#bucky+barnes

[unearthlydust]

SEBASTIAN STAN as BUCKY BARNES CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE WINTER SOLDIER THUNDERBOLTS*

[ellemj]

two best friends

Bucky Barnes x female!reader multi-part fic

summary: Steve's been pining for you since the day you walked into the tower, so how does he handle it when Bucky, who most definitely can't stand you, starts pining for you too? Not. So. Well.

warnings: profanity, objectification (by strangers, not by our beloved characters), mentions of gore/violence, inappropriate thoughts, pining, questionable lap dance, choking, threatening, MINORS DNI, 18+.

word count: 21.9k

a/n: No one proofread this so please let me know if you see any egregious mistakes. This has been sitting in my folder of unfinished works for a long time and I figured I might be more motivated to finish it if I posted part of what I have. I hope you guys enjoy!

            Sometimes it’s all a little too much. The feeling that he’s living in the wrong time period combined with an indefensible amount of blood on his hands and a near perfect memory is enough to keep Bucky in therapy twice a week. Even now, as he sits through his second session of the week, he feels like it might not be enough.

            Bucky leans back into the stiff gray cushion of Dr. Raynor’s couch, turning his head to look out at the rain pattering against the window to his left. He likes the rain, but his nightmares are worse when it rains after the sun has gone down. His brain has the tendency to pair the peaceful sound of raindrops on windows with the image of blood splattering over every surface.

            “Is the rain still bothering you?” Dr. Raynor asks, tapping the tip of her pen against the small notebook resting on her lap. Bucky shrugs indifferently as he focuses in on the dark clouds taking over the sky. It’s only a little past eight in the morning, but he has a sinking feeling that the storm is going to linger and he won’t be getting any sleep tonight. “James?”

            “Only if I’m sleeping.” He replies flatly.

            “You seem a little bothered by it right now.” Dr. Raynor points out. She follows his gaze until the dark clouds are in her line of sight as well. She gets lost in them for a moment, thinking about how much the tortured soldier might come to relate to this kind of weather if he could get past the nightmares it brings. The looming, threatening clouds remind her of him in every way.

            “I’m fine.” Bucky lies. Dr. Raynor rolls her eyes and clicks her pen open, quickly beginning to scratch the tip against the surface of a blank page. She isn’t writing anything of substance, but it’s a shameless trick that always gets a rise out of her patient. “I thought we talked about the notebook thing, doc.” Bucky grumbles, finally tearing his gaze away from the window to glare at her. She holds the tip of the pen against the page, letting the ink bleed a bit as she stills her hand and looks up at him.

            “I thought we talked about saying ‘I’m fine.’”

            “It’s a habit.” He admits, smoothing his flesh and vibranium palms over his jean-clad thighs. Thunder rumbles lowly in the distance and the hair on the back of his neck stands up.

            “A habit you’re supposed to be breaking. Do you tell Steve that you’re fine when he asks how you’re doing?”

            “Depends.”

            “On?”

            “Whether or not I’m fine.” Bucky’s being exceptionally difficult today. Though the session has only lasted a little over half an hour, it’s been unproductive thus far and Dr. Raynor knows that with this weather and Bucky’s particular brand of stubbornness this morning, she won’t be getting anywhere with him. She decides to cut her losses.

            “Why don’t we try this again on Monday? Should be sunny then.” Dr. Raynor says semi-sarcastically, clicking her pen shut and moving her notebook to a small table next to her chair. Bucky lets out a half-hearted chuckle, shaking his head at the dig.

            “Kicking me out early?” Bucky asks as he rises to his feet and fishes his gloves out of the pocket of his leather jacket.

            “Consider it a favor. Do something more productive with the rest of your Friday.”

            Bucky doesn’t take the elevator downstairs. He never does. He isn’t scared of them, but something about putting himself in such an enclosed space with potentially any other human being doesn’t sit right with him. He knows he isn’t the Winter Soldier anymore. The activation words don’t do much to his mind anymore, not in terms of mind-control at least. They might not activate the Winter Soldier but they sure as hell do a number on his PTSD. Who’s to say that some part of the Winter Soldier isn’t still ingrained in the fibers of his nervous system? So, he takes the stairs to avoid some unimaginable situation where, in an inescapable metal box, he becomes someone he wishes he could kill.

            You should probably stop getting to your therapy sessions so early. It’s not doing you any good, and it sure as hell isn’t doing your car any good. You sit in the driver’s seat, turning the key in the ignition one last time as you listen to the sad sound of your car attempting to start up, but failing. You’ve only sat here with it idling for what, half an hour? And now here it is, completely dead as rain pours down on the windshield. You should’ve put on your big girl pants and just gone inside and sat in the waiting area like anyone else would, but small talk makes your skin crawl and every time you’ve gone inside early, you get roped into small talk with Dr. Raynor’s chatty receptionist.

            You glance down at your phone to see that you have less than twenty minutes until your appointment begins, so you resolve to try and fix your piece of shit car afterward. You have no doubt that Dr. Raynor wouldn’t appreciate you sitting on her nice gray couch in rain-soaked clothes anyway.

            He heard the sound of your engine struggling to turn over even from the stairwell. Why you always choose to sit in your idling car, knowing that thing is temperamental as hell is beyond Bucky. He doesn’t know much about you, but he knows that you give your car the benefit of the doubt more than you’d often than you’d give it to probably any human being. You’re already gone when he exits the stairwell and presses on through the mostly empty lobby. He glances over at the receptionist on his left, not offering her a smile but also not completely ignoring her existence. As Bucky pushes open the glass door to exit the lobby, he intends to head straight for his car on the far right side of the parking lot. He intends to slide into the driver’s seat and drive slightly over the speed limit to get back to the tower and take up the first activity he can find that’ll effectively drown out the sound of the rain. But he finds himself slowing to a stop in front of your car. He slows to a stop, narrowing his eyes at the raindrops rolling off of the hood of it.

            He’d like to think that he decided to break into your car and pop the hood because it was the neighborly thing to do. You live across the hall from him, after all. Wouldn’t it have been rude if he simply walked past your car and left you potentially stranded in the rain? But as Bucky fixes the tiniest, most inconceivable problem a car could have, he bites down on the inside of his cheek a little too hard. His eyes are focused on the actions of his gloved flesh hand as it adjusts the connections between the black and red cables and your car’s battery. His eyes are focused on the task at hand, but his mind is stuck on the fact that if you had stood out here in the rain to fix this yourself after your session, you would’ve showed up back at the tower in a rain-soaked shirt that was so damn see-through Bucky would’ve struggled to look away.

            He’s just starting to break a sweat as he lowers the hood down and latches it closed. Tugging off his leather jacket, he heads for the driver’s side and pulls the door open. As he slides into your seat, wondering how you comfortably sit so damn close to the steering wheel, he tosses the jacket into the passenger seat before removing his leather gloves and setting them atop it. As he stares at the dash of your car, he realizes just how stupid this is. How the hell is he supposed to make sure it starts when he doesn’t have the keys? Hotwiring it immediately crosses his mind, but he tamps down that ridiculous idea as soon as it surfaces. Hotwiring a woman’s car just to make sure it starts for her later, and then un-hotwiring it and pretending you were never here is a special brand of obsessed. Not that he’s obsessed in any way, shape, or form…but intrigued, sure.

            Bucky shakes his head as he realizes just how untoward this whole thing would look to anyone beside himself. He climbs out of your car as quickly as he first got in, hitting the lock button on the door before shutting it quietly and heading for his own car across the lot. As far as you’ll be concerned, he was never there and your temperamental car decided to behave for once.

            He’s just pulling into the underground parking garage beneath Avengers Tower when he realizes his mistake. His leather jacket and his fucking gloves. He left them in your car, in your fucking passenger seat. An audible groan escapes his lips as he leans forward and presses his forehead against the steering wheel. Fucking idiot. Any woman in this day and age would automatically assume they have a very dangerous, overstepping stalker if they found articles of clothing in their car. He runs his fingers through his hair, gripping onto the strands tightly at his scalp before leaning back against the headrest and letting out a frustrated breath. He should’ve taken the elevator, because if he’d taken the elevator, he never would’ve heard your pathetic engine refusing to do its job.

            By the time he gets up to his room, his jaw hurts from how hard he’s been clenching it and he feels naked without his jacket and gloves on. The silver metal of his left arm is reflecting every bit of light he encounters and he keeps tugging on the sleeve of his red Henley in an attempt to cover more of his wrist and hand.

            “Not wearing any gloves today, OJ?” Sam asks, raising a brow as the super soldier steps out of the stairwell door and into the main living area of the tower. Bucky glares at him, not quite understanding the OJ reference but knowing it probably isn’t a great one.

            “Weren’t you wearing them when you left this morning? Did Dr. Raynor take them away?” Sam continues playfully from his spot on the sectional. Bucky bites down on the inside of his cheek as he stalks through the living area, heading straight for the hallway to everyone’s rooms. “Come on, Buck, I’m just messing with you.”

            Bucky doesn’t slow down as he barrels past Steve in the hall, ignoring his friendly ‘morning’ and not stopping until he’s reached his door.

            “What’s with him?” Steve directs his question at Sam as Bucky disappears into his room and locks the door behind him. Sam shrugs, lifting a mug of coffee to his lips as he focuses in on the news broadcast in front of him.

            “He’s trying out a new look.”

             The day drags by. Bucky feels like he’s been staring at his empty bedroom wall for the entirety of it, only occasionally averting his gaze to glance out of his window and look to see if your car is rolling into the compound entrance when he hears a noise outside. He never sees it. He watches Tony’s car roll in around the time you’d normally be back from a session with Dr. Raynor. Then, he watches Sam’s car roll out a little later. At some point, Natasha’s car leaves too, followed by Sam returning shortly after. Not once does he see your piece of shit car come into view.

            It isn’t until it’s nearly noon that Bucky hears the sound of footsteps coming down the hall and then three loud knocks against the surface of his door. It’s not you. He’s sure of that. So, begrudgingly, he pulls himself away from his absolutely pointless activity and tugs the door open, coming face to face with Steve.

            “You’re hiding in here.” Steve says flatly, looking over Bucky’s shoulder as if he’s concerned about the contents of the room. “What’s going on with you?” Bucky lets out a sigh before stepping to the side and letting Steve in, knowing he can’t just shut the door in his face. Steve takes a few steps in, scanning the mostly bare room before turning back around to face his friend.

            “Nothing’s going on.” Bucky lies with ease, shutting the door and running a hand through his hair. He’s been thinking about cutting it lately. He doesn’t mind the length of it, but sometimes he looks in the mirror and feels like he only keeps it in an attempt to hide his sins behind it. Steve studies him carefully, knowing better than to accuse him of lying outright.

            “Is it the weather?” He asks, shifting his gaze to the window. It’s still dark and cloudy out, and the rain comes and goes every hour or so. Bucky shrugs, looking past Steve to focus on the clouds. Truthfully, he’s been so preoccupied by his mistake this morning that he’s somewhat forgotten about the weather. “You’re coming with me.”

            “Where?”

            “The fridge is empty.”

            “You want me to go grocery shopping?” Bucky asks, scoffing at Steve as if he’s just asked him to commit a felony. Steve lets out an annoyed sigh, tilting his head to the side to capture Bucky’s gaze.

            “You didn’t buy groceries when you were hiding out in Bucharest?” Bucky doesn’t answer the question, but he returns Steve’s questioning stare with a look of disdain. “It’s just a supermarket, Buck.”

            Two super soldiers in a goddamn supermarket. It’d be laughable if Bucky wasn’t so uncomfortable right now. He can feel the stares and lingering glances from everyone who happens to be near as he and Steve make their way through the produce section. Sure, they’re probably staring at Steve way more, considering his face has been on milk cartons and cereal boxes, but still. While Bucky’s wishing he was anywhere else, Steve’s trying to choose between three different kinds of potatoes like the wrong choice would be treason.

            “Steve, they’re all potatoes.”

            “Yeah, but she likes a certain kind.” Bucky freezes at the mention of she. He knows Steve’s talking about you. Bucky’s never once seen Natasha in the kitchen, and Wanda only ever cooks chicken paprikash.

            “She only likes a certain kind.” Bucky repeats, narrowing his eyes at the selection before him. Russet, red, white, yellow. He remembers one specific night, when it was way too late for any normal person to be chopping up potatoes, you were there in the kitchen with a cutting board and knife. He spared you the briefest glance as he headed for the stairwell, your eyes meeting only for a moment as you drove your knife into the middle of a small, red potato. “Why are you so concerned with getting her the right kind of potato?” Steve’s silence speaks volumes. Bucky feels his own heart rate speeding up as Steve picks up a Russet potato and deposits it into a plastic bag. “Steve?”

            “If you took the time to get to know her, you’d want to get her the right kind of potatoes too.” Steve answers. He doesn’t have to say it, it’s obvious. He’s into you. He’s so into you that he’s trying to figure out which type of potatoes you like to cook with so he can stock the communal kitchen with them. Bucky finds himself clenching his teeth. He thinks about pocketing a few red potatoes just to show Steve up, but he doesn’t.

            “I’m good.” Bucky says stiffly, moving away from his friend and wishing he had his jacket on so he could shove his hands in his pockets. “Getting to know people isn’t really my thing.”

            “Right, you prefer to get to know your bedroom walls.” Steve teases, bagging up a couple more Russet potatoes before setting his selection in the cart.

            “If I got to know everyone else, you might have some competition.”

            “Things aren’t like they were when we were young.” Steve points out, pushing the cart away from the produce section with Bucky following a few steps behind. “I might not have gotten a second look from a woman back then, but I think I could do pretty well now.”

            “You got second looks back then, you just didn’t realize it.” Bucky argues. “You didn’t have confidence.”

            “I was an asthmatic kid that could’ve passed for a skeleton even when it wasn’t Halloween.”

            “But you were nice, and funny. You were smart and had ambition. Girls liked that.”

            “If I remember correctly, every girl you ever introduced me to only ever wanted you, Buck.” A smirk plays on Bucky’s lips as memories flood in. Steve isn’t wrong about that.

            “But look at you now. What girl is going to pick me over Captain America?”

            You were in his room. Bucky stands still as his bedroom door falls shut behind him, his eyes are zeroed in on the leather jacket and gloves resting on the foot of his bed. He broke into your car and you broke into his room, each of you doing the other a favor. He feels something bubbling up from low in his stomach as he stands there staring at the worn leather, itching to reach out for it and put it on like it’s a security blanket he can’t stand to go without.

            He turns on his heel, choosing to inspect the lock and handle of his door instead. He sees no sign of forced entry, not a single mechanism feels loose or out of place as he jiggles the handle and turns the lock repeatedly. You’re good.

            You sink down onto your bed slowly, letting yourself fall backwards with your legs hanging off the end of the mattress as you stare up at the ceiling fan. The storm picked up again just a little while ago and the rain is coming down sideways against your bedroom window. You noticed someone made a grocery run while you were gone today, but even with your stomach grumbling, you didn’t feel like raiding the freshly stocked fridge for something to eat.

            Your session with Dr. Raynor is still replaying in your head.

            “You only say yes to solo ops.” Dr. Raynor had pointed out, tapping the tip of her pen against her notebook.

            “That’s what I’m best at.”

            “You don’t know that if you’ve never taken on a partner or been a part of the team.”

            “I’m pretty sure.” You had replied indignantly, breaking her stare to glance out at the raging storm.

            “The next mission that Fury tries to put you on, no matter what it is, you’re going to agree to it.”

            She’s simultaneously a pain in your ass and the most reasonable person in your life. She gives advice that you constantly refuse to take, but it’s always good advice. You don’t want to say yes to whatever it is that Fury will try to put you on next, but you also know that you’ve been stagnant in your recovery. You’ve been stuck in the same place, dealing with your issues your own way while attending your therapy sessions and ignoring your therapist’s direction. At some point, if you want to get better, you know you have to give her way a try.

            A soft knock on your door breaks you out of your thoughts and you’re on your feet within a second, kicking off your shoes at the foot of your bed before opening the door and coming face to face with Steve. He stands tall, keeping a respectful distance from your door as he offers a kind smile and rubs his hand over the back of his neck. Is he…is he flexing? Your eyes dart over to the pronounced curve of his bicep for a quick second before he catches you looking and drops his arm down to his side.

            “I made a grocery run today.” He says, keeping his bright blue eyes trained on yours as you look up at him from your spot in the doorway. The way you’re looking up at him is enough to have the super soldier serum pumping through his veins a little harder and faster. He can feel his blood pressure spiking just from being this close to you, but he keeps an unchanging expression on his face. “I know it’s your night to handle the movie snacks, but if you don’t feel like worrying about it, there’s plenty of stuff in the kitchen.” The gesture is sweet, and you smile up at him politely before moving a bit of hair away from your face.

            “I think you’re the only one here who does grocery runs voluntarily.” Steve laughs lightly before dropping his gaze to the floor for a second. When he looks back up at you, there’s a slight blush coloring his cheeks and a genuine smile painted across his face.

            “You’re the only one who cooks voluntarily so it seems fair that I stock the kitchen.”

            “We’re the only ones keeping everyone in this tower alive, aren’t we?” You ask jokingly. A loud crack of thunder resounds throughout the hall and the lights flicker for a moment before returning to their full brightness.

            “Seems that way.” Steve agrees. His gaze lingers on yours for a second, hoping you’ll say something else to keep the conversation going. But as usual, you let it fade out and he gets the hint to give you another kind smile and take a few steps away from your door. “See you later tonight.”

            For you, the interaction was nothing special. Steve’s a nice guy, really, he is. He’s nice and thoughtful. He does in fact keep the kitchen stocked, sometimes it even seems like he goes out of his way to buy things he thinks you like. He happened to see you chowing down on a granola bar on your way to the gym one morning and a few days later, there was a box of forty-eight granola bars in the pantry. You moved a pack of provolone cheese further back in the fridge once and reached for the colby jack instead. Two days later, the provolone was gone and colby jack had taken over. You never had the heart to tell him that you weren’t the biggest fan of those specific granola bars, or that you use different cheeses for different things. You’re sure he does the same thing for everyone else. You didn’t pay much attention, but surely he must’ve stocked up on chicken and paprika after Wanda made her favorite dish for everyone. The behavior couldn’t be limited to only you. But if you could see what everyone else in the tower sees, you’d know that yes, the behavior is strictly limited to you. Steve is into you.

            “You’re not going alone.” Natasha says matter-of-factly as she sets a few unopened bottles of beer on the coffee table in the living area. When she stands up straight again, she shoots you a stern look, as if it’ll have any effect on you.

            “It’s a Chinese restaurant twenty minutes away, not a field trip to the Berlin Correctional Facility.” You retort, turning your back to her and heading for the elevator. Steve clears his throat from the kitchen as his eyes dart between the two of you.

            “I could go with you.” He offers, drying his hands on a dish towel. Your head snaps over in his direction at the same time that Natasha clicks her tongue disapprovingly.

            “No, you’re supposed to be stealing that second couch from downstairs, and you’re not leaving that to me.” She gives him a withering glance, immediately ruining his chance of spending forty minutes in a car with you. Steve turns to you, offering an apologetic glance before shifting his gaze to the silent, brooding super soldier who’s making his way down the hall. Both you and Natasha turn to follow his line of sight, your eyes landing on Bucky in his recently-returned leather jacket and gloves.

            “Bucky will go with you.” Steve offers, dropping the dish towel on the countertop and moving into the living area. You take another step toward the elevator, reaching out to press the button that will call it up to you.

            “I don’t need anyone to go with me.” Your words aren’t at all surprising. You have a thing about people thinking you can’t take care of yourself. It’s ironic that the thought ever crosses anyone’s mind considering you only ever take on solo missions, but still, here you are.

            “It’s storming and you ordered from the place on fifth street.” Natasha points out. Bucky raises an eyebrow at you from his place near the entrance to the hallway. He knows fifth street. He wouldn’t make a stop on fifth street any time of day if he could help it, but when the sun’s going down like it is now? You’re even stupider than he thought you were this morning when you sat in your car and let it idle for so long.

            “I appreciate the meteorological and geographical reminders, but again, I don’t need anyone to go with me. I’ll be back in less than an hour.” The elevator’s halfway to you now, and as you turn your back to the group, you miss the glances they’re all three exchanging.

            Bucky doesn’t want to go. He doesn’t want to sit in the car, in an enclosed space with someone he barely knows. He doesn’t want to listen to the sound of the rain pounding down on the windshield as he tries too hard to remind himself that it isn’t innocent blood. He has no problem with turning around and walking back to his room without saying a word, but…he imagines your car refusing to start on fifth street as you stand there, bending over beneath the popped hood trying to figure out what’s wrong with it. He imagines the looks that you’d get, the things people would be thinking as their eyes roam over your body and the rain soaks through your thin shirt. Where the hell is your jacket? Do you not fucking own one?

            His feet are carrying him toward the elevator before his brain has a chance to tell his muscles no. Steve’s so far beyond surprised at Bucky’s forward momentum that he pauses between the living area and kitchen to stare. The elevator doors slide open and you step in first, unaware of Bucky being just a few steps behind you. Just as you’re turning around to reach for the panel of buttons on the inside, Bucky slips between the doors and moves to the opposite side of the elevator. The doors close before he realizes what he’s doing. He’s in an elevator with someone. He’s in a small, enclosed metal space with a girl he doesn’t know a thing about. How has he ended up doing two things today that he’d normally never do? He watches closely as you hit the button to bring the elevator down to the parking garage. First, he went out in public without the veil of his leather jacket and gloves. Now, he’s trusting himself not to end up triggered and kill some innocent girl during a ridiculously long elevator ride. How has he broken two barriers in one day?

            “You broke into my car.” Bucky narrows his eyes at you as you lean back against the far wall of the elevator. You remain facing him as you cross your arms over your chest and stare into his blue eyes.

            “You broke into my room.”

            “I assumed you wanted your jacket and gloves back. Or did you mean to leave those for me?” You ask, with sarcasm dripping from your words as you glance up to see the floor counter slowly ticking down. Bucky scoffs, shaking his head at you. When you look at him again, his tongue is running over his bottom lip as he stares back at you with a cold expression. “Right, you don’t go anywhere without them.”

            “It’s raining.” Bucky says flatly.

            “We both know that’s not why you wear the jacket.” The look in your eye tells Bucky that you’re able to read him a lot better than he’s able to read you, and he hates it. Maybe it’s a byproduct of your sessions with Dr. Raynor, you can’t help but become as insightful as she is.

The elevator reaches the parking garage after a few more seconds of the two of you staring at each other, and you rush out first. You beeline toward your car, hitting the button on your key fob to unlock it, not even looking over your shoulder to see if Bucky’s really about to try going with you.

“It’s pretty stupid to stop on fifth street alone.” His voice echoes off of the concrete pillars and walls all around, surrounding you as you wrap your fingers around the handle of the driver’s door. You look over your shoulder and your eyes land on him as he walks slowly in your direction, keeping his gloved hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket and his expression unreadable.

“No one would give a shit if I took a solo mission on fifth street, but everyone gives a shit when I go there for takeout?”

“I don’t give a shit.” Bucky responds dryly, shrugging his shoulders as he comes to a stop at the tail end of your car.  “But Steve does, and I won’t hear the end of it if I let you go alone after coming all the way down here with you.” You let out a sigh as you tug the door open and purse your lips at the super soldier who almost seems bored with the situation at hand. His stare is penetrating. It feels like it goes right through you, like if he cared to learn anything about you, he could do so with one prolonged look into your eyes.

“I’m driving.” You mumble, sliding into the driver’s seat and pulling the door shut before he has a chance to respond. Bucky shakes his head in the direction of your rearview mirror. He starts moving around the back of the car toward the passenger side.

“I didn’t offer to.” He mutters under his breath, just for his own satisfaction.

            The rain doesn’t bother Bucky as much as he expected it to, not when you have the radio playing softly in the background and he actually sort of likes the music. He finds himself leaning his head back against the headrest and closing his eyes, letting out a deep exhale and resting his palms over his thighs. Your eyes flit over for a moment, taking in the sight of the man you barely know sitting in your passenger seat. It’s as if you tried to fit a Ken doll into a Polly Pocket car. He’s thick in every way. You’d attribute it to the super soldier serum, but something’s different between Bucky’s build and Steve’s. Did they get different formulas of the same serum? While Steve’s build resembles that of a comic strip Superman, Bucky’s seems more natural. You can see the toned muscles of his thighs pressing against the fabric of his jeans. Even through the long sleeve shirt you know he’s sporting beneath his heavy leather jacket, you can see the pronounced curves of his biceps and defined muscles of his chest. If you didn’t know he was a super soldier, you’d assume he lives in the gym.

He can feel you staring but he never says anything about it. He’s used to being stared at, though normally, it’s just his silver arm. When you finally look away and turn your eyes back to the road, you flip on your turn signal and steer the car into the left turn lane, preparing to maneuver onto fifth street. Bucky opens his eyes and watches as you take the turn carefully, ensuring you don’t hydroplane and total your already shitty car.

“Cut the headlights.” Bucky says, scanning his eyes along the sidewalks. It’s a Friday night and the street is bustling with activity. He sees a handful of people in desolate states, slumped over against the various outer brick walls of abandoned storefronts. He sees a group of watchful men off to the left near a rundown laundromat pausing their conversation to stare as your car rolls by. You don’t make a move to listen to Bucky’s command, so he unbuckles his seatbelt and leans over the center console, coming so close that he can smell the perfume on the skin of your neck as he reaches past you and clicks your headlights off. You shoot him a warning look as he leans back into his seat once more. You go about halfway down the street before parallel parking between a couple of cars and turning off the ignition. The downpour of rain has slowed into a light shower, but as Bucky’s eyes coast down to the thin shirt you’re sporting, he knows the light shower may as well be a pressure washer. You’re going to get soaked and all eyes will be on you when that shirt turns see-through.

“Just stay in here, I’ll be five minutes.” You say as you drop the keys in his lap and push your door open. You’re out in the rain before he has a chance to say fuck no. He follows after you, pushing his own door open while holding the keys tightly in his left hand. You hear the car door slam shut but don’t waste any time turning around to look at the man who doesn’t listen. You jog across the sidewalk and rush into the Chinese restaurant, thoroughly soaked by the time you step in the door.

All eyes are on you, just like he expected. As Bucky steps in the door, his chest bumps against your back since you haven’t moved more than a foot into the storefront. You stumble forward and he reaches out instinctively, the fingers of his right hand curling into your hip as he steadies you. There’s a table of four men just off to the right, each one shamelessly focused on the wet shirt clinging to your chest. Bucky’s grip on your hip tightens and he clenches his teeth together, fighting the urge to flip their table and leave all of their bodies in a neat little pile by the door.

“If her pants were as thin as her shirt, we’d be getting dinner and a show, wouldn’t we?” One of the men snickers. He speaks so quietly that you can’t make out the words, but Bucky sure as hell can. Using the hand that’s still, for some unknown reason, holding onto your hip, Bucky pushes you forward. Your feet begin carrying you toward the counter a few meters ahead as Bucky’s hand falls away from you. He stays close, his presence hovering around you like a shield as the eyes of too many men follow you. He’s not even listening as you let the woman at the counter know which takeout order belongs to you. When you pull a debit card from the pocket of your jeans, he’s zeroed in on the voices of the men at that table by the door.

“She’s been here before, I recognize that ass.” A second man says, making Bucky wish he didn’t have such a heightened sense of hearing. The other men chuckle and Bucky’s seeing red as the woman behind the counter disappears in the kitchen to fetch your order.

“You’re standing really close to me.” You whisper, turning your head to the right to peer at Bucky over your shoulder. You can tell how stiff and uneasy he is just by the tension in the atmosphere. He’s maybe two inches behind you, with his arms hanging down at his sides and his hands curled into fists within his leather gloves.

“I’m not moving.” He says gruffly. His breath fans over the side of your neck and the wet fabric covering your shoulder, sending a shiver down your spine. You crane your neck a little further, looking around Bucky to see the table of men making no effort to hide their interest in you.

“I’m not worried about them.” Bucky lets out a low laugh as the words leave your lips and you turn back to face the counter.

“I’m not worried about them either.” He responds darkly. Something about the way he says it has your cheeks heating up and your shirt suddenly feeling far too thin. You looked all over for your rain jacket before you left the tower, but it was nowhere to be found. You should’ve grabbed a hoodie or quite literally anything else, but you didn’t. A man exits the kitchen with two large brown paper bags, setting them on the counter in front of you before offering you a polite smile. As you reach for the bags, his polite smile fades and his gaze drifts down your chest, lingering there for a moment too long. A commotion in the kitchen snaps him out of the questionable thoughts that were just beginning to form and he quickly turns on his heel, leaving you and Bucky at the counter in silence.

Bucky’s starting to wonder why, only around you, his body does things without him even realizing he’s doing them. He’s tugging off his gloves and shoving them into the pockets of his jacket before shrugging the jacket off and holding it up for you to slide your arms in. Catching his movement out of the corner of your eye, you start shaking your head immediately. You slide the two paper bags to the edge of the counter, refusing to turn and look at Bucky.

“I don’t need your jacket.” You say defiantly, preparing to lift the bags into your arms. Bucky lets out a quick huff through his nose before closing his eyes and mentally cursing Steve. Your fingers falter along the folded tops of the paper bags as Bucky suddenly leans in close, letting his lips ghost over the shell of your ear.

“If you don’t put it on…” He whispers, trying hard to ignore your sweet scent. “Those men back there won’t live to finish their fucking fortune cookies.”

Bucky’s jacket feels warm as he guides it over each of your arms and sets it over your shoulders. You watch the light reflect off of his vibranium forearm as he reaches around you and grabs both paper bags in his metal hand, lifting them from the counter with ease. Sure, it might’ve been fun to see the ogling men have their asses handed to them by an unexpectedly protective super soldier, but making a scene on fifth street would be beyond stupid.

When you start heading for the door, Bucky makes a point of looking each man in the eye as he walks closely behind you. To his surprise, not a single one of them is staring at you anymore. Instead, they’re all focused on Bucky’s silver arm. For once, he’s thankful for it.

Ever since he got away from HYDRA, Bucky has hated that arm. He hates the way it identifies him as the Winter Soldier. He hates the way it reminds him of every sin he’s ever committed. He fucking hates that blaring red star on the side and the way it forces him to represent a societal system that he’d never willingly be a part of. He hates everything about it. That’s why he’s always wearing that damn leather jacket and those gloves. That’s why it feels so odd that right now, he doesn’t actually hate it. He fucking loves the fact that no one is staring at you on the way out of the restaurant. Everyone’s staring at him. Even once you’re both out on the sidewalk, heading for the car, not a single pair of eyes settles on you. Every gaze is locked on Bucky’s silver arm and the red star that he’s always despised, but the fact that you’re safe from unwanted objectification for just this moment fills him with something akin to pride.

You don’t object when Bucky steps around to your right side and keeps you from crossing around the front of the car to the driver’s side. Your eyes flit up to his for a moment, but he only looks down at the passenger door, pulling it open for you with his right hand while carefully holding the paper bags in his left. You slide in quickly, wanting nothing more than to get the fuck out of there. Bucky leans down, setting the warm bags on your lap before shutting the door and crossing around to the driver’s side.

The ride back to the tower is tense and quiet. Neither of you says a word as the radio plays softly in the background. The rain has lightened up enough that Bucky doesn’t even have to turn on the windshield wipers for most of the drive. For the first time since the two of you got back in the car, you dare to steal a glance at him. He’s maneuvering the car through the gate at the edge of the Avengers property slowly, just coasting along the smooth downhill road to the parking garage.

You watch as he sits so comfortably in the driver’s seat, with his vibranium hand on the wheel and his flesh hand resting loosely atop the gear shift. His hair is a bit wet from the rain and his red Henley is too, and something about the sight of him like that makes your stomach flip. Is it the sight of him or the fact that he threatened to kill those men just for looking at you sideways? You swallow hard before turning your head away from him to look out your window again. 

“I could’ve handled that myself.” You finally say, keeping your head turned away from Bucky as the car enters the parking garage.

“You shouldn’t have had to.” He replies flatly, his tone giving no indication that he cares that much about what happened back on fifth street. You shift the paper bags on your lap, not wanting the heat emanating from them to get uncomfortable on your thighs.

“The world isn’t like it was in the forties.” You turn your head forward and take in the sight of the fluorescently-lit parking garage. Bucky steers the car straight back to the spot you’d originally parked it in earlier today before slowing down and making a right turn into it. “That’s pretty normal shit for a girl to deal with nowadays, and I would’ve been fine if I was there alone…without your jacket.”

“You would’ve been fine.” Bucky repeats, shutting the car off and holding the keys out for you. You look into his eyes as you reach for the keys and he simultaneously reaches for the bags of food with his free hand. “And they would’ve seen straight through your shirt. They don’t deserve that.”

“You act like it’s a prize or something.” You scoff as he lifts the paper bags from your lap and pushes his door open. You climb out of the car already moving to shrug his jacket off of your shoulders.

“You act like it’s not.” He retorts. You can’t tell if he’s almost complimenting you or trying to tell you how to take care of yourself. He glances over the roof of the car as you’re sliding one arm out of his leather jacket. “Leave it on.”

“You want me to step out of the elevator and have everyone up there see me in your jacket?” You ask, making a disbelieving face at him. He shrugs, turning his back to you and heading for the elevator.

“You want to step out of the elevator and have everyone see the black lace beneath your shirt?” Your cheeks heat up instantly as you look down and realize just how see-through the rain really made your thin shirt. Fuck. You tug Bucky’s jacket back on before falling into step a few meters behind him. He’s satisfied. You’re keeping his jacket on and no one else gets to see the way your wet shirt is clinging to your perfectly lace-cupped breasts tonight. God, he wishes he hadn’t even seen it. He finds his anger subsiding a little as the elevator carries you both higher and higher up the tower.

            When the elevator slows to a stop at the right floor, you step out first. Your eyes land on the sectional and oddly placed second couch that Steve must’ve brought up from downstairs. Everyone’s gathered there, mostly focused on the screen as Natasha scrolls through the various movie titles available on Netflix. Steve’s the first one to turn his head and look at you. His gaze lingers on your face for a moment, but his eyes are quickly cast down to your torso when he recognizes Bucky’s leather jacket wrapped around you.

            Bucky shouldn’t feel as good as he does about the look on Steve’s face. He should feel like a piece of shit, like the worst friend in the world for having you wear his jacket like this in front of the man who’s obviously head over heels for you. Steve looks slightly confused as his eyes dart over to Bucky, who, for the second time today, seems to have no qualms about showing off his silver arm. Is he missing something? Has Bucky suddenly gotten over the incessant need to cover up that one remaining piece of HYDRA? Steve turns his focus back to you on more time as Bucky moves toward the kitchen with the two bags of takeout. Both of the super soldiers watch as you disappear down the hallway, quickly heading for your room without saying a word.

            As Natasha and Wanda discuss which movies they most definitely refuse to watch tonight, Vision listens with such intense interest that one would think movies are a special study topic of his. Steve abandons his seat on the couch, stealing one more look at you down the hall before you disappear into your room. He moves into the kitchen next, standing a few feet away as Bucky empties the contents of the paper bags onto the kitchen counter.

            “What?” Bucky finally asks, growing tired of his friend staring at him like he’s grown a second head. He sets the last carton of fried rice on the countertop before crumpling the paper bags and tossing them into the trash. Steve crosses his arms over his chest and narrows his eyes at Bucky, not even quite sure where his own train of thought is heading right now.

            “Was that your jacket she had on?” Steve questions quietly, keeping his voice just low enough that no one else will pick up on the topic of conversation. Bucky shoots him a sideways glance. He finds that he kind of hates the way Steve shows so much concern over you. Even more than that, he hates that Steve showing concern over you really fucking bothers him.

            “She was cold.” Bucky lies, opening a drawer and pulling out a handful of forks. He drops them on the countertop next to the various takeout items, making a clattering noise as he does so.

            “It’s not cold outside.” Steve notes. Bucky shrugs, lifting his eyes to peer through the open-concept kitchen into the living room. He sees Natasha’s settled on some action movie that he’s sure he’ll leave halfway through. He’s really tried to get into movies and TV shows since being around here, but he still finds that he prefers old books and forties music more as his pastime of choice. Still, Steve and Dr. Raynor both emphasize the importance of team bonding and shit so he tries to be present sometimes. Tonight, he’s feeling like skipping it all.

            “I didn’t say it was cold out.” The words leave Bucky’s mouth just as you’re stepping out of your room in the same jeans you had on earlier, but now missing Bucky’s jacket. His eyes land on you as you get closer to the end of the hall, nearing the living area. You’re wearing an oversized gray SHIELD sweatshirt that has the tension in Bucky’s shoulders instantly dissipating. Thank fuck you switched out of what you had on before.

            “You said she was cold.” Steve won’t let it go. Sure, he knows Bucky’s a good guy. He’s even known Bucky to be a perfect gentleman in the past. But does he trust him to be one now that they’re both older and in a different time period? He isn’t so sure.

            “You wanted me to go with her, so I went.” Bucky says through gritted teeth as you make eye contact with him. You watch as his gaze flits down to your sweatshirt before flitting back up to your eyes and remaining there. The feeling you get from his blue eyes staying on you is something you’re not used to, something you can’t quite describe. The air in the tower feels more tense than usual as you weave your way between the sectional and coffee table and settle yourself onto the small loveseat angled awkwardly beside the wall. No one’s seated there yet and you know Steve was seated on the end of the sectional next to Vision, so you imagine you’ll get the whole loveseat to yourself. As long as Bucky isn’t staying for the movie, which you’re sure he won’t.

            “Where’s the food?” Wanda calls out, turning around on the couch to peer at the two men in the kitchen. Steve moves closer to Bucky and starts stacking as many of the takeout containers as he can carry into his arms, shooting Bucky a quizzical look before stepping around him and carrying the food into the living room. Bucky lets out a deep breath once he’s alone in the kitchen again before snagging a cold beer from the fridge and heading for his room. He’s just popping the top off of the bottle as he nears the hallway when Natasha speaks up.

            “You’re not staying for the movie?” She asks, cocking her head to one side. Bucky slows to a stop and turns to look at her, but his eyes seem to gravitate to you naturally. The only empty seat is the one right next to you. You stare back at him with no expression on your face. You’re perfectly neutral as he takes in your uneasy posture on the couch. You look like you want to be there about as little as he does.

            “You really should stay.” Vision says evenly, shifting in his own seat to see Bucky. He’s the only one that notices the stare between the two of you. Vision slowly turns to look at you, squinting just slightly before looking back at the super soldier once more.

            “He’s not a big fan of movies.” Steve finally says. Bucky narrows his eyes at him as he leans forward and wraps his hand around a carton of sweet and sour chicken. When Steve leans back into the couch cushions between Vision and Nat, Bucky’s mind is made up.

            “What are we watching?” He asks. You watch as he approaches, his silver arm glinting in the low light emitting from the TV screen. You don’t move a muscle as he sinks into the couch beside you, so close to your right side on that tiny couch that the metal of his left arm is nearly touching the sleeve of your sweatshirt. You sit with one knee pulled up to your chest and the other leg hanging down toward the floor.

            It’s a weird night. The movie is hard to get into. It plays out slowly on the screen, capturing absolutely zero percent of your attention though everyone else seems fully immersed in it. You hate movie night. If there’s anything worse than small talk, it’s sitting around pretending to enjoy a movie. Working in a high-stress line of work does that to you, makes everything else seem so much less interesting.

            Bucky’s about as uninterested as you are. If it weren’t for the way Steve basically tried to send him off to his room, he wouldn’t be here right now. Bucky fiddles with the cap of his beer bottle in his vibranium hand as he rests the bottle on his right knee with the other hand. Your eyes follow the movement, watching as he spins the cap between his thumb and middle finger over and over again. He can feel your gaze on him. He can also feel Steve’s occasional gaze in your direction. Maybe that’s why he does it. Maybe that’s why he gets a little more comfortable on the loveseat and spreads his legs just enough that his knee is brushing against your right leg. You stiffen up but don’t pull away, sure that he’ll pull away as soon as he realizes you’re touching. But he doesn’t. Instead, Bucky sets the cap on his knee and stretches that shiny vibranium arm, moving it to rest along the back of the couch partially behind you. Steve’s pissed. Bucky can tell without so much as looking in his direction. He shouldn’t have asked Bucky to go to fifth street with you tonight, not when he knows how much Bucky hates being in an enclosed space like that with quite literally anyone. He shouldn’t have given a shit about Bucky lending you his jacket, especially not when it was for such a damn good reason. Bucky’s the one who’s pissed.

            Bucky’s staring at the TV screen, trying to figure out what the hell is happening between these two characters who seem to hate each other, as you stare down at the bottle cap on his knee. Rain starts pattering down outside again just as you’re reaching over and taking the cap between your fingers. Your fingertips graze Bucky’s lower thigh as you take the small piece of aluminum. His head snaps toward you quickly, watching your hand as you start fiddling with the cap just like he’d been doing a moment ago. It’s mesmerizing watching your fingers move just like his did. The cap looks so much bigger in your hand than it did in his. Lightning flashes through the window behind the couch and he closes his eyes for a second. He can see those men from the Chinese takeout place ogling you, they were practically drooling while you didn’t seem to give one shit about where their eyes were lingering. Why did it bother him so much? Why is it still bothering him now?

            When the end credits start rolling on the TV screen, you still have that bottle cap pinched between two fingers. Sitting on the same couch as Bucky feels every bit as abnormal as sitting in the car with him felt earlier, but neither of you have moved much since the start of the movie. He tugged his arm away from the back of the couch earlier, but your knees are still touching.

            While everyone else engages in light conversation about the very mediocre movie you just watched, you’re more focused on the way Bucky’s breathing is faster than the downpour outside the window. You can see his chest rising and falling quickly out of the corner of your eye and hear his almost inaudible inhaling and exhaling, but only because you’re sitting right next to him. Steve and Nat gather up the trash and leftovers from the coffee table and head to the kitchen while Wanda and Vision disappear down the hall one after the other. As you continue to spin the bottle cap between the fingers of your left hand, you look up and notice Sam staring at Bucky. Turning your head slightly, you see Bucky staring straight ahead as if he isn’t even there. You’d recognize that stormy yet blank stare anywhere. His eyes are seeing so much while simultaneously seeing absolutely nothing in front of him. Sam’s only a moment away from saying something in an attempt to snap Bucky out of the trance he’s in, when you move first. You’re sitting with your right knee still brushing against Bucky’s left knee and his torso a few inches away from yours. You look down and see his vibranium hand gripping the middle of his left thigh so tightly that you wonder if he can even feel his foot. You don’t know why it’s your first thought, your only thought really, but you’re reaching for that silver hand instantly. Bucky doesn’t feel it, but out of the corner of his eye he sees your hand wrapping around his wrist. His tight grip on his thigh falters and the sound of the rain pouring down grows a little quieter in his ears as he focuses in on the movement. He lets you flip his hand over and watches with narrowed eyes as you gently set the bottle cap in the palm of his hand.

            Sam’s studying every detail of the moment that’s playing out in front of him. He watches as Bucky’s breathing slows and his gaze shifts from that of someone who’s dissociating to that of someone who’s merely on edge. Bucky stares at the small bottle cap in his palm for a second before letting his eyes coast down to where your hand is wrapped around the underside of his upturned wrist. Something about your soft skin contrasting with the stark silver of his arm is almost grounding. Bucky curls his fingers around the bottle cap and lets out a deep exhale.

            Sam almost feels like he’s intruding. You just singlehandedly dragged Bucky out of an episode of inner turmoil that he can’t even bring himself out of most of the time. Or maybe not so singlehandedly. You used the cap of a beer bottle. Sam has a feeling that it had a little more to do with the way you grabbed his wrist and let your touch linger rather than the inconsequential bottle cap that you placed in his hand. As you tug your hand away from Bucky’s wrist, Sam snatches the remote from the coffee table and turns the TV off, casting the entire living area in darkness. Sam rises from the couch quietly as Nat and Steve are heading toward the hall, chatting amongst themselves.

            You sit next to Bucky for a minute, listening to the chorus of goodnights coming from down the hall as everyone goes their separate ways for the night. When you hear the last door shut, you let out a deep breath and sink into the couch cushion more comfortably than you ever would’ve with everyone still around. Your head rests against the back of the couch as you listen to the rain patter against the window. Bucky’s tense and uneasy beside you, still staring down at his vibranium hand. He uncurls his fingers slowly, shifting the bottle cap until it’s between his thumb and middle finger. He rolls it around a few times, listening to the way the patterned edges scratch against his metal digits, trying his best to ignore the sound outside.

            The two of you sit there in near-silence for a couple of fleeting minutes. Neither of you would dare say that you’re enjoying each other’s presence, but it isn’t uncomfortable. When you decide to rise from the couch and head for your room, you look over your shoulder at Bucky just once, to find him already looking at you. He doesn’t avert his gaze. He keeps his eyes on yours as you head out of the living room, until you disappear into the dimly lit hall and leave him on his own.

            When Bucky finally retreats to his own room, he lets his door fall shut with a soft metallic click and finds himself standing still. The bottle cap is still grasped in his vibranium hand and he doesn’t plan on tossing it out. He walks over to his dresser, dropping it on the surface and watching as it spins on its side before falling flat against the wooden surface. How the hell did that tiny piece of aluminum have such a strong effect on him? He doesn’t once stop to think that it was really you that had the effect. He wouldn’t leap to such a conclusion after one little encounter. In his head, focusing on that bottle cap brought him out of the dark headspace he was slipping into. You did nothing.

            Is there anything worse than being woken by someone knocking on your door unexpectedly? It instantly puts you in a bad mood. As you throw your covers back, you raise your hands to your face and rub the heels of them against your sleep-laden eyes. No one ever knocks on your door besides Steve, and he hasn’t ever knocked this early before. Moving to sit on the side of the bed, you lift your phone from the nightstand and notice that it isn’t even seven on a Saturday morning. If you were a more unstable person, you might actually feel homicidal. You don’t bother to pull on a pair of sweats or give your appearance a second thought as you trudge through your dark room toward the door.

            Bucky’s waiting impatiently in the hall, running a hand through his messy brown hair as he listens to the sound of your slow footsteps padding against the floor on the other side of your door.

Fuck.

When you pull the door open, the first thing he sees is the anger written all over your face. But the second thing he sees? The second thing he sees is your bare thighs peeking out from the hem of the oversized t-shirt you’re wearing. He can’t seem to lift his eyes back up to your face fast enough and you catch him soaking in your appearance.

“The building had better be on fire.” You say, the frustration evident in your tone drawing his eyes back up to meet yours. He didn’t want to wake you. He sat around for an hour hoping to hear you up and about so he wouldn’t feel like shit for waking you to ask for his jacket back. But he has somewhere to be and could only wait so long, and he sure as hell isn’t leaving without his jacket if he can help it.

“It’s not.” He drops his hand from his hair and narrows his eyes at you. “I need my jacket.” You let out a sigh, realizing you could’ve avoided this early morning encounter if you’d simply dropped the jacket outside of his room last night. Or better yet, you could’ve broken into his room a second time and left it on his bed again. You turn on your heel, pushing the door open a little wider, making it obvious that you’re giving Bucky permission to follow you in. As you take a few steps into your room, he fights the urge to let his eyes trail down your body. It’s still pretty gray and gloomy outside, keeping your room mostly dark, but the dim light from the hall offers enough visibility that if he really wanted to, he could fucking memorize the shape of your legs. Bucky slows to a stop just a few steps into your room as the door falls shut behind him and you continue walking off to the left toward your bathroom.

“Do you only have one jacket?” You ask as your eyes land on it. It’s hanging on the towel rack beside your shower and just the sight of it brings the fifth street situation to the forefront of your mind. You can almost feel him leaning in close to you and whispering in your ear, threatening to end those sleazy men who couldn’t keep their eyes or comments to themselves.

“Were you planning on keeping that one?” Bucky’s question has you rolling your eyes as you tug the jacket off of the rack and turn toward your bathroom mirror. Your hair is a mess and your t-shirt is a lot shorter than you remember it being. You’re quick to smooth out your hair the best you can.

“You’re the one who made me wear it.” You call out from the bathroom. Bucky’s glancing around your room, studying the details of it while he’s out of your sight. Your bed looks like a cloud. The thick bedding and multiple pillows strewn about make it look so well-slept in that he’s almost jealous. Your sweet scent swirls around the space and Bucky tries to breathe more shallow than normal.

“I did you a favor.” He points out. You step out of the bathroom with his leather jacket gripped in your right hand and an annoyed look on your face.

“I would’ve been fine without it.” You remind him. He scoffs as you stop a foot in front of him and hold the jacket out. He takes it from you, immediately starting to pull it on to cover his vibranium arm. Shit. It smells like you.

“You don’t give a shit about letting those assholes seeing straight through your shirt? Or letting Steve, or Sam, or anyone else see through it once we got back here?”

“Not as much of a shit as you seem to give.” Bucky stills in front of you, giving you a hardened look as he tries to figure out why you don’t care. Actually, he wants to know why he cares so much. Shaking his head, he turns to head for the door.

“I’ll try not to do you anymore favors.” He says flatly, reaching for the door handle. Just as he’s wrapping his flesh hand around it, a quiet knock reverberates against the other side of the door and he freezes. You both go silent as Bucky turns his head and glances at you over his shoulder. You stare at him, just as surprised as he is by the knocking. You shrug your shoulders, moving toward him and the door silently. Bucky can’t help himself. He leans in and steals a look at the visitor through the peephole. Of course it’s Steve. Bucky inhales a deep, unreasonably annoyed breath. He could continue being a bit of an asshole like he was last night. He could stand in your way and open the door, let Steve catch him in your room this early while you’re in nothing but a t-shirt. You don’t know why Bucky’s still standing in front of the door, why he’s still holding onto the door handle, but as you watch his grip on the door tighten and his knuckles turn white and you know exactly what he’s about to do.

You move quickly, lunging forward and kicking Bucky in the back of the knees, causing his legs to buckle and his hand to slip away from the door handle. He straightens up quickly, turning around to face you with a very what-the-fuck-was-that kind of look on his face. You shoot him a threatening glance before shoving him toward the hinge-side of the door, a little closer to your bed, and reaching for the door handle yourself. With Bucky out of sight of the hall, you start to pull the door open. Bucky watches from the side as you put on such a fake sleepy smile, rubbing your eyes with one hand as the door inches open. Bucky would almost find it amusing if his eyes didn’t drift down to remind him that you’re in nothing but a t-shirt. He moves toward you quickly, grabbing the fabric of your shirt near your waist and giving you a harsh tug. You give him a look that could kill, but keep the lower half of your body hidden behind the door as you finish opening it just enough to stick your head out.

“Did I wake you? I thought I heard you up.” Steve sounds apologetic and truthfully, Bucky feels a little guilty, though he’s done nothing wrong.

“I was just going back to bed.” You answer honestly. Something about having Bucky standing behind the door while you talk to Steve and pretend that you’re alone is the tiniest bit exciting. Though you’d much rather neither man be in your space this early in the morning, you can’t ignore the adrenaline rushing through your veins.

“Understood.” Steve replies, taking a step back from your door and rubbing the back of his neck almost nervously. Is he nervous? “Sam and I are going to be down in the gym, if you can’t sleep and want to join for a workout.” Before you have a chance to come up with a polite declination, Steve is heading down the hall toward the elevator and Bucky’s pushing the door shut for you.

“Why are you the only one who gets to see me in a wet shirt or in a t-shirt like this?” You ask in a harsh whisper, giving Bucky a mild shove. He lets it happen and his back hits the door with a soft thud. Steve’s steps down the hall falter and he turns his head, straining his ears to listen for any other sounds coming from your room. After a couple of seconds, when he hears nothing, he continues on to the elevator. “You don’t own me. Fuck, you don’t even know me.” You cross your arms over your chest as a smirk spreads over Bucky’s features. He continues leaning against your door, mirroring your position and crossing his arms over his own chest.

“Why didn’t you let me answer the door?” He asks, that stupid smirk staying put on his face.

“Why do you think? You know how that would’ve looked.” You’re only a few inches in front of Bucky and as you stare at each other with heated glances, you’re suddenly sure that you won’t be going back to sleep this morning. Letting out a frustrated sigh, you lean to the side and flip on your bedside lamp. “Why are you still in here?”

“He hasn’t gotten into the elevator yet.” Bucky says it so casually, like it’s no big deal that he can hear that far away. You narrow your eyes at him, partially impressed but mostly just ready for him to leave.

“You can hear that?” You question, looking up into his eyes.  

“Unfortunately, I can hear a lot of things around here.” You swallow hard, hoping he isn’t insinuating that he’s heard anything specific from your room. You tend to stay pretty quiet, but if he can hear all the way to the elevator…surely he can hear you even just taking a deep breath across the hall. You can tell he’s listening for the elevator as he looks past you for a second, staring at the bedroom wall somewhere behind you. “Are you going to work out with them?” You take a step back, glancing over at your bed as Bucky turns and reaches for the door handle. Steve must be gone now.

 “I said I was going back to bed.” You remind him, narrowing your eyes at the back of his head. Where is he even going this early?

“I heard you.” Bucky pulls your door open a few inches before looking over his shoulder at you. “But you lie.” He’s gone in an instant, shutting the door silently behind him and leaving you alone in the dark. His scent lingers in the air, swirling around you and sinking into the fabric of your t-shirt. Heaving a deep sigh, you sink into bed, not bothering to pull the covers back over your body. Who would’ve known that the quiet, damaged man who lives across the hall from you would be kind of insufferable? Also, who would’ve guessed that he isn’t always so quiet? You’ve gone months barely interacting with him, and now you’ve interacted with him more than enough in just the last twelve hours.

Bucky takes the stairs down to the parking garage two at a time, reaching the fluorescently-lit concrete space in record time. He smells you all over him. Your sweet scent is stuck up his fucking nose as it emanates from his jacket, his hair, every part of him. He can’t shake it, and he didn’t even touch you. He hopes you don’t get any more sleep this morning. Sure, he initially felt guilty about having to wake you up so early and unexpectedly. But for some reason, you’re driving him mad and he hopes you suffer a little bit for it.

Bucky’s gone for most of the day. He had an appointment on the SHIELD base with a biotechnology team first. They did a few scans and tests on his vibranium arm, trying to gain a better understanding of how it works so they can eventually start to formulate a plan to remove it and give him something new in its place. He’d like to get his hopes up, but he won’t be that stupid. If he hadn’t grown so used to living with both arms, he’d rip it off himself and throw it off of the roof of the tower. However, he can see how that might land him a few extra sessions with Dr. Raynor. The appointment in the biotech department took up more than half of his Saturday, and then he had a ridiculously long debriefing to type up. He chose to sit in his car on base and type it up because he knows he looks technologically-inept, he hates working on debriefs around other people. By the time he’s finally arriving back at the tower, it’s nearly sunset and he wants nothing more than to lock himself in his room and stare at a wall.

            Bucky’s dragging his feet as he heads for the stairwell door of the parking garage. He finds his mind drifting back to this morning. One would think that he’d be thinking about the way you looked wearing just that oversized t-shirt or the fact that he still fucking smells like you as he wears that damn leather jacket he took back from you this morning. But Bucky’s thinking about your room. Though it’s a mirrored image of his own, it’s completely different. Sure, the layout is the same. The walls, the floors, the fixtures are all the same. Even the furniture is the same. But your room has life that his doesn’t have. Yours looks lived in and normal, where his looks devoid of all life and personality. It never bothered him before, but he seems to be dwelling on it now.

            With Bucky’s mind some place other than the present, the sound of someone coming down the last set of stairs behind the stairwell door doesn’t register in his mind until he’s pulling open the door.

            “Fuck.” He mutters, his voice low and rough as you barrel into his chest. His hand falls away from the door as he instinctively reaches for your arms to steady you. He curls his fingers into your sleeve-covered biceps and pushes you back from him by a couple of inches, keeping his hands on your arms as he looks down at you.

            “I thought you could hear everything.” You quip sarcastically, looking up at him with a disapproving expression. Bucky shakes his head, quickly letting go of your arms and taking a step to the side to give you room to fully enter the parking garage.

            “Be a little louder next time.” He responds emotionlessly. You brush past him, heading straight for your car. Bucky reaches for the stairwell door again but can’t keep himself from craning his neck in your direction. Curiosity gets the best of him as he studies your outfit. You’re dressed in dark jeans and a dark sweatshirt, but your hair and makeup are both perfectly done and he can see the outline of a handgun tucked in the back waistband of your jeans. “Where are you going?”

            “Out.” He can’t help the sigh that escapes him at your unreasonably lacking response. Why do you have to be so damn difficult? Bucky lets go of the stairwell door handle as he turns his body fully around to face you.

            “With your gun?”

            “Stop looking at my ass.” You cast a glare over your shoulder as you reach your car and slow to a stop. Bucky scoffs and then drags his tongue across his lower lip, moving his hands to his hips as he watches you unlock your car.

            “Tell me where you’re going.” Your eyebrows raise at his almost demanding tone. You look in his direction again as you slide your hand over your car door handle. There he stands, with his dark jeans, gray t-shirt, and that leather jacket of his. Surprisingly, you don’t see any gloves covering the hands that are so attitudinally resting on his hips.

            “Tell me to drive safe, and then stop talking to me.” You retort, popping the door open and narrowing your eyes at Bucky. He lets out a deep laugh and for a moment, it sounds genuine. Bucky turns toward the stairwell door as if he’s really going to leave you alone, but then, in an instant, he’s heading for the passenger side of your car. “Bucky—”

            “Get in the car.” He says gruffly, shooting you an annoyed look over the roof of it as he yanks the passenger door open and inserts himself right where he doesn’t belong. Your options are limited. What the hell are you supposed to do here? Drag him out of the car yourself? Abandon your plans and go back upstairs? You’d look stupid no matter what you decide. For the tiniest, most fleeting moment, you contemplate pulling your gun out and pressing it to his temple. You wouldn’t shoot him, but maybe you could persuade him to mind his own fucking business. But even that sounds stupid. Heaving a deep, exasperated sigh, you slide into the driver’s seat and slam your door shut.

            “Do you remember this morning when I told you that you don’t own me?” You ask, fiddling with your car keys. You make no move to stick the key into the ignition. Instead, you waste time, hoping Bucky will come to his senses before you start the car. Bucky remembers it. He remembers it and of course, you’re right. He doesn’t own you. You also said that he doesn’t even know you, which is also true.

            “I’m going to take a wild guess and say that you’re going somewhere you shouldn’t be going alone to do something that you probably shouldn’t be doing alone. And you’re bringing your weapon because you’re pretty fucking aware of both of those facts.” Bucky completely disregards your question. He sinks into the passenger seat a little further, seemingly getting comfortable as you turn your head and glare at him. You take in the little specks of stubble decorating his lower jaw and jawline, his chin-length cut hair looks clean and almost styled, and his blue eyes stare straight ahead at the concrete wall in front of your car. You wonder if this is what he looks like on Dr. Raynor’s couch. Is he this at ease in her office? Or does he sit stiffly just like you, counting down each passing minute and wishing he was anywhere else? You can’t imagine someone like him actually being accepting of therapy, even though he probably needs it even more than you do.

            “I do a lot of things alone, Bucky, and I bring my weapon most places.”

            “You didn’t bring it to fifth street last night.” He points out. He would’ve felt it when he had his hand on your lower back. Fuck, he probably would’ve been able to see the damn serial number on it with how see-through your shirt had become in the rain. He catches himself clenching his teeth together and quickly relaxes his jaw and presses his head back into the headrest. His eyes angle in your direction as you slowly lift your hand and stick the key in the ignition, turning it until the engine roars to life. Bucky instinctively reaches for the volume knob at the center of the dash, turning it down to make sure that the conversation continues. His vibranium hand retreats to his lap, and he catches you eyeing it as he settles it on his left thigh.

            You could keep going in circles. You could keep letting Bucky point out the obvious while trying to ascertain details of your Saturday night plans, or you could just spit it out and see if it gets him out of the car. There’s no way this 1940s man will be up for a field trip to where you’re headed.

            “I’m going to the Blackbird to drop something off.” You’re being intentionally vague. You could have said I’m going to a high-end strip club to give a bad man a private dance so I can steal his keys and bug his car. But for some reason, you have a feeling Bucky can put two and two together without even having two to begin with. You do shit like this all the time. Solo missions are all you agree to, and this one is no different…except for the fact that it’s slightly off of Fury’s radar. You don’t have a surveillance crew sitting a block away from the club tonight, you don’t have a strike team on standby in case anything goes sideways.

            There’s just one thing that isn’t sitting right with Bucky: your outfit. You’re wearing dark jeans and a baggy sweatshirt to a strip club, with a full face of makeup and hair that you probably spent an hour perfecting. He has no doubt that the inside of the club won’t see one inch of the outfit he’s seeing right now.

            “Where are you going to hide your gun?” He asks nonchalantly, keeping his gaze trained on the concrete wall ahead. Confusion sweeps across your features as you stare at the side of his face.

            “What?”

            “If you’re wearing what I think you’re wearing under your clothes, where are you going to hide your gun when you go inside?” Bucky’s too perceptive for his own good. You chew on the inside of your cheek, turning your head forward to stare at the same wall that Bucky seems so interested in. Putting the car into reverse and backing out of your parking spot with Bucky in the passenger seat goes against everything you believe in. You don’t take risks with other people involved. You don’t let other people put themselves in danger to help you. Yet, as you roll out of the parking garage with Bucky beside you, the voices in your head aren’t beating you up over letting him tag along for this impromptu mission. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that putting him at risk doesn’t feel quite as wrong as putting anyone else on the team at risk. He has a past, and it’s a pretty dark one. He isn’t some saint that’s only ever fought for justice and peace, right? Bucky Barnes is no saint at all.

            Bucky isn’t really sure how your missions usually go. He isn’t even sure what kind of missions you usually run. For all he knows, you could simply be someone who slips in somewhere undercover and nabs important bits of information to feed back to SHIELD. You could be someone who heads up operations that take down some of the most notorious criminals in the U.S and he wouldn’t know. He knows nothing about you. The one thing he does know is that you like to work alone. If it wasn’t evident before, it’d sure as hell be evident now as you get closer and closer to the club’s address and you still haven’t clued Bucky into what the fuck you’re doing here tonight. He knows that your little lie about dropping something off was nowhere close to whatever you’re actually planning to do.

            You brush a bit of hair behind one ear and reach over to turn the radio volume up when Bucky’s vibranium hand moves suddenly, blocking you from touching the radio knob. You shoot him a pointed look, but slowly bring your hand back to the steering wheel.

            “What’s your plan here?” He finally asks, after fifteen minutes of wondering in silence.

            “You’re going to stay in the car while I run inside.” You’re already expecting an argument from him. Bucky sighs, but relaxes back into the passenger seat like he’s so used to you and your solo vigilante shit.

            “Do I need to bring up the gun thing again?” Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose between his flesh thumb and middle finger as the question rolls off of his tongue.

            “If everything goes right, I shouldn’t even need my gun.”

            “And if—” He starts, but you cut him off, knowing exactly what he’s about to ask.

            “If things go wrong, you’ll be waiting in the car and you can say ‘I told you so’ when I get back.” Bucky lets out an unexpected chuckle at your response as you maneuver through the busy nightlife downtown.

            “Tell me exactly what we’re doing here and I’ll stay in the car.” Bucky’s lying, but he needs the details. You shouldn’t have let him tag along. You honestly can’t figure out why you did it. Why did you put the car in reverse and leave the parking garage with him in the passenger seat? How has he somehow been inserted into your life in the last two days after living across the hall as a stranger all of this time?

            As the Blackbird comes into view at the end of the block, you slow the car and prepare to make a right turn at the end of the street. You always park in the private lot behind the building, the one only staff and dancers are allowed to use.

            “I’m just here to give a regular a private dance. I’m going to lift his car keys while I have him, so I can upload a tracking software to the navigation system in his car. Then I’ll leave the keys with the bar staff and say I found them in the parking lot.” It’s as simple as it can get.

            “How long have you been watching this guy?” Bucky scans the entrance to the club as the car rolls past it, noting the two bouncers outside and the heavy looking black wooden doors atop three concrete steps.

            “Three weeks.” You respond. You steer the car through the right turn slowly, nearing the entrance to the private parking lot behind the club.

            “Who is he?”

            “Genius turned piece of shit who sells high-tech weapon designs and plans to the wrong side.”

            “And he isn’t going to notice you stealing his keys?” Bucky turns to face you now, uncertainty bubbling up inside him as a sly smile spreads over your face. You park in the half-empty lot and take your key out of the ignition. Bucky’s still staring as you turn toward him and drop the keys in his lap.

            “A lot of things go unnoticed when a girl is wearing nothing but black lace.”

            Bucky has a feeling that your statement is beyond false. It’s so far beyond false that he almost laughs as you’re climbing out of the car and shutting the door, leaving him there in the parking lot. Do things really go unnoticed when you’re in nothing but black lace? Because he just barely got a glimpse of the black lace you had on under your shirt last night and he noticed every fucking thing. He finds himself gritting his teeth as you press a button to be buzzed into the back door of the club. When a tall, muscular man with tattoos down both arms ushers you inside, Bucky thinks he might actually hear the bones of his jaw cracking. Is this what you do all the time? Is this where Fury has you spending your years of training and skills? At the fucking Blackbird with the scum of the earth?

            It’s not that deep to you. You do find your mind wandering as you stand in one of the changing rooms, stripping off your sweatshirt and jeans beneath the low lights. The body glitter carefully powdered across your chest and shoulders glimmers as you touch up your hair in the mirror and adjust the straps of your black corset top. Why does the job feel deeper when you have someone waiting for you outside? What is it about having someone on your side that makes this feel so different?

            You don’t ever feel particularly unsafe here. You can handle yourself and you do it often, routinely snapping the wrists of men who are too handsy or tranquilizing men who are a little too aggressive to put up with. You always get your job done. But tonight? You feel inexplicably safer with Bucky sitting just a few meters from the back door of the club. As you go through the motions of a sultry dance, letting the weapons designer get up close and personal with your lace-cupped breasts, you remind yourself that Bucky’s not a saint. That’s the only possible explanation for why it doesn’t bother you that much to have brought him along for your solo mission. If it had been anyone else from the team, you would be feeling guilty and worried about the possibility of putting them in harm’s way right about now. But you don’t feel guilty about Bucky being here.

            You run your palms down the man’s chest, grazing over each pocket of his suit jacket as you lower yourself down. Your knees are on either side of his hips, resting on the couch as the thin lace over your cunt makes contact with the hardened crotch of his pants. The man lets out an unfettered groan and a string of curses as you grind against him. It doesn’t take long for a wet spot to begin forming on the fabric of his pants and sweat to begin beading across his brow.

            “I’m…oh god, I’m—” The man isn’t capable of finishing his sentence as he blows his load, cumming in his pants like he has no self control whatsoever. His head falls back on the couch and his arms go limp at his sides as you continue to grind against him, feeling equal parts disgusting and proud of yourself for getting him off so easily. You lift the car keys from the side pocket of his jacket as you lean in close to his ear and slow the movement of your hips.

            “You might want to sit in here for a little while and let your pants dry.” You whisper, letting your lips scrape against the shell of his ear as you speak. He lets out a fatigued grunt in response, keeping his head back and his eyes closed. You slide off of him carefully and make your quick escape with the keys clutched tightly in one hand and your target basically incapacitated from the most minimal work you’ve ever done.

            Bucky’s growing impatient. Normally, he’d consider himself to be a very patient man. But you’ve been inside for half an hour and he has no way of finding out what’s going on without busting down the back door to the club, which is becoming an increasingly tempting idea. He fidgets with your car keys for a moment, keeping his eyes trained on the back door to the left of the car. He’ll give you three more seconds to start turning the handle of that door before he makes a move.

            Three. Bucky stares down at the two singular keys on your keychain, knowing the second one is the key to your room in the tower. It looks just like his. Two. He can tell just from that sad little keychain that your life isn’t much different from his. The tower is the only home you know. One. He hates that he’s getting to know you. Bucky shoves the car door open, climbing out soundlessly as he shoves the keys into the back pocket of his jeans. He’s just about to shut the car door when he falters for a second, thinking back to last night when he felt gazes shift from your chest to his vibranium arm. Then he thinks about what you’re probably wearing right now, something that shows off every inch of skin, every curve, every feature. Bucky’s pretty sure he feels nothing but hate for you as he starts shrugging his jacket off. It lands in your back seat with a soft thud before he shuts the passenger door as quietly as possible and heads for the back door.

            He’s only a foot away from the back door when he hears your soft voice, sounding a lot kinder than he’s ever heard it before. You’re talking with the man who let you in the back door earlier, Bucky has no doubt. He leans in a little closer, eavesdropping on the conversation without an ounce of guilt.

            “I’m not asking for a relationship, just a date.” The man says confidently, as if he isn’t begging. Bucky can hear his ego dripping from each word.

            “I don’t date.” You reply sweetly. Bucky hears a few steps as if you’re approaching the door, but then you stop. He can tell just from the tiniest scuffle noise that the man has grabbed your arm in an effort to get you to stop moving toward the door.

            “Just a drink then, let me buy you a drink?” He’s a persistent motherfucker, Bucky will give him that. Bucky hears you freeing your arm from the man’s grasp and then another few steps are taken toward the door. Bucky’s reaching out and wrapping his flesh hand around the door handle, not giving a flying fuck that it can only be opened from the inside, but he doesn’t try to open it yet.

            “I don’t drink.” You lie, but Bucky can hear your steps faltering again.

            “Okay, then spend a night with me. No dating, no drinking.” The man has officially taken it too far. Bucky didn’t mean to rip the door off of its hinges, but it could’ve been worse. He could’ve tossed the door onto any of the nice cars sitting around the private lot, but he let it fall to the ground instead. Wild-eyed and caught off guard, the man with the tatted arms stares at Bucky from over your shoulder, frozen in place.

            “What the fuck?” The man spits the words out before shoving you to the side, getting ready to bolt past you and lunge at Bucky. Bucky reaches out in an instant, sliding his flesh hand against your bicep and holding you firmly, keeping you from hitting the wall in the narrow back hallway. His vibranium hand moves even quicker, locking around the man’s throat and stopping him in his tracks. Bucky’s gently pushing you out of his way as he backs the man further into the hallway, seemingly lost in the moment.

            “Bucky—”

            “Do what you need to do so we can leave.” He says harshly, not sparing you a single glance. You look between the super soldier and the club security guard, getting the eerie feeling that Bucky won’t release him until you’re ready to go. You rush out of the back door, bounding toward your target’s car. It takes you all of thirty seconds to get in, plug in the little electronic device and upload the software to his navigation system. When you get back to the hallway, you catch the tail end of a conversation you know you’re not supposed to be hearing.

            “If you ever step foot in here again, I’ll rip the skin off of your arms and pin your tattoos to the fucking wall.” Bucky hisses lowly as he holds the man against the wall by his throat. You stop at the doorway, watching the moment unfold as you clutch your targets car keys in your right hand. “You think your inked up sleeves make you look scary?” Bucky tightens his grip around the man’s airway, making the guy flail his arms in panic as his oxygen supply diminishes. “Try a vibranium arm next time, that’ll really scare the shit out of people.”

            Bucky catches sight of you out of the corner of his eye and slowly starts to let the guy back down to his feet, loosening his hold on his throat just enough to let him take in a noisy gasp of air. The next minute goes by in a blur. You rush past Bucky and the security guard, dropping the keys off with the bartender in the main part of the club and telling him you found them outside in the back parking lot before heading back to the back door with a racing heart.

            The security guard is nowhere to be found, and Bucky is leaning against the damaged back doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest when you step into the back hallway. You slow to a stop, staring at his side profile that’s made into a silhouette by the mix of moonlight and street lights in the parking lot. Your eyes drift from the side of his face down to his vibranium arm, coasting over the red star and silver plates. Something stirs deep inside you. You’d like to think that it’s hate, that seeing him standing there so protectively, as if he’s guarding the now permanently open backdoor just for you is making you hate him. You can take care of yourself. You take care of yourself all the time. That’s why you have this feeling, because you’ve met someone who thinks they need to take care of you, and you fucking hate it.

            Bucky doesn’t offer your car keys back when you breeze past him without uttering a word. He watches for a second as you head for your car, but he lifts the detached back door and sets it back over the doorframe the best he can before following you.

            “I’m driving.” He calls out, just as you’re nearing the car. You shoot him a glare over your shoulder, but head for the passenger side without putting up a fight. Just like you thought before, Bucky’s no saint. He’s no saint at all, that’s for fucking sure.

            It’s a tense, quiet ride through the lively streets of downtown. While you’re normally one to fight tooth and nail against any semblance of small talk, you’d kill for it right now. And yet, you refuse to be the first one to talk. Bucky’s figuring out it’s not very hard to read your mind.

            “Say something.” His voice comes out raspy and tired, like he’s had a long day and this entire situation is only adding to it. It frustrates you to no end, especially considering you didn’t even want him to come with you in the first place. Heaving a deep sigh, you rub your right palm across your forehead and squeeze your eyes shut.

            “I need a drink.” That’s all you have to say? Though Bucky hates that you’re avoiding talking about what just happened. He feels like shit. He feels like he lost control and you’re probably sitting there in the passenger seat thinking about how dangerous he is, thinking about how unpredictable he is and how he shouldn’t be out in the field. Whatever you’re thinking about him right now, he’s sure it’s right.

            Bucky says nothing in response, but spots a little hole-in-the-wall bar a few storefronts ahead and maneuvers the car into the first street parking spot he sees. You’re out of the car before he’s even shut it off, not even looking back to see if he’s following as you approach the entrance to the place. He keeps his eyes on you as he shuts his door and moves around the tail end of the car. He’s just made it to the sidewalk when you’re disappearing into the bar. He hates himself. Maybe he should add another weekly session with Dr. Raynor for the foreseeable future, because what the fuck is wrong with him? Sure, he was protective of Steve back in the day when he wasn’t really able to watch his own back. But the way he’s been protective of you the last few days is something else. He might not be kicking anyone’s ass in an alley, but the threats he’s been letting loose and the rage he’s been feeling are two very dangerous things. Bucky pulls open the heavy wooden door of the bar and is immediately thrust into a bustling, dimly lit atmosphere. The smell of alcohol is overwhelming as it swirls around in the air.

            There you are, leaning forward with your elbows resting on the mahogany bar and a bartender standing in front of you, looking at you like you’re the first woman he’s ever laid eyes on. Bucky feels nauseas and he can’t figure out why. Is it the stench of inebriation that’s heavy in the air or the fact that he left his jacket in the car? He makes it three steps into the bar before he starts to feel eyes on him, on his silver appendage and the red star that brands it. Bucky’s just a few feet behind you when the bartender catches sight of him and his previously friendly smile drops quickly. The man is scurrying away, busying himself with making your drink as Bucky moves to your left side and rests his vibranium arm on the bar, keeping his body aimed toward you.

            “I guess you were right.” You say softly, watching as the bartender’s shaky hands work to pour liquid into a small round glass a few feet away. Bucky raises a brow at you, but you don’t turn your head to look up at him.

            “About what?” He sounds tired. Bucky sounds like he’d rather be anywhere but here, and for a second, you feel bad about it.

            “That vibranium arm really does scare the shit out of people, doesn’t it?”

            Bucky takes in the question, mulling it over slowly as the bartender slides a drink to you and turns his gaze to Bucky. Bucky orders his usual type of beer and watches as the bartender skitters away again, looking very on edge.

            “Out of everyone.” He replies stiffly, turning to face the bar and mirroring your position. You choke back a laugh as you lift your glass to your lips, taking a tiny sip so you won’t accidentally aspirate the clear liquid inside.

            “What’s funny about that?” Your laughter caught him off guard, so off guard that when the bartender passes him his bottle of beer, he nearly drops it. Your eyes settle on the bottle cap that the bartender left in front of you both.

            “It doesn’t scare the shit out of me.” You say, finally turning your head and looking up at Bucky. He meets your gaze, searching your eyes for a further explanation. “It’s a piece of metal attached to a person. I’d only be afraid of the arm if I was afraid of the person it’s attached to.”

            “And you’re not afraid of me.” Bucky clarifies, watching you closely. You let out another short laugh before sipping on the side of your glass. You shake your head as you lower the glass back down to the surface of the bar. For some reason, that laugh melts him a little bit. He doesn’t know if it’s because it seems like a hard thing to come by with you or if it’s because of the meaning behind your previous words.

            “Should I be?” You ask, giving him a curious look.

            Yes. The word is blinking in the forefront of his mind like a flickering neon sign on a street corner. Yes, you should be scared of him. Yes, you should be fucking terrified of the man attached to that damn arm. But Bucky only shrugs in response to your question. He shrugs his shoulders in such a simple, careless way that one would think the topic truly has no effect on him. You should be afraid of him and he shouldn’t even be here with you right now. What the fuck is he doing?

            The way you sense Bucky’s energy change is inexplicable. He’s tense beside you, clenching the beer bottle so tightly in his hand that you wonder if it’s made of glass. When you look up at him this time, he’s staring straight ahead, staring right through the bartender’s back, lost in his head. It’s not your problem, you know that. He’s not your problem. But on some level, you relate to him more than he’ll ever know.

            The bottle cap is cool in your hand, rubbing against your fingertips in a familiar way. You twirl it around in your fingers for a moment before reaching over and wrapping a hand around the neck of Bucky’s beer bottle. He snaps out of his trance, dropping his gaze as his grip weakens and you slide the bottle away from him. You press the bottle cap against his now empty flesh palm, but before you can retract your hand from his, he’s closing his fist around it.

            Your fingers and the bottle cap are both pressed against Bucky’s palm as he grips your hand. He stares down at the contact, letting out a deep breath, grounding himself slowly before releasing you and watching your hand float away from his.

            It’s silent as you finish off your drink and Bucky fidgets with the bottle cap, ignoring his cold beer completely. It’s still silent when he pays for both drinks and follows you out to the car a few minutes later. But he has shit to say when the car doors are closed and he’s steering the vehicle back toward the tower. He has so much shit to say.

            “I’m not a good guy.” Bucky’s voice is gravelly when he finally speaks about ten minutes away from the tower. You shift in the passenger seat, not necessarily uncomfortably but not sure where this conversation might be going. You turn your head and focus your gaze out your window, watching the trees fly by along the side of the highway.

            “I know.” Your response is simple, it’s knowing. It stings a little when you say it out loud. Bucky would think something like that would roll right off of his back, but it doesn’t. He presses down on the gas pedal a little harder, surpassing the speed limit by fifteen miles per hour without even realizing it.

            “What do you know?” He asks, but he really doesn’t think he wants your answer. Bucky inhales deeply as you decide on what to say. Your scent is all over this fucking car. It’s all over his leather jacket that’s still lying in your back seat. It’s all over his whole fucking weekend.

            “You have a past, like everyone else in this line of work.” That’s a nice way of putting it.

            “No one here has a past like mine.” Bucky says emotionlessly, moving into the right lane after passing a semi-truck. You catch a smirk sliding over your features and quickly tamp it down.

            “Right, you’re not a good guy.” You repeat. He can hear something in your voice, something almost playful and it piques his curiosity. He looks over at you with a raised brow and a look of annoyance painted across his face. You only look in his eyes for a second before pushing the back of your head into your headrest and squeezing both eyes shut. “You killed people because someone else had control over you, over everything you did. You didn’t have a choice.” Bucky looks over at you again before maneuvering the car into the left lane to pass another truck. You keep your gaze trained on the road ahead, refusing to look over at him a second time. “I killed people because I was good at it.”

            It takes Bucky all of three seconds to figure out that you’re no better than he is. No other words are exchanged between the two of you. When Bucky parks your car in the tower’s parking garage, he leaves without so much as a passing glance in your direction. You wait a moment before heading for the elevator and pressing the button to call it down to you. You get the feeling you won’t have to deal with Bucky forcing his way into your car or your solo missions after tonight.

            Eighty-four. The number bounces off of the inside of Bucky’s skull repeatedly, giving him a headache between his eyes. Eighty-four successful assassinations on your record. He couldn’t help himself, he had to look into you after what you said in the car. He actually feels stupid for worrying about you. You probably wanted to laugh when he watched your back on fifth street. You didn’t need him at all. And tonight, that security guard at the club could’ve been unconscious in a second if you’d wanted to take him down. Bucky rolls over in bed, reaching for his phone on the nightstand. He’s still figuring the technology shit out and he has the tendency to leave his phone in his room every time he goes out. He simply forgets it exists.

Steve: Don’t forget your session with Dr. Raynor tomorrow

            The text is frozen on Bucky’s lock screen, having been sent to him around the time he was rubbing elbows with you at the bar. Bucky really should back the fuck off. In Bucky’s memory, Steve very rarely set his sights on a girl. He was so driven and focused, too grown up for his own good. The fact that he’s making it so obvious that he’s into you is huge. Bucky doesn’t need to get close to his best friend’s love interest.

            But then again…what would Steve even do with an ex-assassin that has eighty-four fucking kills on her hands? Bucky can’t picture you with him. Does Steve even know about your history? There’s no way he’d be buying you potatoes if he knew. Letting out a hiss of air through clenched teeth, Bucky sets his phone back on the nightstand and rolls over to sit on the edge of his bed. He’s made his decision. He’s going to stay away from you, far away. If Steve wants you, he can have you.

            As the thought of Steve having you crosses Bucky’s mind, he feels an unfamiliar ache settle in the pit of his stomach and a wave of tension rolls through the muscles of his shoulders. Yeah, he’s staying the fuck away from you and whatever is eventually going to happen between you and his best friend. He’s got his own shit to deal with.

            Dr. Raynor needs a new couch. Bucky has sat on it upwards of a hundred times and it never gets any more comfortable. It keeps it’s stiff, unconforming shape and causes him to shift uncomfortably as Dr. Raynor takes her seat across from him. She’s dressed more formal than usual today, in a dark pantsuit with dark heels and her hair pulled back into a low bun. Bucky watches her carefully as she lets out a breath and crosses one leg over the other, paying attention to the way she sets her pen atop the small notebook that rests on her knee. He hates that notebook, and that pen.

            “It’s not raining today.” She starts, tilting her head sideways toward the window, but her eyes never leave Bucky’s face. He nods along, making eye contact with her and holding it. “Tell me about your weekend.” Bucky lets out a long exhale, knowing that there isn’t a single part of his weekend he wants to share. His whole weekend seemed to revolve around a girl he barely knows, a girl he’s never interacted with before Friday. How would he even begin to explain that?

            “My weekend was uneventful.” Bucky lies effortlessly, smoothing his ungloved hands along his thighs. Dr. Raynor’s eyes flit down, following the movement and taking notice of Bucky’s exposed vibranium hand. She raises a brow, pursing her lips together in curiosity.

            “No gloves today?” Bucky follows her gaze. He casts his head down, silently counting the silver digits on that hand over and over again. He only offers her a shrug. “No gloves today.” She repeats the words without making them a question this time. When Bucky continues sitting on the couch, staring down at his hands and saying nothing, Dr. Raynor’s mind starts wandering back to the early morning meeting she got out of less than five minutes before this appointment. She wasn’t going to bring it up, not today, not before Fury handled it himself. But if Bucky is really going to sit here and say his weekend was uneventful and refuse to talk yet again…

            “You took part in an unauthorized mission this weekend.”

            Bucky’s floored. His face gives his surprise away as his eyes widen and his gaze snaps up to his therapist’s face. She studies him closely, watching as his brows furrow and he searches her eyes for answers.

            “I wouldn’t call it that.” He huffs quickly, holding eye contact for longer than usual.

            “What would you call it?”

            “A bad decision.” Bucky mumbles, curling his hands into loose fists for a moment. He extends his fingers slowly before flattening his palms against his thighs once again.

            “Tell me how you ended up taking part in that.”

            It’s quiet for a beat. The sound of the air conditioner flowing lightly, circulating just the right temperature throughout the room is a gentle buzz in the background as Bucky gnaws on the inside of his cheek and Dr. Raynor waits patiently. For the first time out of all of Bucky’s sessions, she feels like she might be able to get somewhere with him.

            “She was going to do it alone.” Bucky finally answers, locking eyes with Dr. Raynor again.

            “Do you two know each other well?” Bucky immediately shakes his head in response. “So, you don’t know each other well, and yet, you felt the need to follow her out into the field.”

            “Like I said…” Bucky rubs the back of his neck, struggling to come up with the right words to explain himself here. “She was going to do it alone.”

            “Was this mission your first interaction with her?” Bucky’s mouth runs dry as he shifts on the couch. He isn’t really feeling the coolness from the air conditioner as much as he’d like. Bucky shakes his head slowly. “Tell me about her.”

            “She’s one of your patients, Doc.” Bucky snaps back, feeling much more on edge than he normally does in his sessions, which is really saying something. “You know more than I do.”

            “I want to know what kind of relationship the two of you have, because she has adamantly refused to take on a partner in the field for years, and you have adamantly refused to do anything outside of your routine since I’ve known you.”

            “You can ask her.” Bucky says flatly. He could easily explain the situation, tell Dr. Raynor that Steve basically forced him to ride out to fifth street with you on Friday night. He could tell her that he saw you leaving the tower with your weapon on Saturday evening and something about it didn’t sit right with him. None of it sounds that bad, but still, he finds himself not wanting to share anything about you with anyone.

            “I’m asking you.” Dr. Raynor replies calmly. Her stare is piercing and Bucky knows she sees right through him. He scoffs, shaking his head in annoyance before leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.

            “I’m not saying anything about her.” Bucky’s answer is final. He wouldn’t normally be so pissy in therapy. Honestly, he’s sure he’ll feel guilty about it later. He doesn’t have much control over his body when he finds himself rising to his feet and heading for the door.

            “Our session isn’t anywhere near over.” Dr. Raynor calls out as his flesh hand wraps around the door handle.

            “I’m going to do something more productive with my day.” Bucky has a bad habit of using peoples’ words against them. He’s stalking toward the stairwell door at a rapid pace, taking long strides as anger boils up inside of him. He can feel it threatening to spill over the edge as he rushes down the concrete stairs. Why is he so fucking angry? The brief conversation with Dr. Raynor replays in his head and still, he finds no reason to be as angry as he is over it.

            Bucky takes a few calming breaths as he reaches the bottom of the stairwell and throws open the door to the lobby. When he exits the building, he doesn’t make any effort to look in the direction of the receptionist. It isn’t until the sun hits his face and he inhales a deep breath of fresh air that he feels his heart rate begin to slow.

            “You look like shit.” At the sound of your voice, his heart rate starts picking right back up. Bucky shifts his gaze to the left and finds you standing in front of your car with the hood propped open and black grease smeared over your hands. You give him a onceover with what almost looks like concern in your eyes, but he’s sure that isn’t it. He lets out a soft groan that you can’t hear from your spot fifteen feet away. He told himself to stay away from you. It’s his own fault for abandoning his session so early, he probably wouldn’t have run into you if he’d just suffered through Dr. Raynor’s inquisition.

            “Yeah.” Bucky breathes the word out. He won’t engage with you, he won’t let himself get sucked in after how this weekend went. He especially doesn’t want to get sucked in if Dr. Raynor’s involving herself. But as he tells himself to go to his car, his eyes start drifting over to your car.

            “It’s fine.” You say quickly, waving a hand in dismissal as you catch his eyes lingering under the hood of your car. He looks back to you with frustration evident all over his face. Frustration is actually woven all throughout his body language right now and you can’t help but wonder what the hell went down in his therapy session this morning. You wonder if Dr. Raynor is feeling especially confrontational today, and the possibility sets you on edge a bit.

            “Right.” Bucky quips, nodding his head curtly. He looks in your eyes one last time, the stormy look in his own is obvious even from fifteen feet away. You rub your dirty palms together and watch as he turns on his heel and heads in the opposite direction, making a beeline for his car. Something feels off, but you know it isn’t your place to try and figure it out. This weekend was more than enough interaction for you. Maybe he’ll go get himself an early morning drink and fiddle around with a bottle cap. He’ll be fine.

            Bucky makes it to his car and mashes the button on his key fob to unlock it, but he doesn’t reach for the door handle. He lets out a shaky breath through his teeth. He can feel every cell in his body already choosing to betray his good sense. Stay the fuck away from her, Dr. Raynor’s probably watching from her office window right now. He tries his best to reason within his own mind, to tell himself to get in the fucking car and head anywhere but here. But then he makes the mistake of glancing over the hood of his car, he makes the mistake of letting his eyes land on you as you’re bent over analyzing the shitshow under the hood of your piece of shit on wheels.

There’s some sort of newfound lack of inhibition coursing through his veins since storming out of his session only moments ago. Dr. Raynor was right, he never breaks routine. Though he knows he shouldn’t, he lets his eyes roam from the back of your head down the rest of you. He traces every part of you with his gaze and it feels as though he’s been staring for a minute straight when in reality, only two seconds have passed. Steve has frustratingly good taste, he decides. Fuck it.

“You need a new car.” Bucky says flatly as he steps up beside you. Frankly, he’s surprised Steve hasn’t bought you one yet. Stepping out from under the hood and straightening yourself up, you narrow your eyes at Bucky.

“You need to go back upstairs and finish your therapy session.” You snap back.

“Have you ever had to sit through a therapy session after taking part in an unauthorized mission?” Your face falls as soon as he’s finished speaking. Here you were thinking it was no big deal to let him tag along for your stupid little mission last night because who gives a shit if the Winter Soldier risks his life a little? You were so sure you wouldn’t feel guilty at all if something were to happen, simply because he’s not someone to feel guilty over. And now here you are, feeling guilty as hell.

“What did she—” You start to ask about Dr. Raynor’s inquisition but Bucky cuts you off abruptly.

“It doesn’t matter. Do you want to sit through it?” He can see the answer in your eyes. You don’t want to sit through it any more than he did. Bucky lets out a long sigh and lifts his flesh hand, running his fingers through his hair. The length of it really is beginning to be a little too much for him. He watches as your gaze drifts upward in the direction of Dr. Raynor’s office. He has no idea what the fuck he’s doing or why, but for some reason, he finds himself really hoping you’ll skip your session. He has no further plans than this exact moment, but he wants you to stay as far away from Dr. Raynor as possible right now. He doesn’t even know why he feels that way. Is he trying to protect you from her potentially revealing line of questioning? Is he trying to get himself more time with the girl that he keeps gravitating toward? He doesn’t have a damn clue.

“I think I have to.” You finally respond. Bucky would be lying if he said he didn’t feel immediate disappointment. He runs his fingers through his hair one more time before giving you a brief nod of understanding and taking one step back, remaining facing you. “I don’t think my car will get me very far.” He stops moving again.

“I’ll drive.” What? He’ll what? Bucky swears he can feel every ounce of his self-control shriveling up into tiny little curdled pieces. What the fuck is he doing? Actually, what the fuck are you doing? Bucky watches with semi-widened eyes as you turn your back to him and latch the hood of your car closed. You move around to the driver’s side door and pull it open, retrieving your car keys and a small bag from the seat. When you’re standing only a foot in front of Bucky, looking up at him almost expectantly, he feels a bit of warmth spreading low in his stomach. Your voice is unexpectedly soft when you speak again.

“Where are we going?”

            Steve is used to feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders. He’s used to being the only guy strong enough to carry that kind of weight. You wouldn’t think that it’s a physical sensation, but Steve can actually feel the heaviness at all times. There are some days where it’s a little less noticeable, some fleeting moments where gravity seems to lessen and his steps feel lighter. Those are the days he finds himself at your door, the days he needs the load to be a little lighter.

            He stands there now, in the hallway outside of your room, staring at the door he knows you should be behind. You usually come straight back to the tower after your sessions with Dr. Raynor. He knew as soon as he knocked ten seconds ago that you weren’t there. He finds himself more bothered than he should be that you’re straying from your routine. He’s stupidly considering knocking one more time, just in case, but Sam rounds the corner of the hallway just as Steve’s about to raise his right hand.

            “I don’t think she’s back yet,” Sam says from down the hall, pointing out what Steve already knows. “Bucky either.” Steve’s blood runs cold. He turns on his heel, now facing Bucky’s door just across the hall from yours. Bucky’s appointments with Dr. Raynor are always first thing in the morning, and he sure as hell doesn’t hang around outside of the tower if he can help it. Both of you breaking routine on the same day, at the same time, after having been in the same location this morning can only mean one thing to Steve. You’re breaking routine together. Suddenly he sees you in Bucky’s leather jacket, the image flashes in the forefront of his mind like a warning sign. Sam senses the change in Steve’s demeanor and slows his steps forward, squinting his eyes as he tries to read the room. “What’s going on here?”

            “I’m going to figure that out,” Steve says gruffly under his breath as he turns on his heel yet again, heading toward the elevator. He knows he shouldn’t. He knows whatever may or may not be going on between you and Bucky is none of his damn business. You deserve privacy and Bucky deserves his trust. But for some reason, Steve finds himself wanting to invade your privacy and say to hell with his trust for his best friend. The only thing he trusts right now is that that the two of you are together. He can feel it deep in his gut. His best friend is stealing the girl he’s been pining for since day one, and Steve’s not having it.

            You probably should’ve just sat through your session with Dr. Raynor. What were you thinking climbing into the passenger seat of Bucky Barnes’s car? As you sit there now, seatbelt across your chest and hands folded over your lap, you can’t help but steal a glance at the super soldier in the driver’s seat. He looks as tense as you feel. You’re both in uncharted territory. Or is it really uncharted? You’ve been in the car together a total of three times now, you just seem to keep ending up in moving vehicles with each other.

            “You’re overthinking it,” Bucky says suddenly, loosening his grip on the wheel. He drops his flesh hand down to rest on his thigh while keeping his silver hand on the wheel.

            “What makes you think that?”

            “I can hear you grinding your teeth,” he points out, cutting his eyes sideways at you for the briefest second.

            “Dr. Raynor’s going to be pissed.” You pick at a fraying strand on your jeans, not bothering to pay attention to wherever Bucky’s decided to take you.

            “She was already pissed. She knows we took part in an unauthorized mission this weekend.” Your hand falters against the loose thread and you glance up just in time to see Bucky turning into the parking lot of the grocery store nearest to the compound.

            “What does that mean for us?” Us. What a weird choice of words to use. Us doesn’t feel right. There is no us, no you and a super soldier. There is separately you and separately him. Bucky raises a brow at your choice of words but you don’t notice it. “Wait, why the hell are we at the grocery store?” Bucky’s already parked in a spot about fifty meters from the entrance and shutting the car off when you just barely hear him mumble his answer.

            “Potatoes.”

            He doesn’t know why he felt the need to buy those goddamn red potatoes. He doesn’t know why he felt the need to invite you into his personal space, to drive you to the grocery store, just to buy those fucking potatoes. What he does know is that the red star on his arm hasn’t crossed his mind even once today and the gray clouds looming in the distance don’t seem to have him as on edge as normal. He doesn’t feel like blood is going to pour from the sky, or like his hands will turn as red as the star on his arm. He feels like himself. And he fucking hates that he can only attribute that feeling to being near you.

            Bucky drives a little faster than normal as he maneuvers his car into the parking garage beneath the tower. His tires screech as he comes to a stop in his usual parking spot. He can feel your eyes cutting sideways to look at him but he ignores it.

            “Was it that bad?” You finally ask, after spending both the supermarket trip and drive back to the tower in silence. Bucky cuts off the ignition and reaches into the backseat for the bag of red potatoes he can’t stand that he bought.

            “It was…uncomfortable,” Bucky replies slowly. He doesn’t make a move to get out of the car yet. He holds the potatoes in his lap and his keys in his right hand, staring straight ahead at the concrete wall of the garage. You absorb his words, his tense aura, and the fact that Dr. Raynor is going to kick your ass the very next time she gets ahold of you. You don’t even want to check your phone. You’re positive she’s already called you at least once and left a voicemail, she’s probably even left a follow-up voicemail with the details of your punishment for missing a mandatory session. “You’re doing it again,” Bucky quips, turning his head to look at you. You snap your head to the left and meet his searing gaze.

            “Doing what?”

            “Grinding your teeth.”

            “We don’t all play with bottle caps when we’re stressed,” you retort. Bucky chuckles lowly, letting his head fall back against the headrest. The plastic bag of potatoes crinkles in his lap. Just as Bucky’s mind starts wandering back to the last time he fiddled with a bottle cap in your presence, the sound of footsteps in the garage breaks his focus. He can tell from the weight and pace that it’s Steve, and he isn’t happy.

            “Fuck,” Bucky breathes the swear out quietly right before Steve appears at his window.

            Steve’s stomach drops into his ass when he realizes the two of you are sitting in Bucky’s parked car, neither of you making a move to get out. Images flash through his mind. Images of Bucky’s hands up your shirt, your hair getting all messed up, lips moving together in unison. In this exact moment, he thinks he hates his best friend. He can’t stop himself from heading straight for the car. It isn’t until he finds himself standing right outside of the driver’s side door, looking down at Bucky as Bucky looks up at him with annoyance through the glass, that he realizes he’s acting insane. Or is he? When his gaze shifts to the bag of red potatoes in Bucky’s lap, he feels a bead of sweat forming along his hairline.

            Bucky wants you. Steve is sure of it. And now he has to compete with his best friend.

[digital-nocturne]

I know those eyes.

-

-

Sketchy and quick, I got really into crosshatching and just kinda zoned out I’m not gonna lie—

[aquaticmercy]

Your son, Jamie, keeps asking Bucky for a pet

WC 1.5k 

TW established relationship, Husband!Bucky x Wife!reader, you and Bucky have a son called Jamie, Alpie fluff!! 

I have gotten so many asks for this! Could be read as a one-shot, but you can read more stories in this universe here!

Jamie had been asking for a pet for a while now.

He didn’t have the vocabulary to make a proper argument. After all, he is all but six, but he had enthusiasm, persistence, and a collection of stuffed animals he carried into every room as evidence of his readiness. For nearly two weeks, he followed Bucky around the apartment with a floppy brown dog beneath one arm, repeating some variation of, “I want a pet, Daddy,” whenever Bucky made the mistake of looking at him.

At breakfast, Jamie pushed his stuffed dog across the table towards him. “Pet.”

While Bucky was putting on his boots, Jamie sat on the floor beside him and placed the stuffed dog directly on his knee.

“Pet, Daddy.”

Even at bedtime, already half asleep, Jamie patted the empty space beside him on the mattress and whispered, “Kitty can sleep here.”

Bucky had remained firm for much longer than you expected.

“We can get a fish,” he suggested one morning. “Fish are good. They stay where you put ’em.”

Jamie stared at him solemnly. Bucky stared back.

“You can pick the colour.” Bucky added. 

Jamie frowned. 

You watched from the kitchen table, hiding your smile behind your mug.

“I want a kitty,” Jamie whispered.

Bucky almost folded immediately. “A fish can be nice too, pal.”

Jamie looked down at his cereal and gave one miserable sniff.

Bucky looked at you helplessly.

You hummed.

His eyes narrowed suspiciously, but you only smiled and reached for your phone.

There was a small animal shelter twenty minutes away with several cats available for adoption. You had already found their page the night before, after Jamie had fallen asleep with his cheek pressed against his stuffed dog’s ear and Bucky had spent ten minutes carefully untangling the toy from his little arms.

You turned the screen towards him. “We should go this afternoon.”

Bucky glanced at the photographs, then at Jamie, who was still miserably playing with breakfast.

You kissed his cheek. “It’s just to have a look.”

Bucky knew exactly what you were doing and loved you far too much to stop you.

The shelter was filled with the distant sound of barking dogs and the occasional indignant meow. Jamie clung to Bucky at first, overwhelmed by all the noises, his small fist curled tightly in the fabric of Bucky’s shirt. Bucky kept his human palm spread over his back and murmured into his hair until Jamie finally lifted his head.

Then he saw the kittens.

His entire little body buzzing with wonder. “Daddy,” he breathed.

“I see ’em.”

“Kitty.”

“Yeah, pal.”

Jamie wriggled on the spot until Bucky gave him the go ahead to run, though Bucky kept hold of his hands as he ran up towards the nearest enclosure. Jamie pressed his palms against the glass and stared inside with his mouth slightly open.

There were three kittens curled together on a blanket. Two were tabbies, sleepy and round-bellied, tangled around each other like striped socks. The third was white, apart from the faintest grey smudges between her ears and a tiny grey tip on her tail.

She was smaller than the others.

The moment Jamie appeared, she opened her pale blue eyes and stared back.

Jamie crouched.

The kitten stood, stretched her little back legs, and began wobbling towards the glass. She made it halfway before stepping on the edge of the blanket and tumbling sideways into one of her sleeping siblings.

Jamie gasped.

The kitten scrambled upright, shook herself, and continued as though nothing embarrassing had happened.

“She’s clumsy,” Bucky murmured.

You glanced at him. He had already leaned closer.

The kitten reached the glass and placed one tiny pink paw against it.

Jamie immediately put his hand over hers. “Baby kitty.”

The kitten opened her mouth and produced the smallest, squeakiest meow you had ever heard.

Jamie turned towards Bucky with both hands clasped against his chest, his face completely overcome.

Bucky looked at you. You raised your eyebrows.

“We’re only looking,” he reminded you, but there was already no conviction left in his voice.

A shelter worker opened the enclosure and lifted the kitten carefully. Jamie bounced on his feet as she was lowered into Bucky’s arms, making little excited noises beneath his breath.

Bucky froze.

He had held Jamie with more confidence when he was only a few hours old.

The kitten was so tiny that she fit almost entirely in his flesh hand, her white paws resting against the dark fabric of his henley. Bucky held his metal arm beneath her as extra support, unnecessarily cautious, his shoulders stiff with the terrible responsibility of being trusted with something so small.

The kitten sniffed his fingers.

Then she reached up, placed both paws against his chest, and began climbing him.

“Hey,” Bucky murmured, startled.

She scaled the front of his shirt with determined little grunts, using his sleeve and collar like footholds until she managed to wedge herself beneath his chin.

Then she began to purr, absurdly loud for something so small. The sound vibrated against Bucky’s throat as she rubbed her face beneath his chin, covering him in white fur and unquestioning affection.

Jamie clapped both hands.

Bucky’s whole face softened.

You watched the exact moment he realised he had lost. 

His head tipped carefully towards the kitten, one finger moved over her back, barely touching, tracing her tiny spine.

The kitten purred harder.

“Cute little Alpine,” you whispered.

He raised his eyebrows. “Alpine?”

“She looks like snow, doesn't she?”

Bucky’s lips twitched. He knew exactly what you were doing.

He had fallen from the Alps. His therapist had suggested visiting snowy mountains as a family someday, replacing sad memories with good ones. Bucky hadn’t been ready for that yet.

But this tiny white kitten, purring safely beneath his chin and already reaching for Jamie with one paw? This was sweet.

Jamie reached up, and Bucky immediately crouched so he could see. Alpine sniffed Jamie’s fingers, then leaned forward and licked the very tip of one.

Jamie squealed so loudly that Alpine startled, though only for a second. Then she tried to catch one of the strands of hair falling over his forehead.

Jamie collapsed into giggles.

Within ten minutes, Bucky was asking the shelter worker questions.

What food was she eating? Had she seen a vet? Did she need medicine? Was she cold at night? Did she sleep alone? Was she frightened by loud noises? How much was she supposed to weigh? Was that little sneeze normal?

You stood beside him, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing while Alpine climbed into the crook of his metal elbow and curled herself there.

“We’re… still just looking?” you joked.

Bucky glanced down at the kitten, who was licking his metal thumb.“She picked Jamie.”

“Of course.”

After all, he could never say no to you. He had never been able to say no to Jamie either, even when he tried to disguise it beneath sensible suggestions about fish.

Alpine yawned, showing a tiny pink tongue and small teeth, then tucked her nose beneath Bucky’s wrist.

Bucky sighed.

Jamie didn’t understand the word adoption, but he understood when Alpine was placed in a little carrier and came home with you.

The entire journey back, he kept one hand pressed against the mesh door, whispering, “Hi, kitty,” whenever Alpine looked at him. Alpine answered almost every time with a little chirping sound, eventually curling against the side of the carrier nearest Jamie’s hand.

At the pet shop, Bucky attempted to be reasonable.

He failed within minutes.

Alpine needed a bed, but perhaps she needed two, in case she preferred one room over another. She needed toys, though Bucky couldn’t decide whether she would like feathers or little fabric mice, so he bought both. She needed a scratching post, a brush, a collar, several kinds of treats, and two different blankets because one was made out of better materials but the other looked warmer.

Jamie chose a tiny yellow ball with a bell inside it. Alpine adored it.

The moment you let her out at home, she batted it beneath the couch, crawled after it, and emerged backwards with dust on her whiskers. Bucky immediately moved the couch away from the wall so she wouldn’t get stuck, despite you pointing out that she had already freed herself.

Alpine trotted directly over his boot, climbed his trouser leg halfway to his knee, and hung there while Bucky stared down at her.

You covered your mouth.

“Help her,” he said.

“She got herself up there.”

“She’s stuck.”

Alpine meowed and continued climbing.

Bucky scooped her up before she could reach his waist, settling her securely against his chest. She immediately began purring, pleased with the outcome of her expedition.

Jamie wrapped both arms around Bucky’s leg, demanding his turn.

So Bucky sat down on the rug with Jamie tucked between his knees and Alpine curled in his lap.

“Cute little Alpine,” he whispered.

You kissed his cheek.

Eventually, Jamie fell asleep and snored between you. Alpine purred louder.

Bucky’s arm tightened around his family, and although he would never admit it after arguing so confidently in favour of a fish, his smile remained long after both Jamie and Alpine had fallen asleep.

Maybe this had been a good idea. Maybe it had been the best one yet.

—

this is a queued post! I am currently either getting married or on my honeymoon! enjoy!  💕

[luvversrock]

Bucky who doesn’t know how to take naps x gf!reader who’s soooo sleepy all the time, always curled up on the nearest couch or in bed and fast asleep. Bucky who is always bewildered, but he likes to see you rest, anyway. (Before, in days so olden he barely remembers them, he used to indulge in naps, too—back when his sleep was dreamless and easy, a brief stretch of reprieve instead of just another place to be haunted by. But even then, he never slept as much as you did, or for as long). Your favorite spot to lay your head is often his thigh, warm and wide. It makes him feel involved, somehow, even though he can’t join you past the thin barrier of sleep; he feels your breaths soak through the threads of his sweatpants, the loose grip of your fingers curled around his knee. It calms him, to see you so at peace. You sleep like he’s the safest place you can be, all the weight of a trusting child leant against his side. You could sleep too, you tell him. Just close your eyes. But he knows he can’t. His body doesn’t know how to do it anymore. But sometimes, you’re insistent, and so sometimes, he indulges you and lets his eyes fall closed. He never sleeps, but every once in a while, he’d feel himself drift, jolting awake to the shift of your body against his, your fingers curling into his shirt, your hair tickling his chin. And Bucky would go on closing his eyes, in case it happens again

[duplicitus]

NEVER SHAVE YOUR BUCKY, HE BRINGS ME LIFE

I wouldn't dare do such a thing, not even Bucky dares shave too much south of the collar, if you catch my drift...

[unificsation]

you are in love ⊹ ࣪ ˖

bucky barnes x gn!reader, 4k

⋆.𐙚 ̊. written for @tw1sters’s 1917 event ⋆.𐙚 ̊.

you, bucky, and a feeling that doesn’t end.

TAGS➝ inspired by you are in love (taylor swift); songfic but not really?; sort of tower fic; soft; implied smut; angst; nicknames (doll, baby, sweetheart, honey); references to dr. strange 2

READER NOTES➝ gn!reader (let me know if it isn’t so i can fix it)

AUTHOR NOTES➝ i have no idea how to write songfics, but the themes in this are close to my heart, and you are in love is one of my favorite taylor songs EVER. i hope i did it justice! 🩵

The lights in the bar are dim. The crowd is noisy. It’s the kind of place that has sticky floors and good enough vibes to ignore them; a place that celebrates and mourns every tick of the minute hand.

Nothing could stop life from messily oozing out every breath in these four walls. Not even the larger-than-life presence of Earth’s mightiest heroes.

After the difficult mission they just completed, their first order of business is to feel something.

You’re surprised you’re here, an agent tagging alongside others who are admittedly more familiar with this environment. But Natasha and free cocktails are enough to persuade you. Before long, you’re on your fourth drink (or is it fifth? They’re surprisingly delicious), tracing people’s silhouettes to pass the time, trading the health of your eardrums to do so.

Everyone is outlined with red neon.

The bass thumps louder than your heart. It reverberates in your chest, almost replacing the organ entirely with song. There’s smoke emanating from a corner that paints the scene with ethereality you’ve only seen in blurry pictures from yesteryear.

As your eyes sweep across the room, you realize you’re not the only introvert who’s people-watching.

Person-watching would be more accurate: Bucky’s gaze catches yours all the way from the counter where he sits, like it usually does. Somehow it always does. His staring problem is for everyone, but that look is intended for you and you alone.

Around him are Sam, Steve, and a boisterous Thor, who gestures like he’s challenging everyone to one drinking game or another. As if the God of Thunder needed more booze in his system—regular alcohol barely works on him, and he’s loud enough as is.

Bucky, on the other hand.

Quiet, brooding Bucky looks handsome tonight, with or without the sensuous light: leather jacket, boots, metal hand coiled around a whisky glass. The devilish red that casts a glow over the room should be polluting his blue eyes, but they remain brilliantly clear as they pin you to the wall. Like he’s amused to see you rooted there.

You look back from the rim of your glass and take a sip.

Something in his face softens. Enough that you can tell, even from this distance.

Then a second later, you’re stolen by Natasha’s hand around your wrist. She leads you to the dance floor.

You’re not sober enough to say no.

The ground under your boots is sticky, and the air is thick with sweat, heavy with unthinking optimism.

Strange, because in the heavy throng of limbs, every part of you feels light as a feather—save for your chest. You don’t know if it’s your wild heart or the bassline it has melded with, but something within that godforsaken cavity tugs you to where your feet aren’t.

It leads your eyes to the bar where he is.

Where he watches you.

You don’t look his way again for the rest of the night.

Because it’s—he’s—a little too much to handle for the fragile organ caged by your ribs. Unlike him, you’re sure the alcohol has begun to influence your faculties, threatening your stoic mask to reveal something honest—and because honesty is the weak link in a professional spy’s chains, you avoid him.

Another drink is placed in your hand. Nat.

Time starts tunneling around your conscious by the time you down it.

Before long, the dance floor suffocates, the voices grate, and you awkwardly weave your way towards the exit for some air. Sobriety marks every step.

By the time you’re outside, everything’s muffled, and you feel the ring of silence in your ear for the first time in hours. Breathing in the cold air kind of stings, but it’s nice. It’s refreshing.

It’s peaceful.

You count your heartbeat to ground yourself to the peace you shed blood for.

Bucky makes himself known to you on count twenty-two.

“You alright?”

His voice cuts the silence. There’s concern in it. You turn to see him look at you, hovering in front of the doorway, and briefly wonder what you look like in his eyes.

“Tipsy and a little overstimulated,” the words tumble out, measured, but unplanned. There’s that honesty you tried so hard to evade, except you don’t feel like you’re out of control. The sensation is subtle. Realizing it isn’t.

Deep down, you’re okay with the truth—because it’s Bucky you’re telling the truth to.

And because it’s him who’s out here with you, of course he has your coat in a grip. He’s already wrapping the wool of it around your shoulders.

You look down, feeling the hem brush over your clothed thigh. The fabric almost moves in slow motion.

“Thanks, Bucky.” You slip your arms in the sleeves.

Without being asked to, he’s buttoning it up for you.

You struggle to recall the day the ice broke between you and him. For as long as you can remember, he’s always been kind to you, even if he’s quiet about it. Almost like he’d prefer to be a hidden hand, someone who takes care of things from the backstage, needing no reward nor recognition: a cup of coffee the way you like it, a hand pulling you up from the training mat, the warmth of a blanket when you wake in the common room, unaware that you even fell asleep.

It used to be a poorly kept secret. Now he’s being kind to your face.

Bucky’s fingers work deftly at the front of your coat, clasping three buttons down your chest—enough to keep you warm for the time being.

If the night had shadows, his would fall on you with how close he’s standing. You’re allowed a few seconds to admire the length of his lashes. It’s unfair how beautiful he is.

The thought reinforces itself when those blue eyes look back up at you.

“You’re welcome.”

He says your name like it means something. Or perhaps everything.

The feeling that comes after is split-second, crystal clear: you don’t want him to leave, not yet. So you open your mouth, hoping for him to linger, to replace the warm buzz in your system with something more potent—his attention.

His fingers fix your sleeve. It says the same want in your veins out loud, translated differently.

You smile. “Bet you aren’t drunk at all.”

He smiles back. “They tried.”

There’s a lie in the easy lilt of his voice. His eyes are glazed with a layer you’re all too familiar with. Intoxication. Not the kind induced by alcohol—he’s basically immune, thanks to the serum.

Maybe it’s whatever Thor had. You buy time. If you don’t know what he’s drunk on, at least you get to watch him a little longer.

“You know, Bucky, I’m surprised you’re even here.”

The single, soft huff of a laugh he lets out is so boyish, his face appears a decade younger. You think he looks more like the pictures they show at the Smithsonian: not free of his own share of cares, but carefree in his own way.

Innocent, almost.

Then the chuckle dies down. He looks at you like you hurt him, and a twinge captures your chest.

His thumb brushes your cheek and you stop breathing.

You swallow instead. His eyes catch your throat move.

The rest of his hand, large and callused, cups your jaw, gently directing you to keep looking up at him—to keep looking at him.

“I’m here because you are, doll.”

The small ‘oh’ of realization is hitched on his cheek.

What happens next isn’t a surprise, but your heart hammers loudly anyway.

He slants his face over yours, fast in closing the distance, but slow when he actually kisses you. He hovers an inch away for one second, two, then three—prolonging the final moments of not knowing your taste—before he gives everything up.

Capitulation comes after one shared breath, bated and stolen just as he slots himself into you.

You welcome him and this moment that’s long been part of your dreams, hands snaking up his arms. He wraps them around you, the hand on your face sliding to the back of your head as if counteracting an escape. Why he thinks you’d run, you don’t know. The tips of your boots scrape his.

He pulls away with a soft sound that has your lashes fluttering, and your body shivers in protest at the loss of him, but then he’s on you again.

Deeper this time. You return it equally.

When you steal a breath, it’s with a relief that echoes a Quinjet ride ago: the two of you were crouched behind a concrete wall waiting for the rain of bullets to die down. He held you close while frantically scanning your person, eyes darting from one vital point to another, making sure you’re okay you’re not hurt you’re alive—all things he didn’t say out loud.

The relief of kissing him is double what you felt coming out of that battle alive. The relief of him kissing you back is a hundred times more.

You sigh his name. It pulls a sound from his chest, something ragged that gets poured right into your mouth.

His fingers in your hair card deeper. You tiptoe into him. He holds you closer, steadying you.

While your lips lock again and again, you faintly register his fingers drawing shapes on your neck. You do the same. The lines don’t make sense. Just strokes that spell desperation, like a poor attempt at signing your lives away to each other.

The sidewalk is your only witness.

Around the precarious dance that is a relationship, there is a veil. It keeps people within it safe from pain, content with shallow affection, while those who pass through it are rewarded with a burning bounty of a lifetime.

For you and Bucky, it takes time for the veil to lift.

But time is a funny thing—stretching around moments, making them last longer than they should, then racing like the wind when it feels like it.

It’s been months since you last wore your own clothes to bed. Months since he first brought it up, never to speak of it again.

You look good in his t-shirt.

Since that night at the bar, you rediscover how attractive he is: not just in the devastation of watching his form lean against a doorway, or in the cyclical metamorphoses of his hair, but also in the absolute pull when he’s around. It’s what attractive means, isn’t it? And how natural it is to be swept away by the gravity of him—like a wave to his shores.

Thankfully he’s no different. Constantly circling around you when there’s more than enough room in the kitchen, fingers brushing yours in the simple pass of a coffee cup.

The dance turns into a spin soon enough. Its centrifuge glues you together.

Limbs tangle in the dark, repeating the same dance under bedsheets and morning light. He whispers honeyed words into your ear while you say his name and monosyllabic words. More. Please. Yes. He eats them up one by one, tongue in your mouth, before moving to some other place that drools just as much.

Your body isn’t really yours anymore by the time hipbones kiss—but you’re happy to surrender it to him.

The hands that ruin you also put you back together with the help of warm, running water. They make you toast the morning after. It turns out a little burnt. You tease him about it.

What you get is the most earnest look on his face when he says: “You’re so distracting.”

Time spent with him teaches you of a force that was once foreign. It’s the same one that drives poets to ink and paper. The same one that keeps the two of you answering battle calls.

Somewhere along the way, the reason you risk your lives is whittled down into a singular point: each other.

It doesn’t matter what kind of fight it is—the kind with bullets or with words. You and Bucky will always end up side-by-side, breathing shared air. Air that reminds you where you are, why you are.

Repaired. Alive. Together.

It’s always these vulnerable moments that fuse your souls.

You like sharing a bed with him. It’s where you exchange pasts in whispers. Hold hands in the darkness. Look up at the ceiling and pretend you’re stargazing, what with how small you feel when faced with a primordial thing that’s doomed many who dared seek it.

The emotion hangs heavy in the space between your bodies—even if there isn’t much.

Even if it’s just four letters wide.

He murmurs into your cheek one night.

“…you’re my best friend.”

A pang hits you between your breastbone, so clean and unmistakable you almost gasp.

Instead, you squeeze the hand that wraps around your naked waist.

“Steve would be pissed if he heard that,” you hum.

He smiles, face in front of yours, gaze lingering on your features like he doesn’t have them memorized already. You feel warmth without touch: on your cheek, your nose, your lips.

Then he looks up, and you see eye to eye.

There’s never a time when you’re not on the same page, and tonight’s the same.

It just feels different.

Tonight, you’re bound by ink carved on a line. It writes out that four-letter word and closes the gap between you forever.

Neither of you say it. Neither of you have to.

The gunshot is strangely quiet.

You don’t hear the shouts, or his body hitting the ground.

Like a movie that’s lost its sound, everything is silenced when your eyes widen at the scene: he’s ten feet in front of you, falling backwards at the impact of a bullet that sinks right into his chest.

Except it’s not a movie. It’s real. The threat is known to everyone on that battlefield, screamed through the comms. Comms that you’re connected to—that he’s connected to.

He just decided to put himself in front of you.

There’s no ringing in your ear, no rapid pump of your heart. Just dust and a growing hole in the bottom of your gut as you leap towards him despite your weak legs. Your lips part, but there’s no scream. No words.

Not yet, at least. Not until you fall on your knees next to him, hand on his chest—peeling it away, you see blood.

Blood that should’ve been yours.

Your eyes lock. His begin to close.

Then the words spill.

“Bucky, baby, look at me, look at me—” you choke, putting pressure on the wound.

Life doesn’t stop gushing from under your palm. The comms blare—Sam, Nat, everyone—but despite being in your ear, they all sound so far away.

Bucky’s head sways to look at you. You don’t like the effort in that small movement: like he’s giving everything to show you he’s listening.

You scream for a medic. You don’t recognize your own voice.

“Hey,” he husks, the complete opposite of your desperation, too weak to be a good sign.

It sounds like acceptance.

Your vision cuts to a Bucky in the same position, bathed in blue. Laid down the same way in front of you, except he was on your lap: a scene from some morning that feels far away. The Bucky in your memory moves his lips—his voice carries the same kind of rasp as waking up…

Morning, sweetheart.

…or going to sleep.

“It’s okay—” he continues, but the tail end of it is sputtered out and your breath stops, too. Unlike the blood that still trickles out of him. The warmth sends a chill in your soul.

There’s wetness dripping onto his dirt-marred tac suit, darkening the Kevlar.

One drop, then two.

You only realize you’re crying when he thumbs at your cheek.

Again, your consciousness shocks you.

It pulls you further back this time: to a cold night, a sidewalk outside a certain bar.

He touched your cheek that night. Just like this. It was the first time he ever did it.

The first time he kissed you.

“No,” you shake your head, voice cracked. “No, you can’t, you don’t get to—”

He smiles up at you, but you barely see him past the tears. His hand—the flesh one that’s shaky and turning cold—cups your jaw.

You hold it there.

He buttoned your coat with these fingers.

“I love you,” he rasps. His breath sounds thin. “I’m sorry it took this long.”

“I love you, too,” you cry, “so much, Bucky, d-don’t—you’ll get to say it again, please—”

He shakes his head. In defiance, you kiss him once, then pull away…

…just as he mouths those three words again. Voiceless this time.

His blue eyes slowly grow cold, but the smile doesn’t fade.

As if he wants to keep looking at you, even if he’s dead.

Time won’t fly. It keeps you hostage, paralyzed, feet frozen while the rest of the world moved past you.

Before long, you’ve lost him longer than you had him.

When the month of his passing rolls around, you realize just how much pain you’re feeling.

It starts right as you wake. The first deep breath doesn’t relieve you. Neither does the second.

You step out to the kitchen and smell toast. Burnt. Three seconds later, you realize it’s just a figment of your imagination.

You haven’t made toast in a long time. Not since the sight of bread sitting on the kitchen counter tricked you into thinking he was home: how silly, the way your knees lost their strength when you remembered, how you broke down on the tiled floors right then and there.

It’s never really quiet anymore. You swear you hear his voice. The sound of his laugh after every joke made with the hopes of lifting your spirits.

Sometimes, when you’re on the way home, you think he’d be there.

You’d open the door, and he’d immediately launch into a complaint about running out of detergent so soon after the last grocery run. Halfway through the rant, he’d pause, and really look at you. Then he’d scoop you in his arms, kissing you: one peck on each cheek, then a big one on your lips.

“But I’m okay now. My baby’s here.”

Sleeping with the night light on makes you think he’s sitting next to you, reading. You threw the thing away immediately.

A million nights after, alone in the darkest dark, you still see his eyes.

You close yours. Sleep comes eventually, but not before the tears.

You wake up with an aching, hissed-in breath.

The sheets are warm, much warmer than you’re used to. In the daze of slowly dispelling slumber, your skin tingles, wondering if the heat is an oncoming fever or the morning weather being very unusual.

You feel a draft. It makes you realize that you’re no longer under the covers. The air gently kisses your bare shoulder and thigh.

There’s something different in the beat of your heart. It pulses in your ear. Steady. Healthy. Like it’s ready to take on the day instead of encumbered by it before it even began.

Then your next inhale doesn’t hurt, and you know something is different.

“Morning.”

His rasp widens your eyes, and you turn to see his.

Blue, but warm. Awake.

Alive.

The sight of him hits you like a mallet on a bell: the first pang hurts the most, but the pain doesn’t stop echoing. Its impact is unending, witnessing his smile like this. Like nothing ever happened to him. Like he never stopped breathing.

Waves of emotion course through you unrelentingly, one feeling after another. Disbelief, longing, relief that cycles back to the shock of him—until you realize the sheets under your head is damp with tears, and Bucky looks at you with concern wrapped in softness.

“Hey, hey, what happened?”

He takes you into his arms like he has a million times before, yet you melt like it’s the first. The tears seep into the edges of his white tank top, near his collarbones. You don’t care. He doesn’t seem to mind. Never did. Instead, he coaxes your head closer to his body with a large palm and strokes your hair, cooing sweet words at you.

“Ssh. It’s okay, honey, you’re okay.”

It takes a while, but when your choked sobs finally slow, his fingers cup your jaw, gently guiding them up to look at him.

“You gonna tell me what’s wrong, baby?”

Your lips part. What’s wrong?

“Everything,” you breathed, and his brows knitted. The crease of it is like a familiar song. Unbidden, your fingers lift to trace its shape, his face, the parts of him you knew by heart until your heart was the only place he truly existed.

He tightens his hold on you.

Your whisper shakes even through his grounding touch.

“Bucky, you died.”

He doesn’t say anything. Not at first. Not until after you take him through the whole thing with barely-words that stutter the dream out loud: the mission that went sideways, the bullet that hit his chest, how you can still recall the sound of air that he struggled to keep when he finally said those three words.

Remembering makes you cry again, but he doesn’t stop you, just holds you through it. A large palm on your back draws calming circles, fighting against your body’s subtle tremors. Then a thumb on your cheek to wipe the tears away.

“—I was so scared, you were gone, you did it for me—and—” you choke, before swallowing a breath and willing your voice to stop trembling. “…I still am. I’m still so scared, Bucky.”

He kisses you before he speaks. Once on your brow bone, another on your crown, then three down your temple, cheek, and jaw. You count each one and memorize what the brush of his lips feels like.

You used to think he’d kiss you all the time. Now you know those kisses are numbered.

Just like his days are. And yours, too.

“You know,” he begins, as quiet as parting clouds, “it will happen one day.”

Death.

You look up at him. “That’s why I’m scared.”

Like he’s admitting a secret, he presses his words into your ear with another kiss.

“I’m scared, too.”

When you part, his eyes shine. The dawn begins to break. The sun’s first rays shine through the windows, illuminating him as though they owe him a personal favor to make him look even more beautiful.

And he does look more beautiful. You don’t know how that’s possible.

“But I love you,” he says, “more than I’m scared of losing you. That’s why we’re here. Together. Right?”

He is right. So you nod. He smiles, thumbing your lower lip. Then, with the innocence of a child and the touch of a lover, he asks:

“Say it back for me?”

And yet his mouth is already on yours. You close your eyes, returning the kiss. There’s no choice but to feed your reply into him.

“I love you, too, Bucky.”

An alarm blares, high-pitched and sharp, and you open your eyes.

You wake up for a second time.

There’s no warmth when you wake. No Bucky. Just the cold, hard reality that the morning slams you into.

But this time, you’re not numb to it.

You cry.

You’ve dreamed of him too many times. Memories, mostly. That night you sat and stared at the sea together. Him walking around your room barefoot. A corny joke. His voice.

This time, it’s a dream with him, not just of him. A new scene designed to torture you, a fragment of what could have been.

Strange—the Sorcerer Supreme, not the adjective—told you about the cosmos once.

He talked about how it works. How, like a thread, it’s made up of much smaller fibers, infinite yet equally important to the whole. Many, but one. How each holds a reality—one that is as real as the one you’re living in.

How dreams are mirrors to your other lives in the multiverse.

He’s alive, your thoughts scream as you sob into your hands. Just not here. Not now. Not with you.

It’s been a long time since that bullet plunged into his heart and stopped it. Everyone’s already talked about him in past tense.

Everyone except you.

Because he’s not here anymore, but you hear him, see him, feel him.

Because he’s not here, but you are still in love.

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