“call me when you get home” (b.b)
@the-chocolate-bunny “call me when you get home” over a YEAR AGO. anyway, (incoherent screaming at myself) here it is,,, hahaha. 2.8k words of a lil fluffy first date with ol’ Bucko. 🧡🧡🧡 Thanks for reading!
[28 WAYS Masterlist // Prompts here & here]
When Sam told him what he’d be doing on Saturday evening, Bucky groaned so loudly the couch vibrated.
Come on, man, you really giving up on dating?
He wanted to say yes, Wilson, fuck off. But Bucky only groaned again and reminded Sam that he’s not ready to date. Too busy. Too cranky. Scary robot arm. Last date went terrible and Bucky doesn’t even remember how to talk to a woman unless he’s trying to de-escalate a hostage situation.
Sam couldn’t be deterred. Dude, that was like, a year ago. Just try one time--Sharon’s friend, from work—remember her, Barnes? Steve, you know her. Pretty, funny, real sweet. She already agreed to it, she’s gonna meet you there at 7. Thank me later.
Bucky rummaged through his mind for pretty, funny, real sweet and came up empty. Steve pretended to remember—he didn’t—can’t remember anyone’s face but Sharon Carter’s, the lovestruck idiot—but if she was Sharon’s friend, then Bucky wasn’t allowed to stand her up. So, 7. Saturday. Date.
Fuck.
He’s sure he’s done all the right things: laundered his clothes, showered, brushed his hair, shaved, even.
Sam said to get flowers and hold the door. Make eye contact, share a dessert, pay for dinner, give the girl your jacket and be on the left side of the sidewalk. Follow the script and he’s home free and looking at another date in possibly a week or so— or if he’s lucky, Bucky scoffs internally, no date at all.
Perhaps he shouldn’t have showered.
Either way, he’s off to an awful start because the traffic was worse than anticipated and the taxi got a flat so and he had to walk the last five blocks. It’s 7:40 and he’s barely through the door, the box of chocolates in the crook of his elbow probably melted.
All the flowers looked ugly, Sam. It was either chocolates or a balloon and Bucky’s not It the Clown, so… chocolates it was for the lucky lady.
Bucky scans the room and groans— possibly his default sound for anything now. Leave it to Wilson to suggest this kind of restaurant—it’s all candles and floral centerpieces. There’s even a live orchestra in the corner. He’s severely underdressed.
The hostess taps her pen, “Sir, do you have a reservation?”
Oh. Shit.
He looks over her head, hopeful at a row of empty tables and booths. “Can’t I just, get put on a list or something? It’s two people. She might—already be here.” He surveys again, dodges the hostess trying to block his view, but can’t see anyone sitting alone.
Sam told him your hair color, described the little freckle above your eyebrow, something about your face being symmetrical and how sweet your smile was— but that could be anybody. People’s faces are naturally symmetrical, aren’t they? And Bucky certainly can’t make out a freckle from this distance.
“No sir, we’re booked all night—”
“Hey!” A hand unexpectedly lands on his arm. “Bucky! Oh my god. I’m so sorry I’m late.”
Bucky follows the hand to its wrist, to its arm, to its shoulder, collar, neck, finally, then, to its owner.
He remembers you now. A couple of times—dropping off packages at the compound, dossiers and flash drives, saying hello and goodbye but not much of anything else.
Your mouth hangs open tonight, sucking in deep breaths, baby hairs slick on your forehead. 7:45 and you’re off to an awful start, too.
“Tried to get a coffee on the way—spilled it—” a gesture to your blouse and the offending blotch glares deep brown from sky blue cotton. “Ran into a kid on a bicycle, made him fall. Scraped his knee. You wouldn’t believe how long a mother can yell until you accidentally tip over her kid--” You pause, looking at the hostess’ annoyance, then at Bucky’s bewildered face, and put two and two together.
“Ma’am, we’re booked all night.” The hostess’ pen taps after each word in emphasis.
You narrow your eyes and Bucky defensively reels back, expecting you might start yelling at him for forgetting to reserve ahead of time until you shake your head.
Sharon Carter is a Cotillion debutante and private nearly to a fault— she speaks carefully, keeps everything close to the vest, old-school formalities when it comes to courtship. So, when Sam said Sharon’s friend, Bucky expected someone similar. When he stepped into this extravagant restaurant severely underdressed, he expected someone similar.
Symmetrical faced, sweet smiled, freckled somewhere, but demure, maybe. Prim and proper.
But then—you groan, loud and annoyed, and ask:
“Do you like burgers? Do you mind the grease?”
And god, Bucky thinks. God bless Sharon Carter.
-
Hell, it’s a mess.
There are tears rolling down your cheeks. Bursts of gasping breaths, wheezing in-between shrill noises. The coffee stain on your shirt found a good friend in a diagonal line of bright yellow egg yolk and you’re laughing so hard people are starting to stare.
The burger you’d gotten—medium rare, double meat, bacon, fried egg, all toppings between—has completely fallen apart in a splat back onto your plate. The first bite was tragic—right into the yolk and it popped like a water balloon all over your chest.
He fumbles for napkins—for cold water? But you wave his worries away, licking your fingers before diving in to deconstruct your food.
“Sorry—I promise I have my shit together.” Another giggle, “Not making a very good first date impression. I hope you like the place, at least?”
“Yeah,” he grins, “I do. And, uh, I think you’re doin’ great.”
The words slip out before he can catch them and Sam’s slew of dating advice comes hitting him like a ton of too-late bricks. Keep it mysterious, Barnes. But what else should he say, he’s having loads more fun at this diner that smells like a thousand packs of stale cigarettes than he would have at that uppity potpourri scented Italian restaurant serving entrees the size of his thumb.
Around a mouthful of tater tots, you thank him, and then you take a breath, and he can literally see you winding up for another enormous bite.
“Sorry,” you pause sheepishly, “I had a really busy day at work—skipped lunch on accident.” You take the enormous bite he saw coming, and then, “Also doesn’t help—mm—I’m a nervous talker.”
Bucky chews on a fry and slurps his soda, entirely forgetting his courtship manners. “Nervous ‘bout what?”
“Aw, c’mon…” you roll your eyes emphatically as Bucky tilts into his straw. Another slow sip with his mouth around the plastic and you swallow a noisy gulp of tomato, “Come on.”
“What?”
The burger gets placed back on its wax paper, now small enough to return to its prior state, you rearrange it carefully on the plastic lattice bowl, staring at him the entire time.
A disbelieving scoff leads, “Imagine this, Sharon comes sashaying into my office—okay, not sashay, march—marching into my office and says are you interested in going on a date Friday?” You wiggle your head, tilt your head down and purse your lips staunchly. A pretend flip of hair over your shoulder and you whisper, “She’s perfect; this is what perfect women do, trust me.”
Bucky suppresses a grin at the sight. Steve would be jumping to defend her honor if he were here.
“She says, I know your last few weren’t the best… but this one-- And I’m drowning in paperwork, okay? Drowning. I’m stamping files, eating goldfish crackers, nodding along—anything to get her out of my office—”
“So you agreed…”
“Uh-huh.”
“…to go on a date…” he mulls it over, “… to shut her up?”
“Hell yes.” And then, “Oh!” You start shaking your head wildly, “No. No, no, no. No, not like that—I told you I’m a nervous talker—I didn’t know it was you until about fifteen minutes before I left the house! I would have never said yes if I knew it was you.”
Bucky frowns at that, but then you come full circle, rolling your eyes another time. A mustard-smudged hand points from the top of Bucky’s head down to his chest and back up again.
“Have I said ‘c’mon’ yet?”
“Once or twice.”
“Well, yeah. Come on. You’re—please don’t make me say it.”
He looks on, not quite sure what you’re going to say at all. It’s a toss-up between “a legend”, “an Avenger”, and “a murderer”. So it’s a pleasant surprise when you pop a French-fry into your mouth and mundanely announce, “Bucky, you’re handsome.”
He blinks.
You blink.
He blinks again.
“No, listen,” you urge, “You’re obscenely good-looking.”
His face is so hot that he thinks someone must have thrown a fire into him. Maybe he would have preferred being called a murderer?
“Is it some kind of superhero requirement, you know? Before you get green-lighted to save the world, you’ve gotta win America’s Next Top Model. Or in your case, an international season of ANTM takes … Soviet Russia?”
The reference is lost on him, but he gets the point well enough.
You place your hand in front of him like a running marquee, “I can see it now. Tyra Banks announcing, James Buchanan Bucky Barnes. Eyes: blue; hair: brown; height—” a pause as you consider his posture before continuing, shockingly precise.
“6 feet; 245 pounds; measurements: 42 chest, 33 waist; bicep circumference: 17 and a half inches.”
Bucky crosses his arms in embarrassment, and then uncrosses them because he’s thinking too closely about his biceps now. “Didn’t read that in a museum. You get it from just looking— look away, damn it.”
You quickly do, trying to suppress a grin and failing miserably. Bucky is too, shifting in his seat, opening his mouth to say something and then unable to get anything out other than a disoriented and amused, “Shit.”
Sam would never let Bucky live down that his first date in six months eyefucked him well enough to get his bicep measurement. The jokes would be endless. He can practically hear cackling in his ear.
A beat passes and he tries again, now at the end of the meal and the stain on your blouse starting to sink in and spread, heavy enough to dip toward the skin beneath. “Do you want to take your shirt off?”
You choke on soda and add another splatter down your chest, turning into a proper Jackson Pollock canvas.
“You can wear my jacket,” he clarifies. “Give it back next time. I mean, if you…” He frowns. “Uh. Um.”
Sam’s putting up tallies in Bucky’s head. Another scratch indicating he’s forgoing the mystery, which should have been easy for him since he’s an international assassin with at least one dead president under his belt.
“Of course, Bucky, I’d like that,” you say, saving him for tripping up over any more words, smiling slow and shaky. Different than the impish grins and all-teeth laughing, still lovely— but just, different. Like you’re pinching down a too-sweet thought about him with the corners of your mouth. It goes big and again when you tack on, “And I won’t even eyefuck you next time.”
It’s his turn to choke, sputtering as he blushes. 6 feet, 245 pounds, 17-inch circumference biceps, reformed murderer going napalm hot under a pretty girl’s eyes. Jesus wept, he really is hopeless.
-
He can’t believe it’s past midnight already, or that the two of you walked the length of Central Park and then looped back around about two more times.
You changed out of your shirt after dinner, ducking from the diner’s restroom bashfully, your old blouse in a crumple inside his pocket. His jacket hung a bit loose, but zipped up all the way and it was a good enough cover for a while.
The night cooled enough to where you weren’t too hot, and he wasn’t too cold, and neither of you seemed ready to leave just yet. Central Park was a perfect place to dodge the city’s unavoidable crowd and occasional sewage gust, so the two of you wandered aimlessly, stopping here and there to rest, even splitting the liquefied chocolates on a bench.
You get smudges of it on your cheek and Bucky figures it’s just a personality trait at this point. He laughs when you stick your tongue out, trying to find exactly where it is before giving up and asking him to thumb it off.
He shoves his hands in his pocket afterwards, thumb jammed inside his fist like a souvenir, keeping it there the rest of the walk, all the way up to the iron gate of your apartment complex before he wonders if he should have been trying to hold your hand instead.
Maybe not. It was only the first date, after all.
By the pin pad, you rock back and forth on your feet. “Thanks for dinner,” you say, looking up at him.
“Yeah, of course.”
“And the chocolates.” A beat passes. “And the walk… and jacket, too. It’s really nice… comfortable and, uh, smells... good. Like, motor oil and… a nice body wash and… trees.” You make a nauseated face and close your eyes for a second, pinching the bridge of your nose uncomfortably as Bucky looks on.
Oh, he realizes. You must be nervous.
Oh, he realizes. Should he kiss you?
He can’t remember if Sam mentioned this or not. Does mystery assume no kissing? Is it too soon for that? He thinks he must have kissed a few first dates in the past, but he’s not really sure if it’s too bold now. He’s really does start to sweat. Bullets.
The easy conversation and laughter from the past two hours is nowhere to be found. Bucky goes mute and you start fiddling with your phone, clearing your throat loudly and then pointing to the rectangular outline in his pocket.
He gives you his number immediately, tumbling over the area code and string of digits, so empty in his brain that when it vibrates in his grip after you text him, he almost jumps.
“Call me when you get home?” Your voice is small and hopeful, and you look like you’re biting your cheek.
“Sure,” he replies dumbly. You laugh, rubbing the back of your neck before turning and unlocking the gate. One final long look at him, his face, his mouth, his fingers, and you tug on his pinky shyly before heading through and toward your door.
Bucky reflexively makes a fist, entire limb tingling up to his elbow, the tiny gesture burrowing into his chest. Suddenly, he forgets entirely the modesty of first dates. He steps out of his body for a minute, staring at his still cupped palm like he’s holding a flame.
Rules be damned.
He taps the green icon next to your name, watching you suddenly pause a few meters away.
“Hey!” he blurts too-eagerly when you pick up, confused and turning to find him still where you left him on the other side. “Sam said I should wait to call. At least a day.”
“Oh yeah…?”
“Uh-huh,” Bucky nods, “Said it’s a bad look—guy being too excited. Gotta—I don’t know. Make the girl anticipate a little. Keep her interested.”
You retrace your steps, walking back, “What if the girl’s already interested?”
“Yeah?” He’s breathless, warmed up. “Not a bad look?”
“No. You look good to me.” Eyes travel up and down, peeking through diamond shapes of the iron gate, “Sharon told me something similar, since we’re on the subject of what’s good or bad.”
“What’s that?”
It should feel stupid that he’s been holding a phone call with someone who’s barely two feet away from him. Inches now, and you step slow, nose almost up against the frame. A metal clank and the gate slowly unlatches, opening up. You tuck the device into your back pocket, and Bucky does the same, barely registering the disconnecting click, heart racing with adrenaline.
Then, you smile.
Fuck. That smile.
“Said it’s not good to kiss on the first date.”
Mischievously, you lean in, touch him soft on the lips and every beat of his pulse seems to be reaching out for the sweet breath in your mouth. “And I shouldn’t invite you inside, but we both seem to be … not good… at following dating decorum, so…” Your eyes light up teasingly, “You wanna come…in?”
Bucky makes a noise like a whimper. Wow. International assassin with a Kennedy under his belt and it’s a dirty joke that does him in.
You kiss him again, longer than the last, giggling softly and tugging on his bottom lip like you could pull his entire body toward you with just that. “I’m sure we could find a few more first date rules to break.”
“Yeah,” he says, ducking for another one, lips increasingly impatient. “I’m… in.”
You pull away with a laugh, yanking on his shirt, grabbing his hand. As Bucky’s towed along, he can’t help but think of two things:
First, god bless Sharon Carter.
And second… well, maybe he will thank Wilson for setting him up, after all.