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"hotel california." bucky barnes.

summary: you’re a runaway and his truck has broken down. the only thing you two have in common is that you’re both staying in a shitty motel. you have three days to try to convince him to take you all the way to california, and three days to decide whether or not you can trust a stranger more than the place you ran from.

pairing: trucker!bucky barnes x fem!runaway!reader

word count: 30.5k................. im so sorry guys it drags a bit

content contains: 18+ content— smut. porn with way too much plot, slowburn(?) not really, age gap (bucky is early fourties, reader is early twenties minimum), strangers to lovers, mentions of an abusive boyfriend, sambucky mention 😛, creepy man, mentions of gun use, pet names (princess, sweetheart, etc), fem!masturbation, dry humping, boobies, fem!oral, unprotected PinV, basic sex stuff

authors note: hi guys ;P i am back. take this monster as a reward for your patience with me. this idea and the plot came to me at 10pm on a friday night. i was staring at the last picture on the moodboards and i was possessed by something evil and a little freaky. i was genuinely in a flow state… imagine jeffree star organising that eyeshadow and then shane dawson saying oh oh oh in the background that was my vibes.

you've never really liked highways.

they were far too big and still so small at the same time. they were barren and isolating, almost metaphorical in a way you can't quite name; but even though you find they take more than they give, you find escape in route 66.

it stretches and stretches, a torn grey ribbon pulled tight against the ground, disappearing against the horizon. every mile looks exactly the same as the last. its the same yellow lines and the same broken guardrails, the same low hills and the same signs that promise towns that you never seem to ever reach.

it all feels like a big circle that you can't escape, and from the passenger seat of a stranger's car, it certainly feels endless.

the window is half-open, just enough for the wind to tangle in your hair and carry in the smell of gasoline and dry asphalt. the car hums beneath you, the steady rhythm you've been enduring for the past seven hours constant enough that it almost lulls you into forgetting where you are or WHY you're really doing this at all.

but you remember. you always remember.

the car you sit in is a rented SUV. it smells faintly of sunscreen, beef jerky, and the sour tang of someone who hasn't showered in a couple of days. the glovebox is full of old batteries, a few maps of america, and fast food wrappers. in the front, a cassette tape rattles quietly in the stereo, the sound of bruce springsteen's voice filling the cab, loud enough to be heard, but still quiet enough that nobody has to yell.

there's one person in the drivers seat and two in the back, their voices overlapping like they've been traveling together long enough to finish each other's sentences. you dont know their names yet, and you don't think you'll ever learn them, but you can tell by the way they talk that they met on the road— friends made at rest stops, gas station restrooms, motels with peeling wallpaper, and— like you— on the side of the road.

they'd seen you on the side of the road in missouri with your thumb stuck out and a bag that fit your entire life slung over your shoulder. they'd picked you up with no hesitation with the simple explanation of 'that was us once', and you fit in the passenger seat like it was made for you.

"dude, seriously, stop singin'." the woman in the back groans, her plea directed to the man driving the car. "you're gonna blow our ears out if you keep tryin' to duet springsteen."

the driver scoffs, "come on. you know you love it. admit it."

"you sound like a dying dog. nothing to love about that." the man in the back seat chimes in, his arms crossed against his chest. "put my mixtape in and we'll see what real music is."

the woman in the backseat narrows her eyes. "sorry, but nobody wants to listen to ten hours of duran duran's best hits either."

"oooh, burn!" the driver snorts from the front seat, glancing into the rear-view mirror to catch a glimpse of his friend's defeated face. "i think that officially made you the least popular person in the car."

you watch them out of the corner of your eye, sometimes finding yourself glancing in the rear-view mirror just to see what they're doing. they're loud and messy and a little corny, but a part of it is comforting. you say nothing and find peace in their noise.

"hey." the man in the back says suddenly, attention diverted towards you now. "is this your first time riding like this? spending hours in the car with people you don't know driving across america?"

you blink a few times before glancing over your shoulder. the attention is a little sudden, and it takes you a moment to gather your thoughts. your thumb brushes against the fabric of your pants, a small and unconscious anchor.

"i only started doing it when i first decided to leave chicago." you tell them, your voice only slightly louder than the hum of the music. "it was more impulsive than anything."

"huh..." the driver tilts his head as he sneaks a glance at you. "you dont look like someone who just throws themselves out there without a plan."

you shrug, keeping your eyes on the dark streaking asphalt outside. "i didn't think i was that type of person either." you mutter.

the man in the backseat hums in acknowledgment, but then leans forwards again like one question wasn't enough. "why are you on the road? whats the story?"

you hear a slap of flesh against leather, and you can only assume that the woman had hit the man on the arm. "what is this, twenty one questions? let the lady breathe!"

"it's fine." you say quickly, almost hesitantly. "i just... needed to get away from home for a while. packed up what i could and i don't plan on going back there anytime soon."

the man in the back leans back with a thoughtful hum. "yeah, i get that. sometimes moving's better than being stuck."

the driver perks up in his seat, eyes wide like he's forgotten his keys at home. "i forgot to ask, but where were you headed?"

you hesitate. for a moment, you consider lying, and then you consider not saying anything at all. you dont know these people and your answer would do nothing but satiate their thirst for stories of the road; but something about the way the car hums beneath you and the way that the wind tunnels down your sleeve makes it easier than usual to let a small piece of yourself slip.

"i'm going west." you finally say. "california."

the woman smiles like you've given her the perfect answer. "that's the spirit. the road likes it when you don't stop movin'."

you manage a small humourless smile as you turn back to the window. california sits in your mind like a red pin on a map of america. its more of a fantasy than anything solid. you dont have an address or a plan that makes much sense when spoken out loud, and with nothing more than the clothes on your back, your duffel bag, and the certainty that if you keep moving west, something has to change eventually.

and almost like a light in the pitch black darkness, a neon glow flickers up ahead. slicing through the amber orange haze of the sunset, a sign that reads 'HOTEL CALIFORNIA' comes into view, and you find yourself following it even as the car passes, your head turning to watch it disappear into the darkness behind you. the letters shine like a signal, a promise, a miracle like an oasis in the desert, and you would be stupid to ignore it.

your hand braces against the car door as you push yourself up in your seat, your other hand tightening around the strap of your duffel almost instinctively. you turn back to the front of the car, brows knitting together as you lean down and zip open your duffel.

"do you think you could drop me off at that hotel california? the sign said it should be about five miles down the road." you ask.

you reach down and riffle through the unorganised mess in your bag and pull out your wallet. its scuffed from years of use and it pops open the moment you press in the buckle. the cards inside rustle around as you count what cash you have, thumb running over the notes just to make sure it's all there.

the driver glances down at you, his eyes scanning over your alarming amount of money you have. "sick of the car life already, drifter?"

you nod as you shove your wallet back into your duffel, a small smile on your face. "i think i need to stand on solid ground for longer than an hour. my body's forgotten what it feels like to be stationary."

the woman smirks. "that's fair. even the best road warriors need a pit stop sometimes. can't be movin' forever. we can spare five miles for our new friend, can't we?"

the driver nods like it's the easiest question he's ever had to answer. "yes ma'am. hotel california, here we come."

and just like that, the road stops stretching endlessly forwards and instead starts narrowing in on a single glowing sign that promised the hope of a new beginning and a moment to rest your feet on solid ground after what felt like a lifetime of running. at least for tonight, the road can wait.

you clutch your duffel bag straps, letting your eyes linger on the motel as it grows larger by the second. the neon light that stands in the front shines against the darkened sky, spitting orange and teal light across the windshield. and after a few minutes, the indicator starts blinking and the SUV swerves to the left, the vehicle shifting as it pulls into the carpark of the motel.

gravel crunches under the tires, and the hum of the engine drops into a softer sigh, like the car itself is exhaling. a few lonely streetlights cover the area in a soft glow and the motel looms just in front of the car— low, wide, and tired-looking, its paint peeling off of the walls and the roof shingles threatening to fall off of the roof.

you hesitate for a moment before opening the door, like you're waiting for permission you don't need. the night air slips in as soon as it clicks open and you hope out, duffel bag following close behind you and your feet finally touching solid ground. it feels strange after hours of motion, but you find comfort in the smell of dust and warm pavement, like the road has finally let you go.

you turn back, glancing at the people in the car— at their messy hair, at their lopsided smiles, at their clothes that haven't been washed in god knows how long— and you can't help but feel grateful. they didn't have to stop for you or give you a seat in their journey across america, but they did it anyways, and that feels bigger than anything you could possibly say.

your hand grips the side of the door like you're unsure of what to say. finally, you settle on "i really appreciate you guys stopping for me. i'm sorry for just... ditching you for a motel—"

"hey, it's all good. don't let us keep you." the man in the backseat tells you with a sincere smile. "if you need a real bed, then i say go for it. after all, seven hours in a car seat isn't the best for your back or for your mind."

the woman smiles, "just take care of yourself, alright?"

"yeah, and if it's anything like the song, just try not to get stuck in the there forever, alright?" the driver jokes, and you meet him with a weak laugh.

you nod, a smile on your face as you manage a small "thanks for everything" before finally closing the door, and the click of it sounds louder than it should. they drive off with a waving hand out of the window, and now you're all alone in the outskirts of glen rio, texas with nothing but the weight of your life on your shoulders.

the night air is warm and dry, carrying the smell of dirt and the sound of vehicles passing by on route 66. the front office glows dimly through the glass windows, the single LED light flickering like it's considering giving up too. a vending machine on the other end of the motel and the ventilations on the rooftop fight for title of loudest noise in the quiet. a rusted water tower stands neglected on the far side of the property, there are no other cars in the parking lot apart from a beat-up pickup truck parked along two spaces, it's paint sun-bleached and chipped, and you can only assume it belongs to the person at the front desk.

somewhere in the distant, there's a bang. a dog barks and the noise echoes in the desert. the world feels thin out here— stretched wide and empty— and you feel so very small inside of it.

you hesitate for a second, eyes lingering on the motel, before you shift your duffel higher up on your shoulder and head towards the office. the concrete is warm beneath your shoes, still holding the heat from the day, and the closer you get, the louder the hum of the lights becomes— a thin, tired buzz that seeps into your bones.

the door squeals as you tug it open, the rubbing lining along the frame sticking before giving way. cool recycled air washes over you as you step into the office, and the sound of the door shutting cuts through the silence of the room.

the office is small. cramped. a long counter runs along one wall, scratched and worn down by years of borrowed keys and elbows. behind it, a lanky middle aged man wearing glasses sits slouched in a swivel chair, his face half-lit by the glow of his ancient monitor. there's a small radio that sits beside him that plays music from the local radio station, a voice and a guitar that blur into the hum of the lights, and you find it incredibly hard to ignore the smell of lemon air freshener and moist carpet.

the man takes a long moment to really register you and your presence— the bag slung over your shoulder, the dust on your shoes and your clothes, the way you're standing just inside of the doorway like you're not sure whether or not you're meant to be there— and he smiles, dental issues on display for you to see.

"evening." he says eventually, head tilting upwards just slightly like he's trying to take you in, "what can i do for ya?"

"hi—" you step towards the desk, your weight shifting as you lean against the counter. you look at the name on his faded name tag, "trevor. i was wondering if you had any rooms available?"

trevor doesn't answer right away. he just looks at you like you're a pretty thing in the wrong place, and his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. his eyes trace over you slowly— your face, your bag, the way your fingers wrap around the straps like you might run— and then he leans back in his chair, hands reaching up to rest on the back of his head.

"yeah." he finally says. "got a few."

you dont like the way he says it.

"okay." you blink. "how much would it be for a week?"

"depends what kinda room you want." trevor makes an odd noise with his mouth as he leans forwards, something like sucking in his teeth and popping his tongue on the roof of his mouth. "you by yourself?"

you hesitate, trying to push down the odd feeling that starts to well in the pit of your stomach, but you nod. "yeah. just me."

his eyes flick over you again, slower this time, and the corner of his mouth lifts into something you'd barely call a smile.

"just you, huh." trevor repeats like he's letting the fact settle. then he sighs and twists in his chair, "alright, give me a sec to pull up the prices."

he turns back to the monitor, fingers moving over the equally as ancient keyboard, and you try to ignore the porn pop-up that he quickly clicks out of and the solitaire match that he's losing. each key he presses fills the silence, loud in the silent office.

click. click. click. then—

blinding headlights sweep through the office, the small room flooding with harsh white light. for a moment, it's so bright that you can't even see a foot in front of you, and you instinctively shield your eyes. when your vision adjusts, you can make out the outline of a massive semi-truck rolling to a stop in the lot, tires crunching into the gravel and engine growling loud enough for you to wonder whether it's meant to be that loud.

it idles near the far end of the motel, headlights still blazing, long shadows cast against the walls. the cab door opens, and you can barely make out the figure of a tall, broad shouldered silhouette stepping out. he pauses for a moment, one hand resting against the cab before he disappears into the darkness of the parking lot.

there's a small, metallic clank, then another, the sound almost hesitant, like he's trying to figure something out or fix something.

but a grating voice brings you out of your head.

"y'know, we don't usually get much foot traffic out here." trevor's lips smack, eyes flicking over to yours in a way that makes your skin crawl. "couple'a hippies and cross country truckers, but nothin' like you."

"who wouldn't want to spend a night in a place like this?" you murmur with a hit of playful sarcasm lacing your voice.

"you don't gotta sugarcoat it, darlin. this place is— and always will be— a shithole." trevor sighs as he rests an elbow on the desk, a cheeky smile growing on his face. "the only thing that makes up for it is the company. if you get lonely and need someone to talk to, i—"

"yeah, i don't think i'll be talking to anyone much tonight." you quickly and bluntly cut him off. you dont really have time to deal with creeps right now.

he chuckles, the noise low and almost wet, like he's amused and disappointed all at once. "we'll see about that, sugar."

trevor goes back to clicking away at his keyboard. you're picking at your nails when you feel the heat on the side of your face cool, and you turn your head to find that the semi truck's headlights are off now. your attention drifts back to the clanking of metal and the tall silhouette that moves around in the dark.

you wonder if you'll see the face that's swallowed by shadow. you wonder if he'll come into the office and save you from the creepy receptionist. you wonder if he'll be equally as creepy and if you'll need to sleep with a weapon in hand.

the squeak of trevor's chair brings you back to reality.

"right. single room's cheapest. one bed, small. got a pull-out sofa if you decide you don't wanna spend the week all alone." trevor drags the word, tongue running along his teeth. "but if you want a bigger bed for your beauty sleep and a bathroom for all of your girly things, then we do have a double."

your brow quirks. "the single room doesn't have a bathroom?"

"nope, so i'm assumin' you're gonna pick the double. it's two-fifty for the week." trevor says, "cash or card, sugar?"

"cash." you reply. "and don't call me sugar."

you ignore the huff trevor lets out. you zip open your bag, riffling through it before pulling out your wallet. you pop it open and pull out exactly two hundred and fifty dollars. you set the cash down on the counter and slide it towards trevor.

trevor's eyes widen just slightly as he does a faint double take. his hand slaps against the counter as he takes the money, counting it. "right on the dot. where'd a lil' thing like you get all this cash?"

"work." you simply reply. a stranger doesn't need to know anything about you or your money, and you're not about to give away more information than needed.

trevor hums. he pops open the register and places the cash into the tray with a small metallic clink. then he turns around in his chair, head cranes towards you like an idea had just popped into his head.

"y'know—" he pauses, brows raising just slightly as he leans closer to you. the closer he gets, the more he smells of tonsil stones and tooth decay, and you swear you can see a thought forming in those bloodshot eyes of his. "if you wanted the room a lil' cheaper, you could come around the desk and show me what that pretty little mouth can do—"

"i'll pay the two-fifty." you cut in, voice firm, eyes meeting his and trying to keep him from crossing the line any further. "and i'll take my key now."

the annoyed groan that leaves the man sends a chill down your spine. trevor reaches under the counter and pulls out a tarnished room key with a small plastic tag. he holds it out for you to grab, but just as you do, he snaps it back like a predator played with cornered prey.

"don't think you can just walk around here with that attitude, lil miss." he mutters, low and rough, head tilted down enough that his eyes bore into yours. "just because you've got a pretty face doesn't mean things always go your way. you pay, but sometimes... you owe."

the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end and the pit in your stomach almost comes up as vomit. you narrow your eyes at the sick grin he has on his face, about to tell the asshole to go to hell, but the squeal of rubber lining and metal screeching stops you.

the office door swings open and slams shut, harsh and sudden, and it catches both your and trevor's attention. the two of you turn your heads towards the figure who had just walked in— a tall, broad shouldered man, no doubt the one you'd seen outside working on his truck in the shadows.

with a shaved head, a thick scruffy beard, and a torn denim jacket, the man moves through the room with quiet confidence. there's grit in his posture, his face tired and rugged, with soft lines on his forehead and a shadowed jawline thats strong but worn. he's the type of man you'd see in a movie and be intimidated by, but this man felt different.

the man doesn't smile, nor does he speak. he simply looks between the two of you like he's figuring out what he's just walked in on. before anyone can react, you lean forwards and snatch the room key from trevor's hand. he awkwardly rubs his hands on his oily shirt like he's suddenly uncomfortable.

the receptionist gives you a fake smile as he ushers you away, voice dropping with false charm. "room one, sugar. best room in the house."

you scoff as you walk off, your shoulder just barely clipping the man's arm as you stomp past. the contact is almost nothing— a brush of denim against your sleeve— but it sends a strange shiver up your spine anyways. you push the door open and the night air hits you instantly, a soothing feeling after being trapped in that stuffy office.

as you cross the lot towards the room, you glance back, and through the office window, you see him.

the man stands exactly where you had left him, broad frame filling out the office, half shadowed by the dim yellow lights, his head slightly tilted as he cranes his neck down to watch you. not in the way trevor had watched you. not hungry or leering, but with curiosity, like he's trying to decide something, and you can feel his eyes boring into your back until you reach your door.

the key sticks in the lock for a moment before you twist the doorknob. you shoulder the door open and step inside.

a single double bed sits pressed against the wall, its blankets thick and vaguely floral in pattern, the colours dulled from years of washing. a small nightstand holds an even smaller table lamp on top, a worn bible sitting on the lower shelf. the bathroom light flickers on the far end of the room, and you wonder how long it's been on for. the carpet feels flat and stiff beneath your shoes, and the air smells of moth balls and fruity room spray that feels like it's trying to cover up the scent of something old and damp.

the room is fine. its nothing special, but it's dry, it's quiet, and it has a door that locks. that's about the nicest thing you can say about it.

you drop your duffel bag at the end of the bed and kick off your shoes. you peel your jacket from your arms and throw it over the backrest of the small dinning set chair before sinking down into the mattress. it creaks under your weight, but it holds. exhaustion settles over you all at once, your eyes feeling heavy now that you've stopped moving.

you dont even bother changing. you just lie back, stare at the stained popcorn ceiling, and then let your eyes fall shut.

sleep comes fast— or at least you think it does.

some time later— you're not sure how long— a sound pulls you back to the edge of consciousness. you think it's a door. it softly opens and closes. your eyes stay shut, but your mind sharpens in on the noise. you hear footsteps, slow and heavy, and then the low murmur of movement through the thin wall next to you in room two.

you frown slightly into the pillow as the noise comes to a slow stop. the trucker, you assume. the man with the shaved head and the quiet eyes. the one who had indirectly saved you from the advances of the creepy receptionist.

you roll onto your side, tuck your legs in a little closer, and tell yourself not to think about it. you're safe, you're inside, and you're not on the road anymore. nobody is going to find you.

eventually, the sounds fade and the motel settles into silence, and when sleep takes you, you welcome the old friend gladly.

the next day, you wake up slowly. not with an alarm or a bad dream, but with a sound— a dull, metallic bang.

your eyes crack open, unfocused and strained in the low light. light bleeds in around the edges of the frilly curtains, brighter than you expect. you place a hand against your eyes, and for a moment, you're disorientated and heavy limbed, your body still weighing on the mattress like it's trying to hold onto sleep.

you blink and the sound comes again— metal against metal, constant and loud as it echoes through the empty parking lot— and your brain catches up to your body.

you groan quietly and roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling before pushing yourself upright. your joints ache in a way that comes with too much rest and your head hurts in a way that comes with not enough. you rub a hand over your face and glance at the blinking alarm clock in the bedside table.

it's late. not morning late; afternoon late. you'd slept through most of the day and woken up with a grogginess that makes it feel like you never really slept at all, but you give yourself a little leeway— you'd been awake for a day and a half beforehand and this was your first proper bed in a while.

your stomach gurgles, void of any proper food. you get up, tug on your shoes, shove your room key into your pocket, and step out into the heat.

the day has already settled over the motel, the texas sun bleaching the colour out of everything. it still smells like dust and hot concrete, but now there's a faint smell of gasoline and soldered metal. you impatiently make your way to the vending machine you'd spotted last night, the humming getting louder as you near it.

the semi truck is still there, the hood up now, the massive front tilted forwards like a jaw. the man from last night is crouched besides it, his hands and shirt darkened with grease and dirt as he works. tools are scattered at his feet— wrenches, screwdrivers, things with long handles and odd contraptions— and a dirty rag is thrown over his knee.

he looks different in the daylight— still intimidating, still broad and still quiet, but you can see the tiredness in him. the set of his shoulders as he tightens a bolt, the slow and careful way he moves like he's trying to conserve energy, the way he huffs out a breath whenever he meets a particularly stubborn piece of metal. he pauses, wipes his hands on the rag, then leans back to look at whatever he's working on with a slight frown like it's not cooperating and hasn't been for a while.

the vending machine beeps obnoxiously loud at you.

its only when he turns his head just slightly to spot the source of the noise and he catches your eye that you realise you're staring. you turn back quickly and begin feeding your coins into the vending machine, awkwardly pressing on the first button you can see, and wait for the dull thud of something half edible to drop.

you're almost disappointed in yourself when a bottle of old fanta makes its way through the machine instead of food, but you pull it out anyways. the cap hisses when you pop it open. you take a sip more out of obligation than enjoyment. its warm, flat, and too sweet. you take another sad sip and let your eyes wander around.

there isn't much to look at.

the motel stretches out in a long line, sun bleached doors, curtains drawn in most windows, and outdated signs as far as the eye can see. you skip over trevor's badly parked car and focus more on the heat waves that hover just above the ground, and just beyond that, there's a hum of cars passing by every so often. you're about to turn around and go back to your room, but your eye catches on a pink sign that says 'pool'.

it hangs haphazardly on a light post on the far end of the property, the arrow beneath it pointing to a pathway between two buildings with cracked pavement. the sign is barely illegible, the paint faded and cracked, but curiosity gets the better of you and you follow it.

the path eventually opens up into a small, fenced in area behind the motel, and you find that there actually is a pool— or at least a poor excuse of one. the water inside is cloudy, a dull bluish green with leaves and a few empty plastic water bottles floating on the surface. the tiles that surround the pool are either cracked or gone completely, and just beyond that, a few plastic lounge chairs are stacked awkwardly on top of one another, sun bleached and warped from age.

you step closer to the edge and peer down into the water. its so murky that you can't even see your own reflection. alas, you try to squint through at the glare of the sun, but then you feel someone behind you, your shoulders tensing before you even turn around.

"thing hasn't been used in years."

you turn. trevor stands there, hands on his hips and squinting at the pool like he owns it. you hadn't even heard him sneaking up on you, and the thought of it happening again makes you queasy.

"i figured." you mutter.

you take a small step backwards just as trevor steps forwards, his head craned down towards the pool like this is the first time he's seen it in years. he kicks a pebble and it lands into the water with a thick splashing noise before he turns to you.

"used to be nice though. families'd come during the summer. kids'd scream and they'd barbecue. used to get a lot of action." his eyes flick to yours, "not like that anymore."

you nod even though you don't really care.

trevor smacks his lips. "what are you doin' round back?" he asks, the question a little pointed and slightly accusatory.

you straighten a bit, gesturing vaguely. "just looking."

"at the pool?"

"at whatever was back here." you say, already turning away from him. "i was bored."

you start walking back towards the front of the motel before he can respond, but the scuff of shoes against pavement behind you tells you that he's close behind and that the conversation is far from over.

"i get that. not much to do round here." he says easily like this is completely casual and like he isn't matching your pace too well. "but we got a little kitchen just beside the front office if you wanna heat up or cook your food. microwave, coffee pot, workin' sink, that kinda stuff."

"okay."

"and you can probably tell, but housekeepin' doesn't run regularly anymore," he continues, "so if you need fresh towels or soap or anything, you just gotta swing by the front desk and ring that little bell. i'll sort it out for ya."

"i'll manage."

"independent type, huh?" he chuckles softly, and then— almost like he has a death wish— he reaches out and places his clammy hand on your shoulder like you're just an old pal. "i like that about you, sugar."

your body reacts before your brain does. your shoulder jerks back, pulling away from his touch, and you turn to him with a glare sharp enough to kill.

"don't touch me and don't call me sugar."

trevor blinks, caught off guard. his hand hangs limply in the air for a moment before it dramatically drops back to his side. he scoffs, hand returning to his hips.

"alright, alright—" he says, lips pursing like you've personally offended him. "no need to get snappy with me."

you don't reply. you just turn and walk away.

trevor stalls for a second, hands on his hips like he's deciding whether he should follow you or just let you go. the clanking from earlier has stopped, but you barely notice it through the ringing in your ears and the crunch of gravel underneath your shoes.

"we also got laundry service if you wanna change outta those rags." trevor calls from behind you, hand cupped around his mouth to make himself louder. "maybe get a new shirt on— it doesn't do much for your figure!"

you ignore the jab, keeping your eyes straight ahead as you reach your room. you reach into your pocket for your keys and pull them out, but your hands shake just enough for you to miss the lock on the first try, the key scraping uselessly against the painted wood. you manage to slip the key in, but then—

"everything alright over there?" a low, calm voice calls out from the far end of the lot.

you pause halfway through turning the key. your shoulders tense before you can fully control it, your breath catching just slightly as the words sink in. you've never heard his voice, but there's only three people here and it's not hard to guess who it belongs to. you glance over your shoulder, half expecting him to be speaking to you, only to realise that his eyes aren't on you at all; they're on trevor.

the trucker has gone still beside the hood of his truck. the rag that once rested on his knee is now thrown over his shoulder and his hands rest on his hips as he takes in the scene in front of him. his posture is calm, almost casual as he glares at trevor like he knows exactly what he's looking at.

"all is good, sir." trevor says quickly, with a thin smile and a weak thumbs up, "jus' helpin' a guest get settled."

the trucker doesn't look away. "doesn't sound like it."

the words aren't loud or aggressive. they're calm in the same way that his posture is calm, and somehow that makes them carry more weight than if he'd raised his voice at all.

trevor shifts in his spot. its subtle and barely noticeable, but you see it anyway— in the way his shoulders drops, in the way his cheeks dimple into an awkward smile, in the way his hands flap around like he's searching for the words.

"everything's fine." he insists with a forced smile. he turns to you and gestures to you like you're supposed to back him up. "isn't that right, lil miss?"

but you don't reply. you twist the key and shoulder the door open, stepping into the room and shutting it behind you. you lean against the door for a second just enough to catch your breath before throwing the fanta bottle onto the bed.

through the thin curtains, the motel parking lot stretches out like a stage. the trucker and trevor are standing in what looks like a stand-off, their bodies still and eyes locked. there's a few words exchanged, but you can barely hear what's being said before trevor flaps his hand once and turns to walk away.

you watch as the trucker shakes his head, and then— just slightly— he tilts his head, and you swear he's looking right at you. your chest tightens and you press yourself a little closer to the wall beside you.

until long, the stranger goes back to working, bending back over the hood of his semi, the metallic clanking noise breaking the tension, and for the first time since you arrived here, you dont feel like you're the first person to realise something is off about this place.

you spend the next three days doing all that you can to bunker down in your motel room and avoid any and all interaction with trevor.

you keep the curtains drawn. you reuse the same towel over and over again just so you don't have to face him. you time your trips to the vending machine with the noises outside of your door. you listen for footsteps, for whistling, for anything that signals his presence before you even think of placing your hand on the door handle.

although it helps, you find that the isolation keeps your mind running rampant with no distraction from it. everything you'd once pushed down floods to the forefront of your mind until they feel like they're echoing— the reason why you'd run from home, the reason why you'd chosen to ditch the travellers, the reason why you're even here at all. its an endless cycle of staring at the roof and spiralling into thoughts that you can't escape from.

and by the third day, your hunger overpowers your caution. the vending machine had stopped offering anything desirable and your stomach has been gnawing at itself for hours by now. later that day just as the sun had set, you find yourself sneaking off to the motel kitchen with the hunger of a man starved, and just like the rest of the motel, you find that it's anything but special.

the fluorescent lights above poorly illuminated the room. the linoleum floor is cracked and sticky with every hesitant step you take. the contact paper on the cupboards is peeling, and they smell of dust and mildew. there's an odd mould stain on the roof in the corner of the kitchen that watches you as you step inside. the refrigerator hums in the corner and the counters are clean apart from a thin layer of dust and— trevor was right— there was a microwave and a coffee pot and a working sink, but theyre so outdated that you aren't even sure whether they function properly.

the first thing you do is inspect the kettle. it's dusty and it's text a little faded, but otherwise useful. you brush the thick layer of dust from the metal and bring it over to the sink, humming softly to yourself as it fills with water. the stove flicks on— surprisingly— with little hesitation, and you waste no time in placing the appliance onto the flames.

you wander towards the kitchen cabinets in hopes of finding something edible. the last proper meal you had was a week ago, and even then, it wasn't much more than something to keep you upright.

most of the shelves are empty or packed with things that have long outlived their usefulness— dusty imploded bean cans, jars of preserves that weren't preserved well, and cardboard boxes full of cereal that were certainly stale by now. your stomach growls anyways as you rifle through the mess, your hand landing on a cup of instant ramen, the kettle whistling as you do so.

the ramen container is slightly dusty and the use-by date had passed a handful of years ago, but it sat like treasure in the palm of your hand. desperate times count for desperate measures, sure, but you really did not want to eat red beans smothered in crystallised strawberry jam anytime soon.

you peel open the foil of the ramen container, empty the sachets, pull the kettle from the stove, and begin filling the container with the boiling water. the faint smell of sauce and dried vegetables mixes with steam, and for a moment, the kitchen feels like its yours; a small refuge in a motel that otherwise reeks of tired paint and decay.

but then the door squeaks open behind you and you freeze, hand hovering over your food as you pray in your mind that it isn't trevor. you tilt your head just enough to glance over your shoulder, and the small breath of relief that leaves you is almost instant.

it's the trucker.

he steps inside the room with the same quiet confidence he's been holding onto ever since he pulled into the lot. he holds a plastic container in one hand and a set of plastic utensils in the other, and for a moment, he takes the time to glance at you. he doesn't say hello or really acknowledge you in any way; he simply moves towards the microwave on the other side of the kitchen like this is his own home and opens the door, sliding in his food, pressing a few buttons, and then leaning back against the counter as he waits, his arms crossing loosely over his chest.

neither of you speak, but you're sure you're both aware of each other. it's a constant battle against your brain to try not to stare at him and watch his every move, not because he's threatening, but because he's unfamiliar— unlike trevor, he's a presence you haven't learnt how to place just yet.

and as you continue trying to make your old ramen soak up the broth, you hear his boots press against the old linoleum as he heads towards the table— the only table in the room— and place his keys and his utensils onto the surface with a soft clink like he hasn't even considered whether or not you might have wanted it. its a small table with only two chairs, but he takes up the space in a way that makes it feel like there's only room for one.

so you stay where you are, hip pressing into the kitchen counter as you stab at your noodles with a fork, watching as the steam lazily curls from the cup, and pretending you're not waiting for him to move.

but he doesn't.

the microwave beeps three times, and the trucker steps forwards and pulls at the handle. the smell of plastic and artificial food spills into the kitchen, and he wastes no time in tearing the plastic seal off and tossing it haphazardly into the trash before setting it down onto the table, pulling a chair out, and sitting down to indulge.

he eats in silence like it's all he knows. his eyes are on his food and his plastic fork scratches at the plastic container, his shoulders loose and his jaw working as he makes quick work of the microwaved slop.

eventually, you turn— just a little, just enough to check whether he's still there. you try not to watch him, but you fail, and thats when your eyes meet his.

he's already looking at you. not in a sharp way, or in a way that feels judgemental, but more like he's observing you. his gaze almost feels the same way as your first night when his semi truck pulled into the motel parking lot and the high beams blinded you, and in a funny way, you almost feel like a deer in headlights.

his gaze flicks from you to the empty chair across from him, then back at you. there's a small shift in his composure— the pause of his jaw as he scavenges for food in his teeth, the scoot of his jean-clad butt in the squeaky metal chair, the cock of his head as he lets out the softest sigh you've ever heard— and then he moves.

he reaches out with his foot and nudges the other chair out by its leg. it scratches against the floor as he pushes it towards you, creating a space where there hadn't been one before. he lifts his chin in a gentle gesture towards it, lip jutting out just slightly.

"i don't bite." he simply says.

you hesitate. your fingers tighten just slightly against the warmth of the cup, your brain running through all the reasons why you shouldn't— all of the ways this could end horribly for you— before you suck in a soft breath, push off of the counter, and move towards the table anyways.

you take the seat across from him. the chair legs shift slightly as you sit, and the sound feels louder than it actually is in the silence of the kitchen. you dont bother tucking in your chair, afraid of invading his space, and the trucker goes back to eating like nothing has changed, his fork stabbing at various vegetables and chunks of artificial meats, eyes on the container in front of him; but not entirely.

every so often, his gaze finds you. he doesn't stare long enough to make it obvious, but his eyes find you frequently enough for you to wonder what he's looking for, and you have to pretend you don't feel it. you believe it's because he's checking on you, like maybe he's trying to figure out what someone like you is doing out in the middle of nowhere.

you shift under the weight of it, not uncomfortable, just hyperaware of it all— of yourself, of him, of the little space there is between you, and of the silence that surrounds you. it's something you didn't necessarily prepare for when you left your room a little while ago.

you continue swirling the noodle around the cup, putting off actually eating them. you dont know whether you should just get it over with and possibly be sick for the rest of the week or if you should just pour it down the sink and live off of stale vending machine chips.

eventually, the table creaks under his arms as the trucker sits back up and sets his fork against the side of his container. you pause at the sudden shift, eyes drifting slowly up to find that he's already looking at you— not in a way that feels invasive or creepy, but thoughtful, like he's trying to piece together the puzzle that is you instead of asking for answers out loud.

"you been on the road long?" he asks like its not even a question he really needs the answer to, but something to fill the silence.

there's a small raise of your brow as you huff out a small breath, the corner of your mouth twitching like you almost find his question funny. you stop stirring your noodles and let the fork sink into the cup.

"not long," you say, head tilting just slightly. "but it feels like it's been forever."

he hums quietly at that like he knows exactly what you're talking about, and you're sure he does. you can see it up close in the lines of his face, in the soft greying of his hair and his stubble, in the freckles surely painted on by the sun through his truck windows, and in the tiredness that sits heavy in his eyes as he nods.

"yeah," he says after a long moment. "roads'll do that to you."

he doesnt say anything after that. he simply shovels food into his mouth, quick but still neat like he hasn't lost interest in eating. a part of you thinks he's only invited you to sit for the company, and you appreciate the gesture for what it is, because you believe you needed it too.

your eyes flick to the dirty curtain-covered window without really meaning to— to where his truck sits out in the parking lot, the hood up more often than not. it sits in the dark, toolbox still on the ground beside it and a half-empty beer bottle laying on the ground next to that.

you decide to ask a question next; something to fill the silence that sits in between the two of you just like he did.

"is there something wrong with your truck?" you ask, trying to seem casual and actually landing somewhere close to it. "i heard you working on it all day."

there's a second where you think you might've crossed an invisible line— asked something too personal or maybe been a little too demanding in your question. his fork pauses over his food, jaw working as he swallows what remains in his mouth. there's a small pause as he follows your eyes out to his truck before he gives you a half shrug.

"somethin' like that." he sighs like the topic is something that stresses him out. "she runs, but not as good as she used to. somethin' in the hood exploded back in shamrock and i've been tryin' to keep her alive long enough to get where i'm goin'."

you blink. "where are you headed?"

he glances at you, just briefly, like he's deciding whether or not the question is worth answering. the corner of his mouth tugs like he's in on some inside joke you aren't aware of.

"california. america's very own golden state."

his words land heavy as they leave his mouth, and your brain moves before any other part of you does.

california. warm. bright. somewhere that isn't here or home. somewhere thats still so, so far.

three days. that's all you have. three days before the cash you have tucked in your duffel bag grows thin, before trevor gets bolder and meaner and before you inevitably have to leave. you can't stay here and you know that. you dont have a car or a plan. you dont even have a general direction, just a need to keep moving; and suddenly, sitting across from you, is a man who is already doing exactly that.

you hesitate.

you shouldn't ask. you know you shouldn't. this is how people get into trouble— they trust sketchy strangers from dingy motels, follow their impulses, mistake a well-time coincidence as opportunity, and end up on the evening news as a missing person. it's something you know all too well and you're not going to leap into it headfirst.

you're smart and you know it. you'll come up with a plan and you'll stick to it. all you have to do is ration, stick to yourself, and try not to think about how three days is so much closer than you think.

so you keep your mouth shut and simply nod. your eyes fall back down to the neglected cup of ramen in your hands. it's gone lukewarm and a thin film has formed over the broth. the noodles finally suck up the liquid, but they swell into something soft and mushy and vaguely unappetising. you wouldnt even feed this to starving a stray animal.

the man's eyes briefly drop to the cup of ramen that sits in your hands. you stare at it like you dread even thinking about it, and he furrows his brows.

"you gonna eat that, or are you just gonna stare at it until it goes cold?"

"oh, it, uh... i was going to, but..." you grimace like watching the corn pieces swimming around in the soup has suddenly made you loose your appetite. "i'm not even sure if it's still edible."

"here," he motions gently for you to come closer, and you're confused for a moment before he points a finger vaguely at your mug of mediocre noodles. you slide it over and he wastes no time shovelling some of his food into yours. vegetables and meat sink into the soup. the gesture is sweet and you feel your stomach growl at the thought of having actual food for once.

he slides your cup back towards you, and you dare yourself to dip your fork back into the soup, stab at a floating piece of meat, and bring it to your mouth. you chew on it and swallow the bite, the warmth of it settling in your stomach like a small comfort.

"young girl like you has to eat food that hasn't been rottin' in a cabinet for god knows how long." he says, and then continues before you can respond, "trust me. i've been on the road long enough to know what malnutrition looks like."

you shovel another forkful of noodles into your mouth, ignoring the way the soup sloshes around in the cup and certainly sending droplets of the liquid into the air. you shake your head, half-amused and half-unnerved by how closely he seems to be watching you.

"thanks, but i'm not young." you manage between bites.

the low laugh that leaves his mouth catches you off guard.

"well, you definitely aren't old. skin's all plump and clean and you've still got all your teeth." he says, his voice low and almost teasing, eyes still glazing over you in a way that makes your stomach twist. "i've probably got tools in my truck older than you."

the way he says it makes all the noise you hear go silent. suddenly the soup that drips from your chin and the noodle hanging out of your mouth doesn't feel all that casual nor does it feel presentable. he's watching you like you're something he's never seen before, eyes steady and intent, and you're unsure what to do with all of the attention.

you hastily wipe at your mouth with the back of your hand, clear your throat, and sit up a little in your chair. maybe a small part of you wants to prove him wrong— show him that you might be young but you're wise beyond your years— and you try to do so by fixing your posture and looking at least somewhat put together even with a cup of reasonable ramen in your hands.

it doesn't go unnoticed. if anything, it seems to catch his attention more.

his gaze lingers, but not in the way that trevor's did— not with hunger or entitlement— but with intrigue, like he's catching the shift in you and filing it away in his head. there's something softer in his expression now, a faint crease in his brows that you've only noticed just now as if you've just become a little more intriguing than he had first assumed.

he gently nods, curiosity trickling into his face. he leans forwards just slightly, elbows digging into the table. "what's your name?"

and the question hits you off guard even though you know it was inevitable.

for a moment, you consider dodging his question— lying, deflecting, keeping yourself small and unremarkable like you've been doing for days. it's not that you don't want to tell him, it's just that answering feels like you're giving this stranger a piece of yourself— a story, something to hold onto, something from your past that you'd been running from this entire time, and the reason you're here.

you turn your head, eyes flicking to the large crack in the middle of the kitchen's linoleum floor that sits split in two. it feels safer to look at something broken that isn't you. he takes your silence as an answer.

"that's alright. you don't owe me anythin'." he says as he leans back in his chair like he's trying to ease the pressure off of you without making a show of it. "my name's james, but you can call me bucky."

hm. he doesnt look like a james, but he sure as hell looks like a bucky.

you turn back to him with a turned lip. "what's bucky short for?"

"full name's james buchanan barnes. it was just a nickname my pa gave me that stuck." he says easily. then, like he's joking, he adds, "now you've got my full name just incase i try to pull somethin' on ya."

you huff softly, "how do i know you aren't lying about your name? i could come up with about fifty fake names right now, and you wouldnt know any better. criminals lie all the time."

he quirks a brow as he pops open the top of his coke bottle, the bubbles popping at the surface as he lifts it to his lips with a sneaky smile. "guess you just gotta trust me then, sweetheart."

you hum softly in acknowledgment, the faintest smile on your lips, fork scrapping at the bottom of the ramen cup for scraps. the food settles warmly in your stomach, and it reminds you that you're tired— really tired.

you stand, the empty ramen cup in your hand, and awkwardly brush your other hand on your pants before vaguely gesturing to the cracked kitchen door.

"i think i'm gonna head back." you tell him like you're unsure of what you should do. you don't know if he even cares, but it feels like the respectful thing to do.

bucky inhales a breath, the sound low and sharp, and it feels like you might've just pulled him from his thoughts. he reaches up and runs a hand over his head before nodding once. "s'pose that's fair. princess needs her beauty sleep."

you hesitate for a second, but a small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth despite yourself. "night, bucky."

he offers you a smile of his own, head tilting just slightly with a soft nod. "sleep tight, sweetheart."

you turn and push the kitchen door open, slipping into the night. the door creaks shut behind you as you tread through the parking lot, unaware of how long bucky sits there after you're gone, or how long he stares at the empty seat across from him like you might come back.

you've never been a great judge of character— you have the scars and the pain to prove it— but this man didn't seem bad, or at least didn't seem like an axe murderer, and unless you want to walk along the edge of route 66 with your thumb stuck out hoping that another car full of non-murderous travellers picks you up to take you to california, your only other bet is trying to hitch a ride with bucky.

and plus, there are worse ways to get to california than riding shotgun with a trucker who calls you princess and sweetheart.

the next morning doesn't come with any great revelation, and you wake with the same boring nothing. there's no obvious sign, no sudden clarity, no omnipresent voice from the universe telling you what to do. theres only the texas heat seeping through your room windows, pressing in in you like it wants you to stay and rot in your room.

the heat is so prevalent that at midday, you've already had about three showers in the dingy bathroom.

it doesnt help much. the water never gets quite cold, the shower head sprays water in every direction but yours, and the humidity clings to your skin before you even step out of the shower. the towel you'd received when you'd checked in had served you well, but now it smelt of dirty laundry and damp cloth, and no amount of air drying or shaking it out seems to fix that.

you stare at it for a second before deciding you're not desperate enough to use it again.

you get dressed into something that could battle the heat yet leave you covered enough when you inevitably have to face trevor and leave your room with your dirty towel tucked underneath your arm.

the lot shimmers in waves under the sun, radiating the kind of heat that you might think will melt the soles of your shoes.

unsurprisingly, bucky's already out there. his truck's hood is up as per usual, his tools scattered all around the front, and he's leaning over the engine with the focus of someone who's been at this for hours, and you could already tell by the metal-against-metal noises that he'd had been up before you'd even opened your eyes.

and the second you shut your door, the noise pulls him from his work.

his head turns to see the cause, and when he noticed it's you, he straightens like he's trying to get a better look at you. for a moment, the truck seems forgotten, his attention caught on the sight of you leaving your room with your little shorts and your towel tucked under your arm. he doesn't rush to get back to what he's doing, and his gaze lingers instead, taking you in like this is a rare pause he doesn't mind stretching out.

sweat darkens the front of his tank top, clinging to his body in a way that makes it clear that the heat is winning. the thin fabric is stretched across his chest, damp and heavy, tracing every muscle earned through years of labour rather than vanity. his jeans are stained with grease and grime from his work, and what little hair he has on his head sticks to his temple in small soft curls.

his tongue darts out and swipes across his bottom lip almost like he's forgotten you can see him, a reflex born from the heat— or maybe something else entirely.

god, he looks good.

after a long moment, he straightens with a soft exhale, grips the hem, and pulls the tank over his head in an attempt to free himself of the wet fabric. the muscles in his arms flex with every move he makes, glistening under the texan sun, and the light catches the sheen of sweat that forms over every inch of his body. the fabric finally slips free and gets tossed over the hood of the truck, leaving him bare to the heat.

you nearly walk straight into the curb. the toe cap of your shoe bumps against the concrete, jolting you from your wandering thoughts. you only barely manage to catch yourself, the towel sliding slightly from your arm, and bucky knows exactly what's happened.

he tilts his head just slightly, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like he knows exactly what's he's doing. his eyes flick briefly to the curb you'd almost stumbled over, then back to you, a mix of amusement and some genuine concern flooding his face.

"you alright, princess?" he calls out, his voice low but carrying easily over the heat-laced lot, and you realise you've been staring like a madman.

"i'm fine." you awkwardly reply, and he hums.

you break eye contact and pick up the pace towards the front office. sweat prickles along your skin, and the warmth of the sun suddenly feels more invasive than it does comforting. you dont even know if youre sweating because of the heat or because of him.

you hadn't expected this when he'd sat in front of you in a baggy denim jacket last night in the kitchen. where had he been hiding all of... that? the broad shoulders? that lean muscle? the six pack? it had all been covered by fabric and shadow, and you almost want to drop to your knees and thank mother nature for deciding to work in perfect harmony to reveal bucky like this.

you skid to a stop in front of the front office door. the handle squeals as you push down on it and shoulder the door open, and a cold blast of air hits you— blessed, if a little stale. it smells faintly of mold, the result of a leaky unit, and of vinegar potato chips.

trevor is there slouched in his chair like he hasn't moved since the first time you met him. his eyes flick up as you step inside, and with a lazy smile and lopsided glasses, he turns to face you like he's excited to see you.

"hey, you." he drawls with a hint of surprise in his voice. "thought you'd never come back 'round to see me."

"you said you handle the laundry and all that stuff?" you recount, your voice stiff and to the point. you place your folded towel onto the counter and slide it towards him, the action swift. "i'd like a new towel, please. maybe two."

trevor smiles, a yellow tooth poking out from his lips. "i do do the laundry. i can fix up a towel or two for you, gorgeous. can't have the little princess walking around here with a dirty towel now, can we?"

you don't reply, nor do you give him the pleasure of seeing you smile. the rhetorical question hangs in the air between you, practically gathering dust as it remained unanswered. the nickname doesnt roll off of his tongue nearly as good as it does when it comes from buckys—

oh my god. stop thinking about that man.

trevor leans back in his chair with his shoulders raised. "c'mon, that was funny. you gotta admit that i'm the best thing about this dump."

"the best thing about this dump is the air conditioning." you quickly retort before crossing your arms against your chest. "how long is this gonna take?"

his grin falters just slightly before twisting into something sharper. "it'll take no time, but it'll cost ya a pretty penny."

something cold settles in your chest. "you said it was FREE."

"boss raised it to ten bucks per piece." trevor stays like it's perfectly reasonable. "but if you wanted to discuss another form of payment, you can always come back after dark and we can see how it goes from there."

your jaw clenches. its one thing to demand ten dollars to wash a singular piece of clothing, but it's another to continuously press down on you with the threat of a good time to see if you'll break.

"i'll figure something out." you grab your towel from the counter and turn towards the door. "thanks anyways."

the word thanks tastes bitter on your tongue, but you don't give him the satisfaction of seeing it. you push open the door, and just before it shuts, you can hear trevor shout out—

"oh come on, sugar! you know you want it!"

the door slams behind you harder than you meant it to.

heat hits you all at once, thick and suffocating as it wraps around you like a punishment. you clutch the towel tighter in your hand as you stomp back out into the parking lot, your pulse ringing in your ears.

metal clanks somewhere to your left, and then stops. you dont look, but you can feel the way the air shifts; the weight of someone's attention.

you risk a glance, and quickly find that bucky's no longer bent over the hood of his truck. he's standing upright now, a hand on his hip and a rag in the other. his expression is unreadable, his lips parted just slightly, his eyes slow and assessing, and whatever he sees on your face makes his grip on his rag tighten.

"you okay?" he asks, breaking the silence like he's testing the ice. his voice is calm like it usually is, but there's something sharper that rests underneath it.

you hesitate. every instinct you've honed over the years tells you to just shrug it off, that this is just another case of a man expecting something, to say its nothing and to keep moving. but you're done holding it in.

you huff, gesturing angrily at the front office where trevor is still sitting like a king. "asshole wanted ten bucks for a new towel. and he keeps—" you pause, the words echoing in your mind, "he keeps making these horrible passes at me and i just—"

you stop yourself and bucky's expression changes almost immediately. its not dramatic, nor is it explosive; it's colder, like something you'd said had rubbed him the wrong way.

you look at him then. "it's fine. i'll figure it out."

he studies you for a moment longer as you stand there soaking up the heat. its silent as his eyes flick from your face to the towel and then back to your face. then he exhaled and reaches into his jean pocket.

"i've got a spare towel in my room that you can take. it's clean." he says as he digs for something before he pulls out a pair of keys with a cheap plastic keychain that you recognise as his room key.

you quickly shake your head, "you don't have to—"

"i wasn't askin'." he tosses his room key to you and you catch it, the metal rattling in your palm. "you can take it."

your jaw tightens as you fidget with the keys. they feel heavy in your hand and still warm from his pocket. "i don't want to owe you anything."

the corner of bucky's mouth lifts just a fraction— not quite a smile, but something softer. "good. wouldnt want you to." then quieter, like he can sense your hesitation and like he doesn't want anyone else to hear it, he adds, "it's just a towel."

you really do want to turn him down, but the heat presses in on all sides and you're sure that if you use your towel one more time, it'd leave you stickier than you'd entered the shower feeling. to top it off, bucky is looking at you like he expects nothing in return.

"...thanks, bucky." you finally say.

he nods once, easy and almost proud of you for accepting his help. "it's folded up on the tv console. you cant miss it."

your fingers curl around the key and you give bucky one last glance before you turn and head towards his room. the walk across feels longer than it should, every step you take heavy with the awareness of bucky's eyes on your back. sweat sticks to your skin and the sun is relentless overhead, but the heat isn't what's bothering you— it's the fact that you're about to walk into the room of a stranger and cross a line you didnt even know you were standing on.

you stop in front of the door, slide the key into the lock, and twist— but it doesn't open. you try again, a little harder this time, but there's still nothing. you glance over your shoulder towards bucky.

"oh, the door sticks." he yells from across the lot. he makes a stranger gesture with his shoulder, "gotta give it a shove."

you hesitate, then brace yourself before shouldering your way into the room. the door pops open with an awkward crack, swinging inward enough for you to slip inside.

the first thing you notice is how lived in it feels. its similar to yours, but it's warmer somehow. the curtains are half drawn, letting in a thin strip of sunlight that cuts across the bed and the worn carpet. the air smells faintly of engine oil and generic dollar store soap— the grit hidden underneath the clean— and something distinctly him, like heat and metal and long hours on the road.

there's very little decoration, but what is there counts. a denim jacket is slung over the small desk chair in the corner and a pair of black jeans sit messily folded on the table, scuffed with red dirt like they've seen more miles than most people. a half empty water bottle sits on the rickety bedside table beside a folded up receipt and an open pocketknife, the blade well-used.

the bed isn't neat, the blankets thrown to the side without much care. an open duffel bag sits on the end of the bag, and you hate how nosy you feel when something in it catches your attention.

you take a few steps forwards until you're able to peek inside, hand brushing against the zipper of the duffel. there's not much; a wallet and folded clothes, a blend of worn and clean fabrics— a flannel, torn blue jeans, crisp white socks— but then something out of place catches your eye.

paper.

it's not loose. it's tucked carefully into a pocket on the inside of the bag. you tell yourself that you're only looking because it's there, and you reach in before you can even think, pulling it out with care. just a glance— that's all.

the edges are worn and it's creased down the middle like it's been folded and unfolded more times than it should've survived, evident by the thin piece of tape that's holding a corner of it together. the colour has faded into something dull, but the frozen memory printed onto the front is anything but.

two men stand in the centre of it, close in a way that feels more personal than anything you'd ever known. you recognise one of the men as bucky— younger, happier, and clean shaven— a bright smile on his face as he stares at the other man. the other man is broad shouldered, his features sharp underneath his stubble, and wearing a smile similar to bucky's, one so wide that it almost looks like world hasn't had the chance to take anything from them yet.

your thumb absentmindedly brushes against the photo where bucky's face is, the finger curling right down the curve of his jaw.

there's no writing on the back, nor is there an explanation. who is this mystery man, a friend? a boyfriend? either way, they look awfully close.

your chest tightens, red hot guilt flaring in your stomach with the awful realisation that this is something extremely personal to bucky and you've probably just crossed hundreds of lines. the open bag seems to stare at you, and for the first time since you stepped foot in the motel room, you've become acutely aware of how much of an invasion of privacy this is.

you look away from the photo like it might burn you, heart thudding as you fold it back up and shove it back into the pocket you found it in. you find the towel folded up on the tv console just as bucky had said— white, clean, and untouched— and you grab it quickly, beelining straight towards the door.

you shut the door behind you and lock it. you cross the lot, quicker this time and with your eyes fixed on bucky like he might see through you if you blink. he's still by the truck, arms deep in the engine system, but he stops what he's doing as soon as he hears your rushed feet heading towards him.

"you find it?" he asks as he steps off of the bumper.

you nod and hand him the key. "yeah. thanks again."

your fingers brush when he takes it— just the briefest touch of his calloused fingers against your soft ones— and he curls it into the palm of his hand, gaze flickering at the clean towel in your hand.

you turn to leave, a half smile on your lip. you're halfway through a step when—

"hey." bucky calls.

you pause and turn back around.

"you busy tonight?" he asks,

"unless you count watching old reruns all night and listening to the rats in the walls, not really." you try to joke, but the humour dies halfway in your throat when you realise it's your reality. "why?"

he shrugs like his suggestion is nothing big. "there's a decent diner about ten miles down the road. thought maybe we could get something in you that isn't shit from a vending machine."

for a split second, you almost say yes immediately. the idea of real food, of leaving this place even if its just for a little while, of just having someone normal to talk to, feels like a god-given grace. but instinct cuts in fast. the logical part of your mind tells you to not get comfortable.

comfortable is how you get stuck. comfortable is how you get hurt.

"yeah, i don't know about that." you gesture vaguely to your room, and then to your empty pocket. "running low on cash."

"don't worry bout it." bucky says almost immediately. "my treat. least i can do after you've kept me company these past few days."

you blink. "we met last night."

then, almost like you'd just told him a joke, a small laugh falls from his mouth, and god, something about it makes you weak in the knees. "maybe, but you sittin' in your room all day staring at me fixin my truck is still better company than listenin' to trevor watchin' cheap cable porn in his office all day."

oh. he noticed that?

you open your mouth but shut it again. there's no point in denying it, and the cheeky grin that sits plastered on bucky's face shows that you can't gaslight your way out of this one.

the texas heat presses in and the motel hums around you, and for once, the idea of staying in your room all night feels worse than the risk of saying yes. you lift your eyes back to him and sigh, the fight leaving your shoulders.

"okay." you say, more to yourself than anyone else, then you nod. "yeah, okay. dinner sounds... dinner sounds nice."

bucky's smile spreads across his face, slow and satisfied like he knew you would accept. "good. i'll knock around seven."

and he does.

the knock comes at 6:58pm, solid knuckles banging against the wood. the sound echoes through your room louder than it needs to, and it sets every nerve in you alight.

you sit up straighter in the edge of your bed, your heart giving a traitorous jump. for a second, you stare at the door like the sound might go away, but it doesn't. there's a soft scuff of boots against concrete on the other side, and then there's a quiet huff of breath, patient and unhurried.

"hey." bucky's voice comes through the door, low and careful, almost like he's giving you an out. "it's me."

you swallow. your hands are clammy and there's a strange heaviness that sits in the pit of your stomach. you can't remember the last time someone knocked on your door for you.

"yeah—" you rub a hand over your face, clearing your throat as you push yourself to your feet. you're too aware of how your clothes fit and how you look. "uh, just... give me a second."

"i'm not goin' anywhere."

you smooth your hands over your shirt, eyes glazing over your reflection in the small hanging mirror, and then you look down at yourself. you're presentable enough. with one final breath, you cross the room and open the door.

the creak of the door catches bucky's attention. he's standing there with his hands shoved into his jean pockets, his boots scuffed and his hair a little wet like he's washed up since the last time you saw him. there's something pleasant about the way he smells— like sandalwood and leather and him, a welcome change from the stale mix of dusty carpet and mouldy insulation.

he looks good. he looks handsome.

"ready?" he asks, and you cant ignore the way his eyes travel down the length of your body like he's taking you in for the first time instead of the girl he's seen coming and going all week. "let's get some food in you."

it isn't scrutinising, but it's thorough enough for warmth to creep up your neck, to make you suddenly aware of where your hands are, how you're standing, how close he feels in the narrow doorway. you haven't felt this way since— never mind.

your brows knit as you glance past him and towards the lot. "wait, are we taking your truck? i thought it was fucked up."

bucky's face relaxes as he turns over to glance over his shoulder, then back at you. "she's fucked, but she can still drive."

"i hope so." you murmur as you lock your door and slide the keys into your pocket. you hear bucky chuckle.

as you walk beside bucky, you manage to sneak a glance at him. he's relaxed, his shoulders loose and his steps casual. he carries himself with the confidence of a man who does this all the time— talking to strangers and helping them out, letting himself form connections that inevitably lead nowhere— meanwhile your pulse is throbbing throughout your body, struggling to differentiate the difference between the first date jitters you feel and your fight or flight response kicking in.

you force yourself to suck in a deep breath. bucky is nice. he's done nothing but help you., and even if he weren't, you aren't helpless. you know how to run and you know how to fight. you've done it before and you'd do it again. the thought settles the restless anxiety in your chest, and that gives you enough clarity as you near the truck.

the first thing you realise is how big the truck is. from afar, it looks just like every other semi you've seen in your life. up close, it's rusted metal and worn paint, scratches and dents adorning the length of it, and it towers over you like a skyscraper.

bucky reaches up and over and pulls open the door. "might be a bit of a climb. you think you can get up there yourself?"

"i think i'll be fine." you quickly reply, already stepping forwards.

you reach up and grab a hold of the support handle and plant your foot on the step, and you immediately realise you have no idea what you're doing. something about the layout of the truck is strange in a way that makes your brain short circuit for a long moment. the step is higher than expect, the handle a little too far back, your arms criss crossed and your leg is suspended for a moment as you try to figure out where to go next.

its not graceful at all.

you drop to the ground in defeat. before you can try and embarrass yourself again, bucky's hands are there, firm and warm on your waist, steadying you without being rough.

"'s alright, princess," he murmurs. "i've gotcha."

he lifts you like you weigh nothing. your hands instinctively brace against his shoulders, solid beneath your palms, and you can feel the heat of his skin through the fabric of his shirt. for a second, all you can feel is his hands. you're painfully aware of how close his face is to your stomach— to that area— and you feel a little breathless as he hoists you up and sets you down into the passenger seat like you belong there.

you look down at him with a tight lipped smile, "sorry."

"don't be." he says gently as he gives you a small pat on the side of your thigh, already stepping back with a small smile and his hand on the door. "truck's old. not exactly built for somethin' little like you."

you blink as he shuts the door for you and circles the truck before clicking open his own door and climbing in with ease. the cab feels smaller when he settles into his seat, filled with the low rumble of the starting engine and bucky's scent.

he glances over as you as he pulls his door shut. he glances over at you, eyes flicking downwards. "seatbelt." he reminds you, and you quickly buckle in. he nods once when it clicks, satisfied.

bucky clicks some switches and tugs at some levers, and the truck lurches forwards with a load groan. gravel crunches under the tires as bucky reverses the truck with ease, manoeuvring the huge vehicle out of the small lot. the headlights sweep across the cracked paint of the motel, illuminating the stretch of route 66 that it sits on.

it feels strange— being here on the road again, moving again after a stagnant period— like your body remembers the rhythm of the road even if your body hasn't quite caught up.

for a few miles, neither of you speaks. the radio hums softly between stations, bucky skipping until it lands on something that vaguely resembles dire straits before he finally leans back, one hand on the wheel and the other resting along the sill of the window, the glass cracked open just enough for wind to funnel into the cab.

you watch the world go by through the windshield. there's desert scrub, flickering neon motel lights, the occasional passing set of headlights that fly past before you even really notice them. it's peaceful in a way you hadn't really expected.

"so," bucky breaks the silence without turning to look at you, his voice just slightly louder than the hum of the radio and the growl of the truck. "california."

your head turns towards him before you can really control it. "california." you echo, the word sitting strange and heavy on your tongue despite it being the goal you'd been trying to reach for so long.

theres another small pause before bucky hums.

"what's so special about california? job? family?" he turns and glances at you for half a second, throat bobbing once before he turns back to the road. "or did you just throw a dart at a map and decide it was good enough?"

a small laugh slips from your mouth before you can stop it— soft, surprised, one that almost catches you off guard— but it fades into something you'd barely call a smile. you glance down at your shorts, fingers picking at the fabric, and although bucky doesn't look over, you get the feeling that he's listening in a lot closer now.

"i don't know." you admit. "i just needed to get the fuck out of chicago."

bucky nods once, slow and understanding. "that's fair. not always good to stay in one place forever."

he doesnt ask you to explain, nor does he pry. he simply adjusts his grip on the wheel and shifts in his seat before he adds, almost absentmindedly, "a lotta people end up on the road for that reason."

"hmm." you softly nod. then your head lulls to the side just slightly, enough that you can gesture to the back of the truck that rumbles behind you. "what about you? what've you got back there in the trailer?"

bucky glances over at you for just a second, his brows furrowed like you'd just recounted a complex math equation. "who taught you that?"

"taught me what?" you ask, "trailer?"

"yeah." bucky's lips curl into a soft smile, and you can see the small crinkle of his eyes in the rear view mirror. "usually pretty girls like you just refer to the back— or they just call it the truck. you knew what you were talking about, and that's not usually something you just know unless you've picked it up from someone."

you ignore the pretty part of the sentence, and instead try to put on a teasing grin. "do you talk to a lot of pretty girls?"

and then, almost like he can sense the playfulness in your tone bucky turns his head just enough for you to catch the smirk that sits on his lips. "only the ones who can tell the different between a cab and a trailer."

your chest flutters in a way that unconsciously makes a smile grow on your face, warmth creeping up your neck until bucky finally turns away from you and back to the road. there's something in the curve of his jaw, in the blue of his eyes, in the quiet confidence he drives, in the faint rush of his scent carried by the wind— it's confusing, but also exciting. you can't help the pull of curiosity or the way your mind lingers on the idea of him for longer than you should.

but something horrible tugs at your heart. it's something familiar, something you've know for so many years, something that's made its home in your body; guilt.

"my, uh..." you scratch the side of your neck, pausing just momentarily to pull your eyes away from the side of bucky's face. "my boyfriend built semis. he taught me all about the parts and the frames and stuff to try and get me into the business to help out but—" a small, self conscious shrug follows. "not a lot of it stuck."

"boyfriend?" bucky asks. "and where's he?"

"far away, i hope." you say. there's a tightness in your chest, and you reach up to fidget with the necklace that hangs around your neck. "he's actually the reason why i left chicago."

you're looking out of your window now, but you can feel the burn of bucky's eyes on the back of your head as he turns to look at you for a moment.

"he an asshole?" he asks, half joking, but his tone is soft and patient like he already knows the answer.

"you could say that." you reply with a soft laugh, a little tight lipped and a little sad, but relieved that he isn't prying for more, and for the first time in days, it feels okay to leave it out in the open and mostly unspoken.

the road ahead stretches into flat darkness. the radio hums quietly. the truck rumbles as it rolls over rocks and asphalt. ahead, a bright pair of headlights glow bright. it's peaceful.

"garden gnomes."

your brows furrow. you turn your head towards bucky, who's eyes are set on the road. you're sure you'd misheard him. "what?"

he glances at you, then back at the road, his voice low like he's confessing a classified secret. "in the back. it's garden gnomes."

you blink, a bubble of a laugh slipping free before you can stop it. "you're hauling gnomes across the country? is that a joke?"

"sounds funny, but apparently those little bastards are worth more than both you and i and this truck." he says, dead serious, but there's a small twitch of a smile on his face. "rich people have nothin' better to spend their money on."

you snort again, laughter bubbling from your chest and breaking the heaviness that had settled there. bucky smiles at the sound— small, satisfied, toothy— like that was exactly the reaction he had hoped for. you press a hand against your mouth to try and suppress your laughter, but it barely works.

"hey— they're gettin' a nicer trip than most people do." he half-heartedly adds with a grin. "they're drivin' with the best trucker in america. not everybody can say that."

"the best trucker in america and the most humble."

"don't start, missy." bucky warns you, but the amusement on his face gives him away. "you're apart of the lucky few who can call themselves a passenger of mine."

you scoff, "whatever you say, buck."

the nickname slips out before you can stop it, and for half a second, you wonder if you've crossed a line. but you watch how bucky's eyes linger on you and the way his knuckles flex against the wheel, turning white just ever so slightly as his grip tightens. there's a slight tick in his jaw before his tongue darts out and swipes across his bottom lip.

a neon light catches your eye. it's bright against the dark of the sky, the singular word DINER illuminated in bright pink and faint blues. it's a simple sign, but it gets the work done. a small building comes into view, small and unassuming yet warm and homey, like it's just waiting for people to stumble in for a feed.

"that must be it." bucky mutters as he squints through the windscreen. he pulls at a few things, and the truck rolls to a slow as you near the building.

"good." you murmur. "i'm starving."

bucky slows the truck, turning off of the highway steering wide and pulling the truck to the far end of the lot where the truck won't block anyone in (even though there's only three or four cars in the lot).

"she's too big to squeeze in there." he adds as he pulls the brakes and shuts the engine off. the rumbling stops, and suddenly it's quiet again. "hope you don't mind the walk."

"it's fine." you tell him as you unbuckle your seatbelt. you click open the door and push it open, almost falling out at the weight of it. you glance down to the step, and then towards the trucker. "uh, bucky... would you be able to—"

before you can finish, bucky's door swings open, the cab groaning at the shift of weight. "i've got it." he says, voice calm but amused before he hopes out and shuts the door behind him.

you watch the top of his head as he circles the front of the truck, and he appears at your door. he reaches a hand out before you can even think about trying to hop down yourself.

"here." he says as you take his hand, the other arm extended just in case you slip.

you let him guide you down, one hand in his and the other on his shoulder. you hop down knowing that bucky would catch you if you fell without hesitation. the gravel crunches beneath your boots when you touch the ground and your hands slip from bucky's.

he takes the time to give you a small smile like it was nothing, and the two of you head towards the diner. the evening air carries the scent of grease and coffee and something faintly like him, and you're not sure if you're smelling him because he's so close or if its because

bucky steps ahead of you to push the door open for you, and the bell overhead dings and echos through the diner. the first thing you notice as you step inside is the clatter of dishes in the kitchen and the soft buzz of the coffee machine on the counter.

although clean and well-kept, the diner looks like it hasn't been updated in decades. the checkered vinyl floor is worn in some places from years of customers, the metal trim around the counter and the stools shine in the bright led light, and the red leather of the booths fray and tear at the corners. there are dozens— if not hundreds— of framed black and white photos on the wall of passing customers, food, and the employees, and next to those are various old school records hung haphazardly.

a few customers are scattered around the diner, all invested in their own world, and don't dream it's over by crowded house plays faintly from the jukebox in the corner, filling the space with music where otherwise would be ambient diner noise. a bell dings and your eyes dart to the kitchen where a chef passes the waitress a plate full of fries and a cheeseburger. the sight makes your stomach growl despite the vending machine snacks you'd had earlier that day.

bucky seems to catch onto your hunger and is quick to place a hand on your lower back and usher you towards an empty booth in the emptier half of the diner. the leather creaks as you both slide in, your hands instantly grabbing for the menu and flipping it open.

the first thing you look at— almost instinctively— are the prices.

"it's a bit expensive for a highway diner." you think out loud as you scan the menu, your thumbnail in between your teeth.

"get whatever you want." bucky says as he watches you. you catch him looking, and through your lashes, you watch his expression soften. "i don't like keeping a bunch of cash on me anyways."

you feel bad, but he's offering. you look down at the menu again, thumb playing with the frayed corner. after a minute, you ask, "so... what are you getting? the BLT looks good."

he shrugs lightly as he leans back against the booth. he gives you a small smile as he shakes his head. "i had somethin' back at the motel."

before you can reply, a waitress appears at the side of your booth. she's older, grey streaks in her brown hair and her eyes kimd but tired. her hair is pulled into a loose bun, and a red apron is tied around her waist. she reaches for her notepad and her pen, and then she smiles.

"evenin'." she greets. "what can i get for you folks?"

you sit up straight and smile, menu in hand. "hi. could i get one classic cheeseburger with fries? and two cokes, please."

the waitress nods and jots down your order on the notepad. you put the menu down thinking you're done, but then you look at bucky, and find that he's already looking at you. you blink at each other before an idea pops into your head.

"actually, sorry, could you make that two cheeseburgers?"

the look at bucky gives you makes you grin.

"of course, sweetheart. so two cheeseburgers with fries?" the waitress recounts, and you nod feeling a little victorious. "alright, it'll be out in no time."

"thank you." you smile.

the waitress leaves, and you lean back in the booth like you hadn't done anything. there's a moment of silence where you're smiling at bucky and he's staring back at you with a perplexed look.

"what was that?" bucky asks after a moment. his brows are raised, and the look on his face turns into amusement.

"what was what?" you reply, feigning innocence.

"that." he gestures vaguely to you. "the— you know... the cheeseburger thing."

you lean forwards. "i'm not gonna sit here and eat a burger while you stare at me, bucky. if we're doing this, we're gonna eat fries and drink out cokes together."

bucky scoffs and shakes his head. "anyone ever told you you don't play fair?"

"once or twice." you grin.

and just like the waitress had said, your cheeseburgers were out in now time. she slides the plates in front of you with practised ease, and you dive in without hesitation.

the bun is soft, the cheese is melted just enough that is droops off of the patty, and the fries are the perfect amount of crispy. you take a bite, one that makes you sigh in relief, and you dont even bother to eat politely. you scarf down half of your burger before bucky's even touched his.

he shoves a fry into his mouth as he watches you chew. "should i be worried you're gonna steal mine too?"

you swallow. "if you dont eat it fast enough, then maybe."

he huffs a laugh through his nose and shakes his head before he finally leans forwards and takes a proper bite of his burger.

the two of you keep eating, but your eyes drift back to bucky every so often. there's something about him that you just can't look away from— the way he holds his burger, the way he chews, the way his eyes watch the other customers behind you, the way his shoulders relax now that he's finally eating— but then, uninvited, your mind slips back to the photo in his duffel bag.

the worn edges. the fading colour. the way bucky looked. the man beside him. everything about it pulls at something in you.

you finish your burger and slow down. you wipe at your mouth with a tissue, your stomach full as you lean back to digest. you watch him for a moment longer before you tilt your head just slightly, reaching for a fry as if to imitate cluelessness.

"what did you do before all of... this?" you start, aiming for casual but landing somewhere more questioning. "the hauling, i mean. the travelling and all that stuff. did you always do this, or was there... someone who got you into it?"

its subtle— something in the way your words trail off, in the way your eyes search his for an answer— and bucky clocks it immediately.

his jaw pauses mid-chew. his eyes flick between yours like he's replaying what you asked word-for-word. he swallows his food, and he squints just slightly.

"you snooped in my bag, didn't you?"

your shoulders tense. for a moment, you think about denying it or telling him that he's crazy, but you respect him too much to lie.

"i swear i didn't mean to. it was just... open, and i just—" you blink, huffing out a small breath. "i'm sorry."

bucky doesn't say anything for a moment. he takes another bite of his burger and continues chewing on his food while you stress the fuck out. you sort of just stare at him as he places his burger back down and takes a breath.

"'s fine. not much in there for you to take anyways." he says as he leans back. he crosses his arms against his chest, eyes flicking towards you. "i'm guessing you wanna know who he is."

"only if you want to tell me." you tell him.

a beat passes. then bucky exhales through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching like he's decided on something.

"alright. i'll tell you about sam—" his gaze sharpens just a bit, more intent now. "but you have to tell me more about your boyfriend."

the proposition sits in front of you heavier than you'd expected. your stomach twists, not with fear, but with the awareness that agreeing means opening a door you've been keeping shut.

but your curiosity— or maybe your resilience, that stubborn part of you that refuses to let your past dictate every choice you make— overcomes your fear.

"okay." you nod. "fine."

bucky leans back in the booth, hands reaching out to rest on the table. his fingers drum slightly on the table, his eyes unfocused for a second like he's replaying a memory in his mind.

"the man in the photo... his name is sam." he begins. "we were... friends. real good friends. we had a truck together once— an old thing, nothin' fancy, but we'd spent hours tinkerin' with it, fixin' whatever broke. sometimes we'd race the damn thing down the road just for somethin' to do. felt like we could do anything' back then."

his lips twitch, not quite into a smile, but into something fleeting. you watch as it passes on his face, brief but visible.

"where's sam now?" you ask softly.

bucky exhales. "i don't know. one day, we got into an argument about... everything and nothing, really. it was stupid. and then we just... went in different directions." he speaks slow like he's trying to remember, or maybe he's trying not to feel. there's something underneath, like he's choosing to trust you even if it costs him a second of discomfort.

"do you ever think of going back? of ever talking to him again?"

"all the time. not a day passes where i wish i could just... call him up and tell him i'm sorry." bucky admits. "i've done a lot of things wrong in my life, but not fixin' that... not tryin' to make it right... it sticks with me."

he pauses, fingers stilling on the table. "no matter what i do or where i go, a part of me stays back there— with him."

its said plainly, but there's something in the way that his jaw works that shows he's already said a lot more than he usually allows himself to. the memory isn't old or something fleeting he thinks about every so often. the memory of sam is still very much alive in bucky, and he carries it with him mile after mile.

bucky reaches over and grabs his coke. he brings the straw to his lips, takes a long sip, and sets it down with a sigh. he crosses his arms again, and his eyes flick back to you, steady now.

"that's all i've got. your turn."

you nod once, then again, like the motion might knock you out of the daze you'd pulled yourself into. there's a small inhale through your nose,

"right. okay, um— where do i start..." you think out loud, eyes focused on the condensation of your glass like it might give you an answer.

"i guess it started back in high school. i didnt have many friends or talked to anyone, so the moment a guy started paying attention to me, i guess i didn't know any better." you swallow, eyes unfocused now. "he was older. he knew how to talk, and he was confident, and i fell head over heels. it felt like it was the first time anyone had ever actually seen me."

"but then we moved in together, and it got bad. he hurt me— a lot." the laugh that leaves your mouth is more uncomfortable than anything humorous. your finger traces the edge of your plate just to try to ground yourself. "he knew how to do it in a way that made sure i'd always somehow come running back to him."

your voice wobbles on the last word, and thats when bucky moves.

its not abrupt or enough to startle you, and you barely even look up. he just leans forwards, forearms resting on the table now, like he's making sure you know he's there and that you don't have to do this alone. his jaw tightens, not angry at you, but in anger at the man who left scars you dont name.

"i didnt realise that the attention started turning into control." "you admit softly. "or how easy it is to mistake the control for love when you don't know any better. i don't know. sometimes i wish i could just... shove it all into a box and throw it from a moving car... and then go to bed and sleep for once."

"but would you be able to rest?" bucky asks.

"no." you shake your head. "no, i don't think i would."

you can hear a small sigh slip from his mouth, and you almost feel pathetic. you hated being pitied, and this was prime pity territory.

but then bucky reaches forwards to hold your shaking hand, his grip warm and steady. his thumb presses against your knuckles, grounding, like he knows exactly how close you're coming to slipping.

a part of you still shivers at the vulnerability you display— at being seen like this— but the tired part, the honest part, of you doesn't mind the contact if bucky is the one pitying you.

"sweetheart, people like that... they're good at makin' it feel like you're the problem. like you're the one who keeps messin' up. but that doesn't mean you were weak or stupid. it means you were young and you were lonely, and someone cruel decided to take advantage of that." his thumb presses into your skin just slightly. "you got out."

you look up for the first time since you started talking. your waterline burns with unshed tears, and there's a quiver in your lip despite your best attempts to keep it steady.

"i did something bad, bucky. i did something really bad."

he doesn't interrupt. he doesnt tense nor does he pull away. his hands stay exactly where they are in yours, his thumb stilling. his eyes search yours, waiting, giving you the space to speak.

"i shot him."

the words hang heavy in the air between you, whispered but still deafening, and for a second you think the world might come crashing down on you. you prepare for bucky to rip his hands away from you, to spit in your face, and leave you here to rot— but it never comes.

if anything, his grip on your hands tightens. bucky exhales through his nose. he's not shocked. he's not angry with you either— he could never be angry at you. his jaw tightens, and you watch as his thoughts pass in his eyes. his thumb resumes the small circular motion on your knuckles like he's trying to calm you down.

"okay." he says quietly, like he's afraid he might shatter something more fragile than you, like anything louder that leaves him might break you. "okay. thats okay."

his hands never leave yours, but you watch his face change like he's distanced himself from you.

"did you mean to?" he asks gently, not prying nor accusing, just trying to understand what happened. and before you can spiral into whatever answer you're forming, he adds, still soft, "you don't gotta justify yourself to me. i just wanna know what you're feelin' right now."

you pull away from his touch. it almost feels like too much. you retreat into yourself, hands holding yourself just for another sense of safety, but even then, you dont feel safe in your own skin. your fingers press into your sides just to remember that you're there and that you exist outside of the memory and the guilt and the fear.

"i don't know. i was just scared, and he was— he was yelling, and it was so loud. and i shot him, and i was— god, i don't even know if he's alive." you spit out all at once. you turn to bucky, "please don't be scared of me—"

"i'm not scared of you, princess."

bucky says it immediately— no pause, no hesitation— like there was never another option. his voice doesn't rise in anger or soften in pity, and he never once looks away from you.

"you were scared and you did what you needed to survive." he adds quietly. "nobody can blame you for that."

and for the first time since you've said it out loud, the word shot doesn't echo as violently in your mind as it once did. its still there, but it isn't screaming at you anymore.

you nod because its all you feel you can do. you wipe at your eyes with the back of your hand, embarrassed by the wetness, the vulnerability, the rawness you feel after admitting it for the first time.

"how about we get this packed up, and we'll head back." bucky suggests like he's offering you an out.

"yeah." you blink and nod, "okay."

and that's exactly what you do. you leave the diner in silence, and you drive back to the motel in the same silence. bucky helps you down from the truck, and he hands you the entire bag of food with the soft assurance that he 'isn't hungry', bidding you a good night at your room door.

in the shower, you stand under the running water until your skin prickles and your fingers prune, letting the water run over your body for what seems like hours, and when you get out of the shower, you lay in bed half under the covers staring at the ceiling and tracing the cracks and bumps for what feels like even longer.

your body is exhausted, but your mind won't follow. every time you blink, it's there again; the yelling, the smell of sweat and metal, how loud is was. god, it was so loud.

you see it in fragments. the way his face had changed, the split second wgere you realised this was going to happen whether you wanted it to or not, the recoil, the ringing in your ears, the sound of him collapsing, and the blood.

you suck in a breath and sharply turn your head to the side.

the alarm clock glows an ugly red. 3:04am. you reach over and click on the table lamp, and before you can overthink it, you swing your legs over the bed and pad over to the dresser where your duffel sits, half open and slumped against the wood.

you kneel in front of it and unzip it the rest of the way. you begin sifting through your belongings, your fingers clumsy but determined as you dig through scraps of your life that you've shoved together without much care.

and then your hand brushes against something heavy and metallic. you reach in and grab the gun by the barrel, pulling it out and watching as the metal glows under the lamp light before you pull it into your lap. a shotgun. it looks smaller there, stripped of context and fear, but your hands still remember the weight of it. your body itches like it's bracing for something you know has already happened.

you stare at it for a long time— the stupid, ugly thing that changed everything.

it'd been the thing you shoved into your boyfriends face when he'd threatened to keep you locked up in that cramped apartment of his. it'd been the reason he'd let you go, and the thing that saved your life; but simultaneously, it'd also been the thing that'd ruined you.

you decide to be rid of it.

one second you're sitting on the carpet with the shotgun on your lap, and the next, you're pulling on a spare hoodie and stepping out of your room, completely barefoot and all sense of rationality thrown out of the window. you dont even lock your room door.

you cross the small space between your room and bucky's. you knock once, twice, and then once more for good measure, knuckles stinging as soon as they make contact with the wood.

there's a pause. there's a shift. then the door opens.

the door creaks open, and from the dark, bucky emerges. the first thing that you notice is that he's shirtless, and the first thing he notices is that you're carrying a shotgun.

"what's wrong?" is the first thing he says. his voice is still gravely with sleep or something close to sleep, and you almost feel bad for dragging him into your drama again. he doesnt sound scared or in fear for his own life, but you can hear the concern laced in the question. "is that—"

"i want to get rid of it." your hands tighten around the barrel of the gun.

bucky doesn't ask why. he just nods once and steps back inside of his room to tug on a shirt and grab his keys.

the truck eats the miles quickly, the headlights carving a thin path through the dust and the scrub of the texas desert. the land opens up the further out you go, and the two of you drive until you can't see anything but the darkness. bucky pulls off of the road where the tires fade into the sand and kills the engine.

the land bucky helps you down onto is bare in a way that only places with nothing to witness can be. you cant see much further than a couple of feet ahead of you, and the silence is almost deafening. nobody is driving past on route 66 at this time, and nobody is there to watch you hide the weapon.

you hold the gun while bucky holds the shovel and a flashlight.

you dont know how far out you walk. the ground shifts under your bare feet, toes digging into the cooling sand and small stones, but you keep going until the heavy metal in your hands starts feeling heavier than your body can hold. when you glance over your shoulder, you can barely see the moonlight silhouette of the truck in the distance.

in front of you, bucky slows, his flashlight scanning the area out of habit, then he nods.

"here should be good." he says quietly, turning back to you just to check on you. "doubt anyone every comes out this far."

you don't reply. you simply nod, the action small, fingers curling tighter around the barrel and the handle. your throat feels thick, your words lodged there with nowhere to go, and maybe it's better that way. you dont know what you'd say even if you tried.

bucky holds the flashlight out for you to grab, and you take it and shine it at the ground. the light cuts a pale circle onto the sand, and your brows furrow when bucky presses the tip of the shovel into the ground, tasting the density.

"maybe i should do it." you interrupt, the words coming out thin, like you're testing out the question more than asking it.

he doesnt even look at you. "i've got it."

but you still feel so guilty. he doesnt even know your name and he here is on the border between new mexico and texas buring evidence for you.

"it's my gun, bucky." your grip tightens around the flashlight, the muzzle of the gun scratching against the ground. there's a quiet guilt and responsibility in it, a quiet belief that this is something you have to carry alone. "you don't have to do this for me—"

bucky sighs as he finally pauses to look at you. he pulls his hands from the handle of the shovel and folds them on top of each other on the handle, his eyes soft and unyielding like he's already made up his mind and he's just waiting for you to catch up.

"you already asked me to bring you out here, sweetheart. i'm not lettin' you do this on your own anymore." bucky says, quieter but no less sure, and his eyes never leave your face. "you've done enough survivin' by yourself. let me do this for you."

you hesitate for half a second longer like you might still argue, but the fight drains out of you instead. the way he's looking at you feels like he's willingly shouldering the weight with you— or maybe for you.

you nod once. "okay."

bucky gives you a short nod back like your compliance is all he needs before he turns to the shovel again. he drives the shovel down, the metal biting into the ground with a dull clang. he pulls the shovel from the ground before slamming it back down again, harder and stiffer this time like he knows exactly how much force to use and when.

you keep the flashlight trained on the growing divot, the beam wobbling just slightly whenever the shovel meets the ground. after a while of staring at bucky, you swallow, your voice low.

"do you think i could go to jail for this?" you ask him. the question had been running rampant in your mind ever since you'd left y the apartment in chicago.

bucky pauses mid-scoop for a second, head tilting upwards towards you. the raise of his brows and the small huffed out laugh he gives you makes the question you just ask feel stupid— and in retrospect, it probably was.

"people go to jail for less serious shit than shooting your ex-boyfriend, princess." he says, not unkind, just honest. he turns back to the ground and stabs into the sand. "if that asshole's still alive and he gives the cops a story about how you left guns a-blazin', you could be set up for attempted murder."

"oh." you mutter as you fight the urge to roll your eyes. "thanks bucky. that really helps. super comforting."

he huffs quietly. "you asked."

you kick at a mound of sand like it had personally wronged you, and it's only then that you realise you're completely barefoot. you're not sure when that happened.

"well—" you pause, flashlight dipping just slightly, "yeah, i asked, but hearing it that way instead of a simple yes or no or maybe just freaks me out."

"sorry." bucky exhales through his nose. "not much point in worryin' about it now. thinkin' that far ahead'll eat at you, and it sounds like it already has been."

"whatever." you grumble. "i at least wanna get to california before i get thrown in a cell to rot."

bucky glances at you. "and you will."

bucky finished digging the hole with a finally jab of his shovel, sand piling up around it in a large mound. he steps back and nods towards it, giving the the go-ahead without saying it out loud. you lean down and place the gun inside, pushing it down as far as it can go, the metal scratching against the sand as it sinks inside. when you stand back up, you cross your arms over your chest.

the weapon you'd used to maim someone now looked so small. stripped of its power and its noise. just a cold, ugly thing sitting in a hole in the ground.

for a long while, the two of you just stare at the gun. there's not much to look at, but there's something about it that just feels different now. it doesn't look like fear or adrenaline anymore. it just looks out of place, almost wrong, like it never belonged in your hands in the first place.

bucky breaks the silence first, his question a little too casual for the context behind it. "was it a good shot at least?"

you turn your head just slightly to look at him, and he does the same. he watches you as you search for the answer, a soft sigh falling from your mouth.

"i got him right in the shoulder." you bluntly reply, your voice quiet even in the silence of the desert. "he was bleeding a lot, though. almost thought his arm was going to fall off."

bucky hums once, his face unreadable, then he steps forwards and starts pushing the gathered sand back into the hole. you watch as the ground swallows the gun, and inadvertently swallows up everything else you'd brought with you— the dread, the panic, the buzzing tension you'd felt for so long.

but you feel a lot better now. of course you still have the topic of being homeless and being arrested on your mind, but at least you aren't carrying around the immediate weight of that cold metal in your hands. the gun is gone, and you can rest a little easier now.

you stand there for a moment longer as bucky finishes up, kicking the sand around so it looks a little less messed with. then, almost wordlessly, the two of you walk back to the truck.

he opens the truck door for you, helps you in, and then he circles around the front and gets in his seat. the engine growls as it comes to life and the headlights blink on like the sun on a bleak morning, and with a few pressed buttons and pulled levers, bucky is pulling the truck back onto the road and back towards the motel.

the road is steady underneath the wheels, and for the first time in a while, you feel a little lighter. neither of you really speak at first. the desert stretches onwards, and your eyes glance to the small analogue clock on the dashboard— 4:17am.

and it's almost like bucky can sense the exhaustion that laces your bones. he glances at you, his own eyes tired although his mind is anything but. "you think you're gonna sleep much tonight?"

you shrug, staring out of the windscreen. "i'll try. there's still a lot on my mind."

your thoughts drift, unbidden and unruly— memories of your boyfriend, the way things had been once and how they are now, and the tension you felt in your body when you left home— but the thought of your him somehow brings you back to trucks, and the thought of trucks and sleep brings you back to the thought of the sleeper cab of a semi truck.

a little impulsively, you twist in your seat and pull at the curtain that sits behind you and you peek inside. the little bed sits neatly against the wall, the blankets neatly made and the singular pillow slightly askew at the head of the bed. it's nothing inherently interesting, but it's something that's always confused you.

bucky glances at you in the rear view mirror, "what are you lookin' for back there?"

"just looking at the bed. i've never seen one in real life." you casually reply, "is it comfy back there? mattress looks thin."

bucky half shrugs, his eyes ahead on the road. "it gets the job done, but its not as good as the real thing."

you pull the curtain back just a little further. it's hard to see in the dark, the shadows making it hard to see any object in real detail, but you can make out the pillows and the blankets, a small shelf with a basket full of miscellaneous items— a couple of batteries, a bottle of painkillers, an empty water bottle, and a couple of magazines. you cant read the words, but even in the dark, you can make out the shape of a... is that a lady wearing a playboy bunny costume?

you turn back to bucky and find that he's already watching you through the rear view mirror like a hawk. his brows are slightly furrowed, his eyes dark and steady, but theres a small, sly tilt of his lips.

"are those... playboy magazines?" you almost laugh, glancing at bucky with your brows raised and a cheeky grin. you tease, "those get the job done too?"

theres a moment where bucky sucks on his teeth and glances at you over his shoulder, and you think you should've probably kept your mouth shut— but then he smirks.

"like i said—" bucky lets the corners of his mouth curl, his voice low as he replies. "not as good as the real thing."

oh.

you blink. you blink again. you blink so much that you think you might actually start crying, or throw up, or do something equally humiliating. heat crawls up the length of your neck, settling in your cheeks. what the hell do you reply to that?

"right." you manage, pushing it out a little too quickly. you slide the curtain shut and turn back in your seat, tugging at your seatbelt to get it adjusted right. "yeah. that— that makes sense."

you clear your throat, forcing yourself to stare forwards at the dark stretch of highway instead of paying any attention to bucky. you can feel him glancing at the side of your face, lingering whenever you feel particularly flustered, and you can hear the soft chuckle he makes at your reaction that he doesn't even try to hide.

it settles somewhere low in your stomach, warm and aggravating and far too effective for how little he's actually doing.

god, that image is gonna be burnt in your mind forever.

the motel sign flickers back into view not long after, and the breath of relief that leaves you is almost instant. the neon lights buzz as bucky pulls into the parking lot, headlights beaming over the building before he kills the engine and opens the doors. you follow, and he circles the front and he helps you down from the truck just like he usually does, your hands on his shoulders while his wrap around your waist. it lasts for only a second, but it lingers on your skin all the same.

you walk side by side towards your rooms, the ground luke-warm under your feet and the air cooler now that the night has deepened. it's quiet now in the way most empty places are— no noises or other people for miles, just the two of you sliding your keys into the locks and pushing open your doors.

and when you're about to step foot into your dark room, that's when bucky clears his throat. you pause, poking your head out of the doorframe.

"hey. i'm, uh..." he pauses, voice slower than usual. "i'm sorry about earlier. in the truck. i didnt mean to make things weird."

you blink before the conversation floods your mind. you take a step back out of the door and put on your best attempt of trying to act nonchalant before swallowing down the butterflies that come with the memory.

"there's nothing to be sorry about. its a normal human function and we're both adults." you reply with a casual smile, but you're not sure if you're actually convincing anyone. "right?"

bucky doesn't answer right away. he just sort of looks at you like he's thinking about something that he hasn't decided how to say yet, his jaw clenching once as if he decides against saying anything at all.

"right." he watches you for a second longer, unreadable eyes falling to the dip of your neck, his gaze tracing your collarbone before he looks up again. he gives you a small nod, "get some sleep, okay?"

"i'll try. thanks again for tonight. i really do appreciate it." you pause with a small, faint smile, then quieter, you add, "goodnight, bucky."

"goodnight, princess." bucky replies, his voice soft and steady, carrying enough warmth to make your chest tighten.

and then you're both retreating into your own rooms, doors closing and keys clicking, the thin motel walls swallowing whatever else might've been said.

you don't bother turning on the lights. you pad towards the bed, feet brushing against the carpet to get rid of the sand that sticks to your toes, drop keys onto the tiny table and crawl into bed like sleep might take pity on you if you lie down fast enough.

minutes pass. you glance at the clock. 4:56am. its only been thirty minutes, but it feels like you've been in bed for hours. you lie there on your back half under the covers, your eyes tracing the cracks and divots in the ceiling like they might lead somewhere else, trying to will your brain to shut up, but it doesn't.

the magazines. the sleeper. the idea of bucky

you had meant what you said earlier about how it is a normal human function and that you're both adults and can joke about this sort of stuff all the time and it shouldn't matter, but the mere thought of bucky getting himself off makes you feel like a pervert.

you roll onto your side with a frustrated huff, pulling the blankets tighter over your body as if it might smother the thoughts that plague you, but you have no such luck.

not as good as the real thing.

your brain is cruel enough to supply you images you definitely don't want— bucky alone in the sleeper cab in low light and the magazine crinkling awkwardly in his hands. his pants pool just above his knees, his hand gliding down his stomach, brushing past his happy trail and the waistband of his underwear, the rough palm of his hand wrapping around the base of his cock, the slow looseness of his jaw as it falls open with every tentative stroke—

oh god. you squeeze your eyes shut, heat blooming under your skin, mortified by how fast your own brain betrayed you. you try to push the thought away before it can fully form, like distance is something you can try to manufacture in your head, but it's difficult.

"jesus," you mutter into the empty room.

this is ridiculous. you're exhausted. you're emotionally wrecked. you're traumatised. you should be asleep, and thats all you want to do; so why do you feel so wet? it's pathetic, really, getting wet over the thought of a handsome stranger after he made one joke, but now you're never going to be able to sleep when the heat between your legs feels inescapable.

your hand— almost like it senses your desperation— trails down the length of your stomach and slides past the band of your underwear, fingers dipping through your folds, and the ragged breath that leaves you is almost shameful.

you slide a finger into your weepy entrance, the rhythm you set is slow, the pads of your fingers brushing against your insides at the same pace you imagine bucky would touch you. you can't stop imagining it's his fingers instead of your own.

"bucky." you whine breathlessly into the air as you glide in another finger, the stretch almost delicious.

you pump in and out of your cunt until youre panting into the side of your pillow, until your hips move on their own, until you feel that familiar heat growing deep in your stomach.

then you catch it. cedarwood. musk. his scent. your shirt still smells like him from all those miles you spent sitting in his truck, and the small whimper that leaves your mouth at the smell brings you closer to the edge.

"faster— god, please." you beg, brows furrowing and mouth falling slack as you speed up the assault on your pussy.

you continue until you feel that tight ball of heat finally in your stomach snap. you barely have time to shove your face into your pillow before a borderline pornographic moan rips from your throat, breath hot into the cotton as you grind into your hand.

you pull your shirt over your nose, inhaling bucky's scent with every breath you take, and you find that sleep washes over you easier that night.

the morning light seeps into your room in thin and warm stripes through the curtains, landing across your legs and the crumbled up sheets. you wake slowly— not startled or filled with dread, just rising with a sense of awareness of things of you'd been too overwhelmed with to notice before.

your body feels lighter than it has in a while, rested in a way that almost surprises you. you're not sure if it's because you'd buried one of your biggest worries under four feet of sand or if it was because of your late night self-love session. either way, it was a win for you.

you sit up in the bed, sleep still fuzzy in your eyes, and you look over at the alarm clock— 2:34pm. you'd slept for a while.

then you hear it. the low rumble of a truck outside. it's definitely bucky's— because who else would pull over into this fuckass motel— but it sounds different, almost steadier, not rattling like it had been the last few times you'd heard it. it idles smoothly and confidently, like it finally wants to be running.

you kick the sheets off, pad across the room, shove your feet into your shoes with half-assed effort, and push the door open without bothering to check yourself in the mirror.

the afternoon suns shoots down at you from the sky, rays burning against your skin as you step outside, door closing behind you as you make yourself towards the scene.

bucky is at his usual spot near the hood, shoulders bend and back hunched over the engine, a dirty rag thrown over his shoulder and his grey tank dark in places, spotted with sweat and oil stains, clinging to his body in a way that makes it very hard for you not to notice how broad he is.

but you try to ignore those thoughts and the fact that you'd fucked yourself to the thought of him last night. you perk up, hands folding in front of you as you put on an award winning smile.

"morning." you greet, your voice still a little scratchy from sleep but still light.

bucky is quick to cock his head to the side, and when he sees it's you, he straightens, hands still leaning against the metal of the vehicle, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as the truck continues to purr under his palms.

"mornin'." he says back, low and easy like it's the easiest thing in the world. his eyes flick over you once— almost habitual— before finally settling on your face. "you look happy."

you grin. "i feel happy. she sounds better than she has all week. did you figure out what was wrong?"

bucky groans as he leans back up, pulling at the rag on his shoulders and wiping off his hands, eyes focused on the newly fixed engine. "yup. figured it out about an hour or two ago. somethin' wrong with the fuel line, but i managed to fix it up. i think she'll be ready for the road tomorrow morning.

he gives the metal of the truck a light tap as you nod before his attention drifts back to you. this time, his eyes dont just flick over you once; they take their time, slow and analysing, like he's reading something you're trying not to show.

his gaze lingers at your face, on your posture, on the way you hold yourself in an unwittingly protective stance in response to his peering eyes. his mouth curls into a smirk, almost amused.

he nods towards you, "how'd you sleep?" he asks, voice even, but now there's something in the way he speaks that makes you wonder if he knows.

"it was fine." you meekly reply with a pathetic smile.

bucky hums under his breath in acknowledgment. his eyes stay on yours, unreadable in nature but not unkind. after a second, he exhaled and rolls his shoulders back like he's trying to release the tension that weaves through his muscles.

"hey, you still got the leftovers from the dinner?" he asks.

you blow out a huff of air through your mouth as you glance back towards your room. "i think so. i can heat it up if you're hungry."

"yeah." he says easily. "that's be great."

so that's exactly what you do— after all, it's the least you could do for bucky after he'd practically sidelined his own mission just for you. you head back to your room, pull out the leftovers, head over to the kitchen.

you pop the lid off of the leftovers and slide it over to the microwave, but when you press the button, but there isn't a beep nor is there any numbers on display. you press it again, harder this time like it might flicker to life, but it doesn't. the microwave sits there dead and useless, smelling faintly of popcorn and disappointment.

"great." you murmur.

after a moment, you snap the lid back onto the container. there's only one other option, and you already dread it— trevor.

you enter the office, the air conditioning hitting you square in the face the moment you open the door. you step forwards and ring the cheap desk bell on the counter, and the back room door opens by the second ding. trevor steps out, glasses askew, a few strands of his dirty blonde hair sticking up in strange directions, and a lit cigarette hanging from his mouth like it's part of his uniform.

you don't bother with pleasantries and are quick to get to the point. "the microwave in the kitchen is broken. is there any way you could fix it or maybe heat this up for me?"

trevor squints at you, unimpressed. "i'm not doin' no favours for you after the attitude you've been givin' me ever since you stepped foot onto the property."

"it's not for me." you tip your head towards the window. "it's for him."

both of you glance towards the parking lot. bucky's by the truck, still working, still sweating, still leaning over the hood in a way that makes his muscles look extra toned in the sun and his body look carved out of heat and hard work. you feel your heart thump against your ribs and trevor lets out a pathetic huff, but you're sure you and trevor both look away for different reasons.

he sucks on his teeth as he looks you up and down once because he holds his hand out and makes a gesture for you to hand it over. "i got one in the back. it'll be a minute."

you hand it over with a shit-eating grin. "i can wait."

trevor murmurs something under his breath as he disappears behind the back door. a few seconds later, the microwave kicks on— a loud, rattling sound that you can hear even through the shut door.

you tap your fingers against the counter, eyes wandering around the offie. there's a popping noise that catches your attention, and you find yourself looking out of the window and watching bucky again.

he wipes his hands on his rag and tosses it back onto his shoulder, unaware of your eyes on him and focused enough that his tongue sticks out against his lower lip in concentration. there's something unusually calming about watching him work like this, like the world is simple under the hood of a truck.

"... authorities are still searching for the suspect responsible for the shooting of a man in central chicago last week.

your fingers curl at the edge of the counter? your eyes darting towards the small red radio in the corner of the room. you lean over and turn the volume knob until you can hear the words clearly over the microwave.

"witnesses describe her as..."

your blood runs cold.

the description never seems to end. your hair colour and texture, your eye colour, your skin colour, your height, your build, your type of clothing. everything is listed. it feels like everything about you is being peeled open and dissected live on air for millions to hear.

"... authorities urge anyone with information on the whereabouts of this individual to come forward..."

you turn to the back room door.

you're not sure if trevor can even hear the broadcast, but you hope that he set the timer for longer than a minute. the microwave whirs loudly behind the door, drowning out the radio, and you go silent as if the broadcaster could hear you if you spoke, like any sound you make would make them aware of where you are.

and then it ends. just like that, the radio clicks, replaced by cherry country music that spills back into the room as if nothing had ever happened. you don't realise how tight you'd been holding the counter until you hwar the beep of the microwave from behind the door, and trevor pushes it open with his foot soon after, the steaming container in his hands.

you swallow your fear as trevor slides the leftovers across the counter towards you, forcing your hands to uncurl from around the table.

"it's hot—" he starts, but your hands wrap around the container anyways and you pull it from him.

you turn and shoulder the door open with little care.

"not like i wanted a thank you or anythin'." trevor shouts behind you as you practically shut the door on his face.

the heat seeps through the container and into your palms as you cross the lot towards bucky. he straightens when he sees you, lips already curling into a smile and his mouth parting like he's about to say something.

"what were you doin' in th—"

you lean down and place the leftovers on the top of his toolbox, catching his wrist and pulling him to the side of the truck all without missing a single step. the shade from the truck's body swallows you both, and you almost bucky's quick to steady you, brows knitting as his free hand comes up almost instinctively to hold you by the upper arm.

his brows furrow at the worry in your face. "woah, what's goin' on?"

"we have to go. we have to leave today or tonight, okay? like right now." you rush out in a singular breath. it almost feels like everything from chicago had come back to bite you in the ass.

"hey— slow down." he says, another arms reaching out to hold you steady by your shoulders. he lowers his head slightly, looking at you through his eye lashes. "what happened, sweetheart?"

your lip quivers, and bucky reaches up to cup your face in one of his hands. his thumb presses firmly into the skin on your cheekbone, and the touch is reassuring enough for you to speak.

"in the office, they were talking about what happened— what i did. they started listing all these things about me. my hair, my eyes, my— just everything."

something ticks in bucky's jaw. he glances past you towards the office for half a second, his expression almost unreadable. his shoulders square like he's bracing himself for a hit he'd been expected but still hated taking.

the hand that cups your cheek falls back to your shoulder. "did they say anythin' about a location?" bucky asks, eyes boring into yours.

you shake your head. "no. it just said that there's a suspect, said my full name, and described exactly how i look." "

"and did he hear anythin'?" he asks again.

"no, he was—" you shake your head, glancing over your shoulder towards the office where you can see the top of trevor's head. "he was in the back room with the door closed and the microwave was way too loud."

bucky exhales long and slow, like he's trying to come up with both a plan and a promise at the same time. it doesnt help that you're watching him like he's the only thing keeping you afloat.

his hands fall from your shoulders and rest on his hips.

"alright," he says at last. "we're okay for now."

your chest tightens. "but bucky—"

"hey." his voice softens, his eyes the calm of the storm in the hurricane of emotions you feel. "if they knew where you were, they wouldn't be broadcastin' it all over the radio. this place'd be locked down and you wouldn't be talkin' to me right now. we're fine."

you nod, hesitant, but you're sure he means it.

"and even if they were here, i wouldn't go done without a fight." he adds, trying to cheer you up. "i've had my fair share of encounters with the law."

the mental image is ridiculous enough to shake a bit of the nerves out of you. you let out a soft scoff, eyes rolling just slightly as some of the tension actually manages to bleed away.

"i'm serious, princess." bucky defends himself, brows raised in complete seriousness even though you can hear the tinge of dry humour in his tone. "i fought the cops before and i'll do it again if i have to. just say the word and i'm goin' in there, fists swingin'."

"you can't fight the cops, bucky." you tell him.

"fine. maybe not, but look... how about you just—" he exhales through his nose, the humour escaping from his voice. he gestures vaguely to the toolbox you'd set the food down on. "sit down while i work, have somethin' to eat, and then we'll figure out a plan."

you nod, the last of the tension seeping out ouf you as you finally let yourself believe him. you both turn, bucky's hand falling to your back to direct you to the large toolbox, the metal still warm from the sun. you grab the food and sit down, appetite slow but present, while bucky turns back to the truck, his hands disappearing back into the engine.

you watch him while you eat. the way his shoulder flex, the occasional mutter of something irrelevant under his breath, the pause he takes every so often to think, his jaw set and his eyes focused. its ordinary— almost domestic— and somehow that normalcy steadies you a lot more than any reassurance could.

every so often, bucky glances over just to make sure you're still there with him, and you always are.

as you continue to eat, you realise you'd practically consumed the entirety of the leftovers. all that's left is a quarter of a cheeseburger and a couple of fries, and you feel a little guilty for taking what was meant to be bucky's food.

"are you going to eat anything?" you ask.

bucky pokes his head out from the hood. "no, i'm good. have what you can and i'll have whatever's left over."

you furrow your brows at the slight smile he has sitting on his face, and then it slowly dawns on you. he never really wanted the food— not for himself, anyway. he just wanted to make sure you ate.

you glance down at what's left, then back up at him. without a word, you extend the container out to him, eyebrows lifting just enough to make your point.

bucky pauses. he looks at the food, then at you.

"bossy." he mutters, but there's no real malice in it.

he reaches out and takes what remains of the cheeseburger and takes a bite out of it like he hasn't eaten all day. then another, and another, and the burger is gone in seconds.

you can't help the smile the spreads across your face.

bucky wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, gives you a quick, almost sheepish look, because he clears his throat and goes back to fixing the fuel line like nothing had happened.

you stay right there, sunlight warm on your skin, the truck humming beside you, bucky working hard, and for now, you decide this is enough.

night comes gently.

the texas heat bleeds out of the day, replaced by silence and the occasional cricket chirp, the low buzz of the motel sign outside ringing softly in your ears as you shuffle around the belongings in your duffel bag, reorganising the mess and ensuring you have everything you left with.

you have less than a day left here. in the morning, you'd have to leave. you dont know how you'll get there, but you've mustered up enough courage to ask bucky if you could hitch a ride to california. after all, you'd basically spent the past three days spilling your deepest darkest secrets to him; you aren't just going to leave him now.

you're in your room in the partial darkness, body enveloped in the shadows while the far corner of the room is covered in light from the table lamp. the curtains stir slightly in the breeze of the rattling air conditioning, and its so quiet that you can almost hear the electricity running through the walls.

you pause mid-movement, fingers brushing against something small and cold at the bottom of your bag. you reach in and pull it out.

a locket.

it's small. easy to forget. you'd ripped it off the moment you'd gotten on a bus to st louis and thrown it into your bag hoping it'd get lost and you'd never see it again.

you turn the locket over in your palm, the snapped chain curling around your fingers as you inspect the scratched piece of jewellery. it doesn't open, at least not anymore. the hinge bent inwards and snapped the last time you'd forced it closed, and you're almost grateful for your harsh treatment of the metal. you dont even try to open it. you already know what's in there: a picture of you and your boyfriend, one where you're forcing a smile and he isn't bothering to even try to look happy.

for a moment, you just stand there. the weight of it heavy against your skin in the same way it'd been heavy around your neck when you still cared for it. then you cross the room and drop it into the trash. it makes a soft, dull thud at it hits the bottom, and you barely flinch as the engraved flowers stare back up at you.

it's gone now, and although a version of you from the past wouldve mourned the cheap locket, the version of you now feels better without it weighing you down.

then comes a knock at the door. it's soft but firm, and you know who it is before you even look over your shoulder. you wipe your hands out of habit as if the locket was filth and cross the room, the lock clicking and the handle squeaking as you open the door.

bucky is standing there. he looks cleaner than he did when the two of you said goodnight a few hours ago, and truth be told, you're not sure why he's here. he's wearing a clean white shirt and a pair of jeans he probably thinks are comfortable but are covered in splashes of paint and dark spots of dried enamel. the shitty LED light that glows overhead bathes him in a glow that almost makes him look angelic, and you almost have to do a double take.

"hey." he says.

you blink. "hey."

the two of you stand there for a moment. bucky rocks on his heels with his hands in his back pockets and your fingers drum against the back of your door, both of you waiting for the other to say something.

"uh," you clear your throat. "did you... need something?"

his brows raise just slightly like you'd pulled him out of a thought, then he shakes his head once, "no, i just... wanted to check in. make sure you were okay."

something soft blooms in your chest at his words, and a part of you is glad that you shot your boyfriend. that asshole wouldnt have bothered to check on you, and he certainly wouldn't have asked if you were okay. if anything, he would've been the reason you were feeling like complete shit.

"you can—" you hesitate, door creaking open a little more as you step to the side, "you can come in. if you want. i could use the company."

"yeah." he nods. "okay."

you step back as he steps inside, his once confident footsteps falling just short of awkward as he steps into your room. you close the door behind him, the lock clicking shut, pushing the night out and sealing the two of you into the silence of your room.

bucky glances around the room, and the poor guy looks like he's never been in a woman's room before. his gaze falls on your shoes messily discarded by the door, then towards the bed and it's mess, and then it lands on your duffel bag. clothes are still thrown everywhere, and he looks like he might combust at the sight of so much... woman.

you smile softly as you walk back over to your bag, glancing over your shoulder just to glance at him. "you can sit down if you want to, bucky. you're not gonna get cooties or anything."

"...right." he mutters with another nod, and yet he hesitates anyways and decides to sit on the edge of your bed, his thigh just barely brushing against the side of your duffel bag, and he glances down at it before looking back at you. "reorganising?"

you huff out a small, tired breath as you go back to digging in your bag. "just trying to see what i brought. it all happened so fast that i forgot how fast i packed up my shit and left."

you pull out a hoodie and hold it up to the light. the logo of one of your favourite bands stares back at you, you haven't worn it in ages because your boyfriend insisted that you listen to 'girlier' bands, and you being naive and compliant, you listened. the small frown that grows on your face doesn't go unnoticed by bucky.

"you should put it on." he suggests, leaning back on the bed with his palms pressed firmly into the mattress.

you "i'm not even sure if it fits—" "then you should see if it does. no harm in tryin'." he's quick to interrupt.

you blink at him, but he just cocks his head like he wants you to do just as he said. you hesitate, fingers tightening over the worn fabric, then you huff out a breath and tug it over your head.

its a little oversized, but it fits better than you expect it to. the sleeves fall just past your wrists and the hem brushes against your thighs, the fabric warm against your skin, finally yours again in a way it hasn't been in a long time.

you glance down at yourself, then at bucky. "happy?"

"very." he says, a grin pulling easy at his mouth as he tilts his head. he jokes, "suits you. i don't think you should ever take it off."

you roll your eyes at him, already reaching for the hem of the hoodie. "very funny, buck." you say dryly. "it's a million degrees outside. i'd die if i kept it on forever."

you grab the bottom of the hoodie, pulling it upwards to pull it off, the action slow and barely thought through. the cotton slides back over your stomach, the cool air brushing against your skin as it takes your shirt up with it for a couple of inches.

and bucky's eyes drop without meaning to— for a long, gruelling second— just long enough for him to catch the tiniest sliver of black lace peeking out of the waistband of your shorts, the fabric digging into the plush of your hips.

it's practically nothing— barely there— but it's enough.

"shit." he mutters under his breath, the word barely audible but still loud enough for you to catch it as you pull the hoodie over your head.

but just as quick as it had appeared, it vanishes as your shirt falls back down the length of your stomach. his eyes linger for a second longer before flicking back up to your face, hair messy from the hoodie.

"hmm?" you hum as you toss the hoodie somewhere on the bag, brow raised just slightly as you ask him about what he said. "did you say something?"

bucky blinks before he quickly shakes his head, tongue running over his teeth as an involuntary way to distract himself. he sits back up and readjusts himself, digging his elbows into his knees to try and hide the growing tent in his pants, but the faintest amount of tension in his posture has you furrowing your brows.

"nothin' important." he mutters, but there's a tightness in the way he says it. "it was, uh... nothin'."

you brush it off. you lean back into your bag, sifting through clothes and belongings before deciding that you've had enough. you lean over and grab a shirt and shove it back into the bag, not bothering to fold it.

bucky watches you for a second, completely silent. you can feel the weight of his eyes on you as you move, and you try your best to not pay him any attention. finally, he clears his throat.

"your... boyfriend," bucky starts, the title cold and a little accusatory on his tongue, but there's something in his tone that's more careful than it is angry. "you always talk about how he wasn't good to you. talks all big, but inside, he's really just an asshole with a tiny dick."

you sigh, just shy of a laugh. "sounds just like him."

your words come out flat, but there's a crack underneath them that gives you away. you hadn't meant to sound hurt— you tried not to— but the ache sneaks through anyways.

bucky. notices. of course he does. before you can turn back to your things, he reaches out and catches your wrist, his fingers closely gently around your skin, stopping you mid-motion.

"sit." he tells you.

and pathetically enough, you do exactly as he asks. his demands dont fall onto you in the same way your boyfriends did. bucky's are softer and rooted in certainty rather than control, and you're not sure if you could ever disobey him.

you sit on the edge of the bed beside him, your hand settling in your lap while bucky holds the other. your heart thuds against your ribs as your eyes flick between his, never quite brave enough to stay there for long enough. you exhale a small breath, eyes trailing down the curve of his throat, tracing over the bump of his adams apple, and settling on the hollow at the base of his neck where you can see the soft thump of his pulse beating underneath his skin.

bucky swallows when he notices. his thumb just barely shifts against your knuckles, like he's trying to ground himself more than you are.

but god, he smells so good. it's unfair how something so subtle can make your thoughts slow and your pulse speed up. you don't want to think about it, you just want more of it. you almost want to slip his shirt off of him and wear it so the scent lingers even when he moves away.

you want to sit a little closer. you want the bed to be smaller. you want any excuse just for him to touch you more, for him to stop holding onto your hand and touch you in all of the places you'd imagined him touching the night before.

bucky's head dips, eyes focused on where his hand begins to trail down to your fingers, the rough skin on his hands ghosting over your soft knuckles like he's memorising every single joint and every swirl embedded in your skin.

"did he ever pay attention to the little things?" he asks quietly. his thumb brushes gently over your ring finger, pressing into the skin where an expensive ring would sit if he had his way. "like how pretty your hands are. how careful you are with them."

your breath hitches as his hand trails back up your arm, the tips of his fingers climbing up until they're pressed firmly on the skin just under your shirt sleeve, warm and intrusive in all of the right ways.

"or how when you're nervous, there's a little hitch in your breath like you forget how to breathe." his thumb shifts, feeling it happen again as he presses into the plump skin. his eyes lift to yours then, searching your face for something you'd never say out loud. "he ever notice that?"

you whisper, "bucky, what are you talking about—"

"your boyfriend never... took care of you, did he?" the question is innocent, but there's something deeper hidden in the words. this isn't idle curiosity, this is something that wants to claim.

"what do you—" you swallow, your mouth suddenly thick with saliva that makes the words stick half out. "what do you mean?"

bucky doesn't answer immediately. his eyes drop back to where his hand is held against your arm, his other hand sliding slowly up the side of your thigh until he has a firm grip on you. his thumb traces tiny circles into the skin, and he can feel the slight quiver you try to hide so hard.

"never made you feel good? never made you cum?" he murmurs, lips parting just enough for his tongue to dart out and wet his lips. then a small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. "you probably got off better last night than he ever did for all those years."

and just as head observed, your breath hitches ahain, catching in your throat at his words. god, you thought you were quiet. fuck this stupid motel and fuck its stupid thin walls and fuck bucky. fuck him and his stupid deep voice and his stupidly big hands that make you shiver under his touch.

you blink. "you... heard that?"

he shifts in his spot, moving further onto the bed so he can face you completely. his hand moves from your arm and slides up the side of your neck. his hand cups your jaw, thumb digging into the dip of the bone as he tilts your head, eyes glazing over the soft skin and imagining how pretty it'd looked all bitten and bruised.

"the walls are thin. i heard everything, sweetheart." bucky admits, his voice so low and his lips so close to yours that arousal starts pooling low in your stomach. "your breathing when you touched yourself through your panties... that gasp when you finally dipped your fingers into your needy pussy. could practically hear every time you pumped yourself full of those pretty fingers."

the hand that rests on your thigh slides a little higher, just enough that his thumb digs into your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you need him the most.

"bucky." you almost whimper.

"heard you say my name too, just like that. almost burst through the door right then and there." he continues, his voice low and even, but you watch as his brows knit together softly as his thumb digs into your inner thigh. "but no. had to settle for my hand instead and imagine it was yours."

you lean into his hand, the warmth and the roughness of his skin something you'd been craving for far too long.

"tell me." he whispers, close enough that you can feel his breath against your lips. "tell me you want me to stop and i will."

you shake your head. "i don't want you to stop—"

and he doesnt wait any longer. bucky leans in fast, almost crashing into you as he pushes you back onto the bed. his lips find yours, demanding and insistent, and your chest tightens as soon as you meet him halfway, caught off guard with how much heat he's radiating. there's no teasing or testing, just the urgency of him needing to close the space between the two of you.

his tongue parts your lips in a quick and desperate action, pressing against yours like all he wants to do is taste you.

his knee slips up until it presses against your clothed cunt, the denim of his jeans rubbing against the soft cotton of your shorts. you pant into his mouth and he swallows them with ease, pressing his leg harder against you as you press down onto him.

the hand that rests on your throat trails down until he has a firm grip around your neck, pressing gently into the skin. his other hand digs into your hip, dragging your hips against his thigh until you leave a spot of your own arousal on the fabric of your shorts. you grind down on his knee, trying to find friction where you need it the most. your hands rest on his sides, and you barely have time to break away for a breath before he's swallowing your words.

"buck." you manage to whine.

a low groan leaves his mouth, his hands leaving your hips despite the small hesitant 'no' that leaves your lips.

"i like when you call me that." he murmurs before his lips are back on yours, his voice thick with something heavy and almost inhumane— a need to be close, a need to be in you.

his hands trail away from your hip, rough fingertips dipping inside of your shirt and dragging along the soft skin of your stomach, reaching higher and higher until he hits the band of your bra. you reach down and pull the hem of your shirt up until it bunches just below your neck, putting your bra on full display for him.

bucky pulls away from the kiss, his lips all bitten and coated in saliva. almost impatiently, he slides a hand under your back and lifts you up, hand fumbling with the clasp of your bra before it clicks open with a satisfying pop. they spill out as bucky pulls the confining fabric away.

"fuck." he groans, "such pretty tits."

his head dips down before he can even really think, dragging his tongue across the flesh of your breast, lapping up any of the salty sweat that'd gathered in the valley of your chest, his other hand massaging what he can't abuse with his mouth. and when he takes one of your nipples into his mouth, the sound wet and loud in the quiet of your room, you arch into his touch. your hips rut against the air trying to find friction— any friction— but he moves his leg the moment he feels you press against him.

"no, please—"

he detaches from your nipple with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting his lips to the bruised skin. he pushes himself up onto his knees and eagerly tugs his shirt off, throwing it onto the ground beside the bed. he glows in the dim light, catching the dips of his shoulders and his chest, highlighting all the soft scars and burns from his work, and all of the muscle that he'd gained over the years of hard work. it's nothing you haven't seen before, but you're not complaining either.

he tugs at the waistband of your shorts, sliding them off, and you lift your hips to give him easier access. he slides them down the length of your legs and off of the tip of your toes before he discards them just as he did with his shirt, and the site that greets him steals his breath.

you're wearing possibly the laciest panties he's ever seen. there's almost no opaque fabric, thin lace barely covering anything. its more of a thong than actual underwear. his thumb runs along the edge of your panties, tracing the lace like it's a physical manifestation of everything you need and want.

"did you wear these for me?" he asks.

he sounds so sweet— so sure— that he's the reason you're wearing them, and if you entire body wasn't already warm with desire, you're sure it was burning from embarrassment.

"no, they were—" you swallow, almost embarrassed as the truth slips out of your mouth. "they were my only clean pair."

he hums softly, a small smile playing at his face as he lets out the smallest amused huff. "cute."

you smile, and he leans down to press a warm kiss to your lips. you chase his mouth when he pulls away, but let out a soft gasp when he presses a kiss to your cheek, then another onto your jaw. he presses one onto your neck, kisses your collarbone, and continues downwards until his lips find the delicate lining of your panties.

he hooks a hand under your knee and gingerly places it into his shoulder, his hands wrapping around your waist so he can pull you closer to his face. you hold your breath, waiting for what you think is going to happen to happen. your boyfriend could never get this part right.

and then he does it. bucky presses a chaste kiss to the fabric of your panties, lips pressing into the fabric with a delicious pressure. his tongue darts out of his mouth as he licks a long, slow strip across your clothed pussy, soaking what little fabric there is covering you with his saliva and your slick.

you bite down on your hand and he groans at the taste, eyes flicking from your face to the soaked fabric. he reaches forwards, hooking a finger around it and tugging it to the side, and you instinctively clench at the knowledge that you're practically laid out for him and on full display. he's so close that you can feel his breath fanning over your cunt, and you don't think you'd trade this feeling for anything in the world.

he leans in and presses a kiss to your inner thigh before he licks a slow wet stripe from the bottom of your leaking pussy right to your clit.

you let out a moan, biting down on your finger until it burns, but he reaches up and pulls your hand from your mouth. he interlocks his fingers with yours and places your hands firmly against your hips.

"don't be shy, baby." he murmurs into your cunt, not bothering to come up to make sure you can hear it. "wanna hear every noise you make."

he leans in again and laps at what he can, his nose nudging against your swollen clit every time he tries to stick his tongue further into you. you're not sure if you're the one grinding down on his face or if he's doing it himself, but his tongue pokes through your entrance and you find yourself hooking your other leg over his shoulder and holding him there, and bucky gladly accepts his fate.

his tongue plunges in and out of you, pulling away ever so often to suck on the soft skin of your folds. the ball of heat in your stomach in your stomach is so close to snapping and bucky can tell. he lets go of your hand and slides two thick fingers inside of you, pushing until he brushes up against the spongy spot that makes you curl into his touch, and you can't help but slide your fingers through his hair and tugging at the salt and pepper strands.

he continues the rhythm until your legs are clamping around his head and he tastes the sweetness that leaks from your heat.

"fuck—" you cry, your brain fuzzy and your body hot with arousal, "bucky, i'm gonna—"

but just as you're about to spill all over his face, he pulls away. you gasp, your legs instinctively try to tighten around his head to pull him closer, but bucky's stronger. he pries your legs open like it comes naturally to him and rises until he's on his knees.

and then he reaches for his belt buckle. the noise is startling, but it also brings a flurry of butterflies through you. the band of his underwear peeks from his jeans and you can't help but stare up at him as he pulls his belt from his jeans. his eyes bore into yours as he undoes his jeans and slides them down like he knows he's torturing you.

bucky's thumbs slide under the waistband of his underwear and he slides them down, his cock springing out and hits his stomach, the head all flushed and leaking and begging to stretch you open.

his eagerness is barely hidden in the way his hands are back on you, calloused palms running up your sides and cupping your breasts. the blunt tip of his cock presses against your entrance, sliding past your folds and resting there as he leans down for another messy kiss, but you stop him.

"wait, bucky—" you whisper against his lips, hands flat against his chest. you push him away with little resistance. you can feel his breath against your face, and the worry on his face sends a pang of guilt through you.

"am i hurtin' you?" he murmurs with furrowed brows.

youre quick to shake your head. "no, i'm okay, i just... you still don't know my name. you still don't know my name and we're about to—"

bucky's hand slides up from your breast and cups your cheek, his thumb running against your bottom lip. "you don't have to tell me it if you don't want to, princess."

your head shakes the slightest bit, "but if we're gonna do this, i want to tell you."

so you do. your name falls from your lips like a secret you're whispering to him in the dark, and bucky repeats it back to you with such reverence that you've never experienced before, and you find that you never want him to stop saying it.

you lean forwards and kiss him. the kiss is slower than the others you'd shared, and bucky groans into your mouth as he finally pushes into you. the stretch burns, but your hips push against him despite the pain because he feels just like safety.

his cock drags against your soft walls, every second feeling like pure heaven. every sound that slips from your lips is swallowed by bucky and echoed back into your mouth, a chorus of moans and heavy breathes that never seems to end.

he bottoms out with a low groan before he grinds against you like he can't get enough of how you feel, but before you can beg for him to start moving, he pulls out and rams back into you. a yelp jumps out of you, but you try to hold it back.

"be loud, sweetheart. i wanna hear those pretty moans."

"trevor's still— fuck— trevor's still here."

a breathy scoff spills from bucky's mouth, and the shit eating grin that he wears on his face tells you he couldn't care less. "let him hear. the only time that lowlife's gonna get any action is when he hears how good i fuck you."

then bucky's thrusts get harder and sloppier. his chest presses against yours with a welcomed weight, dragging out all of the pathetic bodies you'd been trying to hold back, and your nails dig into the rough skin of his back to try and make them stop. you're embarrassed. your eyes fall shut in a daze, but a growl stops you.

"no, look at me." bucky huffs out, hands coming to grab you by the jaw and redirect your eyes. his thumb digs into your cheek. "look at me, princess. want you to see who's fuckin' you better than that pathetic boyfriend of yours ever could."

and god, you can't do anything but obey. you practically fall limp in his arms as he looks into your eyes and fucks you, every thrust bringing you closer and closer to where bucky wants you. he's brushing against your walls and pressing into spots that you didn't know where there and dragging noises out of you that you didn't know you could make. your name falls from bucky's mouth like he's a sinner begging for forgiveness, like he's been promised that your name is all he needs to be pure again.

all you feel is warm. bucky's skin as your nails carve your presence into his back, your insides as he fucks you better than your stupid boyfriend ever could, your heart as you pull yourself closer to him with every bit of your being— everything is so perfect.

the noise the fills the dingy motel room is wet and filthy, the stickiness between you building, and with a few final thrusts, you cum with a loud moan, and bucky follows soon after, his head tucked into your neck as he fucks his seed into you with a groan.

you're trembling, every small movement wringing out the aftershocks of your orgasm. bucky pulls his head out of your neck and places a chaste kiss to the soft skin below your ear.

"took me so good, baby. just perfect for me," he murmurs.

bucky pulls out of you with a soft breath. his thumb swipes at the liquid that leaks from your weeping cunt before he brings it to his mouth without a second thought, his lips closing around the digit with a soft hum. his thumb pops out of his mouth and he lays beside you, quick to make sure you're tucked into his side, your body pressed against his perfectly like you'd both been shaped from the same mould. your head falls to his chest, a soft tired sigh escaping you.

a while passes. there's no noise coming from the outside world anymore— no cars or trucks, no planes overheard, no game show playing on full volume coming from trevor's office. you're not sure how long it's been quite for, but you know for a fact that the only thing that could've been heard for miles was your moans.

the bedside table lamp buzzes. bucky's heart beats steadily in his chest. there's the faint call of a coyote, and then another, and then silence. it's the kind of quiet that only happens when you're sure everything will be already.

but of course, nothing stays perfect forever. doubt creeps into your mind like a parasite and feasts on the security you feel. bucky is a stranger and you are just another girl. who's to say he won't just abandon you at this motel and leave you for another sketchy trucker to pick up?

"bucky?" you whisper into the silence, unsure if he's awake or if he's simply staring off into space just as you are. your fingers run through the wispy hair on his chest as you try to anchor yourself, but the wave in your tone gives you away.

"hmm?" he hums, his head tilting just slightly towards you.

"can i ask you something?"

"of course, sweetheart."

"this is probably too much to ask, and you can say no if you want." you hesitate. "but can i come with you? to california, at least. and you don't have to say yes, because i know it's sort of your thing to travel alone and everything, but—"

"i was just inside of you, sweetheart. i don't do that with just anybody. thought it was already a given that i'd be takin' you."

you shrug. "you might've changed your mind."

there's a soft silence until bucky shifts. his hand slides up the back of your next and his fingers glide through your hair. you prop your chin up until you're looking straight at him, eyes flicking between his as you await his answer.

"i'd take you around the world if you asked me to." he says.

your breath falls short, replaced by a smile that makes its way onto your face before you can stop it. "thank you, bucky."

"'course." bucky meets you with a similar smile. "now get some sleep. we've got a long drive ahead of us."

morning arrives faster than you'd like. the truck is packed, your duffel bag sitting snugly on the floor of the passenger seat, and the engine rumbles steadily outside in the texan sun. the familiar sputtering and mechanical sounds that had plagued it for days before was finally gone, and you couldn't wait to get the fuck out of this place.

"checking out." you announce as you place both yours and bucky's room keys onto the counter. the metal clatters against the counter, echoing in the silence of the office.

trevor looks up from the magazine in his lap and stops chewing on his piece of strawberry gum, eyebrows lifting from the keys to you, then towards bucky, who stands behind you with his arms crossed.

"hm." trevor sniffs. he eyes the two of you like you'd dropped a suspicious package right in front of him before he puts his magazine down and stands up. "didn't think you'd get your truck fixed. thought you two were never gonna leave."

"tempting." bucky replies dryly.

"right. you're all set. safe travels, sir." trevor grabs the keys from the counter and holds them in his hands for a second before he nods towards you. "you too, sugar."

the word spills from his mouth like he knows it'll be the last time he can piss you off before you disappear into the desert like all of the other visitors. you want to walk away— it's the responsible thing to do— but you're already on the run, so what's the harm?

you pull your fist back and slam it directly into trevor's face. a loud crack fills the office as he yells, his hands flying to his fac to figure out what damage you'd done. red seeps through his bony fingers and curses spill from his mouth, the man too preoccupied with his broken nose to notice that you and bucky are already leaving.

the last thing you hear is "you fuckin' bitch! you'll pay for—" before the office door shuts. his yelling is drowned out by the glass, and even if you could understand what he was yelling, you really couldn't care less.

bucky steps forwards with a smug smile. he reaches up and opens the truck door for you, a hand extended. "you feel better?"

"a little." you sigh, your hand in his as he helps you climb up the steps and hop into the passenger seat. "would've been better if i knocked out a few of his teeth."

"i could go back in there and bring back a few of 'em." bucky suggests with a grin, though you're not entirely convinced he's joking.

you shake your head, "nah, he can keep them. i'm sure i'm not the first person to hit him and i definitely won't be the last. they'll need something to aim for."

bucky sucks in a sharp breath with a playful shake of his head. "i think spending time with lil old me turned you into a monster."

you roll your eyes. "i shot my boyfriend, fled my homestate, and ran from the cops, bucky. i was a monster before you even pulled into this parking lot."

he hums, "touché."

the passenger door shuts behind you. bucky circles the truck and hops into his seat. the truck rolls forward, tires squealing as the vehicle veers into the road and takes off, and for the first time in a while, you finally know where you're going. your final destination? california.

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