Now You Know
Pairing: Florist!Bucky Barnes x Baker!Reader
Word Count: 1.6k
Content: angst, reader is being cheated on (not by Bucky), I’m not from NYC so if the directions don’t make sense I used Google maps and a dream, hurt/comfort, a bit of fluff
Synopsis: Bucky notices the same man ordering two bouquets from his floral shop each month and sets out to let you know the truth.
A/N: written for @buckybarnes82 / this idea has been in my notes for a while. I hope you like it!
Main Masterlist | Bucky Masterlist
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Bucky opens up the online order page to yet another order from the same name - always two bouquets of two dozen red roses wrapped in craft paper and tied with twine. The only divergence every month is what the man requests to be written on the notecards with the flowers.
Today, he requested card number one to say: To my wife, you are the heart of our home and the light of my life. With love, Your Husband. Card number two’s request: To my best girl, you keep me young and alive. Thank you for being mine. I’ll see you this weekend, Your Man.
Bucky’s Blooms prides itself on its customer service, fresh floral arrangements, and client privacy, but damn, if this particular client isn’t getting under Bucky’s skin with his orders. Besides the fact that the man is clearly cheating on his wife and some other woman, he doesn’t tip Bucky’s delivery driver, Joaquin, when he orders the flowers.
“I’m not driving up to Tribeca and then all the way to Forest Park with no tip again, man,” Joaquin grumbles as he starts on the familiar bouquets. “That’s a trek on a light traffic day.”
“It’s fine,” Bucky says. “Why don’t you man the shop for a bit? I’ll make these deliveries. Besides, I need to stop in Bushwick for more craft paper and some other supplies.”
“No, I’m sorry, sir. I’ll go. I apologize for complaining,” the young man says.
“Really, Joaquin, it’s fine,” Bucky assures him. “I need some fresh air, anyway.” He finishes the bouquets, signs off on the handwritten notes with Your Husband and Your Man while trying not to let a shiver run down his spine at the two-timer, and heads out to the delivery van. “Be back in a couple hours,” he says as the shop door shuts behind him.
The drive up from Brooklyn to Tribeca isn’t far, but can take a while with traffic, so Bucky turns on the radio to tune out the noise in his head. It’s not his first time seeing something suspicious like this in the floral business. He's had to write his fair share of questionable notecards, but the fact that this particular client is so smug as to order the bouquets under his real name (yes, Bucky looked him up) on the same day every month, and even have the notecards spell out the situation for him is brazen and stupid and downright awful. He decides right then and there to tell the women about the situation, client privacy be damned.
The “wife” isn’t home when he delivers the bouquet, so he leaves it with the doorman and makes the trip back down to Queens. It’s a nice enough neighborhood, but clearly very different from where the man lives with his wife in Manhattan, and Bucky wonders how they met. They’re clearly from two very different social circles. He double checks the address on the GPS as he looks out the van window at what appears to be a bakery. The address matches, so he shrugs and grabs the bouquet.
As he walks through the bakery doors, he’s hit with the scent of cinnamon and sugar. It’s strong, and reminds him of something his mom used to bake years and years ago.
A head pop ups from behind the counter with a wave. “Welcome in! Let me know if you have questions- oh,” you trail off as you notice the flowers in the man’s arms. “Are those for me?”
Bucky steps up to the counter and eyes your nametag before nodding. You’re beautiful. “Looks like it,” he mutters as he hands the bouquet to you across the counter. The bakery is quiet and empty, and Bucky clears his throat. “I, uh- I own the shop,” he says, nodding to the flowers. “My assistant usually delivers them, but, uh- it’s me today.” Why is he rambling?
“Well, thank you. They are beautiful as always,” you say, closing your eyes as you breathe in the roses. Your eyes flutter open and Bucky thinks his heart stops. You’re something else, and he almost completely forgets what he came here to tell you.
“What is that smell? It’s so familiar, like…” he searches the recesses of his spotty memory for something nearly gone.
“It’s cinnamon coffee cake,” you say. “Fresh out of the oven.”
“Coffee cake,” Bucky says with a nod and a solemn smile, remembering how his mom used to bake that for special occasions. Sometimes there was no cinnamon, but it was better when there was.
“Would you like a slice?” You ask, setting the bouquet on the counter. “It’s still quite hot, though.”
“I- I’d love one. Thank you,” he says, pulling out his wallet to pay.
You wave at him to put it away. “On the house,” you say. “I know the drive out here is far from your shop.”
“Yeah, but that’s okay. It’s nice to get out of the store sometimes,” he says as you put a steaming slice of the cake in front of him on a Robin’s egg blue plate. “Wow, well, thank you.” Bucky makes a mental note to put something in the tip jar by the register before he leaves.
“I’m going to get a vase for these,” you say as you walk to the back of the bakery. Bucky blows on a piece of cake before taking a bite. It’s perfect - better than his mom’s was, actually. You come back with a milky white vase covered in a strawberry print and put the roses inside, fan them out, and set them on the counter. “Beautiful.”
“Do you want anything for the road?” You ask, nodding toward the glass case of baked goods.
“Actually, I need to tell you something,” he says, wringing his hands together nervously. “And I know I shouldn’t from a legal and business standpoint, but I can’t in good conscience keep deliverin’ those bouquets to you and not say something. You seem like a sweet person. You deserve to know.”
Your stomach plummets and your heart starts to race. Echoes of your mom and sister and friends saying things like “too good to be true” and “he’s probably married” play through your head like a film reel.
Bucky senses your anxiety and clears his throat, rethinking if he (a complete and total stranger) should tell you this awful news or not.
“Just tell me” you mutter, gripping the edge of the counter for moral and physical support. “Just say it.”
“He’s married,” Bucky says calmly, setting his fork down on his plate. His eyes search yours, which are quickly filling with tears.
You swallow down the lump in your throat. “And how do you know? You know for certain?”
“He sends two bouquets every month - one to you, and one to his wife,” he says. “Joaquin usually delivers them both, but the asshole never tips. That’s why I came today.”
You lean back against the counter, the pit in your stomach growing by the second. He was supposed to pick you up tonight to drive up to the coast for a weekend away at his cottage. You’ve never once been to his place in the city - not once. For months. That should have been a red flag, but he’s been so charming. You ignored all the signs. And now here you are, faced with the cold, hard truth in the form of yet another bouquet of perfect roses from Your Man. “I- uh, I’m not sure what to say,” you tell the man sitting in front of you. “Thank you for telling me.”
“I’m sorry I had to,” he says solemnly.
“I’d rather know now, you know, than… later.” After you’ve fallen deeper in love with the dickhead. You look back at the roses and shrug. “I can’t get rid of them. They’re too beautiful. Maybe I’ll just pretend they’re from someone else,” you say with a pained laugh.
Bucky smiles at your resilience and nods. “Just pretend they’re my payment for this delicious coffee cake. Just merchants trading goods.”
You genuinely laugh at that and nod. “So, you’re Bucky?”
“I’m Bucky,” he says, offering you his hand to shake. “I wish we were meeting under any other circumstance.”
You shake his hand - it’s warm and calloused. Bigger than yours. “Me too.”
“Are you going to be okay today?” He asks, putting both hands in his pockets. You now notice the glint of a prosthetic on his left and look back to his face.
“I’m going to be just fine,” you assure him.
“Okay, well,” he starts, looking back to the glass of the bakery case. “I’d love a couple biscottis for the road. Dealer’s choice.”
You smile through your sadness and walk around the counter, placing two into a paper bag for him.
“I’m paying,” he says, waving his wallet around.
“You’re not. I owe you one,” you say, crossing your arms.
“You’re stubborn,” he sighs, shaking his head. He pulls a twenty from his wallet and slips it into the tip jar anyway before stepping back from the counter. He knows he should say goodbye. This interaction is over, but there’s a tug in his chest that won’t let him walk out. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”
“Aren’t you from Brooklyn?” You ask. The chances are slim to none that you’ll ever see him again.
“Yeah, but I have a feeling you’ll get flowers again,” he says as his back hits the door to exit the bakery. “Take care.”
———
One Month Later
The bell above the bakery door chimes as you’re elbow deep in a tub of frosting. “Welcome in,” you exclaim, not looking up from the counter.
“D’you have any coffee cake?”
Your head snaps up at the deep voice. He is standing there with a bouquet of pink lilies and a smile. “I told you you’d get flowers again.”
The End
