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My Blood Turns Into Alcohol

Summary: Bucky Barnes doesn’t step out behind his trusted bar counter, no matter what goes on out on the floor. Until you, that is—the town newbie who stumbles inside the lanky old bar and won’t stop showing up in your pretty dresses and with that shy smile. Bucky is infuriated. Maybe that’s why he won’t let you pay for even one of your drinks, or why his coworkers won’t stop bothering him about you.

Pairing: bartender!Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Word count: 11.4k

Warnings: mild violence, alcohol consumption, allusions to sex, assholes named John (seems to be a reoccurring theme in my stories), Bucky being a grump and also mutual pining

A/N: This honestly took me three months to write. It’s not even funny anymore, I have three dozens of wips and this is the first I’ve been able to finish in months. Enjoy whatever this became I had no idea where it was going at any point of the story

Masterlist

James Buchanan Barnes does not leave the bar counter. Under any circumstances. It does not matter what's going on on the other side of the two and a half feet of polished wood, placed between himself and the crowd lingering until the early hours of the morning.

Reasons for his principles are discussed heavily amongst the patrons of the bar. He's scared. He doesn't like people. He doesn't want sticky beer on his precious metal arm. Some things are partially true and other not at all, but the principle remains the same. Bucky Barnes does not step outside of the bar counter.

His hostility towards the openness of the bar never stops him from intervening when needed, of course. Middle aged men who don't know how to control themselves, slurring profanities and stalking the waitress, always get dragged out by the security guard. Bucky makes sure of that, always. So does 19-year old kids who think he won't notice their anxious gazes roaming around to see if someone have noticed their intrusion.

Bucky keeps the place in check, but he rules it all from behind the counter. Have been doing so for years. No matter how rowdy it gets through bar fights and unexpected bursts of college kids. He's been forced to roar out orders and yell at frat guys to not lay another fucking hand on the jukebox, or he will personally see to it that they won't have any fucking dicks left the next day. But then it's most sufficient that way, when he remains quiet and brooding for the most part. Comes as a surprise then—his outbursts.

Mr. Lee, who's been a regular for as long as Bucky has been working at the bar, tells him that he won't ever convince a lady to settle down with him if he continues scowling silently behind his sacred wall of wood. He usually earns a grunt in answer, on occasion a smug smirk, while Bucky throws the towel over his shoulder or wipes down the counter.

The topic of his love life comes up all too often during the long shifts. Wanda, the waitress who never fails to turn down each of her seemingly endless suitors of the bar in the most polite way, loves to discuss it like nothing else. She has indeed reminded him that he is no bad looking man at all, and if he really wanted to he could step outside on the street and be crowded by young ladies. It's all with a glint in her eyes, because thankfully she hasn't tried to set him up with a single woman. Not like Natasha used to do.

Quite frankly, Bucky doesn't care that much about getting a girlfriend or wife or whatever people want him to have. Life is entirely fine on his own. Actually, he prefers it. People are complicated and whiny and attention-seeking brats. Everything is better from a distance.

The bell above the entrance chimes as the door is opened gently. Bucky has had a thought or two of crushing it to pieces during his many shifts at the bar, but the owner insists on having it there. He suspects Tony is so attached to the bell simply because of Bucky's distaste towards it.

He tenses just slightly as you make your way inside. Your knee-length dress sweeps across your legs, light fabric contrasting against the small flowers printed upon it like it's 15 degrees hotter outside and not a rainy night, bordering on stormy. Bucky can't help but think that folks these days, especially you, don't know how to dress properly according to the weather, or time of day, but that's just the old man in him. That's what Steve usually says, like he's not just as bad.

But then you sit down by the counter, hoisting yourself up on the tall chairs while adjusting the cardigan on your shoulders. It unnerves him, the way you always let your eyes wander towards him timidly in wait for service despite having met him one and a half dozens of times already. He lingers by the bearded drunk at the end of the bar a few seconds longer than he should, only to postpone the encounter a bit longer. The past few months since you started showing up has been weird for him.

He wants to roll his eyes for no good reason at all as he forces himself towards your end. It's not intentional, his aversion, acting the way he does around you. Most of the time Bucky is quite closed off, he has plenty of trauma to justify it, but he can't grasp what it is that makes him so unapproachable when you show up in front of him, makes his face become stuck in a constant glare that usually scares away most. Steve always complains that he's too grumpy. Lighten up, jerk. 'S not all bad out in the world.

"Hi, Bucky," you say softly, almost too quietly, and he sees it on you that it came out more quietly than you intended. Your face almost contorts into a wince.

It's a dick move, that he doesn't say hello back. He knows that, and still he plants his hands on the wooden counter and stares you down instead. You gulp, mustering up a half-smile.

"I want a strawberry daiquiri tonight," you tell him, scratching the side of your nose with your nail. “Please.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows, some sort of surprise displaying on his face. "Strawberry daiquiri?" he asks, like your request is some outlandish idea he's never heard the likes of. Sure, he's gotten to know that you prefer colorful drinks over a glass of whiskey, but usually Steve makes them for you.

"Yeah. Strawberry daiquiri. Of course, only if making a drink like that won't taint your masculinity all too much." You look up at him. "Fruity drinks are risky business after all," you whisper to yourself, running your finger over a scratch in the wood.

And maybe, just maybe, Bucky let's the corner of his lip quirk up just slightly. But you don't see that. You're too busy staring down at the tainted countertop, following the path of your fingertip.

"Sure," Bucky mutters, turning around before he gives in to the compulsion of staring at you for too long and calling you sweet pet names that he makes up in his mind for you.

It's not that you're the most beautiful woman he's ever seen, or the most interesting either. Those come into the bar every now and then. But if he's honest, you're not the usual kind of regular the bar has. And he's well aware that it's a popular drink, what you just ordered, it's just that people don't order one very often here.

The rest of the late night patrons seem to share his aversion to your presence, or at least curiosity, even after you've lived here for almost three months. The man who's gulped down a few too many glasses of Jack a few feet away keeps sending long glances your way, letting his eyes wander just a little too much. Bucky had planned to send him away soon anyways. Dum Dum Dugan and his biker gang seem to joke around about you, although it's all friendly. They can get rowdy, but it's never anything malicious.

You're mostly quiet as you sip on your red drink for a good half an hour. Sometimes you interrupt your silence to tell him about something you saw the other day, or a good book you just finished. Bucky serves another two rounds of beer to the bikers, rum and coke to an accountant-looking type, tequila shots to Brunnhilde and Thor in the corner booth. Wanda stays with him behind the counter to talk to you about how her brother and boyfriend get along so well despite their many differences. He checks the stock twice, organizes the bottles, counts the change.

It's nearing closing and you're still in your place, lingering with the same drink in your hand while the only other customer left is the half-passed out drunk. Bucky has no willpower in him to kick the man out. He's quite sure you'll leave whenever he tells you to, but Wanda beats him to it.

"Hey, Y/n, we're closing up in ten," she says with a kind smile, wiping down the counter for the last time. "If you're gonna finish that drink, you better do it soon."

"Oh, okay. Sure will," you reply. "It was good, by the way." Your eyes travel over to Bucky where he stands, leaning against the back with his arms crossed over his chest.

"You sure about that? Been sipping on it for an hour and a half." He nods towards the half-empty glass.

It surprises him when you let out a quiet chuckle, shaking your head to yourself. "I’m just distracted. Little stressed," you confess. "Still trying to settle in."

"Still having troubles with your landlord?" Wanda asks, perking her head up. "I told you to let me know if he gave you anymore problems."

You ignore the way Bucky's stoic face turns into a near scowl along with her words. He always seems to do that when you speak of your many mishaps and small miseries.

"Yeah. It's okay, Wanda. I'll handle it myself," you say. "I'm gonna let you close up." You move off of the chair.

"No worries," Wanda answers with a smile. "Let me know when you've gotten home. And don't be gone for too long until the next visit. I'll have Bucky make you 'nother drink that you'll like more."

You nod, trapping your bottom lip between your teeth for just a mere second, but Bucky can't get the image out of his head. If he were any closer he might have freed it with his thumb. When you reach into the pocket of your cardigan, fishing out a ten dollar bill, he can't control the words tumbling out of his mouth.

"It's on the house," he says, stopping your movements before you have the chance to lay the bill on the bar.

"Oh," you breathe out. "Really? Thank you." The smile on your face is blinding. "Think I'm gonna keep coming here if you give me more free drinks."

"'S not gonna be a regular occurrence," he mutters, face fallen into that brooding frown once more. "Any longer."

You back towards the door, closing your hand around the handle. "I'm not counting on it," you say over your shoulder, before slinking out of the door.

It's not until the bell chimes once more, ringing in aftershocks of the door closing shut, that Bucky feels the intense stare of Wanda on his face.

"What?" he mumbles.

"You know those free drinks you keep giving her are going out of your paycheck, right?"

A grunt is enough of answer for Bucky, who drags himself away from Wanda. She knows he's avoiding talking about the topic. Doesn't mean she'll stop asking.

"She's very nice, you know?" she says after a dozen seconds of silence, sticking her head inside of the storage room.

"Don't even think about it."

You've been here quite a lot lately. More than what your mother would approve of—she'd undoubtedly think you were an alcoholic by now. But you don't drink every time, not even close to it. Instead it's mostly Shirley Temples and sometimes a coffee from the staff room if Wanda's working.

Bucky the brooding bartender isn't here tonight. He's an enigma to you—grumpy and cold and somehow sweet in the moments when he lets his mask slip. But you're not really sure wether or not you like the guy yet. Or you like him, a bit too much, but he's very...interesting in his behavior.

You've noticed how your tab doesn't always include everything you ordered when he's working, and he always listens intently to whatever you have to say, but then he stands there scowling in the corner whenever you talk to Wanda or the other bartenders. Sometimes he tells you a bad joke under his breath, as if he hadn’t intended to, and then he says nothing for an hour. He's balancing on a scale right now, you think. Maybe it's for the best that he's not here. You always say such stupid things around him.

The waitress though, her you certainly like. Actually, you're bordering on loving her for how good of a friend she's been to you since that first night you stumbled in here a few months ago. Honestly, friends have been sparse since you moved to town. It's understandable, considering the small size of it, but it's been lonely besides the sisterly bond you've managed to form with Wanda. You guess that's why you ventured into this bar in the first place, but found yourself too shy to start conversation with anyone.

The fact that it's a Friday night probably gives your loneliness away, though. Perhaps it is so obvious that it's the reason behind why the redheaded waitress joins you in your booth, sliding in opposite of you with a warm smile on her face that forces you to drag your eyes away from the laptop.

"Hi, Wanda," you greet her, taking out the headphones from your ears.

"I like you too much to let you sit here alone on a Friday night. That is just not acceptable, honey," she says, reaching over to close your laptop. The gesture earns an offended gasp that doesn't quite carry the conviction a genuine one would.

"Does it matter if I would have done the same thing at home?" you ask meekly, reaching for the glass of water you've settled with so far. "I'm at least a little more social here..."

"No. That won't do it either," she tells you, already halfway up from her seat. "Put that thing away and join me by the bar counter. I'll have Steve whip you up one of those fruity drinks you like."

A quiet chuckle through a sigh is all the answer Wanda gets before she turns around, heading away from you with her hair swinging from her ponytail.

"No grumpy bartender here tonight?" you ask while sitting down at one of the stools placed by the counter, giving a glance to the tall blonde occupying the space Bucky usually has. "Has he quit of misery after I didn't drink up the Tequila Sunrise he made me the other day?"

Wanda smiles, shaking her head while sharing a knowing glance with the man. "Bucky doesn't get in until ten today, miss. But I'm sure I can occupy your time until then if you wish to see him so desperately."

Heat rushes to your cheeks so quickly that no matter what you say it will most likely come across as a horrible excuse. "No—no. Not like that," you nearly seethe through a whisper, leaning in like your words are somehow a secret. You hear Steve chuckle heartily from a few feet away. "Don't laugh at me, Steve! I just want more free drinks, that's all!"

Your attempts to deflect the attention away from you fails miserably, because there's that eyebrow lift from Wanda and amused shake of head from Steve that tells you they've got it all wrong. You don't actually know why Bucky keeps evading your attempts to pay for your drinks. A groan sounds from your lips while you bury your face in your hands.

"Oh, just give me that drink I was promised. I think I'm gonna need that if I'm gonna spend the next few hours with you two."

Slipping your palms away from your hidden face, you're met with two warm smiles, Steve leaning his hands against the counter and Wanda loading up shots on a tray. And the absolutely infuriating man dares to open his mouth once more, delivering one of those smug lines he always seem to have.

"Sure, sweetheart. Whatever you say."

Four and a half drinks and two hours later, you've relocated to a booth and taken off the sweater previously covering your arms. Wonderfully tipsy, probably drunk but absolutely in denial, and unexpectedly in tears from laughter. Squeezed in between the large and boisterous man who you've come to know is named Dugan and his trusty friend Gabe, you're perfectly content and more happy than you have been since you moved here.

A harmless biker gang consisting of a bunch of old friends in their late-thirties to mid-forties is the last group of people you would've thought you'd end up in conversation with tonight, but god, are they wonderful. Steve sent you here in exile after you started getting too chatty during the third drink, to the point where he had trouble doing his job. Who knew a little bit of alcohol was all you needed to get out of your shell?

Unfortunately, or maybe it is a blessing in disguise, you don't even notice when Bucky turns up behind the bar counter to start his shift for the night. Though he notices you. Oh, it's very first thing he sees—you throwing your head back in laughter, reaching for your glass while Morita gestures wildly through one of his infamous stories. You're drunk. He sees it so clearly, and you're so different.

Bucky almost scowls, because he despises himself for taking note of how you've held yourself, how you talked and grew shy and apprehensive and how you held back during your visits. All of that is gone—now sits a free-spirited woman on the verge of slurring her words, having so much fun that he nearly wants to shake his head.

"What is she doin' there?" he mumbles while making his way to Steve, who's drying his hands on a towel.

"Who?" the blonde asks in return with an amused smile, despite having spotted the way Bucky's eyes drifted to your figure. He only earns a glare in answer. "Sent her away a while ago. Apparently that one is a talker with a few drinks in her blood. Would tell you to keep an eye on her, but seems like you already got that handled."

"Punk."

"Jerk." Steve smiles. "See you tomorrow."

"Yeah, yeah," Bucky mutters dismissively, barely even noticing as his friend slips away.

And no matter how much he trusts Dugan and Morita and everyone else around that table, Bucky keeps an extra eye on the group during the next half an hour. They're good men, but it still unnerves him as you sit there laughing and managing to keep their attention through your questionable attempts at storytelling.

And maybe he spends a bit too much time letting his gaze drift down to how your cleavage looks in that cute little blouse of yours, but he spends just as much time watching the way your eyes light up right before a big laugh escapes your lips, and your hands flying wildly around you while engaging in the conversation. It's not often he wishes to be a part of a large, rowdy group, but in this moment he would rather sit there than stand behind this bar.

It's not until you make your way out of the booth, standing up on wobbly legs and a giggle on your lips, that he forces himself to remain professional and do his goddamn job. You stagger up to the bar counter, hoisting yourself up on a stool despite having no plans to stay very long.

"Bucky. Bucky-boy," you say, smiling up at him while your eyes blink slowly. "I want a shot. Vodka."

"Vodka?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. "Are you sure about that, Y/n?"

"Yes. 100%. It's vodka or nothing."

Bucky turns his head, keeps his smile away from you, before schooling himself and letting the corners of his lips fall once more.

"Think you'd be better off with nothing, huh? You're gonna be sick, Y/n."

"No. I promise I won't, Bucky." You lean your chin in your hands, fluttering your lashes while pleading with your gaze. "Please. Please. Bucky, you know you're my favorite bartender."

"Flattery is not gonna work on me, peach," he says, gulping to rid himself of the nickname he just let slip.

But you barely notice. At least, that's what he reads your wandering gaze that stays anywhere but at him as. And despite his gratefulness for your distant mind he still finds a part of him wishing for you to react.

Against his better judgement, he pours that one last shot for you. It's not that he finds it hard to say no to you. Denying your wishes is something that he does constantly, it seems like, everytime he insists on letting you go without paying. You really have fought back fiercely these last few weeks though.

Bucky is made to regret his decision remarkably a few hours later, just thirty minutes shy of closing and the bar mostly empty. Except for you, Dugan and Morita, that is. He did not expect to find you so mischievous while drunk. How you managed to get a hold of more alcohol without him noticing is a little amusing and slightly disheartening, but mostly concerning.

You're slumped in the corner of the bar, eyes fluttering closed every other second while desperately trying not to throw up. Apologies to the men beside you have been rolling off your tongue repeatedly for the last ten minutes. You do not want them to feel obligated to stay for your sake, but quite frankly you are not fit to be alone either.

The sound of voices speaking softly, probably, buzzes in the background. You let your eyes rest, head leaning against the wall, heavy breaths escaping your nose. Sleep feels like the only sane option in this moment if you are to rid yourself of the horrible feeling coursing through your body.

Hands on your thighs gently shake you awake. The bar is empty. Only the usually grumbling bartender is sitting in front of you, crouched down, brows furrowed into a concerned frown. The image is strange.

"Hey, Y/n," he says, much too indistinguishable for your drunken mind to comprehend. "Y/n, I need you to drink some water. Think you can do that for me?"

All you muster up in answer is a nod. Bucky's quite sure you don't know what you're agreeing to. Despite your less than functioning state you manage to bring the glass to your lips, gulping down the cool liquid with only a few drops spilling down your chin. A calloused thumb wipes away the water from your skin.

"Let's get you home, huh, sweetheart?" Bucky mumbles under his breath, much too quietly for you to hear. He doesn't know if he'll ever have the courage to call you things like that out loud.

He's glad he walked Wanda to work after she'd stayed at your apartment only the week prior. Taking you home to his place would feel both inappropriate and a violation to your safety. He would never do anything to jeopardize it, but you don't know that. You can't possibly trust him like that yet.

"Do you think you will throw up, Y/n?" he asks you while helping you up the staircase, his arm thrown around your waist and yours around his shoulders.

"No. No. 'S better," you mumble, squinting to see through the poorly lit building.

"Are you sure? Do you need me to stay for a moment?" he adds, even though the question is more a request in reality. Leaving you alone in this state feels so fundamentally wrong in his bones. It nearly aches, the thought of his absence during your hardships.

"You trying to get 'nto my bed, Barnes?" you say, cracking a smile while your eyes flutter closed, head lolling onto his shoulder. Bucky doesn't answer. He can't. Not that you'd remember his reaction tomorrow, or anything that was said during the past hour. He's never seen your bad jokes on a roll like this, despite having been properly used to them by now.

Fishing out the keys from your bag is more complicated than expected. Having someone slumped against your side, barely conscious, will inevitably have that effect even for someone like Bucky. Cold gusts of wind from the open windows meet damp skin once he steps inside the apartment, carefully maneuvering you to the dresser you have standing in your hallway. Kneeling down to untie your shoelaces, he finds himself sporting a stupid grin while hearing your giggles.

"It tickles," you say through a hiccup, the muffled thump of your head meeting the wall behind you sounding through the apartment.

"Just a few seconds more," Bucky answers, fingers clasped around your leg while removing the shoe from your foot.

And he makes the mistake of glancing up at you from where he's kneeling, meeting the intense gaze directed at him he haven't quite seen before. Not like that, like you're looking at him now. But you're still drunk. He notices that so clearly as you fall down on top of your sheets, sinking into the soft duvet with a hum on your lips. The presence of him in the room is barely noticed, he believes, until your voice breaks the silence of the cold room.

"You're so nice to me, Buck," you mumble into your sheets. And he thinks that, no, he isn't very nice to you at all. Not in the ways that matter, in the ways that are obvious or straightforward or particularly noticeable at all. Do you really notice?

"Go to sleep, honey," he says, tracing his fingertip just over your cheek. Your lips part, eyes closed.

"Sweet...Buck."

Your breathing evens out only a few seconds later, without the end of your words meeting his ears. Bucky stands in the doorway, turns your lights off, for a whole minute before he gathers himself enough to leave. It's getting too real, too close, doing this. It's not his right to act this domestic with you when he can barely pay you a simple compliment. Constantly watching from afar, listening to your rambles and once in a while offering a piece of himself that can only count as a crumb. What he has with you can surely only exist in his mind.

He manages to lock the door from the inside. Spending the night guarding your door from the outside would piss Steve off, having him sleep-deprived tomorrow at work. Or today, isn't it?

He sees the soft fabric of your dress, white flowers against dark blue, fluttering around your knees before your face comes into view. Only you, only this goddamn girl who comes into this bar with pretty dresses that drive him fucking crazy. He nearly wishes you would stop showing up like that, in case that would hinder him from fucking his own fist on sleepless nights to the thought of unwrapping you from those dresses. But he would never deprive himself like that—no, seeing you so beautiful and soft gifts him enough life to remain calm in even the nastiest of bar fights and disputes with annoying college kids.

Your name lingers at the back of his throat, syllables rolling on his tongue until it nearly slips out. It does halfway, before he witnesses your hand encased in someone else's, a man just behind you with his hands on your skin. Fingers digging into the curve of your waist, scrunching the fabric, a nervous smile on your lips. The glass in Bucky's hand shatters quietly. No one else notices but him when the shards carve into his skin and draw red drops of blood down his palm.

He looks away. He doesn't want to, god knows he wants to always let his gaze travel over your figure, but he has to. Your eyes flicker over towards the bar counter, worriedly searching for Bucky in some grasp of comfort. But then again, if you actually caught eye contact you might have abandoned the whole thing if only for just a small chance to spend the night with Bucky instead. But the guy asked you out, and he's handsome and charming and probably wonderful, and Wanda insisted you try new things now that you're in a new town.

"Hey, you're bleeding," Sam calls out, frowning while eyeing the red liquid dripping down Bucky's hand.

The latter grunts in response, sending one last glare your way before slipping in the back. He comes back with a bandage wrapped around his palm, a scowl deeper than the one before, and a new costumer waiting for him with a face that begs to take his fist. He hates the guy already.

The man orders a drink for you. It bugs you a little that he didn't ask what you wanted, but you make no move to acknowledge it. Leaning your chin in the palm of your hand, you gaze down at the chipped pink polish on your nails and make no move to pay any attention to what's going on at the counter.

"Busy night, huh?" the man asks, leaning against the weathered wood with an arrogant smirk Bucky would just love to wipe out. He really does goddamn hate talking to people.

With a grunt he answers, ignoring the question in favor of concentrating on making the drinks. The punk ordered a fucking martini for you. Did he even ask you what you wanted? Bucky knows damn well that you would spit it out rather than force one of those down.

He casts an eye your way, seeing you peel off your chipped nail polish the way you do when you're nervous. That dress you're wearing—the punk with you tonight doesn't deserve it. Doesn't deserve seeing the way the fabric flows down your legs, sweeps against your knees when you walk. Not when he couldn't even bother asking you what you wanted. A martini? Seriously?

Glasses clink against wood a little too harshly, sweeping near the edge once he sets down the finished drinks. An old-fashioned and a Paloma stands swirling in front of a scowling bartender, hands grasping the counter harshly while glaring at the costumer.

"This is not what I ordered," the man says, eyeing the grapefruit pink liquid in front of him. Sam sends an amused side-eye towards Bucky that he tries to ignore. The man eyes it with distaste, frowning while bringing it up to his nose to smell it. Bucky hopes he spills the drink on his ridiculously crisp shirt.

"She doesn't like martinis," Bucky mutters under his breath, looking over at where you're sitting once more. You're tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, biting down on your lip.

"How the hell would you know?" the man spits out. A small drop of saliva hits Bucky's cheek. It takes every ounce of composure not to flinch. "This is none of your damn business. Do your job."

"She doesn't like martinis," Bucky repeats again, slower, glaring him right in the eyes with teeth grinding against each other. "Should've asked her before you walked up here and ordered."

He scoffs, averting his gaze with a roll of his eyes before taking a hold of the two glasses and walking away. Bucky sees the guy slide into the booth, right opposite you, and the way your eyebrows lift slightly in surprise as you notice your drink. He hears the guy take credit for the choice of drink, act like he just knew you liked it from the beginning. Bucky's pissed off.

"You're gonna kill the guy with that glare," Sam says through an amused grin, taking a swig of his beer.

"Eat shit."

"And you should be nicer to that girl, you know?" Sam says as soon as he sits down at the bar, sporting that everpresent smirk that tells him he knows much more than he lets on.

"What d'ya mean?" Bucky mumbles, a scowl on his face that always seems to be there when Sam shows up. Thank fucking god he loves the punk.

"You're broody. She's trying to talk to you, but you always act like a dick except when you refuse to let her pay for her drinks."

"I'm like this to everyone," he answers.

"No, you're not. I've seen you been nice, and this is not it. The poor girl have been here for six months, doesn't have a lot of friends besides the people in this bar. She doesn't need an asshole of an admirer right now, does she?"

Bucky refrains from sighing out loud, opting to wipe down the counter in silence instead. He knows very well what Sam is saying is true. Too much, probably, but he can't really help it. You're too soft, too nice, too different than what he is used to. Having a conversation with someone who genuinely listens like that, honestly wants to know what his day has been like or what his favorite thing to cook for himself is or what he watches on a Friday night—it's new.

If there's one thing Bucky Barnes has learnt in the countless of hours with Dr. Raynor, it's that he's allergic to vulnerability and would do pretty much anything to avoid it. Including his problem with going out on the bar floor. And treating you less than what you deserve, despite how much you never let it affect you. You keep coming, keep trying to make conversation even if you don't always get an answer. By this point you've told him pretty much everything about yourself just to fill the silences.

"I'm heading out." Sam interrupts his deep train of thought, setting down the glass with a clink. "Lighten up, will you? Be nice."

With an acknowledging nod he sends his friend off, tending to the refills and newly stumbled in costumers while trying to stop himself from glancing over at you every other second.

He fails miserably.

Bucky could feel his temper run away from him, far from where he has any control of his actions or whatever is said from his mouth. No one could blame him if he socked the guy in his eye right now, could they?

He didn't want to hear the conversation going on right outside of the door. Or to say he isn't intentionally listening would be a blatant lie, but he wishes he hadn't heard the words coming out of your date's mouth. It's bordering on astonishing how you've managed to find the biggest jerk there is on the market.

And it's not a complete lie to say that Bucky wished during the evening that you would realize what a prick the guy was, abandon him and come sit with Bucky by the bar counter instead. But for god's sake—this is not what he wished for.

"It was really nice to meet up with you, John, but I don't think we're a good match," you had said. Politely.

That simple sentence earned a two minute sermon on how John goddamn Walker had only asked you out to be nice, to make you feel better about yourself because you are just so 'fucking sad', aren't you? But of course you would be too self-absorbed to accept an invitation back to his place for a night of what probably would have been disappointing sex. And that's fine, you know, because you aren't very pretty anyways and you're also boring and annoying and a fucking bitch.

John had grabbed your waist, pulled you into him, right as he led you out of the bar. And it felt wrong. You hadn't planned on going anywhere with him from the beginning, but the conviction only grew when he put his hands on you. The polite rejection came tumbling out of your mouth before you even knew you were talking. That he would go on to push you down in every possible way for several minutes was unexpected. Shocking, even. Maybe that's the reason behind your tears as you stand alone on the curb in the middle of the night, hands wrapped around yourself and dreading walking inside again. But you force yourself to.

The bell rings as you close the door gently behind you, gently despite the tears gathering in your eyes, gently despite the heated words being thrown at you just a moment prior. You're too gentle for your own good. Bucky has thought that ever since the first day you stepped inside this lanky old bar.

"Hey," he calls out, setting down the bottle of Bacardi he has in his hand, following your trail to your discarded bag in one of the booths with his eyes.

Your steps are hasty, rushed while you ignore his call for you. He goddamn hates it—the tension in your posture and the way you're trying to hide the tears you're furiously wiping away from your face, back facing him. You won't let him see you.

"Y/n, slow down," Bucky calls out once more, reluctantly, because there's a hesitance somewhere along with the vulnerability you bring out in him. None of his other goddamn regulars make him worry like this.

Your hand reaches into the very depth of your bag, scrambling around for a stressed ten seconds before your fingers clasp around the cream wallet with small flowers on that Bucky can't help but think is adorable.

A few steps, heels clinking against the wooden floor, and a fifty dollar bill is smacked onto the newly cleaned counter, still damp with small droplets of water. Bucky's face falls into a deeper frown, if possible, because you know damn well you're not paying for anything you have in this house. Even if it's covering for the punk who walked out on you.

"No."

The word is a grumble, stone cold and gruff and accompanying the nearly incomprehensible sound of the bill sliding back towards you.

"Just keep it," you say, voice breaking even though you try so hard to keep it strong. Your eyes are not looking at him—he needs you to look at him so badly—but he sees the slight wobble of your lower lip and the trace of mascara starting to dissolve from your lashes.

"You know you're not paying," he answers, adamantly keeping his fingers on the money in case you get the idea of sliding it back towards him. He knows you're goddamn stubborn, he's gotten that by now.

Deep breath. Head cast down, a few blinks. "Please, Bucky. Take it," you say, an ounce more of conviction in your words while you bite down on your lip. Your hands are still shaking, legs desperate to carry you out of there before mortification chips away on more of your pride.

"I said no," he repeats with just a hint of an order, a harshness to his words that he didn't mean to use. Never with you.

"Just take it for god's sake!" you yell, unable to keep the tears from spilling down your cheeks with the strain. "Why do you—why do you always have to make it so goddamn hard?!"

Your hands come up to your face, a groan of frustration escaping your lips while turning away from his burning gaze. He's always looking too closely, too much. Even if there's two dozens of patrons in the bar, it always feels like his eyes are on you and you hate it. Especially now. It makes you fidget and worry too much, about the way you look and what kind of expression you're making or if there's a trace of food on your skin.

Bucky doesn't inch back. He would have, hadn't he had such a grip on the counter beneath him. Not once has he heard you speak with such animosity, nor volume.

"Y/n—"

"No. Have a good night, James," you force out of yourself, grabbing your bag before he has a chance to convince you to stay.

Bucky's legs itch. They itch with the urge to drag you into his arms, the urge to stalk down the jerk who made you cry, the urge to get on his knees and beg for you to 'please, sweetheart, look at me for god's sake'.

The door opens, old familiar bell rings, and the eyes of Bucky are pinpointing you so hard that it might as well have been a laser pointer. In your haste, you fail to remember the doorstep several inches too tall which always needs caution unless you plan to trip in front of a dozen drunk men.

It's the last straw. Everything spills out of your bag, scatters over the floor and catches the attention of the few people remaining. You freeze, a shaky breath escaping you before you finally let go of your desperate attempt to hold back the tears. Knees nearly touch the floor as you crouch down, burying your face in your hands along with the sound of your sobs.

And Bucky sees it, of course he does. His heart fucking shatters where he stands, just a few inches from where the counter ends and opens up to the floor of the bar. But he hesitates. You're crying for god's sake and he has the nerve to hesitate, over wether or not he should leave what he has lived after for years to comfort you.

"Shit, fucking—" Bucky breathes out, eyes flickering over the bar in panic with his palm running over his mouth. The sound of your whimpers fills his ears, scrapes against his eardrums and he thinks he's never heard something as painful as your sadness.

But then he hears your soft whine, face falling into the palms of your hands, and Bucky doesn't give a damn about whatever hesitations that have been keeping him rooted in his place. He rounds the corner of the bar, forcing himself to look at you because he thinks that if he even sends a glance any other way he will back out.

Dugan had already begun picking up your things, gathering them into your handbag while you lean against the wall right by the door. Bucky releases a shaky breath, unfurling his fingers from where they've been tightly formed into a fist, kneeling down right in front of your figure on the floor.

Bucky tethers onto a thin thread of restraint, seeing you so devastated. He can't pull you into his chest, keep your teary eyes away from the world facing you outside. That rule he made for himself has been an invisible fucking thing that had no real power to stop him, and still he never felt like he could break it. But he sits here, right now, searching for anything to say that will make it better. Anything.

This goddamn rule—it didn't help him in the least from getting attached to the girl hovering around his bar in the most unexpected times in her pretty dresses and with that smile and her words that infuriate him to the point where he can't even work because you're there. Right there, in a booth a few feet away or just right by the bar counter. It doesn't matter where you sit, or if you're even at the bar, because Bucky constantly finds himself keeping an eye out for you.

"Y/n, hey. Look at me," Bucky says, laying his hands over your shoulder. "Sweetheart, 's alright. Will you stand up for me, please? Come sit down in the booth."

He can't stop staring at you. Not even as the bell clinks again, alerting him of a new visitor despite the late hour and pouring rain outside. It's not until the offending cable-knitted sweater comes into his sight once more that he dares lifting his attention from your crying figure.

"Forgot my fucking phone," John says with a scowl as Bucky pinpoints him with his glare.

The clench of his jaw is sure to shatter his teeth eventually, but the nerve of your goddamn date to show his face here again after he made you cry is out of this world. That's evident on not only Bucky's hold, but the remaining regulars not caught up in comforting you. If looks could kill, as you say.

Picking up his phone in the booth with arrogance radiating from John’s hold, Bucky nearly lets him go until the jerk sends a distasteful glare your way. He loses it.

All inhibitions fly out of the window as Bucky pushes himself up from his kneel, steps out onto the sticky floor, stalking towards John right as he turns around. A puff of air is forced out of him as he's met with Bucky's scowling face, backing him into the edge of a table a few feet behind him with a death grip on the collar of his sweater.

John glances down at the metal encasing his shirt with sudden alarm, trying to shrug out of Bucky's grip to no avail.

"You think you can come back in here and act like nothing?" Bucky's voice rumbles with the effort to keep it on a low enough volume. Despite being in the middle of the fucking bar floor he really doesn't feel too keen on exposing this conversation to your ears. "Like you didn't just insult her in every fucking way?"

"What the fuck, man? Get off of me!" John seethes, thrashing once more without any luck, earning him another harsh shove against the table. But his cheeks are burning with shame, because there's nothing more embarrassing to a man like him than to be stuck under another man's thumb.

"Don't ever come in here again. Send another glance her way and I'll fucking end you."

"This is—this is illegal!"

His shouts catch your attention, drawing you away from the shoulder of Dugan to worryingly stick your head out to see what's going on. You saw him come in again, of course you did, but somehow you managed to escape the notice of whatever confrontation is going on. Most of all the sight of Bucky anywhere else than behind his trusted counter sets your heart pounding a little faster in your rib cage. He went out onto the floor.

"I don't care. Get out of my bar before I make you get on your knees and beg her for forgiveness," Bucky grits out through his teeth, shoving the blonde away from the wall. He stumbles, only catching his balance once a few feet away from the door.

With a shake of his head, Bucky turns around, letting the hardened clench of his jaw turn into a concerned frown once more without a second glance to any of the shocked gazes on his back. The hand on his shoulder catches him off guard. Really, if he believed John had any guts left in him he would have foreseen it, but the fist against his cheek hits him real hard.

Stumbling a few steps back with his hand flying to his now bleeding face, he doesn't even have to stave off any other attack before Dugan and his men come to his aid.

"Fucking asshole!" John shouts as he's dragged out of the bar, in lack of any other more creative insults.

Bucky wipes away the blood from his cheek, lifts his eyebrows in slight amusement, while eyeing the man getting kicked out onto the curb. A few choice words are delivered by Dugan and Morita, muffled but still heard through the glass windows, as John gets up from the ground with spit flying out of his mouth.

Turning around to the bar once more, he leans his hands against the counter while wincing through the newfound throbbing in his face. He remains that way, even when the sound of soft footsteps and heels clinking against the wooden floor fills his ears.

"Bucky?" you nearly whisper, nearing him with caution. He can almost imagine your furrowed brows, your concerned face, perfectly.

Bucky turns his head to the side, only enough for you to make out the profile of his face. A bruise is already developing, drawing a wince from your lips.

"Are you okay?" you ask, reaching your hand out but withdrawing it the second his eyes flicker down towards it. He wishes you wouldn't have.

He finally turns around. Seeing the remnants of tears dampening your skin steals the attention away from the hit he took to his face, if even for just a second. Nearly makes him run out and get a hit in himself, before he remembers the question so softly spoken from your lips.

"Yeah. Yeah, 'm fine." He nods, averts his eyes for just a moment. "Are you alright?" he asks, looking down at you through his lashes like that, like he always does, but with a new kind of softness to his gaze that makes heat travel to your face.

You nod in answer as well, wiping underneath your nose with the back of your hand. "You're bleeding, Bucky," you observe, trailing your eyes over the blooming purple patch of skin, stained with the red liquid dripping from his wound. "I should clean it up."

His eyebrows lift just slightly at the suggestion. Having you touching him like that—he's not sure he can take it. Not when it's him that should be comforting you.

"Can I?" you ask, looking at his bleeding wound so intently that he fears you will combust if he doesn't let you. It's not right denying you like that, he tells himself right before opening his mouth to answer.

"Yeah, yeah. Okay." He nods. "Let me just..." Bucky points behind him towards the counter where a first aid kit is stashed somewhere.

"No. You sit down," you say with conviction, pointing to the padded booths behind you in return. "I'll get it."

Bucky can't do anything else than give you another nod, because that's all the communication he can apparently muster right now, knowing that he'd probably do anything you tell him to. Except taking your money.

He looks over his shoulder as he walks towards the seats, seeing you slip out of your heels in the middle of the floor. The corners of his lips quirk up just slightly, sitting down with a silent puff of air escaping his lips. It's about damn time for you to take off those uncomfortable-looking heels. The thought of you squeezing your poor feet into something for that jerk's sake makes him pissed off.

You disappear behind the counter as if you do it everyday. But then again, you're here often, wether it's to talk to Wanda or work at something on your computer or only to sit with a drink and observe the people of the bar. Unlike you, who always chip away at your nail polish while nervous, Bucky keeps his gaze on your figure as you crouch down away from his sight, waiting for your face to return.

The sound of scrambling through the shelves comes from behind the bar. A cheery 'Oh! Found it!' erupts from your lungs that dissolves the silent tension you held before, puts a goddamn smile on the brooding Bucky Barnes's face, until it disappears just as quickly when you bump your head on the polished wood on your way up.

"Ow!" You wince, rubbing the back of your head as you rise to your full height once more, a first aid kit in hand.

Bucky raises himself from his seat with alarm, a step forward with a frown, but is stopped by your lifted hand.

"It's fine, 's fine. I'm okay," you say, unfurling the furrow of your brows as quickly as it appeared.

It's obvious that you intend to walk past him, access the seat next to where he sat just a few seconds ago, but it's hard to do so when a 220-pound man blocks your way. Somehow he manages to be determined yet hesitant in his movements when he lays his hands on your head, tilts it forward to see where you hit it. His fingers run over the slightly red mark that will be gone in a few hours.

"I'm okay. Happens all the time," you assure him in a near whisper. You're almost sure an amused breath escapes him, but it feels out of character for him to do so. Especially now.

And once again you attempt to move past him, but the sudden presence of his hands on your waist is enough to throw your entire sanity out of your head. You squeal when he lifts you, setting you down on the table in front of him with an ease you can't help but be in awe over.

"Oh," you breathe out, watching him intently while he sets himself down in the booth right next to you.

The front of your shins are pressed against his knees. A seemingly innocent contact, but it doesn't stop your nerves from wreaking havoc and sending shivers all over your limbs. It doesn't help, it really doesn't, that Bucky is looking up at you again with that intense stare that forces you to avert your gaze. It's not that you don't want to look at him—he has the most beautiful and blue eyes you've probably ever seen—but it's too much. You can't do that and also succeed in hiding whatever you're feeling for the man.

Instead you carefully search through the first aid kit, closing your fingers that are just trembling slightly around some disinfectant. Of course you spill some on your dress, but you barely even notice. Bucky does.

"Come here," you whisper, motioning his face closer with your fingers. He listens to you without hesitation, despite knowing that having your faces so close will make it hard for him to keep himself from devouring your lips.

And then your fingers slip under his chin, tilts it upwards, and he nearly groans. Having your hands on him, despite how little contact there actually is between you, is a godsend Bucky has longed for since you first stepped into this bar a few months ago. And then you—god he can barely formulate a thought in that dumb brain of his—you trap your bottom lip between your teeth as you clean away the blood from his cheek. He can't stop himself.

A silent gasp escapes your lips as Bucky's thumb frees the prison your lip was held in, stopping your movements only for the sake of watching him. You can see that it wasn't even nearly intentional on the way his eyes widen just slightly, lips parting in some form of shock. But still his thumb lingers, runs over your lip for a second more before he retracts it.

"Sorry," he mumbles, clenching his fist tightly underneath the table. His lack of self control is laughable.

"It's okay," you tell him, gently grasping his face once more. Returning to your service without commenting on it further. He's thankful for that. You're a little disappointed. The thought of it leading to something more nags at you, tugs at your heartstrings that make your pulse go haywire. He hears it.

The pad of your finger brushes over the small bandaids you place over his wound, smoothing it over his skin while a frown grows on your face. Most likely you would have cried if you got a punch like that. Not only because of the pain, but because it's humiliating letting someone hurt you like that. It's humiliating that you let your date insult you like he did, humiliating that you stood there listening to his words to the point of tears.

"I'm sorry," you say, retracting your touch from his skin and Bucky nearly growls.

"For what?" he asks you. Your gaze is still stuck on his wound.

"What he did to you. If I didn't...I shouldn't have—"

"No." Bucky shakes his head, cutting you off before you even have a chance to finish that goddamn sentence. He won't even hear it.

With a sigh, Bucky gathers the courage to lay his palm over your thigh. Holding you still, keeping you here with him.

"It's not your damn place to apologize for what that fucking jerk did. He ain't got no right to come here and ignore what you want and call you those...things when you're not what he expected. I'm sorry, sweetheart, but I can't let that slide. Not when it comes to you."

Not when it comes to you. With a gulp, you force yourself to take in the other words that came out of his mouth and not just the whole of the last sentence.

"But he hurt you." Your hand comes to cup his cheek, thumb running over the blooming bruise once more. "Because of me."

A gasp escapes you as the cold metal of Bucky's left hand comes to rest against the crook of your waist, right hand around your wrist as he holds your hand to his face. Securing it there, afraid you will slip away. He needs your touch.

"Listen to me, honey," he tells you. "I'm a military vet. My best friend got me into three dozens of fights as a kid. I lost my goddamn arm working in this very bar. A punch is nothing."

You raise an eyebrow. This punch—it's not nothing. Doesn't matter how little it is in comparison to everything else he's been through. Bruises and blood don't belong on his skin.

"I don't care about that, Bucky," you say. "I don't want you to get hurt."

He shakes his head, averting his gaze to the door still unopened since Dugan's men dragged your date out. Squeezing your thigh once more, he catches himself having his hands on you without even thinking about it. He didn't even notice.

"Is this alright?" he asks, nodding down to where his palms lay over your figure. Better late than never.

You nod furiously, more eagerly than what you intended, but it's true nonetheless. It's so goddamn alright that you wish he'd never not have his hands on you. With a deep breath and burst of confidence, your hand slips down from his face to his left arm, running it down gently until you reach his hand.

It's unfamiliar, that kind of soft contact with the limb, Bucky realizes as soon as your fingertips trail over the intricate pattern running along the black.

"You lost it in this bar?" you ask, brows furrowing into a frown that he wants to smooth out.

Bucky nods. "Lost it when I was the new kid around here. We had these jerks come here few times a week—Hydra, they called themselves. The leader, Rumlow, he was a real shitty person. Came in with his gang one night already drunk out of their minds, high too probably, looking to pick a fight."

It's your turn now to squeeze his hand. Fingers trail over his palm, tracing a soft pattern that calms him better than the glass of whiskey he has beside him.

"They started picking on this young kid—Peter, who worked extra shifts on the weekends. Pulled out a knife eventually. I had to step in, safety guards weren't really a thing here back then," Bucky says. You notice the clench of his jaw, the tension he holds, and still he doesn't let any of it bleed out on his hold on you.

"Got ugly real fast. Brock and many of his friends had been serving too, overseas. They knew what they were doing, you know? At the end of the day, there were four of them against one. Had no chance, really."

"I'm sorry that happened to you, Bucky," you whisper. "Is this...you never step out past the bar counter. Wanda told me. Is this why?"

He nods in answer, knowing that he just did so after seven years of keeping this goddamn rule. His nod is answer enough for you, it seems like, because you move on to the next question before you even react.

"Where is Rumlow now?" you ask reluctantly, tightening your hold on his hand. He sees the way your gaze travels to the window for just a second, as if he would appear out of the blue to come for Bucky once more.

It's so goddamn endearing that he can't help himself. His hands travel to your waist, lifting you down from the table, placing you in his lap. The soft pads of your feet cling onto the sides of his thighs, heat rushing to your cheeks so quickly that Bucky can almost feel the temperature radiating from you. But you don't protest in the least. Instead you give him a shy smile, hands ghosting over his skin until they find their place at the nape of his neck.

"He's serving time, sweetheart. Can't get to me or anyone else in a long time," Bucky assures you, running his hand down the small of your back while gazing up at you. His head has fallen back onto the top of the sofa, resting. "You know I wouldn't even let you in this bar if there was a chance he and Hydra could come in?"

"No?" you ask, stopping the slow movements of your hands.

"Absolutely not. If someone laid a hand on you..." Bucky trails his fingers up to your cheek, tucking strands of hair behind your ear. "Don't think I would be able to handle that very well."

A shaky breath escapes your lips, hits the top of his nose with the proximity. He knows he just revealed too much, too much about what he feels for you, but it doesn't really matter anymore. He already has you in his lap, stroking your hair with a softness he's never displayed before. You have to know by now.

"Why did you go out today, Bucky? Why did you do that for me?" you ask him in a near whisper.

He looks down at where you’re pressed against him with a deprecating smile. "Steve told me it was obvious from the second night when I kept giving you free drinks even though I said I wouldn't, that punk," he answers you.

And despite his words, his conviction in your knowledge of how absolutely gone he is for you, your eyes still widen along with your fingers digging into his shoulders tightly enough to bruise. It almost makes him angry, the way you're so used to having real affection kept away from you that you haven't seen his infatuation. But then again, he hasn't been exactly perfect in handling his feelings. Sam gave him a good reminder of that earlier.

"Hell, I don't blame you for missin' it," he speaks up again when your silence remains. "Been a real jerk sometimes. Couldn't even talk to you for real the first few weeks."

And to his surprise, you let a small chuckle slip out between your lips. It's not really the reaction Bucky expected.

"You know, I've been telling myself that Wanda was the reason I came here so often?" you say, tracing the outline of his face with your fingertip. "Thought I could trick myself into liking you less if only my reasoning was something else than staring at you working all night. But I don't think that's possible—not looking at you, I mean."

"Hm?" Bucky smirks up at you, drawing a blinding grin from your lips.

"When something...someone lovely exists in front of you, just like that, you would think it a great disservice to whoever created that thing if you do not look at it. And my god, are you beautiful, Bucky."

"Beautiful?" His eyes flicker down to his arm for just a thousandth of a second—you catch it, the way his smile falters just as quickly as it returns.

"Yeah. Surely you must have noticed. You do own a mirror, do you?" you say, melting under his touch as it draws you closer to him. Chest to chest.

"I do," he answers. But he's not looking at you anymore. Or he is, he is looking at you, but not at your eyes. No, his gaze have flickered down to the swell of your lips. "I don't look at it very much."

"No?"

"No. Been spendin' all my time keeping an eye on the pretty girl hanging around the bar. Listening to her talkin' for hours, watching her get pissed drunk, working even though it's a Friday night. I could watch you breathe for hours and not tear my eyes away."

And that’s just what you do—breathe, shallow breaths that feel warm against Bucky’s skin. By now your gaze isn’t focused on his eyes anymore either. It sits so comfortably on the swell of his pink lips, begging for a touch with your own. Soon that silent plead turns real when his mouth forms after the words coming out through his lips.

“I have to kiss you, Y/n. Please let me,” he breathes out, panting, hands splayed out over your cheeks. Both warm and calloused, cold and hard. Perfectly Bucky.

“You don’t gotta ask,” you whisper, an inch away from him, noses touching.

A minute passes. 30 seconds. An hour. Two weeks? You don’t know and don’t care. Spending half a month having Bucky Barnes’s lips on yours would be a perfectly reasonable amount time, if not much too little. But oh, he lets out small whines when you distance yourself and you can’t help but giggle each time.

The next second he pulls you in again, demands the presence of your lips against his, orders your submission with his tongue. He groans, bucking up against your hips. God, the way he touches you, acts, make you desperate. You think you might be addicted to the sweet bourbon taste of Bucky Barnes.

“I knew it!” a shrill shriek erupts the enclosed space you shared with the man underneath you, tears you away from his lips with a soundless whine.

Wanda stands there, all smiling and giddy with a pouting Steve beside her, just behind the bar. He fishes out his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, plucking out a twenty dollar bill with a scowl. But despite it all, as he makes eye contact with Bucky, there’s a raise of his eyebrow and a small questioning smile on his lips.

You hurry to scramble off of Bucky’s lap, sitting down on your knees right beside him, a grounding metal hand on your waist. The embarrassment must be visible from miles away.

“Thought you’d never have the guts to ask her out,” Steve mutters under his breath. “You just made me lose twenty bucks, you punk.” He holds up the wrinkled bill before Wanda snatches it out of his hands.

The man beside you growls quietly, mumbles a ‘jerk’ under his breath, but you catch the small smirk on his lips anyways.

“Oh, c’mon. It was obvious that these two were gonna combust if they didn’t kiss by the end of the week,” Wanda says.

“Yeah, yeah. You know, Sam was about to ask her out. Said that if Buck didn’t make a move soon he would instead.”

Bucky’s grip on you tightens so much you have to gently loosen it with your fingers. It nearly makes you giggle, the way he’s glaring daggers at his friend sporting a knowing smirk. Steve knows exactly what kind of reaction that would summon out of him.

“That damn pu—“

“Hey,” you call out softly, hands engulfing his face until he’s facing you. “I’m yours, Bucky.”

His scowl softens, blue eyes running over your face for any sign of insincerity that he has never found the trace of in your expressions.

“If you’ll have me,” you add a few seconds later, an abrupt response to the realization that what Bucky is looking for might not be something more than a make-out session.

But then that frown turns into a devious smirk, eyes once more flickering down to your lips while his palms find their way to your hips.

“I’ll have you, darling. On every damn surface in my place, in every damn way I can have you.”

“We can still hear you!” Wanda shouts.

But that mischievous smirk doesn’t falter. No, instead a soft kiss is pressed to your lips, drawing an even bigger smile out of you.

“Good.”

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