite and a good one to start with.â
âDid you get Steve and Samâs seal of approval?â
He scoffed. âTheyâd like it. Enough oldies for Steve, and Sam has somewhat decent taste in recent stuff⌠but heâll never know I said that.â He coughed into his hand and added, âTheyâve heard about you.â
You smiled. âIs that right?âÂ
âYeah, I talk about more than I probably should.â He shrugged, but his left foot lightly tapped. âYouâre a good passenger.â
And Iâm just your driver.
Your smile faltered, just for a second, before you smoothed it over with a laugh. âAnd youâre a good driver.â You scanned the small piece of paper once more. âYou put a lot of thought into this, didnât you?â
Warmth rushed to his cheeks. âYou should see the book list Iâm making for you,â he muttered.Â
He valued your opinion, and the lists were a way for you to think of him between rides. A way to keep you two connected. Maybe it was selfish that he wanted you to have him on your mind.Â
But maybe it wasnât.
âYouâre making me a book list, too? Oh, I canât wait for that.â You folded it neatly and put it in your bag. âIâll watch the first movie tomorrow night.â
Another Friday night with no date? I wish I could man up and change that.
âI expect a full report next week,â he teased.
âYou got it, Sarge,â you teased back.
His breath caught. âSarge?â he repeated. âYou remember my military ranking?â
Sergeant Barnes.
It was mentioned only once, just like the protein bars. A passing comment and nothing more. But you listened.Â
You remembered.
âOf course, I do.â
The same thing you said about mentioning him to your family.Â
He blinked rapidly, trying to steady the emotions stirring inside him as he drove. You continued to surprise him with your soft words and smiles, making him feel special in your eyes. You undid him in ways nothing or no one else could.
âHere we are,â he said minutes later.
âThanks, Buck.â You gathered your things before you stopped, your inhale sharp. âOh⌠you kept it.â
He followed your gaze to the dashboard. Your niece and nephewâs card was proudly on display. It was a beautiful reminder of you.
âOf course, I did,â he said, trying to play it cool. âItâs a nice drawing.â
âThatâs really sweet, Buck.â
He shrugged a little, but heat crept up his neck. âIt deserved a front and center spot.â
Your gaze softened more. âTheyâll think youâre the coolest guy ever when I tell them.â
They made him feel cool by giving him the card.Â
âGuess Iâll have to try to live up to that.â
âYou already are,â you said without missing a beat, passing him a protein bar with the cash.Â
His heart pounded in his chest. Another thoughtful gesture. More words that made him feel good.Â
Say something. Do something.Â
But he didnât.Â
There was a small pause before you sighed and got out, the door gently closing behind you. Tap. Tap. The familiar rhythm against the roof shouldâve felt normal and comforting.Â
But why did it feel like you were disappointed?
âSee you later,â you said. âDrive safe.â
âSee ya,â he exhaled.
He watched until you went inside, half tempted to hit the dashboard since he chickened out. He held himself back. There was no sense in taking his frustration out on the car. He could hit a punching bag later.
Maybe he could knock some sense into himself, too, and man up.Â
âShouldâve said something,â he muttered, running a hand through his hair.Â
Some of the frustration at himself faded when he looked at the card. He imagined your niece and nephew were the kind of kids who loved when the garbage men came by every week or drivers dropped off packages. Theyâd probably have a blast riding around in his cab, cheering him on for driving you around. If Becca ever had kids, theyâd likely be the same way.
He wondered, briefly, if youâd ever meet her, and the thought didnât scare him the way it should.
But what would your brother think of me? Would he think Iâm good enough?
At the end of the day, didnât it matter only what you thought and saw in him?
His phone buzzed.Â
Sam: âWell??? Weâre waiting.â
Bucky stared at the message before typing back. âDropped her off. Didnât ask.â
Three dots appeared immediately. He didnât want to look. Didnât need the additional salt on the open wound of his self-doubt.Â
But he looked since he was a glutton for punishment.Â
Sam: âMan, if we can even call you that, you're killing me! Iâm gonna lose the bet.â
Bet? What fucking bet?
Stevie: âThereâs no bet. Youâll do it when itâs right.â
Sam: âDonât make me get Becca and Sarah involved. Iâll do it.â
He tucked his phone away and shook his head. Tough and gentle love. He needed both.Â
And he needed just a little more time to convince himself to erase the line he had drawn.Â
The next passenger he picked up, a man complaining about the state of the economy, didnât shift his focus fully away from you. The restaurant he dropped him at seemed like a nice one to take you to, something quiet and romantic. A couple of women he drove after that mentioned an acoustic concert in the park, which made him picture you leaning your head on his shoulder while listening to music together. Every passenger was like that, managing to tie something back to you.Â
He still got everyone where they needed to go safely since that was the job.Â
He just couldnât stop thinking about you.Â
By the time he arrived to pick you up again, the city lights had taken over the streets. He spotted you immediately, your arms wrapped around yourself to keep warm. You looked about the same as when you went in. A little more tired, but okay.Â
And you still gave him a smile when you got in.Â
Smiling like sheâs happy to see me.Â
âHey.â
âHey,â he replied, double checking the heat. âKids wear you out again?â
âYou know it. They had so much energy tonight, and I almost stepped on a lego when I was chasing them around.âÂ
âOccupational hazard of being a great aunt.â
âYou know it.â You laughed a little. âThey were also thrilled that you have their card up.âÂ
That warmed his heart. âSo, they think Iâm cool?â
âThe coolest.â
He smiled at the sincerity. He believed that they believed that. It was a feeling he needed to lean into more.Â
âDid you have a good night?âÂ
âYep. Just driving. Getting everyone where they need to go,â he answered.Â
And thinking of you. Always thinking about you.Â
He turned the radio up a notch after that instead of trying to fill the silence, letting you relax. For a moment, he pictured swaying with you. Minus the quick brush of your fingers, he hadnât touched you in any way.Â
To hold you would be a gift.
âHey, Buck?â you asked once he pulled up to your place.Â
âYeah?â
You bit your lip. âI wanted to give you something.â
âYeah?â he asked, his chest tightening in anticipation as you reached into your bag.Â
You hesitated before you nodded. âYeah.â
Your hand shook a little when you passed him a small slip of paper with the cash. He unfolded it, blinking hard to make sure he was reading it correctly. He turned it over, too.Â
It was your handwriting. Your name. Your number.Â
You gave him your phone number.Â
His heart forgot how to beat before it thundered. He imagined this scenario for weeks, but he hadnât prepared himself for the reality of it. He didnât think the universe would be that kind to him.
âI just figured, this way you donât have to wait until next week for my report on the movie. You could just text me and see what I think,â you explained, trying to play it off casually. âOr if you ever want to send me pictures of Alpine. Or youâre just⌠bored.â
His pulse roared in his ears. You wanted to hear from him. You gave him another opening while he kept mentally blocking the door with his foot.Â
You trusted him enough to want a connection outside of the cab and the rules he internally created and enforced.
âBut you donât have to,â you added quickly, reaching for the door handle. âI can wait until next week to talk to you and-â
âWait,â he begged, trying not to panic. The last thing he wanted was for you to think he didnât want to reach out. âIâll, um⌠give you mine, too.â
You met his gaze in the mirror. He wanted to memorize how you looked at this moment. Hopeful. Beautiful.Â
âYeah?â
âYeah,â he whispered.Â
He found a pen and a receipt, making sure his writing was legible as he jotted it down. Your smile when he handed it over soothed his nerves. The smooth thing to do wouldâve been to put his phone number on the movie list when he gave it to you earlier. But this was better.Â
This felt more right.Â
âThanks.â You tucked it away like it was something sacred. âIâll text you.â
He nodded, his throat tight. âIâd like that.â
You stepped out into the cool air, glancing back at him. The tension was almost completely gone from your shoulders. The glow from the street lamps made your eyes sparkle.Â
He couldnât look away from you if he tried.Â
âGood night, Buck.â
âGood night.â
Once you were inside, he glanced at your number again, reading it until the numbers ran together. He reached for the phone to message the guys and Becca before deciding against it. Sam would lose his mind. Steve would tell him not to overthink it. Becca would be somewhere in the middle. He didnât need that tonight.
He wanted to hang onto this just a little longer and let it sink in that it was real.Â
Besides, it was just an exchange of phone numbers. You didnât ask him out. He didnât ask you out. He was still being professional.Â
But he did check his phone immediately when a new message popped up.Â
âHappy fourteenth Thursday. Thanks again for the ride.â
Still counting like me.Â
âAnytime. Get some rest. And let me know when you watch the first movie.â
A neutral message. Polite. Professional.Â
âIâm still in trouble.â
And he grinned like an idiot because of it.
You messaged him on Friday night. Â
He saved you under his contacts as MFP, my favorite passenger.
MFP: âHalfway through the movie.â
His fingers hovered over the screen. If he typed back too quickly, heâd look desperate. If he waited too long, heâd look aloof.Â
A full minute was enough time.Â
âAnd?â
He winced at himself. That was too short. Too blunt.Â
MFP: âThey switched part of what happened in the book. Trying to reserve my judgement until the end.â
A sense of awe filled him. You read the book. Of course, you did. That made him want you even more.Â
But he couldnât say that.Â
âI didnât like the switch at first either, but keep watching. Trust me.â
MFP: âI trust you.â
That made his breath catch.Â
He scratched behind Alpineâs ear, smiling when she purred. âSheâs watching it and texting me. Thatâs good, right?â
She meowed happily.Â
He put the movie on, too, in the hopes that he wouldnât keep checking his phone.Â
You messaged him again an hour later.Â
MFP: âMy score: 8/10. Adventurous, heartwarming, and visually stunning. I see why itâs your favorite.â
He smiled, typing out, âDinner and tell me more?â
He deleted it and started over.
â8/10? Iâll take it. What didnât you like besides the book switch?â
MFP: âA one point deduction was for the book switch. Another deduction for the bad wig. I mean, a huge budget like that and they couldnât give the lead some good hair? Tragic.â
Bucky chuckled. âYou make a good point. It was pretty bad.â
MFP: âBut movie wise? So far, so good for your taste.â
That was a win in his book.
You didnât message him again until Saturday night.Â
MFP: âIs brinner an acceptable choice on a Saturday night?â
He smiled immediately.Â
âBrinner is an acceptable choice every night.â
MFP: âI knew youâd understand. I can eat while I watch the second movie on the list.â
âI bet youâll give it a 7/10.â
MFP: âWeâll see if youâre right. Hope you're having a good weekend.â
He reread that statement twice. It felt measured. Careful.Â
âYou, too.â
He read the message again after sending it.Â
Maybe it was another message that was too short.Â
And it was too late to erase it.Â
You sent him a photo of a white cat on Sunday.Â
MFP: âIs this Alpineâs doppelganger?â
He chuckled. The image wasnât too far off but Alpine was prettier. He was a bit biased when it came to his feline.Â
âThereâs no cat like Al.â
MFP: âI believe it. And you were right, but the way. 7/10. I deducted two points for the one terrible accent.â
He tilted his head and laughed again. He had almost forgotten about the bad accent. It was amazing how one actor or actress could throw off an entire scene.Â
âMuch deserved deduction. Al would approve.â
MFP: âIâm honored.â
He didnât hear from you for the rest of the day.Â
It was his turn to message you first.Â
âHope you have water and caffeine to get you through Monday.â
He stared at it after sending. Maybe that too personal. Maybe it wasnât enough.Â
MFP: âDo I have to have water?â
He laughed, picturing you scrunching up your face.Â
âNeed you to stay hydrated.â
Because he cared.
MFP: âBut what if I try to live on stubbornness like you?â
Youâre too good to live on stubbornness.Â
âStill need water.â
MFP: âYes, Sarge.â
Oh, that did something to him.Â
MFP: âBut only if you drink some water, too.â
âI will.â
He would for you.Â
He didnât hear from you on Tuesday.Â
That was fine. You were busy. You had a life outside of him. And he didnât want to bother you.Â
But he checked his phone more than he should have.Â
You messaged him first thing on Wednesday.Â
MFP: âIs it Friday Eve yet?â
Relief hit him faster than he expected.Â
âAlmost. You surviving?â
There was a delay this time. Long enough for him to notice.Â
MFP: âBarely, but Iâm trying.â
He frowned a little.Â
âHang in there.â
He hesitated before adding another message.Â
âIâll see you tomorrow.â
There was another pause.Â
MFP: âYeah. See you tomorrow.â
He stared at it longer than he meant to.Â
Something about it felt different. Quieter. He couldâve been imagining it.Â
He sent one more message before he could stop himself.Â
âCanât wait.âÂ
He meant it.Â
Even if something told him tomorrow would feel different. Â
Bucky waited at the curb as patiently as he could, checking his hair three times. Just like every week before, he looked forward to seeing you. But this felt different because the texts had been good overall. Almost effortless.
Almost.Â
Tonight could be a turning point.
Bucky checked his phone again, even though he told himself he wouldnât.
Sam: âYou better not fumble this now that you got her number.â
Stevie: âIgnore him. Just be yourself.â
He huffed under his breath, locking the screen.
Like itâs that easy.
He turned his attention back to your building, his heart sinking the moment you stepped outside.
The usual sweep of your gaze didnât happen since you were looking at your feet. You hardly seem to notice or care that your bag slipped from your shoulder. When you finally lifted your gaze, you looked worn out in a way he had never seen before.Â
It was like someone took the light inside you and dialed it down.
Everyone had bad days. That was a normal part of life. But this was you.Â
It didnât sit right with him at all.
âHappy Friday Eve,â you stated with a dim smile, hugging the blanket against your chest like a pillow. Your fingers trembled just enough that he spotted it.Â
âFriday Junior,â he said because thatâs what he was supposed to say.
Same thing.
You didnât say it.Â
You looked out the window, your jaw tight enough that he could see the tension in your neck. There was no teasing either as he drove. No references to any of the messages between you, like brinner or the bad wig or accent from the movies. No jokes about staying hydrated or calling him Sarge.Â
There were no comments on anything.Â
Just the kind of silence that for the first time felt off between you two.
Something was wrong.
I fucked this up, didnât I?Â
He thought back to every message he sent like he could figure out the exact moment things flipped.Â
He responded in a timely manner. He initiated at times so it wouldnât all fall on you. They werenât overly flirty but they werenât cold either.Â
Maybe you expected more and he let you down.
Or maybe he leaned in too far with the âcanât waitâ message and now you were pulling back.Â
âHey, umâŚâ He cleared his throat, his grip shifting on the wheel. âIf I said something wrong, or if I upset you with one of my textsâŚâ
âWhat?â Your head snapped toward him, your brows pinching. âBuck, no.â
He blinked, surprised at how quickly you shut that down when his mind was screaming at him. âYou sure?â He bit the inside of his cheek. âYou just seem off, and I didnât want it to be because of me.â
He was sure he could handle just about anything but that.
He didnât want to lose the one bright part of his week because he misread a moment or sent the wrong text.
âBuck,â you said, even gentler this time. âYou didnât do anything wrong.â
His shoulders dropped. âReally?â he pressed, needing to be absolutely certain.
âReally. I like talking with you⌠a lot,â you promised, a shallow breath leaving your lungs. âI swear, it isnât you.â
The weight in his chest eased enough for him to breathe but not enough to feel okay since your voice cracked. You liked talking to him, which was good. Better than good. But if he wasnât the issue, it was something else. Something you werenât telling him.
It worried him.
âCan I ask you something?â you asked softly.
âYeah. Anything,â he said honestly.Â
âI donât think Iâve ever asked you this.â You paused to consider your words. âWhy do you drive?â
He inhaled. It wasnât unusual for you to ask about him. But most people didnât care enough to ask why he did this job.Â
You werenât most people there, were you?
Your gaze was back on him instead of looking out the window, waiting patiently for his answer because you wanted to know.
Like Becca said⌠you care.
âI guess the easy answer is having a flexible schedule, getting decent money on the right nights, and it beats being in an office with some boss hounding me.â
You gave him a knowing, very small smile. âAnd whatâs the real answer?â
He took a breath. âYou remember I served in the army.â You nodded in acknowledgement. âWhen I got out⌠there was no clear objective. No structure.â His voice stayed even, but quieter. âIt was just⌠a lot of noise.â
He stared at the taillights in front of him, lost for a moment.Â
His smile had been wrong for days when he got out. Everything seemed like too much or not enough. And the world didnât slow down just because people couldnât keep up.Â
âI had my friends. My sister. I wasnât alone,â he said like it mattered because it did. Not everyone had that support. âBut it still felt like I was supposed to be doing something⌠and I didnât know what that was.â
You didnât interrupt or rush him, so he continued.
âBut this?â He gestured around the cab. âIt gave me something again.â
A sense of purpose. A mission.Â
âI have an objective⌠orders,â he explained, tapping the dashboard. âI pick a passenger up and I get them from point A to point B. Thatâs the job.â
You nodded slowly. âThat makes sense.â
âAnd how I get you there? Thatâs on me.â He tapped his chest. âIf the weatherâs bad, I take it into account. If thereâs awful traffic, I adjust. If my usual route is blocked, I find another way.â
âSo, it gives you a sense of control,â you mused. âYou know what you have to do, but you choose how you execute it.â
He nodded. You seemed to understand. Not everyone did.
âItâs simple in a good way. Discipline and structure with adaptability.â He ran a hand along the wheel, smiling to himself. âI know what Iâm supposed to do. I know I can do it well.â
He glanced at you in the mirror, vulnerability shining in his eyes.
âAnd at the end of the ride⌠I get someone where they need to go. Safely.â
He paused, the sounds of honking horns and engines surrounding him. It was strangely comforting. But the most comforting thing was your presence and tender expression.Â
âAnd sometimes⌠thatâs enough,â he finished.Â
âIt is. It matters,â you insisted, gently but firmly. âMore than you think.â
You make me feel like I matter.Â
âI do my best.â The words came out nonchalantly but he meant it. âI canât control what others do when theyâre on the road, just like they canât control me. But if something does happen, I fix it.â
Your expression shifted. âAnd if thereâs a time that you canât fix it? You canât control whatâs happening?â
Bucky stilled before he realized it. That didnât sound like you were talking about driving. He had a good read on people, but he couldnât read between the lines of this. Couldnât figure out why you were asking that.Â
What needs fixing?
âI just keep driving,â he finally answered. âLike Steve always says⌠We have to move forward.â
You shifted in your seat. âI guess itâs all we can do,â you said more to yourself than him. âAnd for what itâs worth, you really are doing a great job,â you added.
He inhaled sharply. âYeah?â
âYeah. You help people every time you drive. You donât just drive well. You do it safely, like you said,â you pointed out, giving him a small smile. âI always feel safe when Iâm with you.â
Those words landed in the middle of his doubt in himself, threatening to tear it apart. There was trust within your compliment. It was pure in an impure world.
âGood.â He had to swallow to keep his voice steady. âIâm glad you feel that way.â
You smiled again, but it didnât reach your eyes.Â
His chest ached. Every smile seemed to take more effort than it should, like you were chipping away little pieces of yourself. He hated that.
He hated that he couldnât shoulder the weight still pushing you down, even just a little.Â
âHere we are,â he said once he stopped, quieter than before.Â
âThanks, Buck,â you said, handing over a protein bar with the cash. âAnd Iâm sorry if I made you think that you upset me.â
âDonât apologize,â he said quickly, turning around as best as he could so he could see you. âYou donât have to do that with me.â
There was no reason for you to apologize when he was the one overthinking.
âBut are you sure youâre alright?â he asked, searching your face for the answer your lips may not say.Â
Lean on me if you arenât.
Something passed in your eyes and then it was gone. âI will be,â you assured him.
His stomach dropped when you took the blanket with you, like you forgot you were holding it. You clutched it like a lifeline as you walked away from the cab. He watched you go, reaching for the door handle. You disappeared into the building before he could follow, which he had never done before.
You werenât okay.
For the first time since he met you, he had no idea how to fix it.Â
But something told him he was about to find out.
By the time he came back, he was tense. He told himself you just needed time with your family tonight. That whatever was on your mind eased with some laughter and familiar warmth.Â
It had to have helped.Â
âŚRight?
His heart didnât sink when he saw you.
It cracked.
You had the blanket around your shoulders, trying to hold yourself together as you put one foot in front of the other. The look of sadness on your face wasnât fleeting or light. It was the kind that settled in your bones.
What the hell happened?
You forced a smile when you met his eye and it twisted something inside him painfully.Â
Donât do that. Please, donât do that.
âHey.â
âHey,â you replied, your voice thin.Â
He didnât drive off right away, giving you a moment to get your bearings.Â
But you didnât.Â
You didnât slip your shoes off or tuck yourself in. The blanket stayed around your shoulders like an afterthought. Your breaths were too measured. Too careful.Â
He held the wheel so tight that his fingers ached.
You were a heartbeat away from unraveling.
âReady?âÂ
âYeah.â
The city bustled around like normal, but nothing inside the cab felt the same.Â
The air felt even heavier than earlier. The silence was too loud.. Louder than any word you ever spoke.
And you simply stared ahead like you were bracing yourself for impact.
His teeth snapped together, trying hard to keep himself in check. His job was to get you home safely. If you wanted to confide in him, heâd listen. But you didnât have to lean on him.
He was justâŚ
Your breath hitched on the next turn.Â
He made it three more blocks before he couldnât take it anymore.Â
Fuck this. Iâm not just your driver.
He switched lanes and turned down a road he had never taken on your route before. It was familiar to him, of course. Away from some of the noise. It had a soothing view, too.Â
Exhaling through his nose, he stopped the car and turned to look at you.Â
He recognized pain when he saw it. Had lived through it. He couldnât recall ever seeing you look so fragile.Â
Itâs okay to break with me.Â
âHey,â he said carefully because you needed something gentle. âI know you said youâll be alright⌠but youâre not.â
âI will be,â you said quickly, your lower lip trembling. âI have to be.â
âHeyâŚâ he whispered again.Â
You donât need to be strong tonight.Â
You shook your head automatically, your next breath shaky. âI donât want to dump this on you.â
âYouâre not dumping anything on me,â he promised, needing you to believe him. âYouâre hurting.â
Your eyes filled and you tried to blink the moisture away.Â
He didnât think when he got out of the cab, his body moving on instinct at the sight of your tears. He got in the back with you, leaving you enough space so you wouldnât feel cornered. His hands rested on his knees, making sure not to touch you since he didnât know if that would help or make things worse.
 But he wanted to be there for you.
âPlease, let me help,â he begged, his voice thick. âEven just a little.â
That did it.Â
A sob burst from your chest, your hand coming up to cover your mouth and failing to keep it in.
His heart stopped, his fingers curling to hold himself back from hauling you into his arms.
You hastily wiped your tears away that fell, like it would hide them. Your shoulders shook the more you tried to hold them in. Another broken sound escaped, the threads inside you slowly pulling apart.
âHeâs sick,â you whimpered. âMy brotherâŚâ
Your words were like a punch to the gut.
Oh, noâŚ
âHe has been for a while. They thought he was getting better, but the last couple of weeks have been bad,â you admitted, your face crumbling. âHe barely made it through dinner tonight before he had to lay down.â
His jaw tightened in that helpless way when grief felt too close and overpowering.Â
âAnd the kids⌠They donât get why their dad is so tired or why their mom looks so sad when she thinks no oneâs looking.â You hiccuped, the sound raw. âAnd Iâm trying to help when I can. Iâm trying to be strong for everyone, but Iâm scared and⌠I canât fix this.â
His throat went tight.Â
âAnd if thereâs a time that you canât fix it? You canât control whatâs happening?â
It all made sense now.Â
The nights where you looked a little worn down. Your smiles that didnât reach your eyes. Your light dimming. The talk earlier tonight.
While he had been overanalyzing his interactions with you, you were carrying this.
Alone.
And he couldnât fix it for you.
âI help cook, clean, make the kids smile, but I donât know what to do anymore,â you whimpered, looking at him with teary eyes. âIt hurt for me to smile tonight.â
Trying to smile through pain was one of the hardest things a person could do.Â
âIâve been holding this in and I⌠canât anymore.â
Bucky couldnât keep staying behind the line he drew.
Not anymore.
His arms went around you without another thought, strong and steady, pulling you in like it was the most natural thing in the world. You clung to him, your fingers curling in his shirt as you sobbed painfully into his neck. He closed his eyes, willing whatever being was watching over them to feed some of your pain into him.Â
Donât do this to her. Give it to me. I can take it.
âIâve got you,â he murmured, cradling the back of your head as your cries continued. âIâve got you.â
He didnât say it was okay because it wasnât. But he was there. Solid and real. Nothing else mattered except you.Â
âHeâs my big brother. Heâs a good guy. Heâs supposed to be okay,â you choked out between sobs. âBut he isnât, and I canât make it any better.â
He pressed his cheek to your temple. He knew how afraid Becca had been when he served and how relieved she was when he came back. If he were to get sick now⌠If anything happened to himâŚ
âYou just need to love him,â he whispered against your ear. âAnd you do. You have such a big heart.â
You cried harder, making him hold you closer.Â
âJust let it out,â he urged, rubbing your shaking back.Â
Minutes passed before your cries eventually slowed to small sniffles. Your body slumped against his, the tears wearing you out. And he held you through it all, letting you feel his warmth and comfort.Â
You lifted your head slowly, your cheeks wet. âIâm sorry I didnât tell you sooner.â
âDonât you dare apologize for that,â he said, wiping a stray tear away with his thumb. âSometimes saying it out loud makes it more real and it opens up the floodgates before youâre ready.â
Like me being a coward about my feelings for you.Â
You leaned into his touch briefly. âI didnât want to be a burden,â you said, your voice wrecked.Â
âYouâre not.â He pulled back enough to really look at you. âYou never could be.â
You searched his face, your lip trembling again. âAm I doing enough?â
Your grief already cut open his heart, but your question made him feel the blade all over again.Â
âYouâre doing more than enough. Youâre showing up for everyone. That matters,â he swore to you, echoing some of your earlier words as he held you tighter. âMore than you know.â
Your eyes shimmered again, but the tears didnât fall.Â
âAnd you can lean on me whenever you need to,â he added, giving you a tender smile. âYou donât have to do this alone.â
You smiled back faintly. âThanks, Buck.â
âYeah,â he whispered. âAnytime.â
You let go of his shirt, but didnât make an effort to move out of his arms. He didnât move either, taking a second to breathe with you and memorize how it felt to hold you. Heâd keep you in his embrace all night if he could.
âCan I just...â You glanced down, your fingers absentmindedly tracing a pattern on your thigh. âCan I say something?â
âAnything,â he answered, adjusting the blanket around your shoulders.Â
Say whatever you need to. I got you.
âSeeing you⌠talking to you,â you began. âI always look forward to it.â
You lifted your gaze, somehow more exposed and vulnerable than your earlier tears.Â
âItâs the best part of my week,â you admitted.Â
Bucky froze completely.Â
You exhaled shakily, like you said too much.Â
âI didnât want to fall apart in front of you,â you went on while his brain was scrambling to catch up. âBut everything felt heavy and I just⌠I felt safe enough that I could. So⌠thank you. For that.â
He didnât speak. He couldnât. Your words flowed through him, filing every crack he couldnât seal shut himself.
Iâm the best part of your week?Â
Not work, your friends, or even your family?
Me?
Since the beginning, he told himself to stay in his lane and keep things simple. To be professional. Driver and passenger. That was it.
But you were here in his arms, trusting him enough with something so raw and admitting that he was the one thing that made your week a little lighter.Â
Him.
And he was still acting as if there was a line he shouldnât cross?
His thumb brushed your shoulder. You looked to him for comfort tonight. You needed him in a way.Â
Maybe you wanted him, too.
If that were true, what the hell was he waiting for?
Donât rush her. Donât make this about me.
âI appreciate you telling me that,â he whispered once he found his voice. âLetâs get you home, okay?â
You nodded, your energy spent as you shifted from his hold. He felt the loss immediately, the cab feeling colder. But he didnât linger, as much as he wanted to.
He moved back to the driver seat grudgingly and started the engine.Â
You werenât too far from your place, but he drove a bit slower and checked the mirror more than he needed to. You had your legs curled up now, your eyes heavy but open. Not distant or shut down. Just tired.Â
You had a good reason to feel tired.
But you also gave him a smile when you caught him looking the last time. A small, real one. Because you felt safe.Â
Youâre safe with me.
The lights didnât seem as harsh when he turned onto your street. The breeze wasnât as strong. The world seemed to realize you needed little wins after breaking down.
Neither of you moved right away when he parked.Â
âHey.â He turned slightly in his seat, your expression glassy but more clear when you handed him the money. âIâm gonna walk you to your building tonight.â
It wasnât a question or suggestion.
Shouldâve been doing that since the first night.Â
âIâd like that,â you uttered.Â
âAnd you can take the blanket,â he offered when you started to fold it. âIf you want.â
âReally?â Your eyes widened in realization. âOh, my God. I took it with me earlier. Iâm so sorry.â
Bucky had to smile at the way you looked genuinely distressed, like you had done something unforgivable.Â
âItâs okay,â he said gently. âYou had a lot on your mind.â
You hesitated, but didnât set it down. âAre you sure I can take it with me?â
âYeah.â His gaze softened. âI put it back there so youâd be comfortable, and it kinda defeats the purpose if you donât use it.â
He wouldnât be there to hold you tonight if you cried again, so the blanket would have to do. It was a small piece of comfort. A small piece of him.Â
Warmth filled your eyes. âThank you.â
âAnytime,â he replied, meaning it in more ways than one.Â
He stepped out first, going to your door to open it. He didnât rush you as you gathered your things, letting you go at your pace. He understood how the body lagged sometimes after everything spilled over.Â
And his hand was already outstretched to help you out if you wanted it.Â
You took it.Â
Instead of the usual spark when your fingers touched, something steadier and grounding moved between you both.Â
It felt like your hand belonged with his.Â
It feels right.Â
He helped you out and fell in step beside you, matching your pace without thinking. Your thumb brushed his skin, making his grip tighten a fraction when he glanced at you. Faint exhaustion lingered in your body, but you werenât as tense. Your breathing had evened out.Â
The hurt was still there, but you were safe.
You made it to the door, the light above it casting a glow over you, but you didnât reach for the handle or let go of his hand.Â
The soft good nights usually happened at the car, but not tonight.Â
âThank you for tonight,â you said above a whisper.Â
He nodded, everything from the last few weeks pressing into his mind.Â
Sam on one shoulder. âBe a man and get her number.Â
Steve on the other. âYouâre allowed to want something.â
The teasing. The smiles. The protein bars. The card your niece and nephew made. The movie list.Â
How you quietly gave him your number. The careful texts. The deeper talks.Â
The way you trusted him and broke in his arms tonight.
The way you said heâs the best part of your week.Â
The way he was done pretending that there wasnât something there between you.Â
Time to erase the line for good.Â
He kept your hand in his, refusing to retreat into neutral territory. âI, uhâŚâ He rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled. âI was thinking.â
You gazed at him expectantly.Â
âI know things are⌠a lot right now,â he said, trying to be careful and not add pressure when you had so much on your mind. âWith your brother and everything.â
Your grip tightened on the blanket, but you nodded for him to continue.Â
âAnd Iâm not trying toâŚâ He huffed a little, almost frustrated with himself. âIâm not trying to make things harder for you.â
That was the last thing he wanted to do.Â
âYouâre not,â you said, stepping closer. âYou never could.â
That gave him just enough courage to keep going, taking one last deep breath.
Just say it.Â
âI just⌠I donât want to keep pretending that Iâm just your cab driver anymore. Not after tonight,â he said, his forehead almost touching yours. âBecause youâre the best part of my week, too.â
Your breath caught enough that he felt it.Â
âSo. When things feel less heavy, or you just need a breakâŚâ His heart was pounding now. âWould you like to have dinner with me?â
He didnât breathe as the question hung in the air.Â
Opening up and asking you out wasnât going to magically erase the pain or worry you felt. It wouldnât fix what was happening with your brother. But you didnât need to go it alone.Â
You stared at him, almost like you were afraid heâd take the offer back. âDinner?â you echoed.
âYeah. Dinner. With me,â he said, his voice low. âNo meter running or route. Just⌠us.â
Just the two of you enjoying each otherâs company.Â
âBecause I want to see you outside of the cab.â His thumb brushed your knuckles. âI want to critique movies and books with you and eat pizza or noodles or brinner and just talk. I want Al to finally see my favorite passenger in person.âÂ
A small laugh escaped you, the sound like sunlight appearing after a storm.Â
âBut only if you want, and only when youâre ready.â
You stared at him for a long moment before you smiled, one that reached your eyes for the first time tonight.Â
âIâd like that,â you saidÂ
The rush of relief hit him so fast it almost made him lightheaded. You wanted to have dinner with him. You wanted to see him outside of the weekly routine.Â
âYeah?â he asked, just to be sure.
âYeah,â you replied, tender and certain. âIs⌠tomorrow too soon?â
Bucky blinked, genuinely thinking he misheard you.Â
Tomorrow?
His heart stuttered. He expected an offer to check your schedule or something weeks down the line. But not this.Â
âTomorrow?â he repeated breathlessly.Â
You nodded, a tad shy. âYeah. I mean, if youâre free⌠and itâs not too fast or anything?â
Too fast?
Iâve been waiting fifteen Thursdays now for this.Â
âItâs not too fast.â He shook his head, a faint, disbelieving smile tugging at his lips. âItâs actually kinda perfect.â
âIt is?â
âIt is,â he said, more certain. âTomorrowâs great.â
Tomorrow meant you wanted this. Not just someday down the line, but now. Even with everything going on.Â
âWe can keep it easy,â he said, his thumb moving over your knuckles again. âWhatever youâre up for.â
âMovie?â you suggested, a small hint of your usual warmth slipping back in. âAnd noodles?â
He laughed. âNumber seven?â
âNumber seven,â you confirmed, your smile widening.Â
âAlright. Noodles and a movie at my place.â
âItâs a date,â you whispered.
A date.
You were still standing close. Close enough that if he leaned in just a fraction⌠God, he wanted to kiss you. More than anything.Â
The two of you took an important step. He finally stopped being a coward. You didnât hold everything in.Â
But he didnât kiss you.Â
Tonight wasnât about that.Â
His forehead, however, did intentionally brush yours this time.Â
âIâll text you,â he murmured.Â
âIâll be waiting.â
And Iâll be counting down the minutes.Â
You squeezed his hand before finally stepping back, his blanket tucked against your chest. âGood night, Buck.â
He memorized the way you gazed at him, basking in that glow. âGood night.â
You slipped inside, the door clicking shut behind you. There was no drop in his stomach. No nerves.Â
He didnât have to wait for another Thursday to see you again.Â
He finally turned back toward the cab, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to physically process what just happened.
Dinner and a movie.Â
You wanted to spend time with him.Â
âJesus,â he muttered happily under his breath as he slid back into the driverâs seat.Â
His gaze drifted to the backseat, landing on the empty space where you had been curled up just minutes ago, his blanket wrapped around you, trusting him with something rough and fragile.
When he picked you up tomorrow, you could sit in the front beside him.Â
His phone buzzed, his heart picking up before he even saw your message.Â
Of course, it was you.Â
MFP: âCurled up on the couch with your blanket. Thanks again. For everything.â
It gave him peace of mind knowing you made it into your place safe and sound since he only walked you to the building door.Â
âThanks for letting me help.â
He made a difference tonight.Â
He almost set the phone down when another message popped up.Â
MFP: âMy brother was awake when I reached out.â
He held his breath. Was he okay? Did something happen?
âYeah?â
Three dots appeared long enough that he sat up straighter.Â
MFP: âI told him weâre having dinner tomorrow, and he said heâs looking forward to meeting the guy who keeps me safe every week.â
He reread the message until the screen went dark.Â
Your brother, the one you were terrified for, wanted to meet him.Â
Becca would want to meet you.Â
He rubbed a hand over his mouth, trying to ground himself. Something earnest and dangerously close to overwhelming spread from his chest, the card on the dashboard staring at him. It brought a smile to his face.Â
âIâd be honored to meet him. Iâll have to make a good first impression.â
As a big brother, Bucky sensed and respected that he would be a bit protective of you.Â
MFP: âYou already have.â
The additional layer of assurance did wonders.Â
MFP: âGet some rest tonight, okay? Happy Friday Eve.â
There it was.Â
Soft, familiar, and you.Â
âYou, too. And itâs Friday Junior.â
MFP: âSame thing. Iâll see you tomorrow.â
âTomorrow,â he whispered, happiness filling him to the point where he thought heâd float away.Â
He shot off a quick message to the guys and Becca. âGot a date tomorrow night. Iâll let you know how it goes.â
With a smile, he put the phone away. He could already see Sam losing his mind and Steve would try and fail to act subtle about it. Becca would demand every detail after. Heâd wait until later to see and hear their stunned reactions.Â
For now, he was going to drive and get a few more people where they needed to go.Â
But not before taking one last look at your building and picturing you curled up with his blanket.Â
Fifteen Thursdays.
Fifteen weeks of watching you slip into his cab with tired eyes, soft smiles, and sweetness that made a difference in his day. Fifteen weeks of falling for you in steady increments. Fifteen weeks of chances he almost let slip by because it took him some time to feel brave.Â
And tonight he erased the line he drew in the sand for good because you mattered more.Â
You let him see you and it was a beautiful thing.Â
âTomorrow,â he said again like a promise, starting the car and pulling away from the curb.Â
Tomorrow there wouldnât be a meter running or rearview mirror glances. No pretending it was just another ride. It would just be you and him.Â
He was counting down the minutes.Â
And for once, he didnât feel like he needed to second guess any of it.Â
Whew! Did we make it? This isn't the end for these two. It's very much a beginning. Would love to hear your thoughts!
Summary: Post-Blip Bucky discovers a community garden and gets invested in hydroponics.
note: First story for the @writer-in-a-cryofreeze event, published anonymously in January.
The prompt was: Write a 1k-word fic about Bucky Barnes's new 21st-century hobby/obsession. Use some form of the line "Oh my god, this is worse than the bananas."
WIACF Masterlist
Bucky didn't plan to stop.
He was walking aimlessly when he saw it: a fenced lot between two buildings, full of wooden raised beds with plants growing in neat rows. A hand-painted sign read Red Hook Community Garden.
Something clicked in his mind.
They weren't clear memories, more like impressions: his mom with dirt under her nails, the smell of wet earth. Places like this during the Depression. Everyone grew something back then.
Before he realized it, he was inside. Not far, just enough to get a closer look at some zucchini hanging from their vines near the entrance.
"Can I help you?"
He tensed. A woman approached, wiping her hands on a dirt-streaked apron, a kind smile on her face.
He forced himself to speak. "I was just... curious. Saw it walking by."
"Locals rent plots to grow their own food.â She explained, gesturing around. âAre you from the neighborhood?"
"Moved about seven blocks away."
He looked again at the place, and Wakanda flashed in his mind. His hands in soil, the first peace he'd felt in decades.
"Well, if you're interested, we have plots available. There's a small fee for maintenance and tools."
Bucky's jaw clenched after hearing the number. Military pension. That's all he had right now. He took a step back. "I appreciate it, but-"
"Veterans get in free."
He looked at her.
She knew.
And instead of an excuse to make him leave, she was offering him a reason to stay.
He didn't know what to say.
"Look," she continued, "if it makes you feel better, we've got a few unattended plots. Weeds are taking over. You could help maintain those -prep the soil, pull weeds- You could do in one afternoon what takes me three, without a sweat."
Dr. Raynor's voice echoed in his head: Find something to occupy your time.
"I've got... some experience," he said carefully. Not mentioning how working the land was the only time he'd felt remotely human in seventy years.
"Yeah?" She tilted her head. "Then you're ahead of most people who start here. What do you say then?"
----
Saturday morning, she found him turning soil in his new plot. "What are you thinking of planting?"
He paused, leaning on the shovel. "Still deciding. Since the space is limited..." He surveyed the plot. "Want to plan it right."
"Makes sense." She crouched near the edge of his plot, pulling a stubborn weed. "Though, if you're worried about space, have you ever heard of hydroponics?"
He looked up, tilting his head and scrunching his nose.
"Growing plants without soil, just water and nutrients. You can stack systems vertically, control everything. Uses like 90% less water than traditional growing." She shrugged. "Some people do it in small balconies; you could grow a lot more than you'd think."
Bucky's mind latched onto every word. Water and nutrients. Controlled variables. Vertical systems.
The science nerd from the '40s -the kid who'd aced every math test without trying and the young man who'd dragged his dates to the Stark Expo- woke up.
"How does it work?"
She smiled, pensive, âWell, you have to consider pH levels, nutrient ratios, light cycles..."
By the time he got back to his apartment that evening, his brain was already three steps ahead. He pulled out his small laptop and started searching.
Hydroponics for beginners. From there, he entered a rabbit hole.
This wasn't just gardening. This was science.
----
After three weeks, Bucky's plot looked like a split personality.
In the front, tomato seedlings reaching for stakes, aromatic plants between them, lettuce sprouting in rows. In the back half: his experiment.
He'd mounted a shelving unit against the back fence. The cheapest beginner kit he could find with decent reviews. He followed instructions like fieldstripping a rifle.
It worked.
The lettuce seedlings shot up faster than their soil-grown counterparts. He'd check the system every morning, before most people arrived.
She'd noticed, of course, and was pleased he'd taken her suggestion and run with it. Also, gave him some advice.
----
Four days later, Bucky pushed through the garden gate just after dawn. The pump was silent, and the reservoir dry, a crusty ring of dried nutrients coating the inside. The seedlings hung limp and brown in their net pots. One of the plastic tubes had split along a seam.
Fuck.
He crouched there, staring at the wreckage of weeks' work. He'd done everything right. But the equipment -cheap, bargain-bin electronics- had failed.
"Hey."
He tensed. She was walking toward him, utensils in hand, looking concerned.
"What happened?"
âJust-â he motioned toward the scene.
She crouched next to him, looking at the disaster. "When did-"
"Don't know. I haven't been here in three days." Damn Sam.
She was quiet for a moment, turning the pump over in her hands. "Sometimes it happens with the cheap sets."
Bucky ran his hand through his hair. "Oh my god, this is worse than the bananas."
She blinked. "The⌠bananas?"
"An experiment that went wrong. Doesn't matter."
Coming home from a week away, confident his internet research had paid off, to open that tupperware in his fridge, finding rotting mush.
"Hardware failure isn't your fault." Her voice was gentle.
She stood, brushing dirt off her knees. "Look, if you want to try again... you could build your own system. Or-" she gestured at his plot, thriving in the morning light, "stick with this for now. Thereâs no wrong answer."
Bucky stared at the shelving unit. Part of him wanted to rip it all down. But another part, the one that had found peace in Wakanda's soil, wasn't ready to quit.
"I'd need to study what components to get," he said quietly.
"I can help with that. There's a hardware store in Sunset Park, and I know a guy who does aquaponics; he might have spare parts."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She smiled, handing back the broken pump. "Next week?"
Bucky looked around the garden. Then, at her, standing there like this wasn't a burden.
SKINNY JEANS | thunderbolts bucky x black widow reader
authors notes: if i'm being so real with you, i have no idea what this is or why i wrote it. HOWEVER, it did temporarily get me out of my writers block so god bless bucky barnes' thighs for that.
warnings: i don't think there's any major ones? standard stuff that you'd expect with an ex!widow reader. heavy on the flirting. also, happy one year to thunderbolts*, thanks for changing my life x
word count: > 1k
summary:
you never got the whole fighting in skinny jeans thing, so as team movie night turns into just the two of you, you decide to bring it up.
masterlist!
"you're staring, doll." he murmured gruffly, eyes still fixed on the movie playing on the tv in front of you. it was supposed to be a team movie night, but everyone had ended up peeling off about half an hour agoâbut that wasn't the point was that he was right. you had been staring at him. more than you'd been watching the film.
specifically, his thighs, in all of their majestic glory, crammed into a pair of jeans that were screaming at the seams and doing absolutely everything for you.
"why do you even fight in jeans?" you blurted out, eyes finally flickering up to his face. in your head, you'd worded it a lot better but then againâin your head you were mentally undressing him, so. "likeâi don't get it. jeans. you fight in jeans. skinny ones, which makes it worse. how do you likeâ" you kicked your leg out in a weak imitation of him fighting, looking more like a flailing fish out of water instead. "what's the thought process?"
a beat passed.
and then another.
and then he paused the film and slowly, painfully slowly, turned to face you. "first of all, i do not do that. i have more skill than that." he gestured towards your legs and whatever they'd just done before he carried on. "and second of all, they're efficient." efficient being a codename for the fact he could keep buying the same pair and never have to worry about them again. which technically was efficient, just maybe not in the official meaning of the words. "and oddly comfortable. i dunno, physics or whatever."
you nodded solemnly, like he'd just handed you state secrets is place of an explanation. "surely they're uncomfortable, though." you countered as you reached over and scooped a handful of popcorn out of the bowlâtossing a piece into your mouth. "you'd get way better range in something softer."
"say's the one who fights in full leather."
"easy to clean." you retorted as you tossed a piece of popcorn in his direction, which he caught effortlessly with the tiniest turn of his head. "also makes my ass look real good too, two for one deal, you gotta love it." bucky just scoffed, rolling your eyes as he reached over and grabbed another piece. he wasn't gonna give you the satisfaction of agreeing with you openly, but you definitely had a pointâa good one, too. "yeah, well. trying to finish a mission with you and yelena is basically like a catwalk with all the hair flipping and posing you do."
you gasped dramatically, free hand clutching as your chest like he'd mortally wounded you instead. "you don't like my posing?! oh. my heart bleeds, truly. i'll make sure to pass your criticisms onto the red room next time i swing by. they love feedback in between the assassin thing and the mind control."
he snorted, rolling his eyes as your sarcasm. that was one of the things he liked so much about youâyou were just like him when it came to the no shit taken, dark humour to deflect attitude, even if it wasn't the healthiest coping mechanism. "think i win the whole brainwashing thing." a grin tugged as the corner of his lips as he stretched his arm across the back of the couch, his hand brushing gently across your shoulders. a comfortable silence settled between the two of you and you felt no desire to fill it. you never did with him, not like you did with everyone else. the tower was loud, and messy, and had somewhat unwelcome memories lurking around every cornerâsilence was welcome sometimes.
you watched him raise an eyebrow slowly after about a minute and half, watching whatever he was thinking form in real time. "so, you don't like the jeans?" you groaned as you let your head fall back against his arm with the softest of thuds. "because this is a very serious opinion. carries a lot of weight, might make me change up my whole look." he teased, fingers still working away in your hair like it wasn't the big deal that it was.
"i never said i didn't like them!" you huffed, rolling your eyes. "i said i don't get why you fight in them. that's two very different things, andâmh, 's playing dirty." you practically purred as his hand slipped up into your hair, scratching softly at the nape of your neck as you let your eyes flutter shutâa rare moment where everything actually felt safe. it was funny to him that you were the only one who'd managed to take him down in training and sparring and still, he could undo you with a couple of touches like an overgrown house cat.
"they do great things for your thighs." you cracked one eye open just to peek at his shit eating grin when he realised that he'd finally got a confession out of you. "raises the workplace satisfaction score, keeps val happy, y'know the drill."
"never thought my thighs and valentina would be brought up in the same conversation. this is new." he let out a huff that might have been a laugh, could have been an exasperated sigh as you continued to admit that whatever had been bubbling away between you for months ran anything deeper than good looks, his choice in fighting gear, and the copious amount of flirting that drove everyone else crazy.
here's a flower to show my appreciation to you for being such a wonderful personđši hope you're enjoying your day! send this to 10 other bloggers to add some positivity to their inbox đ
Hope you're having a wonderful vacation
-@indigo-jungle
Aww thank you. I'm actually home, but things aren't going my way at the monent. I got a real bad ear infection and I'm in hospital for IV antibiotics đ. It's very unpleasant. đŻ don't recommend.
Just a bullshit little scribble from when I found a reverse tropes list in my saved posts.
It's Bucky and a reader but not necessarily Bucky x Reader.
---
You and Bucky had been on a mission that Steve swore would be a quick in and out. You'd go in, extract the data, and be home by dinner. Steve promised. Numerous times. That lying son of a bitch.Â
Things had gone a little sideways and instead of being home by dinner, you and Bucky were sent to a safe house. You're not sure who actually owns it. There was an envelope in a mailbox at a post office that contained the key. It felt like a trap. What if Steve was lying again and you'd really be mauled to death by raccoons at this supposed safe house.Â
Bucky didn't seem to care about raccoons. He just wanted to go to bed. The super soldier was tired and irritated and wanted to throttle his best friend. Steve was lucky he wouldn't be within reach tonight. He pushed open the door of the modest little safe house. It didn't smell moldy. Thankfully.Â
The door opened to an open concept kitchen and living room. The bathroom - thankfully not open concept - was at the back of the living room. A staircase off to the side of the living room led up to what looked like a loft. You couldn't see anything from the first floor due to a half wall up top.Â
You didn't worry about eating. Once you had made it to safety, you and Bucky had found a roadside dinner that had better food than what you anticipated. You headed for the staircase as Bucky headed for the bathroom.Â
âI can sleep on the couch,â he told you, shutting the bathroom door.Â
You merely shrugged. It wouldn't have been the first time you had shared a bed with a team member. You hadn't shared with Bucky but no one could be as bad as Nat. That woman was either a damn starfish or a stage five clinger. It had been a damn fight all night for you. She woke up well rested.Â
You heard the bathroom door open by the time you made it up the stairs. âUhâŚthat won't be necessary,â you said, taking in the loftâs appearance.Â
You heard Bucky walking up the steps. âBig bed?â
You shook your head as you stared at the loft filled with full size beds. There were five beds along each half wall. âWhy the fuck do they have so many beds?â
âWhy are they all made up?â
âWhat the hell,â you muttered and tossed your bag on the nearest one. You tentatively sat on it. âOh shit these are comfy. Fuck Steve. I'm not leaving tomorrow.â
Bucky chuckled and sat on another bed. âDamn, that is nice. But why are there ten?â
