Human Nature
Pairing: Ranger!Bucky x New Ranger!Reader
Content: alternate universe (Bucky doesn't have a vibranium left arm or super soldier serum), age gap (he is about 15 years older than the reader), skinny dipping, drinking/drunkenness, teasing, flirting, grumpy/sunshine trope, reader is described as being smaller than Bucky, suggestive comments, kissing, fade to black
Word Count: 8k
Synopsis: Just when Ranger Barnes thought he was done mentoring rookies, he’s stuck with you: the eternally optimistic newbie with a knack for baked goods and novelty hiking socks. You’re looking forward to a memorable first season in the park, and you’re determined not to let the grumpy, albeit handsome veteran ruin it for you.
Author's Note: I'm excited to share my contribution to Bucky's Dreamhouse collab with the awesome @stantastic-association. Many thanks to @miraclediviner for making this collaboration possible. You are ever the organizer and we all appreciate your hard work. Thank you to @buckybarnes82 for the beta read. ILY. I know nothing about being a park ranger. Don’t come after me. These are strictly ✨ vibes ✨
My Masterlist | Bucky’s Dreamhouse Masterlist
Read on AO3
Ranger J. Barnes Logbook - May 15
I was promised no more rookies. No more having to mentor these bright-eyed newbies anymore. HR begged me to take on just one more this summer, so I caved. I meet the kid on Monday. I'd better get hazard pay.
Items of note: Southwest Trail full of stacked rock markers. Disassembled and returned to correct environment. Damn tourists.
After working your ass off earning your degree in conservation and ecology, you’re ready to put your skills to the test and hit the ground running at Buchanan National Park. Instead, you’re stuck in a summer-long training program with the world’s grumpiest man. And you forgot to pack your lunch. You usually have such great luck. Maybe you’ve reached your limit. All those late nights studying, early mornings running across campus to make your lab class, and countless “environmentally friendly” takeout coffee cups have culminated in this. Yes, the park offers stunning views and you don’t have to sit beneath fluorescent lights in a depressing cubicle all day, but your “mentor” leaves much to be desired. Ranger Barnes is the epitome of bitter coffee, furrowed brows, and snarky comments. Can too much fresh air make a person a cynic? You hope not. How can someone who spends all day every day out in the sunshine under blue skies have such a sour attitude? Was he born frowning? Is his face stuck that way? It’s beyond you. He’s worse than a bear in search of his first meal after a long hibernation. It’s only week two. How are you supposed to put up with this for nearly two months?
"Don't forget your logbook, Rookie," he grumbles as he shoves a protein bar and a few clementines in his pack. You watch him zip the bag with ease and set it on a nearby counter.
"Sure thing, Vet," you grumble back. Your nicknames are not at all contentious or uttered with malice. Not at all. Ha. "What's on the agenda today? Ooooh, are we going to yell at tourists for not following park rules? Maybe we’ll get to pick up X-rated litter at the campsites? Or–oh!–you'll even show me the firewatch station? The weather is going to be perfect today, you know."
"We'll see, kid," he mumbles, lacing up his hiking boots with a grunt.
You roll your eyes, tired of his incessant attitude and the unnecessary nickname. Kid. Blech. You're twenty-three, not a child. And if you had to guess, he's at least ten years older than you, maybe more, but still not old enough to call you a kid. You say your name in response, willing him to call you by it instead of the irritating moniker. He nods, but doesn’t apologize.
James "Bucky" Barnes has been a park ranger for nearly sixteen years, and he has the scars and stories to prove it. Newbies tend to romanticize the gig, and his personal mission is to beat the optimism out quickly and quietly—preferably over a Thermos of hot coffee on a cliff side. But you, optimistic little you, were having none of it. Like a wild stallion he just can’t break, you show up everyday with that damned smile plastered across your face, always always armed with some baked goods you've whipped up the night before and a random nature anecdote in the chamber. Today’s is about how direct sunlight on the skin can decrease cortisol levels in the body.
"I made banana bread," you say, pulling the wrapped loaf out of your backpack. “I forgot my lunch, so I’m stealing a piece for our break.”
Bucky smirks knowingly. Like clockwork. "Great. Bears are gonna love you today," he replies.
You scoff. "Don't pretend you don't eat up every last crumb at the end of your shift. I watched you lick the plate clean when I brought that blueberry cheesecake last week." It was amazing. You’d used blueberries from your home garden. They were perfectly round and juicy.
"I was hungry. We hiked all over the damn park that day!" He retorts with a huff.
Such a huffy, grumbly human. "You're probably just getting old," you reply with a shrug and a smirk. "Tiring out faster than you did in your prime. When do you qualify for Medicare again? You must be getting close.”
“Ha-ha,” Bucky faux laughs and grimaces, silently wincing at the idea of you thinking he's past his prime. He turns away from you toward the mirror above the utilitarian sink. The ranger's cabin near the entrance of the park serves as a break room/locker storage/First Aid area with an emergency eye wash station. His reflection shows a few shining grays highlighting his temples and chin. You're not wrong about him being older, but he doesn’t agree with being past his prime. In fact, he feels like he’s just cresting that hill. And he’s definitely not eligible for fucking Medicare anytime soon.
Teasing your pissy mentor has quickly become a highlight of your day, and you giggle under your breath as he inspects himself in the mirror with an appraising look. You change from your slip-on Birks to one of your favorite pairs of hiking socks: sky blue with jump-roping avocados. Bucky turns back toward you and subtly rolls his eyes at your ridiculous socks before throwing on his backpack.
“Do you ever have any fun? Or do you get your kicks from sucking it out of whatever room you happen to be in?" You ask as you pull on your boots with an oomph.
“Hmm,” he watches you and pretends to mull it over, scratching his fingers through the stubble on his chin. "The second one. Fun-sucking."
You send a tight-lipped frown his way as you lace up your boots and rearrange a few things in your pack. You always feel like a kid on the first day of school when you put it on–two thumbs through the loops as you smile enthusiastically at the beautiful day outside. You’re ready for whatever magic the park decides to show you today.
Bucky glances at the banana bread on the communal counter and back at your pack. "You're not going to bring more than a piece with you? Won’t you get hungry?"
"Did you not point out earlier that I'd be eaten alive by the rabid bears that inhabit the park if I take that out of the wrapping?"
He shakes his head. "Dramatic much?"
You click your tongue and smile. "Only because I know it gets under your skin, old man."
He makes a mental note to pack some extra food with his lunch tomorrow in case you forget again. Rolling his shoulders with a big sigh, he declares, "You're gonna kill me before I retire."
Ranger J. Barnes Logbook - May 29
The Rookie is going to kill me. This job is going to break her heart. She's too optimistic, too impressionable. I need to have a serious talk about burnout and managing expectations.
Items of note: Picked up litter left by an unsanctioned campsite. At least they used protection. Insane banana bread. Buy better sun protection-do I look old?
An official summer kick-off party with the other rangers is not Bucky’s definition of fun, but you, little ball of incessant sunshine, assured him that it would be a great time, stating that it’s important for elderly people to get out of their homes and interact with others. It keeps the mind sharp and the hips groovin’. He’d rolled his eyes at that, but you peeped his mouth turned up slightly at the corner–a crack in his invisible shield.
“You never come to these things,” Alex, a fellow ranger, pokes at Bucky as you two sit on a wooden picnic bench under some string lights. The bar hosting the event is rustic with a touch of mountain-town charm that’s hard to pin down.
“Yeah, well, this one convinced me with her feminine trickery,” he huffs, scratching at the sweaty label on his bottle of Coors.
You laugh and roll your eyes. “The feminine trickery was the homemade tiramisu I brought on Thursday,” you inform Alex swiftly. “He has a sweet tooth. I simply played to his weakness. And now, Bucky, you get to relax and recharge to the sounds of cicadas and John Denver. Don’t forget to thank me!”
“Not happenin’,” he grunts as he takes a drink of beer.
Alex laughs and offers his drink up in cheers. You clink yours against it. “No, seriously,” he starts, “I haven’t seen Barnes at one of these work parties in… damn, have I ever seen you at one? So, whatever you’re doing, keep it up, new girl!” He waves you both off with a salute as he heads inside to the bar.
“See, I told you that people want you here,” you say, shifting your attention back to Bucky. “They look up to you, Vet.”
“It’s not that I think people don’t want me here,” he starts. “I guess I’m just more of a solo guy.”
“That’s called a loner, Bucky,” you say with a friendly wink. “Alone time is important. I don’t want you to think I’m knocking solitude, but being around people can be nice too.”
He nods like he agrees and notices your nearly empty glass. “What are you drinking?”
You look from him to your empty glass and back again. “A Sea Breeze.”
“Sea breeze?” He repeats for confirmation with a furrowed brow. “Now what the hell is that?”
You laugh at his antics and list the juicy ingredients in the cocktail. He stands up and motions for you to hand him your empty glass. “Here. I got your next fruity little drink, Rookie.”
“Okay,” you smile, giving him the glass. “But only if you get one too. Don’t be a fruity little drink hater, Bucky.”
He swishes around the remnants of the drink and brings it to his nose. “It smells like sugar.”
“Tastes even better,” you quip.
He narrows his eyes at you and notices where your tinted Chapstick has transferred to the glass. He lifts the same spot to his lips and takes a sip of the watered down drink. Your stomach heats at the intimate gesture. Or maybe it’s the alcohol.
“It’s sweet,” he says. “I’ll get one for myself if you take a shot of tequila with me.”
Your eyes widen in shock. “Bucky Barnes, resident loner and fun sucker, wants to do shots? Has Hell frozen over?”
“I don’t want to do shots,” he corrects with a raised brow. “I want to do one shot with the Rookie. You in?”
“I’m in.”
Bucky isn’t sure when one shot turned into three, but now the fireflies are starting to look a bit angelic, like little glowing halos floating around the purple night sky. “Hell did freeze over,” he chuckles. “There’s tiny angels everywhere.”
You smirk and laugh. “Bucky, are you drunk?”
“Mmm…” he thinks it over, looking at you with a slightly glazed expression. “Just a little buzzed. Don’t you have socks with fireflies on them?” He asks, looking under the picnic table. You snap your legs together.
“I’m wearing a dress, Bucky! Eyes up here.”
His face turns an even deeper shade of red. “I’m sorry. I was looking for your cute socks.”
“I’m wearing sandals, Ranger. No cute socks tonight.” You say the last part with a pointed look. Bucky never says things like that. He’s always extremely professional, albeit grumpy as fuck. Get a few drinks in the guy and all of a sudden he turns to pudding.
“I wasn’t trying to look up your dress,” he reiterates, clearly embarrassed.
“I know!” You assure him. “We’re colleagues.”
“Right,” he mutters, looking out at the slowly emptying parking lot.
Before you can dig more into whatever that exchange was, some more coworkers, Natalie and Anton, skip over with handfuls of tiny glasses… full of some type of clear liquid.
“A round on us!” Natalie practically shouts. She’s tipsy and adorable. Anton holds out a glass for you and Bucky.
“To say thank you for helping us with the Junior Ranger camping fiasco last week,” Anton adds, looking fairly sober. Ah, the Junior Ranger camping fiasco. Who knew that flushing a tampon was going to wreak havoc on the entire education cabin? What began as an instructional lecture about what to do if you encounter a bear turned into how to properly dispose of feminine products. Preteens.
You hold a hand up to the offered shot. “That’s so sweet, but I’m feeling good after a couple glasses of water. I can’t.”
“More for me!” Natalie says, downing your shot.
Bucky takes his, clinking it against Anton’s, and downs it. He hisses at the heat of the alcohol and mutters a thank you.
“See you guys at CPR training next month!” Anton shouts over his shoulder as they stagger back into the bar.
“CRP training… I forgot about that…” Bucky mutters, sitting down heavily on his side of the picnic table. He’s clearly drunk. You glance over at his truck and frown. You’re going to have to get him an Uber.
“Bucky? Are you okay with an Uber? I can reserve one for you. You can’t drive,” you say, reaching across the table to get his attention. He sways a bit and smiles.
“You can’t drive,” he chuckles.
“I’m fine to drive. I switched to water after we took a shot together,” you tell him as you pull up the rideshare app on your phone. “Eighty nine dollars? For economy? Christ…” You look up at him, but his eyes are already on you. He’s smiling and a small giggle-like sound erupts from his chest.
“Keys are in my pocket, Rookie,” he slurs. “Come get them.”
“You’re being ridiculous, Bucky. We can take my car. Just don’t throw up in it or you’re paying to get it detailed! We can pick up your truck in the morning.”
“Mmkay,” he agrees easily. “Whatever ya say, cutie patoots.”
“Good lord. Can you walk?” You ask with a grimace. You’re not sure you can support his weight back to your vehicle. He’s much broader and taller than you.
“I can walk,” he utters. “C’mon.”
You offer him a friendly arm, and he loops through yours. “Are you okay?”
“Mhmm.”
He manages to walk fairly steadily back to your Subaru. You help him fold his large body into the passenger seat and buckle him in. Alex walks up as you shut the car door. You offer him a weak smile. “Gotta get this one back to his place. Any idea where he lives?”
“Not a clue. He’s so private,” Alex says. “You sure you’re okay to drive and get him home?”
You tsk. “Yeah, we’ll be fine. Drive safe.”
“You too.”
You get into the car and buckle up before turning to ask Bucky for his address, but he’s out cold.
“Damn it, Barnes!” You yell, but he doesn’t even stir. To your place it is.
The drive is quick and quiet since your driving companion is currently passed out with his mouth slightly ajar. You pull into your parking spot and thank God that you live on the first floor because you have no idea how you’d get this larger than life man up a flight of stairs.
“Bucky?” You ask as you unbuckle your seatbelt. No answer. You shake his arm. “Bucky?” You yell. “Ranger Barnes!” Louder this time.
“Huh?” He rouses, eyes slowly opening and taking in his surroundings. He looks around the unfamiliar car interior and then slowly turns to you. “Oh, hi sunshine.”
“Feeling more like an annoyed rain cloud right now,” you offer. “You’re going to sleep on my couch, okay?”
“Couch. Yeah.”
“Let’s go, old man.”
The state of your apartment is a work in progress to put it mildly. Half open boxes are strewn about. You moved here at the start of the summer, right after graduation, but you’d started at the park at the same time. Days have been long, so it’s been hard to keep momentum and your energy levels up to get fully unpacked.
“You’re messy,” Bucky says, looking around the place on unsteady legs.
“You are the bigger mess right now,” you snarl. “There’s the couch.”
He plops onto it quickly while you grab him a clean blanket and pillow. He has one arm thrown over the back of the couch when you get back, just staring at your ceiling. You hand him the bed linens and stand back, crossing your arms.
“I’ll take you back to your truck in the morning,” you say.
“Mmkay,” he agrees with a sleepy voice as he pulls the blanket up to his chin.
“Night, Bucky.”
“Night angel lightning bug.”
You sigh and head to your bedroom. What a night.
Ranger J. Barnes Logbook - June 8
She hasn't exiled me for her having to drive my drunk ass home after the work party. I'm such a dumbass. And I can't get the vanilla smell of the blanket she threw at me out of my nose. So warm. So her. God damn it.
Items of note: Soil samples today. Google what's in a Sea Breeze besides shame and regret.
The forecast is predicting a high in the mid-nineties today, so you packed your swimsuit in the hopes of taking a dip in the crystal clear lake you spotted a couple weeks ago. It’s secluded, clean, and deep enough to actually enjoy a swim in the cool water.
Bucky is in a better mood than usual today, and has honestly been more friendly overall since the night you let him couch surf. He was awkward as hell the next morning–all apologies and fancy takeout coffee. You assured him it was fine, and definitely didn’t bring up all the pet names he called you when he was out of his right mind. Maybe you remind him of an old flame, but you know it didn’t mean anything. It’s best to just keep trucking until you’re done with this summer training and finally, blissfully on your own. But today, you blame his good mood on your famous fruit salad. You brought it one day last week and it was devoured by lunchtime. You made a huge bowl for everyone again, but this time you made a separate, smaller one for Bucky without the kiwi. You noticed him picking the tiny green chunks out last time.
“You didn’t have to do this,” he says as he forks another mouthful of the fruit into his mouth. Some juice dribbles down his lip and he licks it up. “I can just eat around them.”
You shrug. “It’s no trouble. Plus, maybe I only made you your own bowl to sweet talk you into finally showing me the firewatch tower. It’s called an ulterior motive, or you know… feminine trickery.”
He laughs genuinely before rolling his eyes and spearing a strawberry. “I know what an ulterior motive is. And I stand by the trickery sentiment.”
“So… firewatch tower?” You ask with pleading eyes. You can’t place why, but you’ve been drawn to the tower since your first shift. It has an otherworldly, slightly spooky aura to it, like anything could happen up there. Maybe you are just excited by heights.
“Maybe,” he replies. “If you behave.”
“Maybe?! I made a special bowl of fruit salad sans kiwi for you, Mr. Picky. Show me the tower!”
He laughs and washes his bowl in the sink before filling up two stainless steel bottles with ice water and putting them in his pack.
“Are you super thirsty today or something?” You ask, nodding toward his backpack. “Ooh, did you meet a milf at the bar and drink one too many Sea Breezes?”
“A milf? Jesus, no,” he says with a frown. “It’s going to be really hot today so we need to stay hydrated. I can carry more weight in my pack than you.”
Oh. He packed you an extra water bottle. How… thoughtful. He’s usually all survival of the fittest. “Well, thanks, but I can handle an extra bottle. You don’t have to–”
He tightens the straps of his pack and stands up straight, looking you in the eye while he cuts you off. “I had a former rookie pass out from heat stroke on a trail a few summers back. I don’t want that to happen again, especially…” he trails off before clearing his throat. “Anyway, let’s get going. We’re in C sect today and the Gator is in the shop for repairs, so we have a long trek on foot.”
“Okay, let me lace up my boots,” you say, quickly plopping down on the wooden bench.
Bucky notes your socks today: bananas wearing fedoras and carrying briefcases. “Where do you even find those?” He nods toward your feet–one sock on, one foot still bare. His eyes flit from the bright orange polish on your toes to your concentrated face. The tip of your tongue pokes out between your front teeth as you pull the other sock on.
“My cute socks?” You ask, wondering if he remembers calling them that.
“Sure, I guess.”
You laugh and nod, not sure if he’s playing it off or really doesn’t remember. “My brother gets me a pair for my birthday and Christmas every year. We like to get each other silly, but useful things.”
Bucky smiles. “So what do you get him?”
You pull on your boots and start lacing up. “He’s a lawyer so he has to wear ties and fancy clothes to work. I get him vintage cuff links, bow-ties, pocket squares… that kind of thing. I like to find them at thrift shops, estate sales, you know. The crazier the pattern or style, the better. It must run in our genes to like loud accessories. I once found a pair of cuff links that were tiny bottles of Yoohoo. He loves those."
Bucky chuckles. “How thoughtful. That’s a nice tradition.”
You finish tying your boots.
“C’mon, Rook. Let’s get going.”
After a few hours and miles in, you have to admit that Bucky was right–you are beyond thankful for that extra icy cold water bottle he packed this morning. It’s toasty outside, but thankfully nearly time for lunch. You’ve already finished your first bottle of water, and your throat thanks you as you drink from the second. You sit down on a bench under a covered shelter spot with a few picnic benches, relishing the shade as you check your watch.
Bucky sees you check the time. “We can break early and eat in the shade,” he says, starting to unzip his backpack more. There’s a line of sweat staining his shirt where the pack was sitting against his spine.
“Oh, thank goodness. I’m roasting,” you say. You sigh and look around, realizing exactly where you are. “Actually, I’m going to eat lunch in a bit. I want to walk down to that lake and take my break there if that’s okay.”
“Lac nu?” He asks with a smirk as he takes the lid off his lunch.
You tilt your head, confused. “Is that the name of the lake?” You suppose you hadn’t noticed a sign the last time you were in the area.
Bucky nods slowly, crunching into a carrot.
“Okay, well, I’m going to Lack New or whatever it’s called for my break. I’ll be back in an hour,” you say as you saunter off. He gets so weirdly quiet sometimes. He’s hard to read.
“Watch out for snakes,” he says loudly before he laughs under his breath. He watches you walk away as he bites into another carrot and his tongue. “Damn it!”
Bucky finishes his lunch quickly and picks up some nearby litter before checking his watch–still forty-five minutes before lunch is over. He always ate too fast from working up an appetite logging miles in the park. He fans himself with his logbook and undoes the top button of his brown uniform shirt.
“Ah, fuck it,” he grunts as he slings his pack over one shoulder and follows your path down to the small lake. He normally doesn’t swim in the park because he doesn’t want to interact with dumb tourists, but he doubts anyone will be down there but you. Even though you’re way more chipper than a normal human, you know how to appreciate the park’s beauty without ruining the ecosystem or leaving your mark behind.
The sunlight streams through the surface of the water into the lake below, painting sparkles across the rocky bottom as you swim beneath the clear veneer. The water is lukewarm and doing a magnificent job of cooling you off. You turn and start to float on your back, closing your eyes to the sun for several moments. When you move upright to start another lap, you let out a squeal at Bucky standing on the grassy lake shore.
He holds his hands up in defense with a small smirk. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
You laugh out a sigh in relief that it’s just him. “It’s fine. Just glad I’m not getting axe murdered!” You say as you tread water, letting your head bob above the water. He looks from you to your discarded uniform shoved into your unzipped pack and back again.
“How’s the water?” He asks as he drops his backpack on the grass next to yours.
“It’s perfect, actually,” you smile, readjusting the strap of your swimsuit. “Are you coming in?”
His eyes follow your hand across your shoulder back down under the water. “Would you mind? I don’t have swim trunks, though, so maybe I’ll just put my feet in.”
“Oh, get in here. A little skinny dip never hurt anyone,” you tease with a laugh.
“Uh, okay. You’d better turn around unless you want a show.”
You spin around in the water and make a dramatic show of covering your eyes even though you’re facing the other direction. “Just social distance from me, old man.”
He huffs as he undresses quickly, tossing his clothing in a heap at his feet before wading into the lake. It is perfect. When he’s certain his manhood is hidden beneath the water he calls out to you. “Okay, I’m in. Just don’t look down.”
“Wait, are you seriously naked? I was just joking about skinny dipping!” You shout.
“Well, I seriously don’t have swim trunks, so…”
“Oh,” you say and swallow before spinning around and putting a bit more distance between your two bodies. You decide to trek forward with the conversation and ignore the elephant (Or was it more like a mouse? Stop, brain. Why are you thinking about it?) in the lake. “The water’s nice, huh?”
“Mhmm,” he hums in agreement. His hand comes up above his eyes to shade the sun from his vision as he looks at you. “You know it’s called Lac nu, right? Not Lack New.” He says the former with a French accent and the latter with a slightly offensive American South one.
“What are you talking about?” You ask, perplexed.
“This lake,” he starts, waving a pointer finger around the area. “It’s called Lac nu. It translates to Naked Lake.” He says the last part with a breathy laugh and flicks some water at you.
You snort and roll your eyes. “I guess I’m breaking the rules then?”
“I won’t tell,” he says with a playful wink.
“I think there’s probably a spot in the employee handbook about this,” you joke.
“Skinny dipping?” He asks.
“No, winking at me when you’re naked,” you say with a giggle.
He chuckles and dips lower into the water before dipping his head under to wet his hair. When he resurfaces, your eyes trace the beads of water racing down his neck.
“You’re in a good mood today,” you say, swimming in a circle around him, always keeping your eyes above the water. “What’s the occasion?”
Bucky lets out a sarcastic “ha-ha” and blows water droplets from his lips before dipping back under the water. You watch his eyes open under the surface and drop your jaw as he resurfaces.
“Did you just… sneak a peek?” You ask, pretending to be scandalized. You hold your arms around your body, covering your chest. “Did you just check out your controversially younger coworker? Your mentee?”
He splashes you with yet another eye roll. “First of all, I’m the naked one here. So if anyone should feel exposed, it’s me. Second of all, you’re not controversially younger than me. How old do you think I am, anyway?”
You rub your chin, pretending to think before mocking him. “First of all, Barnes, you’re not denying the checking out your coworker accusation. Second of all, I’m not guessing your age.” You huff, feeling like you’ve won.
“You’re ridiculous,” he says matter of factly. “I’m thirty-eight for the record.”
You size him up–the smattering of grays you’re met with day after day, the broad shoulders and beefy arms built by years in the park, the crow’s feet around his blue eyes when he flashes you a rare smile. “Yeah, I suppose thirty-eight checks out.”
“Now who’s doing the checking out?” He asks cheekily as he swims further into the lake. His back is to you now.
You notice the constellation of freckles across his tanned shoulders and the muscles there. The sun’s rays hit the water just so, shining through the lake. You follow the trail of light with your gaze under the surface, down the hard lines of his back to his…
That’s not a butt. That’s a–oh.
“Eyes up here, Rookie.”
You snap your eyes up to to his and your cheeks immediately heat in embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to–I-I wasn’t trying to…” Words escape you.
He laughs and runs a hand through his wet hair. “Come on. Let’s get dressed and get back to work. I’ll go first so you can get dressed in private. Keep an eye out for water snakes, would ya?”
You gasp at the naughty joke and watch him get out of the water, his back to you. He climbs the small incline gracefully. You only notice your bottom lip between your teeth as he ducks behind a nearby bush to dry off and get dressed. You let go of the flesh and clear your throat, willing your body to calm down before you exit the lake. Why do you feel all tingly? Surely a brain eating amoeba has made its way into your ear canal and started its work. It’s definitely not your grumpy, graying, somewhat pessimistic coworker. Right?
“All clear,” he says with a wink as he trots up the hill fully dressed and out of sight. Your stomach flutters again. Oh no.
Ranger J. Barnes Logbook - June 30
Lac nu is a hidden gem of the park, and I'm thankful for it today. It was nearly 90 degrees and served as a cool-off during our lunch break. Fuck, this logbook is turning into evidence. Must burn to ash when it's filled.
Items of note: Orange toes and swimsuit. Wet hair. Nature is beautiful, but she's stunning.
CPR training–not an aphrodisiac, just a standard practice, great knowledge to have in case of emergencies, absolutely not a turn-on. Ugh… until it’s his turn to do chest compressions.
You have definitely never listened to those breathy, suggestive audios of dudes doing push-ups to failure on Quinn. Not the ones where they’re practically moaning “baby girl” through your headphones while you get a little sweaty folding laundry. And you’re absolutely NOT thinking of how Bucky sounds like he’s doing those devious push-ups right now. He’s trying to save Hector’s life for crying out loud! Hector is the CPR dummy that you are slightly, weirdly jealous of right now. A lock of hair falls out of place across Bucky’s forehead as he keeps pressing on Hector’s chest. His arms–God, have they always been so veiny and muscular–are tensed from the compressions, and his face is flushed from the exertion. Your mind wanders to what other activities make the Ranger flush and you feel a blush creep up your neck. He’s like… old. What is wrong with you?
You hear your name and are pulled from your sexy trance. “Huh?”
“You’re up,” the instructor says.
Bucky takes his place next to you and nudges your shoulder. “Go! He’s literally dying.”
You huff and kneel down next to the dummy.
“To the rhythm of Stayin’ Alive by The Bee Gees,” the instructor says, nodding for you to begin. You start the compressions and count, growing tired by the end. No wonder Bucky was huffing and breathing a little more… well, just more than you’re used to when he was doing this. Why did his breathing sound hot? Are you ovulating? You mentally count back to your last period and shake your head. No, definitely not ovulating anymore. That must mean you actually think he’s hot. Your mind isn’t clouded by some cavewoman needs. These are your true, luteal phase thoughts. Oh no. You save Hector from the brink of death and take your place back by Bucky as a few other colleagues revive the dummy.
“Good work,” Bucky says with a wink. “You got a little tired at the end, huh?”
“I guess so.”
“You sounded a little breathy,” he adds to which you look up at him with irritation.
“So did you!"
“Did I?” He asks.
“Yes, you were all huh huh ugh heeehuhhhh ugh huh.” You imitate his breathing.
He smirks, holding back a laugh. “Do you want to run that by me again?”
“Oh, hush!” You say. The instructor glances up at the two of you. Damn, if looks could kill.
“Your face is red,” Bucky whispers, leaning down a bit to get his mouth closer to your ear.
“Yeah, well, I just did chest compressions. Besides, you’re sweaty.”
“I’m not sweaty,” he says.
“You’re… there’s a sheen,” you say, pointing to his face and circling the air around his head.
“A sheen?” He smirks.
“Yes, Bucky, a sheen.”
“Now it’s more pink than red,” he says, nodding at your face. “Now it’s the same color as it was when you saw that water snake in the lake.”
“Bucky!” You gasp. “I didn’t see anything.
“Mmm, I think you did. You blushed like you did.”
“Let it go, Barnes.”
“Oh, I’m never forgetting that, sunshine. Ever.”
You huff and cross your arms as the instructor stands and claps his hands together. “Okay, let’s move on to First Aid.”
Ranger J. Barnes Logbook - July 6
Hector is enemy number one. Why can't I stop thinking about her flushed face and the way she was breathing? Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
Items of note: So much July 4th garbage around the campsites. Disposed of properly and citations issued as needed. Be respectful, people.
“Guess where we’re going today?” Bucky asks with a genuine smile as you both start out on the main trail.
“Well, I’ve given up on the firewatch tower, so… maybe to clean up some campgrounds?”
He laughs and shakes his head. “You’ve given up too easily.”
Your eyes widen and you gasp. “You’re taking me?!”
“I’m taking you. It’s a long walk, so I’m glad you packed some extra trail mix.”
“Bucky!” You exclaim, jumping on the dirt trail. “I’m so excited! Thank you!” You hug him and he carefully wraps one arm around your waist to return the sentiment.
“You-you’re welcome, Rookie.”
You can hear something in his voice and break away, realizing that it’s kind of inappropriate to hug your coworker.
“Sorry,” you mutter, looping your thumbs through your backpack straps for something to focus on that’s not his muscle-y back.
“It’s fine,” he assures you. “You smell like oranges.”
You laugh. “I made orange juice this morning.”
“What? With real oranges?”
“Of course!” You say. “It’s way better that way.”
“You really are a ray of sunshine.”
“Thanks. You’re kind of a storm cloud, but we need some rain, so…”
He laughs and nods. “That’s actually why I figured now’s the perfect time to show you the tower. We’re technically in a drought at this point, so forest fires are more likely. It’s important that you know what to look for if you ever have to cover the tower. Usually they have special rangers for it, but if someone is out and you get called up, you have to know your shit.”
“Sounds good.”
You start your trek to the tower with a smile on your face, his spicy deodorant in your nose, and butterflies in your stomach.
When you’re about a quarter mile from the tower, the clouds start quickly rolling in.
“Did you check the weather today?” You ask Bucky, biting your lip nervously. You didn’t pack umbrellas or any rain gear.
“I-uh, it must have slipped my mind.” It’s your fault it slipped his mind. He was watching you pull on your ridiculous hiking socks-golfballs with moustaches and tees wearing high heels-and forgot to check the damn app.
The last four hundred yards to the tower are a mad, rain-soaked dash.
By the time you reach cover you’re both drenched, chilled, and your feet are covered in blisters from the rainwater squelching in your hiking boots. You didn’t expect to see the tower for the first time looking like a wet noodle while Bucky somehow looks like a wet Adonis. Unfair.
You carefully climb the slick stairs to the top and both heave a sigh of relief when you’re safely under the roof. Finally.
The clouds outside darken and the wind picks up, making the branches of the trees dance in a frantic rhythm. You watch from one of the many windows. It’s not just rain. It’s a full-on thunderstorm.
“Well, I don’t think you’re going to spot any rogue wildfires now,” Bucky says with a click of his tongue. He sits on a small cot in the corner and pulls his log book out of his pack.
“This is kind of beautiful, though,” you muse, watching the way the rain is coming down in sheets of silver.
“Nature is, yeah,” he says quietly and he uncaps his pen with his teeth and chews on the cap thoughtfully before the pen meets the page.
“What are you always writing in there?” You ask, nodding toward the weathered book.
“Observations.”
“I don’t write in mine enough then. You’re always jotting stuff down. Can I read it? Get an idea of what I should be documenting?” You walk toward him and he snaps the book shut. “No. It’s… you know… a Ranger’s logbook is personal.”
“C’mon,” you laugh. “How personal can soil samples be?”
“Extremely!”
“Fine, grumpy,” you say, too soaked and cold to fight him on it. “How long do you think this will last?”
He glances out the window with a shrug. “No clue. You cold?”
You nod, and he looks under the cot. He grunts as he pulls a heavy trunk upright and clicks open the latches. There’s an array of first aid supplies, tarps, blankets, a couple National Park Service sweatshirts in an ugly shade of moss green. He hands one to you. “You should take your top off.”
“Sorry?” You gasp.
“No!” He stammers, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “I mean you should take your wet shirt off before you put the dry sweatshirt on or else you’ll stay cold. I’m not looking.”
He turns around and looks out the opposite window with his arms crossed. By the time you’ve shed your shirt and cozied up in the dry, ugly sweatshirt he asks “You decent?”
“Yeah,” you say. He turns around too. At least you’re wearing matching ugly sweatshirts. In this fashion crime together.
“So, we’re kind of stuck up here for a bit, aren’t we?” You ask.
“Looks like it.”
"Okay, we could just play a game to pass the time, or volley questions back and forth to get to know each other better," you suggest. You feel like you only know the surface of this man, and you wonder if he’d let you crack him open a bit like the sky outside.
“Sure,” Bucky rifles through the drawers of the decrepit desk near the cot, searching for a pack of cards. Nothing. He slams the last drawer, and it's punctuated by a flash of lightning outside.
"Is it actually safe to be up here when there's lightning?" You ask, peering out the window at the raging storm.
He shrugs. "It's better than being on the ground of a literal forest. With trees."
You roll your eyes. "Fine. Questions it is. I'll go first. What's your favorite color?"
Bucky sits on the cot in the corner and leans his head against the wall. He shrugs. "I don't really have one."
"You don't - okay, nevermind. What's your favorite dessert?" You try again, leaning on the desk across the small room.
His lips quirk into a smile. "Don't get a big head about it, but that cheesecake you made."
"Aww, you love my goodies," you tease as his eyes widen and he snorts out a laugh. "Sorry, that sounded-"
"My turn," he says, cutting you off. "What's your favorite part of the park so far? I know you haven't seen everything, but…?"
You consider his question and look around at the tall trees, some at eye-level in the tall tower. There's a lot of things you like about the park - the way it's misty in the morning sometimes after a night rain, when the frogs in the pond by the Ranger cabin will quiet themselves if it gets too loud with human noise, how the light filters through the trees when the sun isn't directly overhead, when Bucky always asks if you have your logbook (even though you only use it for doodles of flora and noting down how often he sighs when he's particularly grumpy, and the way he's watching you right now). Whoops. You hope you don’t have to turn it in at the end of training.
"My favorite part of the park?" You repeat the question, eyes wide at your internal realization. "Having you as my mentor has been nice."
His eyes flit to yours, brow furrowed. "That doesn't count, plus I'm not that great. You don't have to say that-"
"I'm not saying anything I don't mean," you retort. A flash of lightning lights up the sky with a crack of thunder following not long after. It's not letting up, and you silently wonder how long you'll be taking refuge here. "But if you want me to pick something in nature, I guess I'd say just how big some of the tree roots are. Some of them are thicker than two people put together. It's incredible. You're kind of like a tree root, you know."
He scoffs. "Well, you keep bringing in sugary desserts and goodies."
You laugh and roll your eyes. "No! That's not what I mean. I'm not saying you're thick," you say with a giggle. He is terribly, deliciously thick, but in the best way. "I'm saying you remind me of the roots of a tree - stable, grounded, only searching for the good soil, one with the Earth. Strong. All that jazz."
“All that jazz,” he hums and nods his head, eyes moving to the storm outside. You peep a blush on his cheeks. "Like roots, okay."
"What would I be?" You ask, nudging his foot with yours. "And don't say anything about the muskrats."
He chuckles and assesses you before swallowing. He knows what he wants to say, but isn't sure if it's too much. He knows he got too flirty… too inappropriate at the lake the other day, and he needs to reel it in, but damn. He doesn't want to regret not saying how he feels.
"Okay, I have an answer," he says, voice a bit deeper than it was seconds ago. "Do you know how the sun hits the water at a certain angle and makes it shimmer? But with colors, like…" he searches for the right word, but you fill it in for him.
"Like a rainbow prism?" You offer.
"Yes, exactly like… a prism. Every color kind of dances across the surface. That's what you would be," he answers, running a hand through his beard like he's stressed.
Your chest heats at his answer. It almost sounds romantic if you didn't know better. "Why'd you pick that?" You ask eagerly. You swallow, trying to push down any expectations.
He clears his throat and decides to just go for it. "Because you came blazing into this park and into… my life… in color. Your whole persona is just like a rainbow I guess - your weird socks, your smile, your jokes, your orange toes, just you. You bring life into this place. Into my life, too. I wasn’t looking forward to one last mentee, but you… I’m just glad it was you.”
You close your mouth. It had fallen open during Bucky's short but effective declaration. "I-I'm not sure what to say," you start. "Which is a first for me."
He laughs and shrugs. "You don't have to say anything. You're done with training after this shift anyway."
"I'm done with training?" You repeat, blinking at him. "But I thought I had the rest of the week with you.
"No," he says, shaking his head. He pulls a crinkled and folded paper out of his shorts pocket. "I graduated you this morning. I guess I just wanted one more shift with you." He looks at his watch. "And the shift just officially ended, so you're a full-fledged Ranger now, sunshine."
"So you're not my supervisor anymore?" You clarify, pushing off the desk you're leaning on and taking a step toward him. Another crack of thunder intensifies the already heady air of the tower.
"Correct," he says, standing up. "Are you… happy about that?"
"Ecstatic, in fact," you say, taking another tentative step. He meets you in the middle and you breathe the same humid air for what feels like a full minute. His chest is heaving in symphony with yours. Eyes bounce from each other to your lips to his eyes and back again like a mating ritual.
"Why?" He breathes across your skin. His breath is minty and smells slightly of honeydew. "Because now you can do this?" He mutters as his lips brush against yours. You inhale sharply at the contact and your heart picks up its pace. The rain outside starts coming down in heavier sheets, soaking the deck surrounding the tower.
"Yeah," you answer weakly. All sense of reality has been turned on its head as his tongue slips easily into your mouth. Kissing Bucky is like dipping your toe into Lac nu, like picking the first ripe strawberry of the season off the vine, like sinking into fresh bedsheets dried on the line after a long day. It feels right. So right. It’s warm and light and perfect. He breaks away first and you can feel his smile.
“I’ve been wanting to do that since you called me an old man that first week,” he admits.
“You called me an angel lightning bug,” you mutter with a smile.
He looks at you with a quizzical brow. “Those Sea Breezes got to my head, didn’t they?”
“They did.”
“Well, you know what they say… drunk words are sober thoughts.”
“You should kiss me again,” you whisper. “You taste like honeydew.”
His hands find the nape of your neck and his fingers comb through your damp hair as he pulls your mouth toward his. “You taste like mine.”
Ranger J. Barnes Logbook - July 15
Maybe I'll give her this logbook when I marry her annoying, perfect, sunshine and rainbows ass. Why the hell does the firewatch tower have a condom stash?
Items of note: Replenish the firewatch tower's condom stash.
