$ log - bucky barnes has been reading a book on how to be a person again. you are sick, stubborn, and about to become a case study in chapter six!
$ warn --sfw --gn!reader --workaholic!reader --soft!bucky --he-just-wants-to-help --he-made-soup
$ wc w 1.5k
$ cd masterlist
Bucky read The Hobbit when it came out. He was twenty, working the docks, and he'd bought it second-hand three weeks after publication because the cover looked interesting and he'd always liked a good map. He told Sam this once, casually, in the middle of something else entirely.
Sam had said: how do you know about Gandalf?
Bucky had looked at him. I read the Hobbit. In 1937. When it first came out.
He still reads. That part hadn't needed relearning — it was in there from the start, underneath everything, waiting. Paperbacks mostly, or small enough for a jacket pocket. He goes through them fast and doesn't make a big thing of it. Just turns up with a new one every few days, exchanges it for another at the library two stops from the compound using a card Sam helped him register for.
How to Be Here: A Practical Guide to Reconnecting by one R. Guile is not his usual genre, but he'd found it on the common room shelf with no name in it.
He read the first chapter standing up, and taken it to his room without discussion. He annotates in pencil. He's tabbed twelve pages. He takes Mr. Guile seriously, like completely serious.
Currently, he's working through Chapter 6: Recognising When Someone Needs Care.
He clocks you on a Tuesday at half two in the afternoon.
He's in the armchair by the window — good sightlines, old habit — and you're at the table with a datapad and a posture that has been declining for the better part of an hour. He'd noted it without categorising it at first, the way you note weather. Then you reached for your coffee and your hand had a slight lag to it, and he looked properly.
The sway. You keep listing two degrees left and correcting before it gets anywhere. Page 92 has a diagram he'd thought was overly literal at the time. It is not overly literal.
He closes the book on his thumb, gets up, and crosses the room.
"You are sick," he says.
Not a question, more like a field assessment.
"A little," you say, which he takes as a confirmation. "Don't worry about it, I can —"
"You should be resting."
"I will. Once I finish this section."
He looks at the section, then at that stubborn look of yours. He consults Mr. Guile.
"Would you like chamomile tea or masala chai?"
You blink. "What?"
"I think the chai is better." He finds the line. "Warmth should feel intentional, not incidental." He looks up. "Chamomile is more incidental."
"Says who?"
"Says Mr. Guile." He says it the way someone says says the manual — simply, as information. He's already turning toward the kitchen. "I'll make both."
"You don't have to make —"
But he's already gone.
You're not entirely sure how it happened.
One moment you're at the table, fully intending to finish the brief. Then there's a blanket around your shoulders. It’s the big fluffy throw from the back of the couch, Wanda's, unmoved for four months. You're on the couch with two mugs are on the coffee table in front of you.
Chamomile on the left. Masala chai on the right, steaming.
"I started the chai first," Bucky says, from the kitchen doorway. "Because it takes longer. So they'd finish at the same time."
You open your mouth, but close it when he disappears again. Something smells like stock.
You look at the mugs. You look at the blanket, which is tucked around you with a thoroughness that suggests it was not casually draped. You look at your hands, which are not holding a datapad. This is already a problem you don't know how to address from inside a throw blanket.
He comes back with a bowl, sets it on the table, sits in the armchair across from you, and then goes still.
You watch him look at the soup, your bundled self in the blanket, and then your arms. Oh. Look at the blanket. He does the geometry.
He reaches for the book — pages to a section and reads it twice, lips moving slightly.
Then he picks up the spoon, fills it, and holds it out with the steady focus of someone who has decided on a course of action and wil be seeing it through.
You stare at him.
"Chapter 6," he says. "Section 4. Helping the cared person manage themselves when independent movement is restricted." A pause. "You can't really get your arms out."
"I could get my arms out."
"You'd lose the warmth." He says it plainly. "Sustained warmth is essential to the recovery environment." The spoon is still extended, patient. "Mr. Guile is pretty clear on this."
You look at the spoon. You open your mouth.
His face does nothing, which you're learning is how Bucky looks when something has gone the way he hoped.
The paracetamol kicks in somewhere around the second bowl.
You'd told Bucky the soup was good.
He'd said I know, not with arrogance, just as a fact — he'd checked the recipe three times.
Then your eyelids had started going. You'd said his arm looked like a good place to put your head, which wasn't the most coherent sentence you'd ever produced. He'd said okay before fully processing it, and now you're out cold against his left shoulder.
He hasn't moved in thirty-seven minutes.
Your head is on the metal arm, cheek against the seam where the plates meet. Before you went under you'd said the coolness was refreshing, which he is still turning over. He looks at the arm the way he sometimes does when he forgets to not look at it — cataloguing. The weight of it, and the horrendous history of it. All the particular cruel uses it's been put to.
And then your breathing evens out completely, and you make a small sound that isn't quite a sigh. Your head gets heavier against the metal, and he looks away.
He picks up the book. Chapter 7: Giving People Space Without Disappearing Entirely.
He reads the same page twice. The third time it goes in. He turns it, careful not to shift his shoulder, and keeps going.
Common room, approximately four minutes later
Sam has a photo. He took it from the doorway and has been studying it on his phone with the quiet reverence of a man holding evidence of something he wasn't sure he'd live to see.
The composition is, objectively, a lot: Bucky Barnes, straight-backed, stone-faced, reading a self-help book with his metal arm operating as a headrest for the one person in this compound who had previously survived every intervention anyone had attempted.
Steve had tried asking, back in February. Straightforward, sincere, the full concerned-captain approach. You'd thanked him and kept working.
Sam had tried the peer angle, the hey I'm also tired let's both take a break angle. Clint had once faked a rolled ankle specifically to redirect your attention and you'd called the medic yourself and filed an incident report.
Natasha had silently placed herbal tea near your workstation three times over two weeks. You'd drunk all of it without ever technically agreeing to anything, and kept working through each cup.
Bucky read a book and made soup before he knew for certain you'd need it. And is now a piece of furniture.
"He started the chai first," Steve says. He'd been in the kitchen. He'd watched the whole tea operation without intervening because he hadn't known what he was watching until it was done. "Because it takes longer. So they'd both be ready at the same time."
Sam looks up from his phone. "He planned the timing."
"He planned the timing."
A beat.
"I've been trying to get them to rest since February," Steve says.
"I know."
"I used the captain voice."
"I know, Steve."
"Bucky used a book."
Sam puts his phone in his pocket. From the common room, the particular quality of silence that means someone is asleep drifts through the doorway.
Natasha hasn't said anything. She's been leaning against the counter for the past six minutes, coffee in hand, watching Steve process this in real time, and she finds it extremely interesting.
"Chapter 6," she says.
Steve turns. "What?"
"That's the chapter. Recognising When Someone Needs Care." A sip of coffee. "He told me about the book last week. He was very enthusiastic about the soup section."
"He highlighted it," Steve says, slowly, because he'd seen the book on Bucky's side table and the pencil marks in the margins.
"He highlighted it," Natasha confirms.
$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @froggibus
summary: bucky's first time using self checkout [firsts au]
word count: 0.3k
warnings: none, old man bucky vs technology
for @winterwontcome
bucky glares at the cash register, almost giving the poor teenage boy behind it a heart attack. you lightly hit his flesh bicep, “don’t stare buck. it’s rude.” he frowns in confusion, “i don’t understand.”
you glance at the offending machine. “well it scans the barcode then the price comes up on the screen.” you look at him curiously, “when’s the last time you went shopping, sarge?” he blushes, looking down as he pushes the cart for you. “i don’t know. the building helps me shop online.”
you smile gently, not wanting him to feel embarrassed. “well i’m glad you came with me today. how about we use the self checkout line, that way you can use the scanner yourself.” he looks at you with wide eyes. “the self checkout what?”
the self checkout line proved to be a mistake. “just scan the barcode, buck,” you instruct calmly. he frowns, gripping the milk in gloved hands. “what the hell is a barcode?” you step closer, pointing at the black and white box on the container. “right here,” you murmur, body pressed against his side. he gulps nervously. “now swipe it until the name pops up. that way we can pay for it.”
he follows your instructions, enjoying your praise- until it comes to the fruit. he looks at you in fear, gripping the bag tightly. “doll, what do i do? there’s no code thing but i want the plums.”
you giggle at his cuteness and show him how to look it up. he’s doing great until he types a wrong digit and gets frustrated, tapping the screen a little too hard in the process. you gape at the cracked glass.
“what the hell, buck? you literally use a phone everyday without breaking it!”
he pouts, looking embarrassed but also angry at the machine. “yeah well my phone never tried to keep plums from me.”
____
firsts au- a mini series about steve and bucky's adventures in the 21st century
“Where’s Dr. Y/N?” Bucky asked stepping into your office. “She’s taking a bit of leave,” the woman behind your desk said.
Her voice was raspy and she was a far cry from you. “Oh,” he said, “Do you know when she’s coming back?” The woman shrugged, “Who knows. She’s probably flaming out but eh. We’ll see.”
Bucky nodded, “I’ll just wait for Dr. Y/N,” he said, “We were talking last week about some things that I don’t really want to repeat.” He backs out of the office and shuts the door. He feels like shit. He’d been kidding. He figured he’d find some awkward flirting. Maybe a tinder profile.
He didn’t think he’d see your relationship falling apart. Your husband confessing that he didn’t love you anymore. Over text message. He wished he had your number. He wanted to check in on you, see if you were okay.
Instead, he called Steve in his room, “Hey,” he said, “you got eyes on Y/N’s place?”
“Yeah,” he said slowly, “There’s definitely something going on. Her roommate is moving out.”
“Pretty sure that’s her husband,” Bucky said after a second.
“She’s married?” Steve asked, “She doesn’t wear rings.”
“Well I mean, she’s not married much longer,” he said, explaining what happened yesterday.
“Bucky,” Steve groaned, “Jesus. Why’d you take her phone?”
Bucky sighed, “Look. I wasn’t trying to humiliate her. I just really... I figured I’d find like. Tinder dates or something. Not like. Her life falling apart. It’s not like I feel good about it.”
“Jesus Christ,” Steve said, “Did you at least apologize?”
“I tried,” he said, “she wouldn’t listen to me. Then she didn’t come to work today.”
“We’ll keep eyes on her. Keep her out of trouble,” Steve said, “It looks like we can shift focus from work to her house. We’ll send somebody to spring you tomorrow.” Bucky nodded, “Thanks,” he said, “Pretty sure I’m like... the worst person you could have sent.”
“Yeah,” Steve said, disapproval thick in his voice, “ Look, even if you like this girl that’s no excuse to forget professional boundaries.”
“I don’t like her,” he argued.
“Yeah,” Steve said, “Says you. look. She’s got you all hot and bothered and you’re acting like an ass.”
Bucky sighed, “I’m not arguing about this,” he said, “Just get me the fuck out of here.”
__________
A knock on the door makes you roll your eyes. How do the kids selling magazine subscriptions always know when it’s dinner time? “Hang on,” you say pulling on a cardigan to avoid having to wear a bra.
You lean against the door for a second and take a deep breath before opening the door.
“James?” you say, “Why are you here?”
The Brunette looming in your doorway rubs the back of his neck, “I’m... I just came to. I mean- I just,” he exhales, “I crossed a line, Doll,” he said.
“I’m not you ‘Doll’ either,” you say starting to shut the door.
He catches the door and stops it with his foot, “Y/N,” he said, “I crossed a line and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have looked at your phone. It was none of my business.”
“And it still isn’t,” you say, “Now move your foot.”
Your voice is calm but sharp. It brokers no argument and he really, really wants to argue. There’s no way you can just be this calm.
“You don’t want a friend?” he asked, trying not to argue. Trying not to push on the door and make you talk to him.
“James,” you say calmly, in the voice he’s heard you use with obstinate clients and incompetent administrators, “You’re not my friend. You’re a former client. Please move your foot.”
“Please don’t do this,” he said quietly.
“Do what?” you sigh, losing patience.
“Pretend that everything is fine,” he said, “I hurt you.”
“And you’re still fucking doing it!” you snap, “I all but told you to fuck off and you’re still standing here arguing with me. No. I don’t want a friend. Friends have been checking in all day. I want to be left the fuck alone. I want to eat dinner and watch shitty Hallmark movies where everything in happy and predictable in the end so that maybe, just maybe I can stave off feeling like a goddamn monster just long enough that I don’t slit my wrists. Now move your huge ass foot.”
You’re panting and furious, angry tears on the verge of falling. Your face is getting red, even if your voice never got any louder and Bucky can only stare.
There are markings on your skin, glowing softly red. Like embers. Markings he doesn’t know the meaning of. They look forbidding. Rough-hewn. Like they’d been carved into your flesh with a dull knife. A dull serrated knife. He wants to move his foot but he can’t. Your eyes are red too. Like the albino rabbit he saw once in a magic act.
“What. The fuck,” he breathed, “What did they do to you?”
You glance at your arm and scream in frustration. It’s primal and shrill and it makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. That does make him back up. You feel dangerous. Like someone not to be trifled with. Someone that, even as the Winter Soldier, he would be reluctant to meet. A far cry from the sweet little Doctor who made her patients feel important and organized an entire ward without breaking a sweat.
The door that swings shut in his face doesn’t drown out the next scream. He stares at the wood grain and thuds his forehead against it gently, silently resolving that he’d not go far. You might need somebody. Even if you clearly don’t want it to be him.
Author Tags: Alternate Universe, Tumblr Prompt, First Meetings, The opposite of meet-cute, Bucky swears a lot, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Dates, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Alternate Universe - Retail, Dating
Our Tags: Stucky AU, Modern AU, Retail AU, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Upper Management Steve, Beefy Steve, Retail Worker Bucky, Awkward Bucky, Embarrassed Bucky, Awkward Meetings, Humor, Fluff, the wonderful world of retail,
Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16796848
Author Summary:
AKA the "I work at a department store and if you take out and unfold a shirt and then leave it one more time I'm going to stuff it down your throat" AU
Series: Meet-Ugly (Part 2)
Review:
Okay, not gonna lie, part of the reason I loved this fic (beyond the obvious amazing-ness of the characterizations, premise, and supremely funny moments) is that I feel weirdly proud of knowing a smidge of information about retail.
I’ve never yet worked retail or in the upper level like Steve and Bucky, but I do work in the finance department for a company that has retail stores. So while handling the expense reports, things like the titles and the work that Bucky and Steve do in this fic are stuff that I actually see from time to time. (I would like to think that Bucky and Steve would be considerate and always expense on time *with* receipts even…but I digress)
I am completely in love with the various ways that Steve and Bucky end up in ‘want to dig a hole and get buried alive’ level embarrassing situations. Bucky just does not have any luck and while I feel bad about laughing at his misery, I don’t feel too bad since he does eventually end up with a pretty sweet deal (which just happens to include a large blonde gentleman). I think my favorite situation is the interview scene.
Another awesome aspect of this fic is the small bit of schadenfreude in regards to how eventually Bucky’s former employer (and his shitty manager) get what’s coming to them for how they treated him. I mean, who doesn’t love a good fic like that? Because we’ve all had that manager/employer that we think “I can’t wait to watch you fail without me here”.
Besides the humor and the quasi-relatable vibe this fic has, there’s a nice dose of sweetness and cuteness that really gives this fic some extra something that I think everyone can enjoy.
i’m thinking of a bucky fic…male or gn reader…he’s lowk jealous of readers friends/coworkers…friends to lovers…emotionally constipated bucky…👀👀👀👀👀 could possibly end nsfw up to you
He Knows Where You Live
$ log - bucky barnes believes he's truly acting normal with his crush, you, he's so nonchalant and friendly, like c'mon. you decide to bring up the big question on the quinjet, seems fitting.
$ warn --sfw --gn!reader --awkward!bucky --hes-crushing-in-his-own-way --friends-to-lovers --piloting-the-quinjet
$ wc -w 3.2k
$ cd masterlist / bucky-barnes
$ echo "omg I js knew I had to bring in awkward, crushing bucky back" > authors-note.txt
The thing about Bucky is that his face had always read as a threat assessment.
Jaw set, eyes tracking, the stillness of someone who'd spent a long time in rooms where relaxing got people killed. The team had adjusted years ago and new staff learned fast. Even, visitors found somewhere else to be.
So when he started standing in doorways with that look, nobody flagged it.
It started small, the way these things always do.
You'd been in the common room with your laptop, half-buried in a debrief report, when Torres had knocked on the doorframe — one of the junior analysts, the one with the laugh that carried.
He said something that made you look up and grin. The two of you went back and forth for a minute. Easy, familiar.
Bucky had come in for coffee and ended up standing at the machine holding his mug, not quite tracking the conversation, because he'd stopped listening somewhere around the grin.
Torres left, you went back to your laptop. Bucky looked at the wall for a moment, then drank his coffee and left.
Three days later Torres made you laugh in the hallway and Bucky, walking past, felt something grit in his back teeth. He went to the gym for an hour and came back considerably calmer and considered the matter closed.
It wasn't, mind you, it had just began.
The yoghurt happened in week two.
There was a specific brand — plain, full fat, blue lid — that Bucky had claimed by right of consistent purchase and the unspoken agreement of people who understood compound kitchen politics.
One per week with the Thursday delivery, his. Everyone knew. Clint had taken one in March and, best believe, he almost created a Civil War 2 in the damn kitchen.
Eventually, it required Steve's direct intervention.
You took the last one on a Wednesday.
He watched you do it. You were mid-conversation on the phone, reaching into the fridge on autopilot, pulled it out and put it in your bag, while walking out. Bucky stood at the counter and said nothing. He watched you go. He looked at the empty space in the fridge, then closed it.
That was the whole scene. He didn't say anything. He didn't yell or bark. He just closed the fridge and stood there for a moment doing some kind of internal accounting that didn't produce a result he recognised,. Then he made his coffee and left.
He didn't get another yoghurt that week. He kept meaning to and then not.
The armoury was week three.
You'd been running a gear check before a solo job — low stakes, couple hours — and Bucky had come in for something and ended up staying, the way he sometimes did with you.
It was easy between the two of you, had been for a while, the kind of comfortable that didn't need filling. You'd picked up his tactical knife by mistake, the one from the third shelf, and turned it over in your hand.
"That's really well balanced. What's the make?"
He told you. You nodded, interested, turned it over once more, and handed it back grip-first with the care of someone who knew what they were holding. He took it and you went back to your own kit. That was that.
Except he looked at the knife for a second after, something he wouldn't have been able to explain. You just held his knife. He weighted it in his palm. He's indirectly holding your hand, heavens abov-
When you headed out he said be careful out loud, which he didn't usually do — he usually just thought it.
"Always am," you said, over your shoulder.
He stood in the armoury after you'd gone and looked at the third shelf for longer than was strictly necessary before he remembered what he'd come in for.
The coffee settled into routine so gradually that neither of you remarked on it.
You took yours with regular milk and one sugar, whatever was hot. He'd noted it the way he noted most things — automatically, no decision made. One morning you came into the kitchen still half-asleep and there was already a mug waiting near where you usually sat. Bucky was across the room reading something and didn't look up. Nonchalant.
"That for me?"
"Mhm."
You wrapped both hands around it and made a sound that was mostly gratitude and he turned a page.
It happened the next morning, and the one after. Within a week it was simply part of the kitchen's logic, like the table being where it was, and you'd stopped questioning it. He'd stopped noticing he was doing it, which was maybe the same thing.
What he didn't know — what he had no way of knowing — was that you'd started doing your own version of it. Small things, quiet things.
You'd found out he went quiet in rooms that were too loud and started angling debrief seating without making it obvious. You'd remembered offhand that he liked the documentaries with no narration, just footage, and you'd put one on twice during late nights in the common room without announcing why. You kept track of which missions left him tired in the specific way versus the other specific way and adjusted accordingly.
You didn't think of it as anything; it was just attention. He was someone worth paying attention to.
The billboard was an accident.
They were coming back from a recon run, you in the pilot seat, Bucky reviewing kit in the co-pilot chair.
You'd banked slightly coming into the city and the skyline had opened up through the windscreen at the right angle. The Battlefront billboard on 43rd — the one with the battle sequence across the whole face of the building — caught the late light and sat there being enormous and extremely visible.
Bucky looked at it for a second too long.
"You've looked at that one before," you said.
He recalibrated. "Checking the airspace."
"It's a movie billboard."
"I'm aware of what it is."
You glanced at him sideways, then back at the instruments, and let it go. He went back to the kit check with the focused energy of someone who had not just been caught staring at a film advertisement like a kid with his face against a shop window.
The billboard was on 43rd and the film was out in three weeks. These were facts. He had noted them for no particular reason.
You had also noted them. For also no particular reason.
The friends thing was its own category and Bucky was navigating it very badly while appearing to navigate it completely normally, which required significant effort.
You had people outside the compound — of course you did, you were the kind of person people collected around.
On Friday evenings sometimes one of them would show up at the front entrance and you'd light up, grab your jacket and go. Perfectly normal. He knew this. It had never been his business.
It became relevant anyway, against his wishes.
There was one in particular. Civilian, easy smile, the kind of hug that meant years. You left with them three Fridays running and came back the next morning relaxed, all happy. You told Sam about it at the kitchen table. Bucky made coffee at the counter and thought about nothing.
He had a relatively detailed mental file on this person assembled entirely from things you'd said in rooms he happened to be in. Their job, their rough schedule, a restaurant on 5th you'd mentioned once.
He hadn't built this file deliberately. The information had simply arrived and he hadn't thrown it out, which was probably something he should examine, but examining it would require admitting jealousy existed, so.
He thought about asking Thor if there was a people-relocating spell. Distance-based, nothing harmful, just geography.
Thor didn't have one. He'd looked genuinely sorry, which Bucky hadn't expected. Then he clapped him on the shoulder with the force of someone who'd forgotten how much force they had and said something about yearning that Bucky hadn't fully followed but had sat with for the rest of the day.
Sam said no killing (☹️), which Bucky hadn't brought up, which meant Sam had clocked the Thor conversation. Nothing in this building was private. He was aware of this. He was fine, he was being nonchalant and normal.
The quinjet rotation put the two of you on the northern run together — four hours total, two up and two back, recon stop in the middle — and Bucky had been in the hangar early doing the pre-flight alone because he always did and because it gave him something concrete to do.
You came up the ramp with your kit and the coffee you'd made yourself — he'd left the same on the counter an hour ago and you'd taken both. You handed his over without ceremony, before settling into the co-pilot seat.
"Morning."
"Morning."
The engines caught and the city dropped away in the early grey light and neither of you felt the need to fill it. That was still one of his favourite things, if he was being honest with himself, which he mostly wasn't.
The quiet you two made together sat differently than other quiet. Less like absence and more like something actual.
The run itself was clean. Forty minutes on the ground, nothing complicated, back in the air by noon. Coming home you passed the thermos between you without discussing it and you handled the southern corridor while he managed comms and the city grew ahead of them in the afternoon.
About twenty minutes out, completely casually, eyes on the instruments, you said:
"You like me, don't you?"
Bucky looked at the windscreen. He ran through several responses, none of which were usable. He thought about the yoghurt; the knife; forty-something mornings of coffee; the billboard on 43rd; and a civilian with an easy smile.
"I suppose I do," he said. His voice cracked horrendously on do, but he kept his eyes forward.
You nodded, like he'd read out a coordinate. "I was thinking we could stop by mine after debrief, y'know watch that Battlefront movie." A small pause. "And cuddle or whatever."
The jet lurched.
Four degrees of variance, recovered immediately, completely under control.
From the back of the aircraft there was the distant sound of something sliding and at least one person grabbing a handhold, but Bucky was already level again, eyes on the horizon, ears warm.
"Yeah," he said. "Okay."
He reached back and knocked on the cockpit door twice. It opened. Sam's face appeared, then Steve's just behind him, both wearing the carefully neutral expressions of people who had been listening to every word through a very thin door.
Bucky looked at them.
"You guys are not invited," he said.
He shut the door.
A beat of silence from the back. Then Sam's voice, muffled: "He didn't even let us respond."
"No," Steve agreed.
"Thor wasn't even going to say anything."
"I was going to say something," Thor said.
You made a small pleased sound and went back to your instruments.
Bucky sat with yeah okay for a moment — the most understated thing he'd said in his life, sitting on top of five weeks of accumulated everything.
He banked the jet.
Not a course adjustment, but a very strong decision. The kind of turn that doesn't ask permission, that comes from somewhere below conscious thought, that hit the whole aircraft sideways like the jet itself had opinions about where it was going.
Everything in the back went with it — loose kit, the thermos, Sam by the sound of it, and then a very specific sound that had no business coming from someone who could fly unaided through open space, which meant Thor had also gone somewhere.
From behind the cockpit door: "BARNES —"
He levelled out, setting the new heading. Your building was eleven minutes out.
"You don't have my address," you said.
"I know where it is," he said.
You looked at him for a long moment. He looked at the heading with the composure of a man who had absolutely nothing to explain.
Bucky had walked past the building a handful of times, which was reconnaissance in the general sense and nothing specific.
"Okay," you said.
Behind the door, something — or someone — hit the left panel. Then the right.
Then there was a long silence that meant everyone back there was braced and had decided bracing was now their permanent condition for the remainder of the flight.
Bucky thought about the couch. Thought about cuddle or whatever. He caught an air pocket that dropped them six feet minimum.
The sounds from the back had stopped being words entirely.
He was flying. He was perfectly fine. The building was nine minutes out and he knew the floor and he was — fine. Completely.
He looked at you once, just your profile, lower lip caught between your teeth on the instruments, completely unbothered by all of it. His heart jumped so inconveniently that the jet lurched again before he caught it.
"JAMES."
Level, horizon, and eight minutes.
He was fine.
$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @froggibus @elarapheonix
[gn] relieving-the-congressman.txt
// jerking off congressman!bucky mid-press review, hidden in some random, dim hallway or closet, idk. you had to drag his ass by the tie to wherever's suitable
[gn] massaging-needy-bucky.txt
// bucky is just here for his massage session tonight, his dedicated slot, his post-mission relaxation. he's totally not here for you.
[amab] muscle-memory.txt
// staying mobile and flexible is a crucial priority for a high-performing agent like bucky. though, not to fret! you've got just the perfect technique to sort out his muscle stiffness.
[afab] touch-starved.txt
// bucky loves having a hand on you, his indirect safe place. but when he’s in a brooding mood, you decide to toy and restrain him a bit.
[afab] youre-his-client-for-the-night.txt
// low on pay, sgt. barnes turns to escorting as a feasible service. you're his client for tonight.
-- sfw
[1940s][gn] bird-brained.txt
// courting bucky is usually a sweet, slow-burn affair — until you catch him frantically throwing a mail pigeon into the sky and he panics.
[fluff][gn] classified-dear-diary.txt
// bucky has been filing debrief reports on your shared missions since day one. thorough ones. he thinks he’d been private; instead you've been receiving every single one.
[fluff][gn] dont-shoot-your-shot.txt
// bucky has a crush on you, and he's doing his best; his best is just terrifying.
-- dont-shoot-your-shot-v2.txt
-- dont-shoot-your-shot-v3.txt
-- moodboard
[fluff][gn] he-knows-where-you-live.txt
// bucky believes he's truly acting normal with his crush, you, he's so nonchalant and friendly, like c'mon. you decide to bring up the big question on the quinjet, seems fitting.
[afab] eyes-on-you.txt
// the extraction goes south, but bucky doesn’t seem to care as long as he has a perfect view of you on stage.
[1940s][gn] field-exposure.txt
// you’re a war photographer, capturing all the crucial details of the scene and strategies. but your lens keeps landing on sgt. barnes.
[gn] first-deployment.txt
// bucky's first mission with his first friend from the Tower goes off the rails.
[gn] not-so-sober-undercover.txt
// you're slightly tipsy during your recon mission, luckily bucky swoops in to help.
[gn] patching-up.txt
// bucky has been lurking in tower doorways for three weeks trying to figure out how to talk to people. you come back from a mission hurt.
[gn] under-the-weather.txt
// bucky has been reading a book on how to be a person again. you are sick, stubborn.
theatrics aside, I think Bucky having a crush on agent/Avengers!reader might be top 10 scariest moments ever, indirectly of course.
you're just walking around, trying to ignore the Soldier staring you down from the hallway. he thinks he's just admiring you pleasantly; you're anxiously trying to figure what you've done to piss him off.
or, he attempts to compliment you. he doesn't do the typical "you're gorgeous" or "that outfit looks great on you". nope, he decides on "your aim is amazing. Come shoot with me on Friday."
he feels giddy after that — he just talked about one of his interests with you!! and invited you to hang out with him!!
you don't think friendly shooting range, with that steady stare of his. you think he's going to hunt you. you just nod, since you can't exactly say no to this guy.
