the boss… (pt. 1)
Moving to New York City from your small town of Paris, Tennessee was not an easy task. But as a young detective assistant directly graduated from your local police academy, you didn’t expect anything to be handed to you. You had to take.
When you get hired to assist a mysterious, tall, and ruggedly handsome detective named James Barnes, you expect to be taught the basics of the field. What you didn’t expect was to be thrown into active combat, pushed to your limits, and given morally gray choices within the first 24 hours on the job.
You definitely didn’t expect to grow feelings for him.
This job wasn’t predictable. It was adapt, or die. It doesn’t help that you have a rising suspicion that your boss isn’t as clean of a man as he came across on paperwork.
Will you survive? It’s been up to him from the start.
AU!Detective!BuckyBarnes x Assistant!Fem!Reader
Chapter Warnings: Swearing, Sexism, Power Imbalance, Mention of Abuse, Drinking, Readers Parents are Asses, Bucky talks about his dead sister.
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“Mama, if that's movin' up
Then I'm movin' out”
0:00 ───|────── 0:00
You throw the last duffel in your ‘72 Chevy and climb in the vehicle, slamming the door behind you. Who could blame you? You were eager to get out of this hellhole.
You jam the button on your dash and blast the radio real loud, serving as a final “fuck you” to your deadbeat folks.
Swerving the truck wheels all the more intentionally and speeding out of the ranch where bruised knees and scraped shins were once your normal, you set off toward your future destination.
Brooklyn, NYC.
Fuck yeah.
Letting your hair out of the tight high pony you were used to in field training, you feel the golden strands whip at your skin.
They faintly remind you of every reason you left.
Nights where you were the sole sober person in the house. Plates knocking off shelves and burnt Mac’n’cheese in the microwave oven.
The wooden spoon, which used to beat you silly as a child for saying a word you’d heard at your public school, abandoned in a dirty pot.
A faint smell of weed and regret that wafted through every inch of the small house attached to the farm. A broken window being the only source of fresh air around.
The smell of weed had always made you cringe, shuddering as you helped your parents countless times into bed. Your pa, tired from working his ass off in the field, so drunk he couldn’t stand.
And your ma, the ungrateful bitch who harped on his every last move, pulling a roll of god knows what from her lips, and tucking her in on the pullout couch.
The burn on your hands from learning to feed your family at a young age, and the scars on your back from the times you’d screwed up and they’d remind you.
Yeah.
That life was less than satisfactory.
Despite several attempts to convince your daddy to get ma in rehab. It never led to anything. He’d cuss, saying, “All she’s tired of is me, and your goddamn attitude. You were always a fuckin’ mistake.”
You’d sigh, swallowing the hurt, pat his back, and retire to your shoebox of a bedroom. There, you’d lay on your twin bed and dream of better days.
Days that consisted of helping kids like you out of this situation. Saving them from the looks of peers as they smelt the whiskey and weed on their clothes when they passed them in the halls of high school and snickered.
Save some little girl the embarrassment of not wanting to bring her boyfriend home to meet her parents.
Yes, that was why you chose police academy over college. That was why you worked your ass off every night, a black coffee with two sugars and a stir against stacks of homework.
That’s why you chewed to the bone to create a life of service to those children. To the future ‘you’s.’
You’d graduated top of your class, damn right you had. The only female to do it. With a cleaner record than most. No nights of drinking with students that led to bad decisions. No docked off points from exhaustion that seeped into you like a shadow.
No rising to the top from one night stands with teachers double your age.
Something you were justly proud of though, was your shot log. You were a good aim. Barely missed the mark for the head on your first try, which earned you a chuckle and a “you’ll get there, girl.” Which obviously pissed you off.
You were one of the only girls signed up for your program, after all.
You’d trained yourself, picking up a used revolver from the pawn store the summer of your 21st, and shootin’ in the yard until your neighbors were convinced you’d killed every bird, mouse, and groundhog in the county.
Not that your parents had minded, they were either out cold, or too interested in biting each others heads off.
God they were not happy in marriage.
Another thing that rubbed off on you. Love was just conditional. You hadn’t had a single good experience with love. Being a raised by two selfish people didn’t help. But neither did the pickings at your police academy.
A bunch of rednecked assholes who wanted nothing more than a badge to supply themselves with their own self righteous glory. Feeding their agenda just like their beaten down wives would one day.
But not you.
So every time you were hit on, you’d give them your best “fuck off” look and ignore ‘em.
Most of the time they’d get the hint, call you a cunt or bitch and move on, causing you to smirk.
But every once in a while they’d push, causing you to show them why they shouldn’t mess with you.
That was why you weren’t welcome at most bars in town now. Chalked up to your pure record of beating the drunken fools who tried anything with young girls.
You didn’t care, it felt good.
However, it didn’t look so good on a resume.
So when you first got the call from the job scout you’d hired, about a promising assistantship in NYC, you were certain it wasn’t gonna be yours.
Cathy linked you up with a blonde named Steve Rogers, apparently the second hand of whoever this James Barnes man was. Steve had been kind, and you hadn’t heard any tint of mocking in his tone when he found out you were a woman detectives assistant.
Now that was a man you could fuck.
He’d been nice enough to interview you over zoom, telling you that Barnes had entrusted him with the job of finding him a new assistant. The last had cursed the city after moving, not ready to handle the shit that NYC had to offer.
Steve had honestly warned you against the position, letting you know that he thought you were perfect, but also letting you know it wasn’t the same up north. He’d monologued on about the kind of people you’d come in contact with, trying to shake you.
But you’d initially been interested in the location most, a far enough distance to forget the absolute dogshit place you’d been raised.
You had nothing against Tennessee, no, but the people you’d come in contact with had given you plenty of reasons to leave this place behind.
Steve also mentioned the fact that Barnes, to put it quite plainly, could be a real asshole. Warning you that he was real old fashioned, and might challenge you to the breaking point. He’d never had a female assistant.
That only encouraged you further, telling Steve that you were 100% in, and would be there as soon as you could.
The job paid well, offering you help on finding some housing in Brooklyn, and Steve offered to help you move in, mentioning that the apartment you’d chosen was a couple of blocks from his. He’d mentioned that his fiancé, Natasha, would love you.
He gave you her number, and sent you paperwork in the mail, reminding you to bring it filled out when you moved up.
Being generous as ever, he sent you some money to get a better laptop, laughing and saying that, “it’s just a welcome gift, plus the camera is shit on yours.”
God you hoped there were more of him. Maybe a twin brother?
You smile to yourself and crank the window back up, passing the rickety “Paris, Tennessee” sign. You pull out a camel and light it, taking a drag, and sighing back out your old life.
To new beginnings.
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You pull off at a rest stop in Virginia, letting the wheels screech to a stop and hop out. Buying a coke and candy bar from a vending machine, and using the restroom, you stretch your legs and take out your phone.
You hit the call button on Nat’s number, who you’d been in regular contact with since Steve gave it to you.
She was amazing, red-headed and pretty enough to kill. When you’d followed her on Instagram, she seemed like the perfect person to get you into a load of trouble, and then carry you through the mess you made.
She was a party coordinator, and a very successful one at that. Natasha had obviously worked with some big names, as she was verified on Instagram, and tagged in hundreds of posts. The most notable being the inventor Tony Stark, whose face you’d gawked at.
Nat had followed you back on insta almost immediately, stalking your profile and dming you, calling you the “cutest country girl she’d seen.”
She soon asked you about your love life, seemingly ready to take over and find you a future husband. You’d laughed, and told her all the highly forgettable stories of one night stands and drunkard exes.
That was Natasha, kind, fierce, and loyal to a tee.
She answered after a few rings, and her familiar low voice exclaimed, “Hey bitch, you almost here already?”
You laugh, biting your lip and shaking your head in amusement.
“Honey I’m stopped in Virginia, needed some fuel and a break from sitting in the Chevy for hours on end.”
Nat curses and sighs, telling you to hurry because she wants to meet you in person finally. You’re crashing on their couch for the night and moving into your apartment the next day, starting work that night.
You liked the fact that your hours would be later, you would much rather work in the evening than early in the morning and besides, it would be much more effective in the big city.
The contact for your new boss that Steve had given you stared back at you as your thumb hovered over the message button. You’d already sent James a text, basically stating that you were excited to work with him in the future, and asking how he took his coffee.
After all, what was an assistant without a cup of coffee for their boss in hand?
He never replied.
Yeah, this was not going to be the most pleasant interaction at first. You grumbled to yourself at the thought of trying to impress him.
He probably thought you were some stuck up country girl, who was too innocent for the city.
Your jaw clicked into a familiar tension. Whatever, so your boss wasn’t going to be the nicest man alive. At least you already had two friends in the city who you trusted to take care of you.
That was enough for you. More friends than you’d ever had.
You climb back into your truck and silently wish for the drive to be quick. You hated driving long distance, you’d much rather prefer to sit in the passenger seat. Not that you ever had. You didn’t trust anyone enough to drive you around.
The forced independence you grew familiar with left an ache of comfort you never knew. Your feelings of loneliness and pain that had never been tapped into by a friend, a lover, or family, had an iron grip on your emotions.
It became bearable after time, but the small twinge of want you had buried deep under daddy issues, abandonment, and shame too hidden to trace, still rattled you.
Every once in a while, a comment from a male instructor on your paper, a compliment from a bartender, would cause you to feel.
The feeling of being seen would warm you like the fireplace at Christmas. It felt good to be wanted.
But you kept that hidden, for someone worthy of it.
The right man.
You hadn’t met him yet, and you had a feeling it would be a while until you did.
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The lights of the city welcomed you with a blare of shine. It promised new memories, new regrets. You wanted everything this city had to offer; you were certain of it.
You follow Google Maps instructions to the address Nat had provided you with, admiring all the new sights, and chuckling at the familiar smell of weed.
That would always surround you, it seemed.
When you reach the lane of their apartment, you check your watch. It was well past 11:00 pm, well damn it. You hadn't meant to keep the couple up, but it was a long drive. You pull to a stop, park, and grab your overnight duffel from its place in the passenger seat.
Leaving the Chevy, making sure to lock it twice for safe measure, and double-checking the tarp that covered your truck-bed, you timidly paddle up the stairs of a huge building.
You pull out your phone and call Nat, glancing around the street for any sign of unrest. It was quiet.
They must live in a nice part of town.
Nat answers, and you listen for a sleepy timbre in her voice, but you find none, you tell her that you're downstairs.
"Hon, take the elevator inside to the top, we own the floor." You gape, wow, yeah, they were doing well financially.
Following her instructions, you sling the duffel over your shoulder and step inside. The hall is neat, a beige wallpaper with minimalistic design lines the interior. There are several tables with vases that look more expensive than all of your life savings put in one. You see a sign that reads "elevator" and approach it, mindful of every valuable around you in the narrow space.
You press the button for the top, and patiently await for the doors to close, leaving you in a peaceful silence. Thinking of the best way to introduce yourself, you mindlessly fidget at the bangle on your wrist.
One of the only things from home you brought. A gift from your mother, back when she was sober. It had been wrapped in a candy cane box, the words "love ma" scribbled on the tag with a Sharpie. You actually loved one gift from her. That was it.
The elevator dings, and the doors open into a luxurious apartment. Nat and Steve stand by their couch, obviously waiting for you, wide smiles on their faces, and a bottle of champagne in Steve's hand.
They both welcome you with a big hug, gushing about how anxious they've been to meet you. Nat squeezes you in a comforting way, and it warms your heart just a bit more.
"So Y/n, you must be exhausted from the drive, here, let me take that," Steve offers as he sets the bottle down on a table, ushering his hand for your bag.
"Thank you." You hand it to him, and Nat invites you to sit on the couch. It's plush, and more comfortable than any bed you've laid on before. You gasp at how soft it is, and run a hand over the material.
"I don't know what this is made of, but I want all my clothes to be remade in it."
Natasha laughs, "Oh honey, just wait until you see the guest room."
You gape, "Guest room? Nat, I can take the couch, honestly!" She laughs, shaking her head. You really had no idea they even had the space for a guest room. It didn’t surprise you though.
I guess owning the floor comes with multiple rooms.
“Come on, let’s get you in for the night. We’ll drink champagne tomorrow.” She says, standing and lending a hand to help you off the couch.
You take it, and follow her down the hallway. Steve is in your guest room, he’s set the duffel down and is checking to make sure everything’s “perfect.”
The room is spacious, a canopy bed with a beautiful view outside onto the streets of Brooklyn. You gaze at the dressers, and the tv which is mounted against the wall by the bathroom door. Each bedside table has a mid-century modern lamp, which is painted the same shade as the design of the wallpaper.
It was absolutely gorgeous. Nothing you were used to.
“Guys, this is literally the nicest place I will have ever slept in my life. So thank you.” You gush, talking with your hands wildly.
Steve gives Nat a look. The way you spoke and your eyes lit up. It reminded him of a boy he knew a long time ago. A boy who was buried underneath mountains of pain.
She’s gonna be perfect for Buck.
Nat smiles to herself, knowingly.
You ramble on, thanking them within an inch of your life, gawking at the bedroom, before Natasha finally interrupts, “Alright hon, you need sleep. You can name your first kid after me, how about that?”
You laugh, nodding and finally relenting on your praise.
They leave you to it, letting you have some place and alone time. You hug Nat and she wishes you sweet dreams, “Big day tomorrow!” She calls.
A big day indeed. Life changing.
You take out your laptop, phone charger, and a change of clothes from your duffel. You walk to the door of the bathroom and take a deep breath.
I can’t even imagine what this looks like.
The bathroom is huge, there are two sinks, a sunken-in tub, a shower, a toilet, and a linen closet. Lord have mercy, you think as you change into a t-shirt and athletic shorts. You always slept in the clothes you woke up to take a run in, it was more convenient that way.
Police academy always taught you not to waste your time. Every second was vital, and you had to take advantage of that. The minute you let your guard down, you falter, you get shot in the chest. You die a hero. You die. You stare and the marble of the counter as you fidget with your hair, thinking.
You blink slowly as everything else falls away.
You’re back in your bedroom, the crash in the kitchen wakes you up. You scramble, just to see your mother, lifeless on the floor.
You scream.
You shake the thoughts away, brushing off your faithful fear of death that came from years of waking up your parents from drunken episodes. You admire the room around you instead.
They had just about everything you could ever want in a bathroom.
You get your bathroom bag from your duffel as well, and pull out your toothbrush. As you brush your teeth, you hum along to an Elton John song that’s been stuck in your head. You sway your hips innocently to the music.
The door of your bathroom lays ajar into the bedroom, and a dark figure watches you, frozen. He blinks slowly, taking in a weary breath.
Who the fuck were you?
His eyes were bleary from the extra strength vodka he’d downed about thirty minutes earlier. He rubs a hand across his forehead, and presses his thumb and forefinger into the creases of his strained expression by his eyebrows.
He was just gonna crash at Steve’s place since he was in the area, and make himself presentable in the morning. It was Becca’s birthday, he’d made the mistake of walking into a bar. He had one too many, and Steve’s place was the closest. He didn’t know they had a house guest in the room he normally stayed in.
He rubbed his hand down the trimmed beard on his chin as he watched you play electric guitar with your left hand, and he felt like throwing up. Your toothbrush hung between pasted lips, soft and pink. Your face was squinted with prideful effort as you committed fully to whatever music was being hummed poorly through the saliva and mouthwash.
The joy of your smile reminded him of Bec. His head pounded, not today, not now. Not on this day.
Bucky’s eyes widened as he reached an understanding of who you were.
The innocent, feminine text. The coffee order question. Your unexpected stay.
Steve had warned him that his new assistant would be different this time. He figured they’d be stronger, hopefully, more competent. Steve didn’t give him details.
Don’t fucking tell me that Steve got me a doll to be my assistant. Goddamn punk.
He sighed silently at the sight of you, god you were gorgeous. But pretty girls didn’t belong in the field. He’d have to fire you, and fast.
Bucky couldn’t let himself get caught up with an assistant of all people. Not someone who reminded him in just the right ways of the girl he cared about the most, his baby sis.
Love was careless, sex was control. Bucky reminded himself of this daily.
Bucky left his heart in the 40’s. He didn’t miss it this much.
I’ve gotta get out of here, Becca.
His head spun with the Vodka, causing him to stumble on his feet. He knocked the lamp, shooting out a hand to catch it.
But the damage had already been done. You spun around, facing the man before you and his eyes widened.
“Aww, fuck. I’m sorry. I don’t mean any harm… I’m a… fuck I’m tired.” He slurs, his own weight becoming harder to hold up. You were so beautiful, timid and scared.
His heart couldn’t take many more emotions tonight.
You watch him with wild but calculated eyes, flickering between him and the table. And your bed.
You spit the paste out of your mouth quickly and throw down the toothbrush.
“And how do you know Steve?” You question, taking a bold pace towards the big man. In the light of the city, you could see his eyes.
They were the deepest blue you’d ever seen in person, they reminded you of a textbook you’d read with a picture of the ocean in it.
His waves reflected the waves of the water. Every push, every pull. They drew you into the rest of his features.
Your face softened. He was beautiful. Handsome and rugged, the kind you only see in some fucked up fairytale. It was obvious that he was drunk with the way he hiccuped slightly, his eyes glazed over with intoxication.
But damn, they were striking.
His face was sharp, slightly pulled tight with years of stress and exhaustion. This was a man who had seen some serious shit in his time. Seen some serious shit tonight, or at least been reminded of it.
But it did nothing to his attractiveness.
That, that would be hard to erase. Your heart thrummed a little louder as he met your eyes again. So blue.
“I’m sorry… Steve’s my coworker and best bud… I’m not like this, not normally. But Becca, fuck, it’s fucking her birthday again. God I walked into a bar. They had the good stuff, and I– .”
He pulled at the leather of his jacket, dropping it to the floor and stumbling confused. He looked down at his long sleeve shirt, and he panicked.
His voice broke as a wretched sob escaped from his lips. Whatever he’d taken was strong enough to bring his emotions to the surface of the seemingly hard shell he hid behind. His face drew together in a pitiful twinge of discomfort.
The man had been brought to his lowest tonight, and you felt the weight of his grief in his weary voice. In every drag of his wobbly feet.
You approached him slowly, “Hey, it’s, it’s alright. Here,” you say, patting the bed and brushing a hand to his left shoulder. It was rock solid, and you figured that he definitely had some steel implant of some type by just the touch.
He flinched, but gazed at his hands, he had gloves on. Bucky sighed, and sat down.
His body creaked the bed, and he crashed his head into the palms of his hands as he cried deeper, louder.
It hurt you, not because you felt his pain, but because you saw the familiar feeling of guilt in every sob.
Whoever this girl was, she’d been gone a long time, and the pain was never ending.
What a poor man. It must’ve been his wife.
You leave your hand on his shoulder, this man was a fellow police officer, what if he got hurt on the job? You feel the unnatural texture of his muscles beneath his cotton shirt. The possibility of a metal disk being placed in his arm? Damn.
You silently respected him all the more.
He continued to cry, slowly quieting down, the sobs reduced to subtle shakes. The tears dried against his hands. He stilled.
You watched him slump more and more with sleepiness, so you encouraged him down. You cradled his head as it hit the pillow and helped him lug his strong legs up to the mattress.
You were helping a man into bed who didn’t want to sleep with you.
He didn’t pull at your clothing and curse at you.
The man seemed more than content with you just tucking him in.
This is was odd.
You smile softly.
You let him fill the bed with his body, he laid atop the clean sheets and you found a blanket in the linen closet to cover him with. He sighed, and his eyes blinked slower.
You left the bathroom light on, but cracked the door just barely, letting only a streak of light into the room as you pulled each curtain of the window.
You could take the couch, this stranger obviously needed rest more than you.
Walking to the kitchen, you find a glass and fill it with water. You set it on the bedside table beside him, as well as two of your personal pain pills.
When you turn to leave, a rough leather glove wraps around your wrist, making you turn quickly.
Bucky hiccups quietly, “Thank you, Doll.”
Doll.
Doll.
Not bitch.
Your heart pounds, “Of course, now sleep please, let me know if you need anything, sweetheart.” Your hand raises to his forehead and you trace a familiar pattern of comfort you gave each animal on the farm. It calmed them. It worked on him too.
The creases of stress smudge back into thin, unnoticeable lines.
He watches your eyes, they gaze back on him with a restrained care. Careful but real. His heart skips a steady beat and Bucky gulps.
You sigh, and rise back up, heading for the couch. He watches you leave. He doesn’t want you too.
I’m so fucked.
Bucky leaned his head back onto the plush pillow and groaned.
Fucking idiot.
Tomorrow he couldn’t let you see him like this. Not again. This was the closest he could come to something real.
Because Bucky Barnes wouldn’t open his heart again if it was pried by metal. He’d lost too much to do it all over again.
He’d make you hate him, even if it killed him inside.
Damn this.
a/n: thank you so so so much for reading. i hope you enjoyed! there is so much in store! also- to my faithful love confession fans- more coming this week ❤️
dm or comment if you want to be added to a taglist.
listen to “I’m Moving Out (Anthony’s song)” by Billy Joel
