Summary: You asked Bucky out. He said no. Cool. How do you move on? You don’t.
Notes & Warnings:
DNI if under 18 | Fluff, swearing, canon typical violence, some angst, lotsa pining, sexual content
I don’t give permission for my work to be copied/reposted/translated anywhere. I only post stories here and on AO3.
Series Chapters || Masterlist
Another Word For Surveillance - Part Twelve
BUCKY
Sometimes Bucky had terrible luck. There’s a permanent exhibit at the Smithsonian and a handful of documentaries elaborating on this deplorable fact.
When Steve told Bucky about having to leave the same day for a mission, only six minutes after you made him a very happy man in that cramped office room, all Bucky could do was repeatedly curse until Steve ended the call.
Of course he has to leave again. Of course.
He can’t do anything about that but there was one thing he could change now - he made you his first call. And that made all the difference.
You took the news well, in that you did not start spouting expletives unlike Bucky, but you were worried nonetheless.
“Allentown? Wasn’t that a dead end?”
“Can’t say where.” Bucky slipped into another office room at the hangar, which was very similar to where he first kissed you, and the memory filled him with the warmth of assurance. “Sorry Sweets.”
“It’s Allentown.”
“No.” Lie. Bucky didn’t wait for you to catch on. “It’s three days tops.”
“Is it though?”
That made him laugh. A belly-warming, head-clearing, eye-crinkling laugh.
Nobody ever fussed about where Bucky went. Except you. Over a year ago, he was off to steal alien tech in Atlantic City and transport it to a facility in Colorado. He disappeared for two days. Nobody even asked where he had been. But when he skipped a morning meeting to run down a lead, even the groundskeepers told him you popped by to inquire if Bucky had taken one of the mowers again for a joy ride.
It was nice to know you cared enough to be bummed out by the spontaneous nature of his job.
You took a breath, like you wanted to say something.
“Yeah Sweets?” He held his breath.
But you didn’t say much after that. Just a goodbye, with a smile in your voice. “Nothing, just… be careful out there.” A microwave dinged. “In Allentown.”
He pictured you walking around the apartment barefoot, wearing his shirt. The one you never returned. He chuckled, knowing there wasn’t much he could say to make you think you got the location wrong.
“See you in three days ok?” He sounded a little bit too eager, but this was critical. In three days, he’ll get time with you, away from the office, away from screens, paperwork and case files. Just you and him.
“Ok Bucky. Three days.”
You sounded so sweet, even if you didn’t know what he had in mind.
It’s never just three days. Not when Bucky’s on the passenger manifest. Of course.
His frustration peaked when three days became five and even when the Quinjet hit cruising altitude mere minutes after taking off from an abandoned complex in Allentown on Day Six, he continued to simmer and refused to speak.
He couldn’t even reply to your messages without rambling. There was much to tell you about the most routine activities - he discovered the best way to roll a hoodie and turn it into a pillow - but he couldn’t string words together. Instead, he sent you a short text letting you know he’ll be home soon. Bucky tossed his phone into his bag half-heartedly, knowing he would have been better off scrolling through your messages: cat memes and photos of overgrown grass at the compound.
Mild annoyance took up all his energy that moment. He wanted to blame Steve, somebody, anybody, but deep down Bucky knew there was no one to blame for this delay, except maybe the asshole trafficking a bad batch of the super soldier serum that nearly caused a gang turf war to erupt in the east coast.
He closed his eyes and exhaled, feeling his stomach contract and gradually expand as he followed with slow deep breaths.
Bucky placed his palms flat against his legs and focused on you. He planned on making dinner. One of the three dishes he learned how to do really well. He’d bribe the bozos to stay out of the apartment. So that you can relax and forget about everything else. And if you wanted more than that, well Bucky was prepared for whatever you felt like doing.
Yeah, he could see himself doing all these things with you.
Now that he could admit that to himself, a slight panic rose because he really should be spending more time delivering on The Plan.
To convince you that The Incident back at the bar all those months ago was a fluke.
That he was prepared to go to great lengths to make you happy.
That all he wanted to be was yours.
It wasn’t just a one-night plan - it was a lifetime plan. He was prepared to shoot for the fucking stars.
The potency of his conviction made him feel dizzy at times. It was definitely unusual, this sense of knowing where he belonged. And to whom. For someone who has bounced from one decade to another without a clear sense of why the hell he’s still around, the certainty that he was meant to be here brought him agency. There’s power in that.
Getting delayed by work wasn’t just inconvenient, it was not acceptable. He wasted enough time sitting on his ass.
Bucky peeked at the screen overhead and grunted. How can it only be two minutes since take off?
“Breathe man,” Sam intoned from across the aisle.
Bucky exhaled again, expelling nerves from his system, allowing himself to sink into visions of you. The inquisitive smile you wore when he talked about keeping himself entertained during missions. The way your scent cut through and Bucky could never get enough.
Your hand on his.
The next time he opened his eyes, the jet dipped under the clouds set against the skyline of upstate New York. The pilot announced landing instructions. Bucky was first to disembark and he didn’t stop walking until he reached the secure grid leading to their residence.
A third of the walk to the apartments was all the time it took to figure out where you were that evening. It had little to do with his tracking skills.
It was Romanoff who sent him your location. A peace offering of sorts, Bucky supposed.
“Well played,” he muttered as he picked up his pace. He had time to shower - that was it - and then Bucky was making his way to you.
The First Resort was named after Last Resort, the bar in Total Recall.
Sam said Total Recall was a movie that came out in the nineties. And the 2000s. He was quick to launch into a monologue about a bodybuilder from Austria, but all Bucky cared about was what the name implied about people at the compound resorting to a drink at the end of a long work day.
No judgment there. If Bucky could get drunk, he’d probably be a regular.
He parked that thought as he arrived at the bar. It didn’t take him long to spot you in the crowd; it’s a skill Bucky was proud to master.
His eyes zeroed in on you but he was mindful about keeping a neutral expression. He promptly registered your immediate surroundings - assholes abounded, but it's the lethal ones he needed to weed out as a priority - out of habit and smiled politely at the people at your table. It’s the usual crowd from your team with a few engineers, but Bucky wasn’t one to crash a table like he was the guest of honor.
A guy telling a story about camping in Nevada paused mid-sentence to glance at Bucky standing awkwardly behind your seat.
You turned your head up, your kilowatt smile stunning the soldier. “Hi.”
Bucky couldn’t even remember what he was so angry about on the flight back home anymore.
“Someone’s been drinking to pass the time until your return Barnes,” Claire teased.
Bucky’s cheeks reddened and he turned to you helplessly.
You tilted your head toward the bar. “Let’s get you a drink?”
He eyed the half-empty bottle of beer sitting on rings of water by your arm. While everyone else was on their third or fourth beer, you’d been nursing your drink.
“I’ll have another one too please, thanks Bucky!” Claire called out as Bucky followed you to the bar.
“It’s been a long day for everyone assigned to Stark’s project,” you explained before glancing at the bartender.
“I don’t really want a beer,” he admitted. Bucky knew what he needed to tell you. He just wasn’t sure how to get there. He took a deep breath, feeling the knots in his shoulder relax as your scent filled his head. He swallowed and focused on that. This was a good start.
He caught your reflection watching him on the metal panel above the shelf of liquor bottles. The two of you stood elbow to elbow on the bar. Close enough to suggest familiarity but not close enough for Claire to whistle and yell inappropriate jokes from her seat.
It sure as hell wasn’t close enough for him.
“Bucky Barnes says no to getting a drink with me? Totally unheard of, I am in shock.” Your mouth dropped, a perfect O, and Bucky almost lost his mind. “I’m in shock!”
He bit his lip. It would have to be one of those things he’s going to have to live with.
“Relax. I’ll get over it.” Your elbow jabbed him. “I think.”
He exhaled with relief, the color returning to his cheeks.
You ordered a bottle for Claire and a “lemonade on the rocks” for Bucky.
He stood next to you, back straight, metal arm resting on the wooden surface. The bar was noisy, and he generally refused to subject himself to places like this. As long as you were next to him though, Bucky can forgive the unbearable world. He could switch off everything in the background. You were the only thing that existed.
He caught you eyeing him again, searching for a bruise maybe or a telltale plaster bandage creeping under a hemline.
“I’m fine.” A few cuts on his arm, the one that had functioning pain receptors at that, but Bucky was going to live. “How’s work?” He asked to deflect your attention off his injury.
“What work, someone kicked me out of a case, remember?” Your amused smile taunted him.
“Can’t be kicked out of an op that didn’t exist,” he retorted with a raised brow.
You shot him a dirty look. Bucky’s heart skipped a beat. The bartender saved him by sliding drinks before the two of you.
The lemonade cooled his hand. Bucky sipped as you recounted your work week.
“At least I’m not on Stark’s latest pet project thank God.” A shadow fell over his drink when you shifted toward him. Bucky tilted his head to hear you over the music. “I’m not supposed to know it involves selling fake Stark tech on the dark web.”
Bucky glanced back at the table. Claire waved at him, presumably asking for her beer.
You followed his gaze and sighed. “Has she been waving for beer this entire time?”
It’s very bad for a field agent like him to be this unaware about everything that was not you.
Bucky smiled. He’d give his good arm to get rid of the hypervigilance drilled into his brain.
“Is it going to be one of those times where you do all the smiling and listening?”
He shook his head and found his opening. Bucky turned to you. “I’m making ribs tonight.” That didn’t sound like an invitation. “At home.” Bucky groaned inwardly. What’s up with the declarations? Ask the question, dumbass.
“Sounds nice.”
“You hungry?” He finally blurted out. “I mean-“
“Yeah.”
He grinned, partly relieved, but mainly just happy to be right where you were now. “I walked here.”
You didn’t need to consider it. “Guess I’m going to be famished by the time we reach the south grid.”
On the way out, you passed Claire’s beer to him. Bucky promptly delivered it to her seat.
Claire accepted the bottle with a wink.
“We’re going for a walk,” he explained, like he needed Claire’s permission.
“Yeah sure.” Claire waved him off with a lazy hand and another sly wink.
It took ages to return to the apartment. He couldn’t very well hoist you over his shoulder and start sprinting. Bucky eyed you carefully, amused that half of his brain already considered the mechanics it would entail.
The noises dulled the farther you walked. A soft wind blew south. Grass muffled carefree footsteps.
Bucky smiled. It would be so easy; he wouldn’t even break a sweat.
You questioned his chuckles with narrowed eyes.
“Hmmm?” His round eyes countered yours.
Not that he minded the slow hike. It gave you time to ask him in three different ways if he was indeed fine and not hiding any other injuries. You only moved on to Kit The Tractor when his reply satisfied you.
There wasn’t much he could say by way of lawnmower updates because he’d been away and while he did his best thinking while repairing machines, Bucky had been spending his free time hunting down special flavored KitKats or hanging around in the office to see you instead.
The apartments loomed ahead, finally, and he noticed your sudden hesitation, footsteps slowing, like you haven’t been to the area before.
“So I got this interesting email from the security office this week…” Your eyes focused on the path ahead. “It said - come down to Happy Hogan’s office ASAP. I was not allowed to reschedule the appointment. When I get there, Happy wants to know if I consent to my biometric information being kept on file.”
“Ah,” was all Bucky could offer. It appeared he wasn’t the only one with ulterior motives for this walk.
You looked at him curiously. “And because I’m not an idiot I asked for what purpose my personal data was being stored and processed. Guess what he said.”
“Uh-“ Bucky stalled.
“Unrestricted access to Grid 5 common areas and the private quarters of Mr. James Barnes.”
By then, you reached the steps to the lobby, where the doors promptly slid open. You entered the building and waited for Bucky to follow before turning toward him with crossed arms.
“So all those times we were barely speaking, I could have - we could have been…“ You gestured to both of you before slowly dropping your hands to your sides. Your eyes stayed on him but Bucky knew you were speeding through different scenarios in your mind, calculating the likelihood of getting hurt again.
Bucky swallowed. He knew things weren’t going to be perfect everyday. But together, the two of you can string the happy days one after the next, until a terrible day comes but the thing is - he’ll love you through all those days too. And maybe, you’d put your faith in that promise and trust Bucky too.
“Were you ever going to tell me about it?”
Bucky opened his mouth to defend his lack of judgment but your expression stopped him. One look at your understanding eyes, arched brows waiting patiently for him, and flushed cheeks, not from walking but from knowing exactly what it means for Bucky to fill out five darned forms so you could come and go to the apartments as you pleased - he could only smile back sheepishly.
He scratched his head and offered you an apologetic grin. This wasn’t how he wanted you to find out about having access to his house all this time.
He also remembered that the lobby was dotted with security cameras broadcasting a live feed to other residents.
Bucky gestured to the elevators quickly and wordlessly, relieved you didn’t demand an explanation right then, when half the team could be watching from their own monitors.
You entered the lift and Bucky slipped in just before the doors closed. Before small talk could be attempted, the doors reopened on the floor he shared with his best friends.
You stepped out and Bucky walked behind you the entire time, listening to your theories on how the security system worked.
“Where’s everyone?”
Steve was in Malta, sticking his nose into something best left alone. Sam, proving he understood Bucky more than either of them wanted to admit, said he was flying to New Orleans right before the jet landed earlier.
“Gone,” Bucky replied. He cared about his friends - one could even say he loved those clowns - but right now, he did not give a rat’s ass. With all due respect.
“Ah.” You leaned against the kitchen island, hip caressing tile, and Bucky swore you did these things on purpose.
He followed your idle gaze skimming the shiny Italian coffee machine on the counter (Sam’s) and the bananas (Bucky’s) two days away from being officially inedible.
The simmering pot caught your eye. “You left the stove on?”
He almost forgot about that. Bucky glanced at his watch. Half an hour or so left on the ribs. He nodded once.
“What if I wasn’t at the bar?”
He shrugged again because it didn’t matter. “You’d be in the office. Or home.” It could have been a dive bar in Chinatown. He would find you.
The happy smile sucker punched him again. Bucky held on to the counter - to his wits - with a Vibranium grip.
With a deep breath, he turned to you. “I was gonna tell you about the security list.” A line of sweat formed above his brows.
There were so many things he wanted to tell you. Ever since that night at the bar.
When he begins to feel overwhelmed, he finds it best to focus on you. The center of his world. Bucky followed the magnetic pull with stumbling feet and he’s relieved when you giggled at the contact.
“You have a very unusual way of telling people you like them.” Your fingers brushed his chest, right over his ancient heart, the one he believed was beyond fixing.
He was so wrong, thank God.
Bucky had to clear his throat. “I don’t like people.” You, on the other hand… “But you can come here whenever you want. I have cookies. And books. I have good books you’d like. And uh… I have a photo of my family somewhere… and guns- ” from the 1940s, he meant to add but he was scrambling for points of interest in the apartment that were more Sweets-aligned and less old man vibes.
“Come run surveillance here. On me.” His voice felt hoarse. He took a deep breath. “Although technically running surveillance means-.”
“I know.” Your lips quickly brushed his, effectively halting his panic. “I like you too, Bucky Barnes. A lot.”
After you pulled back with a triumphant smile, he was momentarily confused but mostly giddy. Too giddy even to be disappointed by the fleeting kiss. It wasn’t anything he couldn’t fix anyway. “How about you ask your building super to give me a break then?” He lifted your chin with a trembling hand, gazing at your mouth with undisguised hunger.
Fucking hell he’d turn the world upside down if you asked him to.
Bucky kissed you and took his sweet time about it. He tasted the smile on your lips; they were heavenly, just as he remembered. He would never get enough of it.
He savored your warmth and the way your curves and edges seemed to be a perfect fit with his. Eager hands squeezed the exposed skin above your waist, and when you gasped, he swooped in to take your breath with another kiss.
His searching tongue coaxed yours into tasting his. With every passing second, Bucky lost himself. He couldn’t hang on to a single thought so he followed his instincts instead.
A surge of hunger overtook him, testing his self-control. He held your face as gently as his needy hands could, and kissed you like a man making up for lost time.
His hands kneaded your back, moving slowly until they settled on your waist again.
You sighed, your breath fanning Bucky’s feverish neck. He whispered your name as you trailed kisses from his jaw to his neck, his hands never leaving your lower back. He couldn’t let you go. Not again.
“Do you-“
“Yeah-“
Bucky nearly kicked his bedroom door off its hinges. He cupped your cheek and backed you onto his bed.
While crossing the threshold to his room didn’t dull the intensity in him, it heightened the intimacy to the point where Bucky’s heart stilled. He took your hand and kissed your wrist, almost reverently. He was so lost in you and yet he could see everything so clearly too.
The strands of messy hair, his own doing. The soft line framing your mouth when you smiled at him. The light in your eyes.
The slowed pace confused you for a moment, but before you could say a word, Bucky pressed his nose into your flushed neck. His hands itched to rip your clothes off, but he slipped a finger under your hoodie instead, sliding it off one shoulder slowly before moving to the other.
He wanted to remember all of this.
“I miss you.” He confessed as you left a delicious path of kisses over his jaw. “Miss you everyday. When you’re not in the office. When they make me go - ah oh fuck,” Bucky gasped when your hand trailed below his navel.
With careful hands he pulled your shirt up. Soft, warm skin beckoned. Bucky practically tore the fabric apart trying to get it off you.
“Let me - Buck - whoa, Bucky!” You giggled at his impatience.
His eyes went wide with awe. You were the most beautiful thing he’s laid eyes on. And you were on his bed.
He climbed over you within seconds, determined to kiss every surface area that was just unveiled to him.
“Bucky.“ Your outstretched hand only found air.
He made quick work of your boots and jeans. His breathing picked up with every inch of leg revealed. He was already delirious and it’s only from watching you writhe on his sheet, undeniable want etched on your face.
“Bucky.” A little more stern this time, but he really liked how his name sounded coming from you.
“Yeah Sweets?” He discarded his own clothes with ease. He watched you rake his body up and down in admiration with your eyes and dropped jaw.
“I didn’t come here to stare at you… come here…” Your voice trailed as your gaze finally settled on his eyes.
He smirked. Bucky was obedient when the right orders were given. Within a second he straddled your hips, the tip of his nose brushing yours. Your lips parted but he didn’t give you a chance to breathe. Bucky kissed you with determined lips, his fingers brushing the hair off your face.
All he knew for decades was loneliness. The program wiped his memories, but the hollow ache remained, not even after the crew picked him up from Wakanda.
Yet right now, he couldn’t even tell where he ended and you began.
And neither of you seemed to be in such a hurry to figure that one out.
He chuckled against your chest.
“What’s so funny?” Your idle hand caressed his tingling skin.
Bucky felt your body arching to him. He quietly marveled at how good this feels - and how the intimacy feels familiar, similar to exchanging secret looks from across a conference room, like things were always meant to be like this. He crawled up to you, whispering “Nothing.”
Just that sometimes he was also one lucky bastard.
Thank you for reading. I hope you liked this.
If you need more Bucky in your life, I have other stories here: Masterlist.
Summary: You asked Bucky out. He said no. Cool. How do you move on? You don’t.
Notes & Warnings:
DNI if under 18 | Fluff, swearing, canon typical violence, some angst, lotsa pining, sexual content
I don’t give permission for my work to be copied/reposted/translated anywhere.
Series Chapters || Masterlist
Another Word For Surveillance - Part Eleven
SWEETS
There’s an open invitation from Steve to run every morning with him around the compound. The most athletic employees, typically ex-military, SHIELD-type individuals joined him a few days a week but never more than an hour per day. The only person who could keep up with Steve’s pace and grueling exercise schedule was Bucky, but even he refused to run everyday. He wouldn’t tell Steve why either.
You knew better than to bug him - it’s his time after all.
Still, when you wanted to know if Bucky was in the compound, you’d keep an eye on the intersection of Grids 2 and 3, wait for a golden flash to zoom through the path in the morning, and see if that’s followed by dark hair waving wildly in the wind.
And that’s exactly what you did the morning after getting pizza with Bucky.
You stood by the window next to his old work desk. Coffee in one hand and banana in the other, mentally going through what happened - or because of your overthinking, what did not happen - last night.
You regretted not trying harder to promote your apartment facilities to Bucky last night. You had a functioning coffee maker. A clean shower. A drawer dedicated to KitKats. And if all those things failed, you could have appealed to the gentleman in him and brought up the wobbly shelf - would he be so kind and take a look at it please?
Not that you expected him to make the first move.
And it’s not like you subscribed to a timeline of when you would be ready to try again with him.
You didn’t even need a grand gesture from him.
You just wanted Bucky Barnes in your life.
How could something that was so clear also seem so confusing at the same time?
Sam caught your attention as he sprinted across the field leading to the back of the compound, his shadow crossing with the lines formed by posts that lined the path. If the security manual was to be believed, a 360-degree camera mounted on each post monitored all visitors - official and unwelcome - from the moment they stepped into Grid Five.
Seconds later, Steve, probably finishing his third lap, caught up with Sam. You stood with your back straight, breathing temporarily halted, finger impatiently tapping the cup and willed a third runner to whiz by.
A full minute passed without any sign of Bucky.
He wasn’t at the hangar either, and the grounds-keeping crew told you it’s unlikely that he’s whacking weeds into submission today because he accomplished all that last week.
“Have you tried texting him?” someone asked pointedly, to which you replied, “No, it’s not urgent,” with what you hoped was a carefree wave.
As you walked back to your building, you tried to shake off the embarrassment. Of course you could’ve told him you’ve been up all night thinking, and ask him to drop by your floor. Today, if he had time. No big deal.
That text remained in the drafts folder in your head.
Over lunch, you contemplated marching over to the Avenger residence grid and just keep walking until one of Tony’s tiny drones shot you down. You were a little hazy on the security features of the compound’s private area. It’s not like you had a lot of reasons to trespass before.
Your phone dinged and Claire snorted when you practically dived to check who sent you a message.
“Sam says you’ve been stalking me.”
You huffed because Bucky would be correct about that.
“Busy? Need to ask you something.” He didn’t wait for a response. He forwarded a meeting invitation titled “Hangar” - no punctuation, no explanation in the email body.
You huffed again. Were you supposed to guess which hangar in this acre upon acre of a compound he was referring to?
It’s not like you didn’t know what he meant. And you weren’t going to pretend having that knowledge didn’t make you smile ear-to-ear. But if it’s a last-minute invite to a session with R&D or aircraft maintenance, couldn’t he at least add a salutation or something?
Sometimes these 30-minute meetings turned out to be two-hour operational reviews so you wanted to come prepared. Armed with a bag of mini-chocolate bars, you trooped to the hangar section, looking forward to a new project and a Bucky-sighting.
But it was Steve you found pacing in the room. His sleeves were pushed - not rolled - pushed up his arms, which probably meant he’d been in meetings today. Judging by the starched shirt and tired smile he flashed upon seeing you, it wasn’t just some meeting with four-star generals or state officials who had Nick Fury’s number on speed dial.
“Come in,” he waved you to the only seat with a cushioned back.
“Uh, hi.” You glanced around the empty room. It felt smaller somehow. “How are you?”
He thought about the question. “Old.”
“Mentally or like the arthritis flares up-”
“Bucky and Sam are planning something for my birthday.” His eyes lit up. “Help me find out what they’re up to.”
“Oh uh-”
“Surely you have strings you can pull around here.” His brows furrowed. “Seriously. They refuse to acknowledge that no fuss means no fuss.”
Before you could reply, the door burst open, revealing Bucky. His eyes met yours for a fleeting second before moving on to Steve. “Good. We can start.”
The men grabbed the remaining wooden chairs. On your right, Bucky offered a tight smile, which turned into a wince upon taking a seat. That’s when you also noticed the pink cheeks and messy bun.
“Thanks for joining us pal,” Steve drily said, though he eyed Bucky with mild curiosity too.
Bucky shifted his weight slowly. He gestured to the bag of chocolate in the middle of the table. “It’s not an R&D meeting,” he said as if that helped clarify why you’ve been summoned to a tiny windowless room with Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes. “May I?”
You nodded idly and watched as Bucky fished a bar for himself before tossing one to his best friend.
Steve caught the foil-wrapped candy before it hit him between the forehead. “I take it Natasha took the news well.”
Bucky grunted as he stretched his neck.
Steve chuckled. “As well as we can hope for at least.”
“Do you know how high the voltage on those things go?” Bucky flicked a mini-bar, hitting Steve’s chin.
The chocolate missile was ignored. “Everybody knows the bracelets have been upgraded.”
Bucky replied in rapid-fire Russian and his frustration, the narrowed eyes, and stubborn tendril on his jaw, it was all sorts of hot but you weren’t sure if it was ok to laugh about Natasha Romanoff setting electroshock charges on Bucky’s plums.
Your failed attempt at muffling a snicker shifted the focus back to the meeting agenda.
With a rather authoritative sigh, Steve flipped his laptop to show you a blurry image. “You’re familiar?”
It was a rhetorical question. You didn’t even have to lean for a closer look at the 640px by 400px image.
It’s a crime scene photo from a 2017 assassination in Tbilisi, Georgia - the case Natasha asked you to look into. Off the books because the US government didn’t believe it was relevant to its interests in the region. Natasha saved the case files in an air-gapped computer off-base. You didn’t even dare keep back-up copies with you.
It was nearly impossible not to start blabbing when the two looked at you with kind eyes, respecting your loyalty to Natasha.
Steve tilted his head. “We already know you and Nat were looking into these four attacks.”
“Three,” you muttered without thinking.
“New confirmed attack. Two days ago, we believe,” he showed you another graphic photo.
The hairs on your arm rose but you didn’t look away from the image. “US soil?” You’d bet that’s enough to scare the government into asking Steve Rogers for yet another favor.
No one spoke. Nobody moved. One could say both men pretended in unison you weren’t asking for classified information.
“Who’s ‘we’?” You tried again, turning toward the string you could pull.
The sound of metal gears humming gave Bucky away. His crossed arms didn’t do much to mask his distress. His signature “anywhere but here” expression appeared. Like he’d rather be at a black tie event shaking hands with strangers who stared at his arm a little too long than be having this conversation with you right now.
Steve began circling the room. “You were on the right track, you know. About looking at the victims’ profiles instead of the cause of death. If we had you on the field-”
“Steve.”
The soldiers glared at each other. Their twin telepathy always amazed you, although today there were more pressing matters to focus on.
“What does this have to do with Bucky getting the special treatment from Nat?”
Five more seconds of staring determined who would finally take your question.
“This became an official mission yesterday. Locate and detain. Ideally.” Bucky spoke calmly, as if the alternative involved sending a person to a spa in the alps.
It felt like you were still missing something. “But she supercharged the shockers. For you.”
“Doesn’t matter-“
“Buck’s taking the case from Nat,” Steve clarified, clicking on another icon to show you the mission report.
“Why?” Did that come off a little pitchy? Nat has been working the case on her own time for at least two years before she brought you in months ago. “No offense,” you added with an apologetic shrug.
Bucky sat up, placing his palms on the table to balance himself. “For the record, I didn’t take anything. The government, who was glad to remind me about being pardoned, assigned the case to me,” he added pointedly.
With broad, squared shoulders, he addressed you the way a tired school principal reasons with a first-time delinquent. “You’ve been working this with Romanoff for months and I completely understand if you prefer to be assigned to her missions.” He maintained a steady tone but it’s always the mechanical twitch - subtle, but you caught the squeak - that gave him away.
Your jaw dropped. “You’re kicking me out too.” The realization sent your heart pounding, and the disbelief that followed did nothing to calm you down.
Before either man had a chance to reply, you looked at the ceiling and tried to take a deep breath. “Why? Did I miss something in the intel - which isn’t that great to begin with, just wanted to point it out. Did I set off any alarms?”
You were careful. Natasha drilled that into your unconscious.
“No,” Bucky frowned. “What sort of alarms would you even be setting off anyway?” He asked after a beat, the concern saturating the blue in his eyes, thereby weakening your indignation.
“None.” It’s an oversimplification, but you were trying to keep your spot in the project. “So your first decision after taking over was to take me off the op?” You turned to his friend as if to say “Can you believe this BS?”
Steve completed another slow lap around the table. “For the record, I wanted you to stay.”
Bucky rolled his eyes. “Four professional hits in a span of five years. More violent. Higher up the food chain. Closer to home. You drafted the brief. You know how sticky this is going to get.”
You sat up. “Then don’t put me on a different assignment.”
Steve gave you a helpless shrug. It wasn’t his call.
Bucky remained quiet.
You glanced at the door. You could take the candy and walk out. It’s not like staying in the room to glower at Bucky would change his mind.
Something clicked as you fumed in silence. Was this why he took you out to dinner? Was this why he didn’t want to step inside your apartment?
“Sweets.” His voice remained steady, compared to your escalating mood. “You know why,” Bucky insisted. He craned his neck, imploring eyes trained on you.
Avoiding his eyes in this small room - which was really more of a large supply closet - was next to impossible.
You frowned. You may not be able to ignore that look but that didn’t mean you had to say everything was peachy.
He waited for a few more seconds. “I’m politely kicking you out of the room Steve.” Bucky spoke without taking his eyes off you.
With only three feet separating you, the intensity transmitted clearly.
Steve was about to protest but Bucky added a “Thank you!” and that was that. He waited for the telltale metallic click of the door shutting before speaking again.
“I’m sorry.” His voice dropped, even if you already had privacy. He placed an open hand next to your fist. “Are you mad at me?”
Pretending to be late for another meeting would be the easy way out of this.
Or you could stay and talk to him. Stay - you wondered if it was possible to choke on your own feelings - and just be in the moment. Weren’t you looking forward to one-on-one time with Bucky the entire day?
Bucky seemed worried but also relieved you hadn’t stormed off yet or confiscated all the candy.
“I don’t like this,” you clarified.
“I’m sorry.”
“Please stop saying sorry.” You knew he meant it, but letting you work on the case was an entirely different issue.
He nodded and took a deep breath. “I understand.”
Against your better judgment, you glanced at those round blue-gray eyes again.
Bucky took that as a sign to proceed. “You just turned down an asshole dangling a cushy senior role in D.C. over your head yesterday. Today some better-looking asshole got you reassigned-”
“Hmmm - ‘kicked out’ is more accurate.”
“Reassigned to another op.” He bit his lip to hide a grin because you were letting him get away with the compliment about his looks.
Being able to make him smile like that was probably the closest thing you’ll have that could count as an enhanced ability. The idea made you giddy as fuck.
Bucky waited for your counter. When you remained silent, he gently prodded your foot with his. “Thought I’m supposed to be the quiet and mysterious one.”
“You think I’m mysterious?”
He laughed. “Sometimes I wish I knew what you were thinking,” he confessed with a shake of his head. A lock of hair landed on the high point of his cheek. Bucky finished three pieces of chocolate before you spoke again.
“I’m not used to this. And I don’t want to be difficult Bucky. But part of me doesn’t want to let go. Part of me wants to fake having another meeting to go to so I can run away.”
You hoped honesty would change his mind. With a deep breath, you looked him in the eye. “I’d like to stay in this. See this through for Nat.”
He didn’t even blink. “Can’t do that.”
You crossed your arms. “Can’t or won’t?”
When he gave you a measured look, your heart sank. He wasn’t budging.
“Won’t.” He didn’t look pleased but he wasn’t exactly dripping with remorse either.
Why the hell did Steve think you had a string to pull here again?
“Is it a safety issue or… we share a pizza that I didn’t have to nuke ten times and suddenly we’re not supposed to work together?” Your neck felt warm. “Are you worried about HR policy or - I don’t know. You couldn’t even wait to leave my building last night.”
Realization flashed through his eyes but Bucky didn’t immediately respond. He let you simmer for a few seconds.
“Whoever we are looking for - this asset is a highly-skilled, very unstable maniac. You know this. You wrote the profile.” Bucky retracted his arms when he leaned back on his chair. It squeaked under the weight of the tall super soldier. “I’m not often in a position to make these kinds of calls, but if kicking you out of the op keeps you away from this psychopath, I’m making the same choice every time.”
When a former prisoner of war who was tortured and subjected to mind control for years brings up his ability to choose, there’s no arguing against that. Despite the obvious appeal to your emotion, you couldn’t deny he made a valid point.
“I don’t like this.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Now I understand why Sam whines when he has to take orders from you.”
He smiled. “Because I make the right calls.”
“But Buck-“
In one fluid motion, Bucky crouched next to you. With his face only inches from yours, you could see the fine lines on an otherwise youthful face, a reminder of all the history Bucky carried on his shoulders. His stubble carved a tense jaw. But his eyes were kind. Even when you were giving him quite the headache right now.
He took your hand. “I promised you I’ll make things right. I swear to God that’s all I’ve been up to. And if you tell me you don’t know what the fuck I’ve been doing, Sweets, that’s going to end me.”
He stroked your tingling skin with a thumb. “And I need you to let me keep doing that. Because…” He exhaled, his warm hand cradling yours. “I hope one day you’ll believe me when I say you’re all I think about.”
It’s definitely possible to choke on your emotions.
“And looking out for you is a pretty big part of that,” he added.
Bucky watched you closely and he was generous enough not to gloat when your resolve to be stubborn, to make this difficult as payback for being sidelined, to have the last word, crumbled.
When you reached for his cheek, Bucky leaned into your palm immediately like a man under a spell. “I think-“
“Yeah-“ Your lips grazed his forehead and that caring gesture gave way to the hunger you were both suffering from.
His eyes bored into yours just as Bucky’s lips pressed into yours firmly, seeking to be as close as possible to you. Bucky pulled you up, backing against the table. His weight pushed the slim desk against the wall, dragging a chair with it as it slammed into concrete.
Bucky’s eyes dazzled below furrowed brows. “Is this - I mean, I thought-“
You were drunk from his kiss. “I’m ok. Are you ok?”
He nodded frantically.
You let gravity do the work, leaning into Bucky’s space. He didn’t just meet you halfway - his lips crashed into yours this time.
When you ran your fingers through his hair and dragged your nails gently down his nape, Bucky responded with a groan and nipped at your collarbone before soothing your skin with his tongue.
A hand warmed the small of your back. Bucky mumbled feverishly onto your temple. You couldn’t make out any of the words but you understood him.
With his arms wrapped around your body, Bucky held you steady. His kisses lingered, like he needed to keep tasting your lips. You barely had time to catch your breath before Bucky’s mouth claimed yours again.
He brushed the hair off your face as his eyes took you in, mapping your features with care.
“Is now a good time for an appeal?” You joked before kissing his throat.
Bucky bared his neck with a low moan. “Sweets,” he begged.
You couldn’t get enough of his scent. It reminded you of riding his bike with your arms curled around him, his steady breathing bringing you so much comfort.
“Maybe?” You teased right before trailing kisses along his jaw.
He kneaded your skin, hands locking your hips into him. “I think you should ah, you know, keep trying,” Bucky whispered thickly.
“Ok, I think-“
He stole the rest of your words, your stream of thought, with another hungry kiss.
Pairing: Bucky x F!Reader (third person, very minimal identifiers)
Summary: It feels like everyone has a thing for Bucky's girl, so he comes up with a rule. It's fairly straightforward, although he keeps on adding exceptions, and of course things get out of hand.
Notes & Warnings:
DNI if below 18. Sexual innuendos and situations, extreme flirting, fluff, canon-typical violence.
Female reader, written in the third person with very minimal identifiers.
I do not give permission for my work to be copied/reposted/translated anywhere. I only post stories here and on AO3.
Word count: 5,575
My two-story masterlist
Amendments
The next person to hit on his girl dies, Bucky decides.
“What did I tell you, Buck? Check out the view.” Sam jabs him with an elbow. It’s always a sharp nudge; flesh or metal arm, it doesn’t matter. Sam gestures to the woman walking over to their table. “You owe me lunch for life, Barnes.” Sam continues to list everything that Bucky now owes him. Meals, favors, first child naming rights.
He doesn’t need to look away from his tattered second-hand copy of Jurassic Park to know “the view” is amazing, but he glances up anyway because his eyes are drawn to her. Since the first day. A goddamn sight to behold.
She weaves around the cafeteria tables, disguising the sleep on her face with a grin.
Bucky’s heart beats a little faster when he recognizes his navy sweatshirt on her. The large sleeve slides down her arm as she hides a yawn. He can’t blame her. At 6:00am on a Saturday, the compound is quiet and everything moves at a glacial pace. There is no rush, no cities under attack, no rogue androids or missing assassins. This weekend at least.
Steve, who organized this morning run, who sent daily texts since Monday, who insisted it’ll be good for the team to spend time outdoors like he and Sam didn’t just spend three nights in a rainforest last weekend, hasn’t even made an appearance yet. He could still be sleeping, for all they knew.
Sam’s voice booms in the nearly empty hall. “There’s my sunshine!” He points to her with an ear-to-ear smile and alternating finger guns.
“Morning Sammy.” She waves, coming around to Bucky’s side of the table.
He could count with one hand the number of people who can get away with calling Wilson that . Sam eats it up.
Bucky pulls out a seat. She puts a bag down and thanks him with a kiss, right by the corner of his lips. Close enough to be intimate, to let all six tired people in the cafeteria know Bucky’s her main squeeze, but not close enough to give Sam an excuse to start dry heaving and complaining about having to see them kiss, like he’s never seen them be affectionate before.
As if it wasn’t Sam Wilson’s great idea for Bucky to ask her out in the first place.
She tucks strands of hair back into his tangled bun, fingers soothing his scalp. Bucky closes his eyes for a second and breathes her in. Soap, peppermint, a hint of musk and wood. Exactly like his bedroom.
Her scent transports him back to that morning.
She pretends to be asleep when he asks her to get changed with him. “It’s cold,” she whispers, lips pouting as if he’s to blame for the early morning draft. She speaks to him with one eye closed, the other eye barely open.
He thinks, what a beauty.
“Put some clothes on then.” Bucky fights the urge to slip a hand under the sheets, where her bare, warm skin calls out to him. “Baby.” He kisses her shoulder instead, which is probably worse because he could never get enough. With every second he spends next to her, Bucky feels less inclined to run laps with Sam and Steve in the woods behind the compound.
“Baby.” Her voice is breathy and light. She lifts a hand in the air, trying to find him, and she nearly pokes his eye when she does. “Hmmm,” she sighs, her fingers brushing his cheek. “Baby.”
Bucky is losing the battle of wills to someone who isn’t even fully awake. He figures Steve won’t be too mad if they show up late. Sam would be there anyway.
“Buck?"
Her hands trail down his arm and Bucky swears if that hand slides any lower he’s kicking these pants off instantly and no one is stepping out of the apartment until Monday.
“Yeah?” His voice cracks; he’s been holding his breath for a while.
“I promise I will get changed but can you buy me 30 minutes please?” The pillow muffles her words and even when he can’t hear her clearly Bucky is prepared to give her anything.
Sam drags Bucky out of his daydream because that’s what Sam Wilson does. “You’re going to give an old man a heart attack with those leggings.”
It’s like Bucky isn’t even sitting between them.
“Old as in you or Barnes?” she replies without missing a beat. “And it’s only because I know you came to play.”
“You like?” Sam flexes his arm for her benefit.
Bucky amends his earlier decision: The next person who isn’t Sam to hit on his girl would have to die or lose a limb, whichever comes first.
He grunts and returns to reading. With the novel before him and her hands kneading his shoulder blades, he tunes out Sam’s shameless flirting.
“I brought you an extra shirt, in case you need it.” She pats her duffel bag. It’s the one that sits in his closet when she sleeps over a few nights a week. She used to have a smaller bag, Bucky notes with satisfaction.
“Thanks sweetheart!” Sam puts his hands behind his neck.
“She means me, jerk.” Bucky shoots his teammate a dirty look. That makes her laugh. Her arms wrap around his shoulders and chest.
Nothing amuses Sam more than getting Bucky all riled up. That is the only reason he showers her with compliments whenever Bucky is within earshot.
“You’re the best thing to come my way today, you know?”
“It should be illegal for you to wear those shorts damn girl!”
And Bucky’s personal favorite (not): “What’s an angel like you doing with a geezer like Barnes anyway?”
Today, Sam praises her leggings as if Bucky hasn’t nipped the soft curve of her thighs with his mouth.
She handles every remark from Sam like a champ. “Don’t flirt with me so much Sammy, it makes me feel things.” She continues to stand behind Bucky, who’s minding his own business as her nails scratch his chest.
From his perspective, what she’s feeling at that moment cannot be made more clear. He holds his breath as she palms his stomach, breasts pressed against the back of his head. It takes an awful lot not to flip her over his shoulder and run to the nearest supply closet.
Impressed by her quick wit, Sam cackles and shrugs off Bucky’s glare.
Bucky rolls his eyes but he can’t get mad. Not really.
Eight months ago, Sam warned him: “If you don’t tell this girl you wanna hold her hand and that she’s all you think about, that when we’re taking heavy fire in the middle of a warzone, you’re more upset about missing her than the threat of a bullet, I’m gonna lay the charm on her so thick she’s gonna forget your name.”
“She doesn’t even know my name so who’s the idiot now?” He hissed back, worried she’d notice them loitering. All Bucky had back then was a first name, place of work - second floor, admin and support services building at the compound - and favorite snack, white chocolate cranberry cookies that she nibbled on while reading a book or chatting with a friend during her afternoon break. Three o’clock Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays and 4pm on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
Bucky conveniently scheduled an afternoon jog around the compound at the same time.
It would be easy enough to access her personnel files, but Bucky wouldn’t do that. He told himself he was satisfied with being in her periphery. Although Sam was right, not that he would ever acknowledge that, not anytime soon at least, Bucky longed to gaze into her eyes and feel her heartbeat against his chest. He dreamed of her breath fanning his neck as she laughed at something he said. He’d do anything to be the reason for her smile.
He can’t remember wanting something - anything this much. For a guy who’s been held against his will for decades, that’s saying a lot.
He had no qualms about having a gun pointed at his head but when it came to talking to her, Bucky felt scared and inadequate.
“What do you mean -“ Sam’s eyebrows entered the stratosphere when he discovered where Bucky spent his time when he disappeared for hours. “You’re telling me you like this person so much that you’ve done absolutely nothing about it? Let me tell you something for free buddy, staring doesn’t count.”
Sam took matters into his own hands after hearing one too many dejected sighs from Bucky who spent another afternoon running laps for nearly two hours outside the office of Administrative Services, just to catch a glimpse of her walking to a small blue car at the end of the day.
The former airman surveyed Bucky’s barely furnished room, hands on his hips. “Ok, I got it. Tomorrow morning, you’re going to ask for a desk set up for your arm.” Sam gestured to the space by the window and checked to see if Bucky was paying attention.
He needed a place to store the prosthetic when Shuri wanted to run diagnostics right? Better a workbench than under the bed or the toilet?
“Make the appointment. Ask for her, state your request, wear a nice shirt. Something blue maybe for the, uh, for those things.” Sam rolled his eyes. He made a face to offset the compliment he just gave Bucky. “Don’t just gape at her the entire time with your jaw hanging. For crying out loud, man, smile.”
He threatened to make the call himself if Bucky doesn’t show up first thing next day. “And believe me I will tell them you specifically wanted a compartment for lotion and a box of tissues.”
Bucky found himself in the admin building the next day, wondering why both hands felt clammy and wishing his metal arm wouldn’t make so much noise when he’s in distress. The Vibranium plates shifted and whirred in the background as he sat in the lobby. It’s subtle enough that most people don’t notice it, but he hears it.
A few minutes before the appointment, the door opened and she waved him in. As soon as the conversation started, he forgot why he was so nervous in the first place. She took notes, smiling when he joked about connecting his arm to the WiFi and reciprocating with a funny story about her overdue DIY projects at home.
He absorbed every detail. Her handwriting was worse than Sam’s but she’s thorough. He could tell she was good at her job. She listened to understand what he needed. When he explained the specifications for the desk, she didn’t pretend to know how Vibranium should be stored - she admitted her limited knowledge and asked him to elaborate. She invited him to provide input and for almost 45 minutes, Bucky sat comfortably, his mechanical arm stopped beeping and squealing, and he chuckled at the appropriate moments.
More importantly, he learned that she shared a flat with a close friend from college who she was not dating. Or in love with, as far as he could tell.
She surprised him by asking if he wanted more furniture for his place. Suddenly, she couldn’t meet his eyes. “Just that… I noticed most people in the team requested couches and lamps when they moved in. Sometimes art on the wall or a plant can make the apartments feel more homey. Or a popcorn maker, if you’re into… popcorn.” She paused and bit her lip, worried she might be overstepping.
The armrests squeak in protest. He'd been gripping them as he hung on to her every word.
She smoothed the page over with her palm and finally gave him an open and unassuming smile. “What I wanted to say was - we can help you pick out a few things. We just need to know your preferences. But this is all up to you.”
“We?” Living in the compound meant he didn’t need to watch his back all the time. Steve explained Stark’s stringent hiring process and background checks for all employees but that didn’t make it easier for Bucky to trust people.
Her embarrassment thawed him. “Well - me, mainly. It’s kind of a one woman team.” She tucked a strand of hair behind an ear. “But everyone thinks it’s a superb team.” She gave him a confused smile, as if she wanted to take back what she just said about herself.
“I like science fiction,” he blurted out. He once spent four days hanging by his arms in an underground cell somewhere cold, and his captors gave up trying to get information out of him. As she was about to scribble a note, he put a hand on the table. “But don’t write that down. Please.”
He heard Sam’s voice warning him. Don’t make this weird . Bucky took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “Can I - can I come back after thinking about it?” He felt proud of coming up with that. A compelling and totally logical excuse to talk to her again.
Bucky Barnes might actually have what it takes to ask her out to dinner one day.
That evening Bucky studied his sparsely furnished apartment at the compound. He didn’t have much that wasn’t irreplaceable. Everything that mattered fit in one backpack. He dragged it around the world and it was ready to fall apart any day now. It’s not that he planned on disappearing again, but this practice kept him alive. Fewer possessions allowed him to move quickly from one place to another for years, hiding from everybody who needed something from him. Governments, terrorists and organized crime, even from Steve and the Avengers.
“Of course. Yes. You have my number.”
Bucky nodded. He didn't trust himself not to yell and whoop from sheer happiness. Now he had her last name and number.
There was a small package waiting for “Sergeant James Barnes” in the lobby a few days later. He recognized her handwriting immediately. The E’s that can easily be mistaken for I’s and the M that - well it doesn’t resemble any letter in the Latin alphabet. Her B is confident though, and he indulges himself in a fantasy that she’s been practicing scrawling “Bucky” in her notebook.
Clutching the box with his arm, he took the stairs two steps at a time, only stopping when he reached the floor he shared with Steve and Sam.
He set the cardboard on the counter as soon as he entered the unit. Bucky carefully pried the tape off using his steady metal hand because his right shook in anticipation. He found four paperback novels inside a paper bag and a note.
“Bucky - there’s a second-hand bookstore around where I live. I don’t know if you’ve read any of these, but they are certified sci-fi classics. According to Goodreads. Feel free to correct me.”
He closed his eyes for a few seconds and reread the message. She wanted to hear from him again.
Her name was scribbled at the end of the note. Bucky thumbed the piece of paper, fighting back a giddy smile. He immediately slipped it between the pages of his journal and placed the books next to his bed. He’s read the titles before, one of them five times, but he couldn’t wait to settle in with the books she chose for him.
He folded the brown paper bag, reciting the store’s name and address under his breath.
After three months of dating, Bucky had been strong-armed by Natasha to introduce her to the rest of the team.
“Why would I do that?” He asked his teammate. He wanted to keep her to himself; it was selfish, not to mention impossible, and Bucky knew this, but she’s now the most important thing in his life. It’s irrational, but the fact that he can’t put her in his bag together with everything precious to him, was a source of anxiety.
From their first conversation, he knew without a doubt the great lengths he’d go to protect her. To care for her. To make her feel loved and worshipped everyday.
Natasha gave him an incredulous look. “So we can keep an eye on her, dummy, when you’re halfway around the world working on a two-day assignment, dummy, especially when two days become a week for who knows why? Dummy.”
He doesn’t regret introducing her to this group of highly-skilled misfits he reluctantly thinks of as family. She fits in so well, sometimes Bucky forgets she hasn’t known them for years. It feels like it somehow. He remembers his life before her, the isolation and solitude that felt like a life sentence but he doesn’t feel the loneliness anymore.
All he knows now is the kindness of her touch, the light in her eyes - brighter it seems, inexplicably, when she sees him - and Bucky finally understands the difference between having a secure place to stash your knife collection and having a place to call home.
It tickles him, the realization that sometimes, home isn't a place but a person.
He doesn’t even regret that Natasha might be worse than Sam when it comes to hitting on his girlfriend.
Natasha and Steve are back from a two-week assignment and no one is clear on the details but when she returns from a trip and asks if people want to go for a beer and pizza, the only answer is “let’s go.”
He’s not surprised that his girlfriend receives the invitation first. “Boyfriend optional,” the text reads.
“Optional.” He scoffs and returns her phone when she passes him in the living room. She’s clearing the kitchen table even if she doesn’t have to. She insists because he took care of dinner, which is a pretty generous way of describing how he ordered food from a Chinese restaurant online.
The following day, the team meets at the bar a little after seven, and Natasha ignores all the men. “I like this, what’s this?” The woman with rich auburn hair stands next to her, brushing a nose to her temple. “You smell great.” There isn’t an inch between the two women and Bucky knows they've captured everyone's attention.
There are still a few places in the outskirts of New York where the group can enjoy the occasional drink without worrying about reporters or tourists or fans. This particular dive bar is a 30-minute drive north from the compound. The locals are used to their visits, but the women make it hard for people not to watch.
His girlfriend doesn’t help matters when she fixes Natasha’s collar, smoothing the leather slowly and singing praises about Natasha’s winged liner. Bucky doesn’t have a clue what a wing line is. He assumes it has nothing to do with the gun Romanoff’s packing but he’s not going to ask.
Natasha slaps her ass cheekily. The Russian ex-spy rests a hand on his girlfriend’s hip and raises a brow at Bucky, daring him to comment on it.
She grabs Natasha by the hips too and initiates some sort of dance, one that has nothing to do with moving in time with the music. It's about making your dance partner laugh.
Bucky is only too familiar with this move because she tries it on him back home with varying levels of success. He wasn’t comfortable with dancing. While the metal arm proved to be useful when it came to busting down doors and firing rocket launchers, the prosthetic wasn’t built for creative expression. It’s heavy. It’s not meant to be thrown in the air and waved around like he didn’t care. He could knock a person out accidentally.
She is unfazed by his reluctance. As soon as the music is on, she's yanking on his belt loops or wrapping her arms around his neck. It doesn't matter whether he’s frying bacon or screwing bolts to her door because she lives on the second floor. (Her neighbors seemed harmless, but Bucky only trusts a handful of people and only one of them lived in that apartment building, and he figures if that person moved in with him, he would breathe a little easier and sleep a lot better.)
“Terrible dancers,” Sam proclaims, and it’s meant to goad Natasha into bending low, swaying her hips, bumping into her with such energy, Bucky’s girlfriend stumbles back with an impressed laugh.
Even Steve is blushing furiously because he’s amused by all of this. He’s trying his best to not laugh, out of loyalty to Bucky. He’s supposed to be the grown up here, even though he’s just as bad as the rest of them when he gets in the mood.
Bucky amends the rule to: The next person to hit on his girl who isn’t Romanoff or Wilson will have to die.
He’s no saint. He can’t guarantee safe passage to anyone who so much as breathes next to her - the only person capable of both enraging him and bringing him back down when he's seeing red - the wrong way.
Natasha dotes on her because she doesn’t ask about field work or extraction plans and the only time she brought up stealing information around the petite redhead was in the context of fishing for details on whether Bucky had introduced other people to their tight-knit semi-functional circle before.
She says Nat wants her opinion on skincare products and whether or not ponytails are a sign of giving up on dating. They shop for yoga pants online and paint each other's nails.
Natasha tires of dancing and hands her a vodka shot. She gives Bucky an apologetic glance.
He winks to let her know she should enjoy herself. Steve hands Bucky a pool stick and he is steered to the corner where a tired pool table waits. A steady stroke and a pretty good aim can only take him so far though. Steve’s a shark. Sam’s surprisingly decent. Bucky lets them have their fun.
Besides, he is distracted by the giggling. He can’t help but raise his head when her laughter rings out. The pool table is off to the side of the bar but he has a clear line of sight to her. His hearing picks out the delighted, carefree cackling. He can tune it out, but why would he want to?
If he can sense her, Bucky knows he’s got everything he needs. Simple as that.
The boys play a few rounds on the table. Bucky is losing, predictably, and Sam is protesting some of the calls, which doesn’t shock anybody. Steve laughs them off because he wins round after round.
Natasha passes them on her way to the toilets. “I might be in love with her, Barnes.”
“I met her before you did!” Sam points out. “Get in line.”
There’s a smirk on Sam’s face that Bucky ignores. It turns into a scowl when Bucky sinks a tricky shot that threatens Sam’s second place ranking.
Even Bucky is surprised by the shot and his immediate reaction is to tell her about it. He sees her collide into a man ordering drinks at the bar.
She apologizes immediately, hands held out. The stranger must be confused, drunk, or has a death wish because he interprets the gesture as an invitation to venture into her personal space.
Bucky’s grip on the cue stick tightens. The man is stocky, tan, and dressed in a suit - definitely not local. Must be passing by after a business trip and planning to blow off some steam.
She nods at the stool next to her to let the guy know she’s got company. She’s being polite but not friendly. He is being purposely dense.
Bucky tells himself to wait. She has it under control and the last thing he wants is to break a stranger’s arm in front of her. Well, he’d like to break that guy’s face that’s for sure but he swore to keep her away from violence as long as he can help it.
“Man, take your turn or lose it,” Sam grumbles. When he realizes what’s got Bucky’s attention, he doesn’t waste a second putting his stick down. He walks away without giving Bucky or Steve a second glance.
“Let him handle it,” Steve advises Bucky. “Focus on not grabbing anyone’s neck this evening.” The tone is friendly but Steve has moved in front of him, undoubtedly to protect the entire bar from Bucky.
His jaw twitches and he is not making any promises. The dark-haired super soldier darts his eyes past his best friend to observe how Sam is handling the situation.
Some twenty feet away, Sam shakes the man’s hand. Diplomacy seems to work for a few seconds, until Bucky sees her shoulders tense again and Sam places a hand on her instead, a futile attempt to calm her down.
“Don’t tell me who I can or can’t call a misogynistic homophobic prick, ok, Sammy?” She glares at the man, defiant chin jutting out. “This asshole thinks I’m asking to be harrassed because I'm drinking off Nat’s glass? Because we're dancing with each other? God.” She paces behind Sam. “God!”
Natasha exits the toilets and in half a second she spots the huddle by the bar. Like Sam, she doesn’t waste time consulting Bucky or Steve. She dives in.
Steve sighs because now he has to protect the bar’s dubious clientele from Black Widow too. “Please.” He begs his best friend to stay where he is. He gives Bucky a desperate look before marching over to the group of people that has now grown to include a couple more men and behind them a few onlookers. It's nothing Natasha can't handle in her sleep, but they don't need the trouble.
Bucky keeps his attention on the little fireball he's crazy proud to call his girl. Now that all three of his friends surround her, she starts to understand how bad things can get for the offensive idiot and his equally dumb friends.
She turns to Bucky, as if to ask for help corralling his teammates but with a sharp breath she realizes there’s a reason he’s been asked to stay back. With a slight tilt of her head and a subtle grin, she reassures him. She’s fine.
Steve’s presence gives the strangers pause, a reason to cool down and back the hell up if they knew what was good for them. Bucky leans against the pool table, arms crossed and taking slow, deep breaths. The seconds pass and he prays that all this fuss would only amount to contempt and angry stares.
He just wants to go home with her.
Bucky likes the idea of coming home to her. It’s too soon, he figures. Things are great. He doesn’t have a reason to rush, apart from a nagging suspicion that he’s head over heels for this woman already.
He’s adjusting the sleeve over his prosthetic arm, the fabric tends to snag sometimes, when he hears it. Things are different now, but there was a time when a metal limb was the stuff of nightmares. Bucky always knew when a mortified gasp or mocking laugh is aimed at his disfigurement.
A disgusted sneer accompanying a man’s last words: “That the boyfriend? What’s wrong with him anyway?”
Bucky’s first thought is to throw the cue stick. It would pass between Sam’s and Steve’s heads and through the man’s eyes.
She is faster with her fist. The man falls back, collapsing onto his buddies, before Bucky could decide if he deserved a wooden stick through the lung instead.
“Whoa!” Sam stops her from throwing another punch. She’s ready to keep going. “Easy!” Natasha steps forward in case anyone thinks about responding in kind.
Over the commotion Bucky hears the softest gasp and it’s enough to spring him into action. She cradles her right wrist to her chest, wincing. Much to Steve’s agitation, Bucky walks over to her side, using his body to shield her from the crowd.
“Buck.” The blonde speaks with a low voice.
“Barnes,” Sam says at the same time.
Bucky blocks everything else when he reaches her. She automatically turns to him with worried eyes.
“I’m sorry!” She lets him inspect her hand. “I shouldn’t have said anything. But he was being a dick. Oh, I should’ve just…” Her voice trails off. “Baby, I’m so sorry. Didn't mean to cause trouble.”
She’s upset because she punched a guy who deserved a lot more than getting the wind knocked out of him.
Bucky’s hands tremble and his chest tightens as he checks for possible injury. “Did you curl your thumb like I showed you?”
She nods and he is momentarily filled with pride and a too familiar desire to kneel between her legs and make her scream his name repeatedly.
“Good.” His voice is thick with conflicting emotions. Lust. Fury. Worry. Impatience. All anchored by the strongest force, love. “You stood up for me,” he whispers. He caresses her wrist with his thumb.
Bucky swallows a lump in his throat. He sniffs. With her, he drops his defenses. He feels vulnerable yet free. He feels complete.
She flashes him a guilty smile. “Probably saved him a trip to the ER with this.” She gestures to her hand. The one he’s still holding on to. The one he never wants to let go of.
“Told you, you’re a lifesaver.” He brushes the hair from her face with his free hand.
She gazes at him like she’s forgotten about the bar, about the fact that Natasha and Sam are ready to burn this place down. Steve is not going to let them hear the end of this. He has nothing against starting fights, it’s his area of expertise in fact, but he has a thing about being allowed to play pool in peace.
“We should get this iced.”
“Is my hand going to be ok?”
“You’ll be fine.” Bucky chuckles and holds back a remark about what her magical hands can do. He accepts a pack of ice from Jerry, who runs the bar with his best friend Tom. It’s one of those things Bucky randomly remembers sometimes during a mission. He’s immobilizing five heavily armed goons. All of a sudden, he can’t stop laughing about Tom and Jerry owning a bar in upstate New York. Steve’s right next to him, throwing people against the wall and wondering if he’s finally cracked and lost it.
She frowns at the men Steve and Sam are escorting out of the bar.
“Let’s pick up a couple of burgers and go home, yeah?” He has a few ideas about how to keep her mind off this incident.
“We’re going home guys!” She declares loudly, and no one can do anything about it.
As they exit using the door that leads to the back alley, she tugs on the hem of his shirt. "Bucky?"
"Hmmm?" He keeps a hand on the small of her back as they walk.
She stops walking abruptly and his super human reflexes save them from bumping into each other. But this is one collision she welcomes. She grabs the collar of his jacket with her left hand. She's going to tell him something important, Bucky feels it in his gut. It's in the way she holds him close, her breathing picks up, and her eyes lock into his.
The alley is silent and in that moment, there are only two people in the world. In the back of his head, Bucky thinks about how he's never thought about marriage until now.
“I’ll get Sam and Natasha to stop annoying you. It’s my fault it’s gone on long enough.” She tiptoes and her lips brush against his cheek as she apologizes for something he never considered her fault. It's nobody's fault really.
“I just thought… they’re messing with you, and if I join in, then it makes me part of the gang. And I want to be in the gang because you’re in the gang.” She blinks at him slowly, seeking his forgiveness.
“Stop saying gang, baby, you’re killing me.” Bucky kisses her forehead and he feels her smiling against his chest.
“But I am in the gang, right?”
“We can ask Steve on Monday.” Bucky leads her to where he parked the bike. Maybe he should borrow Sam’s car instead, in case her hand hurts more than she’s letting on.
“I thought Nat ran the crew.” She gestures for him to get on the heritage model bike.
He puts the full face helmet over her head, careful not to pull on her hair. “Yeah, but I think we already know how she feels about you.”
“Uh-huh.” She doesn’t mount the bike until he reaches for his head gear too.
He offers a hand and she climbs behind him, sliding against his back, arms snapping around Bucky's waist like clockwork. She pats his leg, letting him know she’s ready. They worked out a system months ago. Bucky rubs her arm idly. He’s supposed to pat it in acknowledgement and she’ll remind him about the system when they get back to his place.
"You get hurt riding the bike, you're going to wish you'd died instead. Don't test me on that one, Bucky Barnes." She'd say something along those lines, and she'll do it before a kiss or after making him a cup of coffee.
Bucky smiles and decides, the next person to hit on his girl…well, let them try.
Please let me know what you think. Feedback is always nice and it would be great to hear from you. Thank you for reading :)
Summary: You asked Bucky out. He said no. Cool. How do you move on? You don't.
Notes & Warnings:
DNI if under 18 | Fluff, swearing, canon typical violence, some angst, lotsa pining, sexual content
I don’t give permission for my work to be copied/reposted/translated anywhere.
Word Count: 3,599
Series Chapters || Masterlist
Another Word For Surveillance - Part Ten
All pizzerias were the same to Bucky. Not that the opinion of a guy who was on a strict boiled root crop diet for decades bore much weight.
He parked his bike right in front of a corner restaurant. A green canopy hung over the tall window pane. You caught your reflection - perched behind Bucky on the motorcycle, arms still wrapped around his waist.
“I look at the sign and go, ‘Who’s Sally?’ and he says ‘the lovely missus’ and he’s got a picture of her by the counter and all,” Bucky said. He punctuated the statement with a half smile and a shrug, and that concluded the tale of Why This Pizza Joint Is Unlike The Rest.
He glanced at your hands. “Ready?”
You released him and blood rushed into your palms. You might have been hugging him a little too hard on the way here. He didn’t say anything about it though.
Bucky tucked stray hair behind his ears and pointed to the door. Through the narrow entry hall, with his hushed voice bouncing off the tiled walls, Vibranium hand not quite touching your elbow, he escorted you.
This was nice , you thought to yourself. The search for a tomato-based meal with a doe-eyed man and his contagious smirk. The dreamy haze vanished as the hall led to the empty main dining area, but the fluttering inside you persisted. Probably your stomach reminding you it was past dinner time.
Bucky pointed to a table by the window. “Only table that doesn’t wobble in this place.”
“Right, and you’ve tried all the tables - oh you have,” you replied, seeing Bucky’s indignation. Of course the man’s tested all the seating options here. “That’s a lot of bread sticks, Bucky.”
You rubbed your mid-section nonchalantly as the two of you sat across each other. It’s only hunger pangs. You should have had chicken wings when you were knocking back those beer bottles at the bar earlier.
When you looked up, curious round eyes peered at you over the menu. Bucky said something about pizzas, to which you agreed without much consideration. You were a little preoccupied with keeping your leg still and your wits with you.
A door from the back swung open, prompting Bucky to set the menu aside. A lean gentleman with slicked back white hair and an immaculate apron appeared behind the counter. He didn’t waste a second before accusing Bucky of cruelty and unfaithfulness.
“Haven’t been here in a while. What with being shot and well, you know the rest,” Bucky muttered as the man bemoaned Bucky’s broken promises. “I’ll be right back.” With quick, long strides, Bucky approached the proprietor, prepared to win back the elderly man’s favor. They spoke in hushed voices and with bluesy jazz coming through the speakers, you couldn’t follow the conversation.
After a couple of minutes, the man stepped aside and promptly introduced himself. Armand - French by lineage and Italian by way of New Jersey - apologized for his outburst and said you and Bucky were welcome to stay as long as you wanted. He offered you a bottle of wine, on the house.
“Oh, um, thank you, that’s so generous but I have to work in the morning.” You spoke quickly, keeping your eyes on Armand. The beer from this afternoon barely registered, so a couple of glasses of wine should be manageable.
It’s just that the image of a candle-lit dinner and wine glasses made the butterflies in your stomach even more restless.
Fine. You were more than a little nervous.
Did Armand think you guys were on a date?
Sweet holy Skittles.
Was this a date?
You and Bucky only sat together for working lunches and a handful of group dinners - these were the only activities to compare this evening to. The data felt lacking, to put it mildly. You acknowledged the stretch of imagination it took to come up with the theory that maybe, going on a date with him would be like this.
Not perfect or well-planned or devoid of butterflies. Just Bucky squinting when he’s trying not to laugh at your unauthorized “Tony Stark doing house chores” impressions. Bucky bumping into you on the sidewalk one too many times for a human with exceedingly excellent litheness. Bucky’s voice swinging deliciously low when he sought your attention. Sweets .
After Armand returned into the kitchen, Bucky ignored your amused brows and launched into a tale about the time he worked at a kitchen in Bucharest for a few months. He hauled crates of produce delivered at the crack of dawn and washed dishes until closing. Staff liked him because he was a quick learner. Bucky never complained about the hours or took a sick day.
This wasn’t the first time he mentioned the odd jobs he held when he was hiding from his captors, from multiple governments, from Steve. You had a feeling he might have actually liked working in the kitchen from the laughter in his eyes or his exaggerated groan when he described crawling into bed at the end of a long shift smelling like fish. Someone in the kitchen eventually discovered how proficient he was with a knife. That also explained how Bucky learned to debone a tuna roughly the size of a small farm animal in seconds.
“It was owned by the mob too.” He was practically beaming.
“Aren’t you a fascinating guy?”
His ears turned pink, like the soft flush on his cheeks.
The pizza arrived and Bucky immediately fixed a plate for you. He nudged the dish toward you with a knuckle, not meeting your eyes. There was no way he did not see you watching him and wondering what exactly was going on, but he pretended not to notice.
“This is good. This is good,” he said with a boyish, eager grin. He folded a slice in half, firm fingers cradling delicate pizza, and he bit off a generous portion with gusto. Bucky’s eyes widened as he chewed, nodding in appreciation.
There has to be a way to bottle this moment.
His satisfied humming interrupted your thoughts. Without saying a word, he gestured for you to keep eating, to match him bite for bite. Bucky chuckled at your attempt to chomp through a mouthful.
You never worked for the mafia, not to your knowledge anyway, but you told Bucky about the string of jobs you had as a student, focusing on the HR-friendly roles no one really cared to hear about.
Bucky, special little bean, wanted to know what a retail associate did, and he wasn’t even mocking when he asked why you had that job for three consecutive summers if you didn’t think it was any fun.
You worked fun gigs. Lucrative jobs. During your last two years in college, you charged a fortune writing school reports and essays. You just opted to skip that story this evening. It’s not that you were embarrassed by your university hustle. It’s more because you actually enjoyed going to the library for research. Willingly. During your free time. When people attended social events, you sneaked into the east wing, where you could snack on generic cheese puffs while drafting an argument for increasing healthcare coverage subsidized by the private sector or looking up Brazilian top exports for the last 20 years for someone’s Econ midterm paper. It’s the kind of thing Sam Wilson would hold over your head in perpetuity if he ever found out.
“And college? Let me guess.” He narrowed his eyes. “Retail associate,” Bucky smirked as if he knew anything about customer service in the retail industry.
You confessed to having a wildly successful career making money off lazy rich students. It was easy. They didn’t need top marks. They just didn’t want to be caught.
“You’re the mafia.” He looked at you with admiration.
“We need to talk about this fascination with criminal organizations.”
“That’s not what fascinates me,” Bucky corrected you before taking another hungry bite.
That quip had your ears burning.
After finishing the meal, you cleared the table while Bucky helped the owner close up. He stacked seats and flipped a series of switches like he’s done it a million times.
“Try the rigatoni next time,” Armand told you. He turned to Bucky before you could reply. “Pizza’s ok, Mr. Barnes but Armand’s rigatoni, remember, it is the key.” The man waved a finger at Bucky with a conspiratorial smile.
Bucky thanked him with a handshake, which the chef converted into a hearty hug in one swift motion. As the men stood by the door, Bucky gave you a helpless grin, nodding at you to stand by the bike.
You assumed it was Steve’s at one point. Bucky was already in a committed relationship with a shiny red lawn mower, but maybe things have changed.
Seconds later, Bucky appeared next to you, producing a helmet he insisted you wear, while he’d go gearless. Like clockwork, you started the same argument from the bar.
“This is not safe. And I don’t want to hear about super serums please.”
He exhaled. “I heal fast. You know that.”
“When you say it like that it sounds very obnoxious.” You frowned because he’d won the debate. “At least keep an extra one in the back.”
He scoffed. “Why would - you think I offer rides to people?”
“Well, you asked me.”
“Yes. Only you.” The earnestness - sprinkled with exasperation - stopped your smart mouth.
Bucky shook a stray lock off his cheek. As you were ruminating on the list of people he might have invited to get on the bike with him at one point, he took the opportunity to plop the helmet over your head. It muffled the noise of the city but amplified the sound of your pulse in your ear.
After giving you a once over, Bucky nodded without saying anything else. It was barely a nod really, and more of a jut of his chin. Curt, to the point of impatient. Abrupt. Too quick. In fact, the only reason you noticed the nod was because it came with the most intense nano-second stare, gone before you could even process that Bucky just locked eyes with you.
Everyone knew Bucky didn’t speak often. Steve got eye rolls and crude hand gestures from his childhood best friend. Sam received Bucky’s dramatic tired looks.
That nod was all yours.
You clung to that thought a little harder than you did to Bucky’s sturdy frame as his motorcycle weaved in and out of traffic effortlessly.
It’s impossible to carry a conversation during the drive but you didn’t mind the shared silence. You watched the city lights from a distance, gripping Bucky’s waist when he took a sharp corner, and Bucky made a lot of those. You didn’t say a word about the number of wrong turns either. The 15-minute drive turned into a 25-minute tour of the surrounding neighborhood. If Bucky wanted to take the scenic route, you went along with it.
When Bucky finally pulled up into your street, it almost felt like stirring from a meditative state. You slowed to a still. Bucky steadied the bike using his legs.
You shook your head out of the helmet, certain of hat hair but there was nothing to be done about that now. “Thanks.” You handed the matte black head gear to him before disembarking. “For everything.”
You remembered being upset earlier today, livid enough to slap a person, and for someone who worked behind a screen for a living that was saying something. You felt embarrassed for wanting to physically hurt someone, because that wasn’t you. Point was - you were past anger now. You knew why you should be furious but you just didn’t feel so vengeful anymore.
“Pizza’s hardly everything,” he replied quietly.
You braved a direct look at his eyes. Bucky had no clue about the paper napkin with Sally’s logo stashed in your back pocket. You took a clean one as you returned plates and cutlery to the kitchen earlier. Maybe you’ll tack it next to the coffee-stained map of Bucharest in your room. Maybe you’ll keep it folded in your wallet. Maybe you’ll keep it between the pages of a hardbound copy of Isaac Asimov short stories you promised to return to Bucky over five months ago.
“I meant - for keeping an eye on me today.”
He killed the engine and turned to you with cautious eyes. His lips parted but no words came out. He did that sometimes.
With another sigh, his brows furrowed. He looked like he wanted to kick himself for stepping out of the house today. Like he’d rather be somewhere else. Anywhere but here, on the receiving end of your gratitude.
You decided not to push and glanced at your building instead. Before you could take a step however, he reached out, his hand grabbing yours quickly. He got off the bike in one fluid motion, moving so fast you thought the bike would fall over, but it didn’t.
It was surprising, not because it was unwanted but because his fingers were featherlight on your skin. With equal gentleness and intention, Bucky turned your arm, exposing your wrist to him. Part of you wanted to offset the intimacy with a remark about the spring chill - Can you believe the weather we’re having? - but when his thumb grazed your pulse, all your words melted.
Your pulse raced. Far too fast to deny how much Bucky affected you in the most fundamental way.
He surprised you again when he moved your palm to rest over his bare wrist. Your eyes widened when the rapid beat registered through your thumb. Far too fast, like yours.
When he finally spoke, there was a faint crack in his voice. “You’re right. About being under surveillance.” He cleared his throat. “By me,” he added with a nervous chuckle.
Now would be a terrific time to launch into clever commentary about how you were right all along. You weren’t just fantasizing that a sweet, smoking hot man with a bit of a temper had been keeping tabs on you, the same way you had been keeping track of his habits and these little factoids about him. Ones you couldn’t forget, even if you tried.
All you could manage was a stunned look at Bucky as your tongue failed to catch up with the multitude of thoughts and emotions washing over you.
He shook his head, knowing he couldn’t take those words back. So he doubled down. “You heard me Sweets.”
Both of you stood in silence, Bucky’s pulse keeping a steady albeit inhumanly fast beat under your finger, you letting his roundabout admission sink in.
“So to be clear, uh, it’s not just about getting in your pants,” he spoke slowly, nose wrinkling because he 100% knew how that sounded.
If there was anything more paralyzing than his angry stare or the sharp grind of metal when he swung it too quickly, it was a bashful smile from a guy who just admitted he cared about you so much that he didn’t know what to do about it.
It’s the universal key to all your mental and emotional locks.
“Gardner offered me a job today,” you blurted. How you went from being swept by Bucky’s declaration to thinking of your former colleague and current nemesis was unclear.
Apparently you were just as terrible as Bucky when it came to talking about feelings.
Then you charged ahead for some reason.
“The offer was good. Really good. Obscene, actually, god and I said no thanks, because fuck him, it’s Gardner right, I’m not getting stabbed in the back twice. No sir.” The hair on your arms rose at the memory of Gardner’s self-assured voice. “And then he’s like ‘I hope your brother’s well.’ I didn’t think much about it until he said ‘recovery is tough’ and then… I realized there’s no way he could have known. He was flexing. Guess he can hack medical records now because he’s working for the Agency.”
You didn’t want to be angry, but Gardner was a little shit, and bringing up your brother was a low blow. You felt exposed and vulnerable when he mentioned your family.
Bucky released your hands, depositing them by your sides. The laser focused stare he fixed upon you next made you hold your breath. There would be no hiding from him.
Ordinarily, you’d look away but Bucky’s grave expression, the etched frown between his eyes, the way his lips tensed as he listened to your story, held your absolute attention. Bucky seemed bigger or maybe Gardner’s antics made you feel small, even when you didn’t want to admit it.
“You ok?” When he finally spoke, his voice was as gentle as his glare was consuming.
You nodded.
He continued to stare at you. After a beat, Bucky sighed. “I know you wouldn’t hack his emails and ruin his life.” He struggled to contain a grin after insinuating that you could do worse to Gardner than Bucky could. “So don’t.”
“I would never.” You feigned resentment and began to blink rapidly, like you were… trying not to cry?
Oh boy.
If he’d just look elsewhere for a moment, maybe you could take a breath and get a grip because you just realized Bucky understood you weren’t looking for his protection. Not from that low life anyway. You just needed him to know what happened. That’s it.
Bucky knew you.
Bucky saw you.
“You ok?” He asked a second time, recognizing you were seconds away from bursting into tears.
You looked at your feet and took a long, deep breath, counting to five before looking at him again. “I’m fine Bucky.”
Just falling apart because you get me.
He studied you for a few more seconds and then checked his watch. “Ok.” He nodded to himself. “Good.”
If he came up to the apartment, you’d invite him in and you’d want him to stay. Tonight and all other nights in the foreseeable future.
The hammering in your chest intensified and it was not because his feelings scared you. Rather, it was the clarity of yours and its resolute nature that gave you pause.
The street light that accentuated his cheekbones flickered, momentarily taking you back to that night at the bar. This time though, Bucky beat you to the punch, speaking up before you gathered confidence to ask him to stay.
He squared his shoulders. “Let me walk you up.” Bucky led the way to your building, moving through the entry door and hallways like he’s been there dozens of times before. He knew to punch the elevator button twice because the first one never takes and he held the door with his metal arm because it has been known to catch leashes and coats, or the occasional slow foot or dangling arm
He stepped aside as you opened the door to your apartment. You tossed your bag inside and turned to him.
“Did you…” He crossed his arms. “Did you have a nice evening?”
“I had a great evening.”
He was pleased to hear that. “Me too.” He shoved his hands to his pockets. When he cleared his throat, he sounded casual, like you had this conversation daily. “I’ll see you tomorrow at work right?”
“Of course,” you replied slowly.
The night ended here - Bucky made that decision for both of you - but to be honest you were more intrigued than disappointed. Your operations analyst mind kicked into high gear as you pored through observations from that evening. You and Bucky had drinks, followed by dinner, and then a very roundabout way back home. He essentially just admitted to liking you - granted it was in Bucky-speak but the margin of error couldn’t be that high. His beautiful palm remained steady in your hands yet his pulse raced, and he wanted you to feel it.
You already knew the answer, but for the sake of character development, you’d ask anyway. “Can I offer you a drink? Bowl of M&Ms?”
He scratched the back of his head. “No, I’m good.” Bucky looked at you carefully, begging with his eyes for you to not hate him. “Thank you.”
“Good night Bucky Barnes.” You stole one more glance right before you closed the door. As expected, his gaze remained on you the entire time.
He’d wait outside your door until he heard the lock and bolt.
Your cheeks instantly warmed as you made your way inside and it was quick to spread throughout your body. You’ve come to associate this feeling with Bucky, the tiny fire in you that becomes a blaze when he left you feeling worried and anxious about his safety, and it’s the same flames that danced in your core when he stood within three feet of you and suddenly he’s all you can sense - his breathing, the low chuckle, the creases around his eyes that meant he smiled and laughed more than he let on. It’s the same warmth when he crosses the three foot margin to serve as your personal space heater.
There was an extra bounce in your step as you reached your bedroom, a lightness in your feet, not because you were in a rush to get to bed, but because you were weightless. Not from the lack of problems, God knows Gardner was due an ass kicking, and even with a mountain of case work waiting for you tomorrow morning and Bucky being characteristically a man of mystery, you were happy.
Now that you thought about it, you’ve been quite happy for a while actually.
Oh please, they're not that blue (Bucky Barnes One-Shot)
Pairing: Bucky x F!Agent!Reader
Summary: A little flirting never hurt nobody, unless you're Clint Barton. (This is not a Clint Barton fic.)
Notes & Warnings:
"Oh please, they're not that blue" just stuck to me yesterday, and the only way to move on from the line was to write this. I think I'm going to try doing more one-shots in the future. :)
Sexual innuendos and situations, flirting, fluff, canon-typical violence.
I do not give permission for my work to be copied/reposted/translated anywhere. I only post stories here and on AO3.
Word count: 3,983
My masterlist
No one ever talked about how missions were typically only 10 percent combat-related and the rest was logging reports and expenses, training, traveling, arguing with someone on a screen, pleading your case to someone who outranked you, and worse than that, waiting. Sitting around, hoping for the best. Working with highly-skilled individuals sent on covert missions that were so deadly, so way above your clearance level, your main contribution was getting them to the target site on schedule and crossing your fingers.
Praying, if you’re on the spiritual side. Performing light maintenance work on the Quinjet, if you’d rather do something with your hands.
You felt bad about complaining about boredom from the safety of the sophisticated aircraft.
“Glorified aircraft babysitter,” Bucky Barnes called you. He’s not entirely wrong. These jets practically flew themselves, but the government limited use of unmanned planes (with good reason, just google Tony Stark + unmanned suit) so in the meantime, pilots like you had a job.
You checked the engines for the second time that hour and before that, ran a 20-minute lap around the aircraft because you’re not allowed to leave the jet unattended.
The third hour arrived without ceremony and you slipped into the cockpit for the second check-in. You would kill for a hot cup of coffee just about now. There were supplies at the back but those things were nasty.
The tell-tale glimmer on the horizon signaled sunrise in a few minutes. You landed on a clearing approximately 10 kilometers from the target site a little before 03:00 hours that morning. Cloudy skies gave you some cover from the moon. Sunrise was a different story. The Quinjet will be fully exposed to satellites within the hour.
You stared at the speakers on the overhead panel, as if anyone would sense you through it. Blowing raspberries through your lips, you reached for the call button. Your finger hovered the green notch.
Bucky ordered you not to break radio silence unless absolutely necessary.
“My capture? Not urgent.” He reminded you hours ago as he and Clint Barton strapped their weapons on after the plane landed. Clasps snapped and adjusted. Accessories clipped and secured. You didn’t want to keep tabs on how many guns Bucky was packing but he definitely had more guns than he had hands.
Bucky threw you a stern look because you were more interested in the small knife he just slipped inside his boot. “Barton’s capture? Not urgent.”
Clint cleared his throat. “Personally speaking, I’d say that’s a matter of urgency, but does anyone ever listen?” He tapped his modified hearing device which glowed purple in his ear. “Comm check.”
“Check.” You tapped your own lightweight device. “I’d plow the Quinjet through a building to get to you, Clint.”
“That’s why you’re my favorite Uber driver.” Clint pointed to you appreciatively as he examined his bow before attaching it to the specialized quiver on his back.
Bucky ignored the lighthearted exchange, intent on clarifying what constituted “necessary use of comms.” “My death-”
You waved him off. Grim and gore, not your thing. “If you croak, then there’s even less of a reason to break silence because that would only alert the enemy to the location of the Quinjet.”
With a few quick steps, Bucky stood right next to you. Your arm grazed his belt. He stared you down as if you weren’t taking the mission as seriously as he was. His breath fanned your ear when he leaned into you. “And we don’t want the jet to fall into the wrong hands, do we?” His low voice sounded sinister. It’s his job to scare you and keep you on your toes.
You don’t agree with his methods all the time, but one of you was a military veteran and the other one got their job because they happened to be fantastic at video games. Still, standing this close to him affected you in more ways than you’d care to admit.
Bucky reached for his ear device. “Comm check.”
The static pierced your ear but you didn’t wince because he didn’t. “Check.”
“Damn right,” he whispered before finally straightening up and following Clint out of the exit ramp. He pulled his hair back using a hair tie from his wrist as he took quick strides.
“Bucky!” You rushed to the ramp.
He turned with his head tilted. Under the moonlight, you imagined his frustrated expression. You’re not supposed to be hollering in the woods even though you were in the middle of nowhere.
You held your left fist up and tapped your wrist watch. Don’t forget the check-in.
He nodded from a distance and mimicked you. I won’t. Without wasting another second, he jogged into the opposite direction from Clint and disappeared within seconds.
Your thumb tapped the speaker impatiently. The training manual said a delayed check-in must be reported within five minutes. Neither operative made contact yet and it’s 13 minutes past schedule.
The waiting was always the worst part, because within that period, everything you dreaded could have happened already. Enemy ambush. Capture. Torture. For all you knew, the world was about to end while you were checking inventory and fiddling with lines of code you promised Tony Stark you wouldn’t touch.
You checked the horizon again, noting the subtle transition, from red gold to yellow as the sun ascended over the mountains and planes in this part of West Asia.
“Fuck it,” you declared, reaching for the button again.
“Wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Bucky’s voice came through the speaker in bursts.
You immediately scanned the area through the windshield and spotted a figure in a dark tac suit approaching. He could not have seen what you were about to do. No way. His eyesight was amazing, but not that amazing… No way. You watched him marching toward the plane. Your thumb flicked the ramp switch and in a couple of minutes, Bucky entered from the back of the jet.
Cool air entered the cockpit. You hurried to the back to see if he needed help.
He unzipped his thick outer jacket immediately and discarded it on the floor. “Gimme a break, I’ll clean that up later,” he said when he saw you eyeing the mess. You nodded to the bruise forming on his cheek. “Walked into a door,” he lied without a second thought. “I’m fine,” he insisted when you continued to look at him openly. Bucky Barnes didn’t have a monopoly on glaring, even though he believed he did.
The dark-haired soldier removed two hand guns from behind him, and two more from the jacket on the floor, and deposited these in the firearm safety cage. After double checking the lock, he collapsed on a bench and stretched his legs out.
“Where’s Barton?”
He stretched his neck and rolled his metal arm. The sound of Vibranium plates readjusting filled the jet. “I don’t know,” he replied after a few seconds.
“Let me try-”
“Wait.”
You stopped in your tracks not only because he was the mission leader, but deep down you also trusted he had the experience you lacked. Too much experience, he would say with a dry laugh, if only there was a way he could pass on knowledge to you expeditiously.
“You mean like stick your hard drive into her?” Sam commented with a deadpan look. Laughter erupted around the table in the mess hall.
Bucky scowled. It was more of a reaction to Sam’s existence than the dirty joke. You couldn’t be mad because you teased Sam about performance issues in front of his date weeks ago. This was payback in installments.
You reached across the table to steal a fry off Sam’s plate and maintained eye contact with him as you popped it between your parted mouth, making sure to suck your bottom lip loudly while chewing.
“Damn woman,” Sam chuckled.
Life at the base was a cake walk compared to the tense gaps during field missions when absolutely nothing or everything happened. You’re supposed to sit tight.
Bucky waved at you to sit next to him. “Come on, you should be used to this by now.”
You crossed your arms and stayed put. “No, I don’t think I want to get used to worrying about my friends.”
His messy bun fell apart when he leaned his head against the side panel and closed his eyes. “You know what I meant.” He smirked and opened one eye. “Did you just admit to worrying about me?”
“I said friends.” You slammed the medicine drawer shut and threw an ice pack at him, which he caught without flinching.
Bucky’s smirk intensified. He placed the pack over his face, humming quietly. “Sit and try to relax instead of watching me like it’s my fault Barton’s late.”
You’re used to his glib comments. “First of all, I don’t need to relax. You’re the one who’s like ‘oh I don’t need to be saved, stay off the comms, don’t attract attention, fuck the manual’ this morning and secondly, you’re really full of yourself if you thought I was watching you.”
With a silent sigh, you retreated to the cockpit, taking a tablet with you to review flight logs for the fifth time that day.
The Quinjet was quiet for several minutes. You and Bucky each remained on your end of the aircraft. You wondered if he fell asleep at some point because you couldn’t pick up the slightest movement but you didn’t want to be the first to turn around and speak.
He’s an oaf, a huge block of a man who filled every room he entered with his presence and wouldn’t hesitate to kick a door down on a bad day. His ability to move like a cat, navigate a room without making a sound, and slide into spaces gracefully boggled the mind.
Your mind, in particular, but you haven’t told him that. No sense giving Bucky one more thing to be smug about.
Your eyes landed on the speakers again and when he called out your name, you were convinced Bucky could see into your head. That’s the only way to explain all of this.
He added vowels to your name when he pronounced it with a teasing, jovial tone. When you didn’t respond, Bucky approached, his footsteps even and quick, boots scraping the floor on purpose. He wanted you to know he’s crossing the invisible line in the middle of the jet.
“Listen. Barton’s fine. Give him some credit. But don’t tell him I said that.”
You looked up from the tablet. “I need to move the jet deeper into the woods soon. We don’t have cover here.” You checked the skies out of habit.
Bucky crouched next to you in the cockpit, looking out of the front window too. Part of you wanted to let him know how relieved you were when his voice came on the speakers earlier. You breathed a little easier. You and Bucky sniped at each other, but his presence reassured you more than anything.
His eyes scanned the perimeter, his gaze reaching twice, triple the distance your eyes could see. His pink lips pouted, which only meant he had something in mind and he’s having an internal debate about letting you in or carrying the burden by himself.
He’s a pretty good looking guy especially when he’s brooding.
Without warning, his eyes flicked toward you and he grinned because he just caught you gaping at him. “See anything you like?”
Heat fanned out from your core to every limb. Bucky observed your flustered reaction with amusement. It was a game you played with him often, but it still stirred butterflies in your stomach. You always struggled with the boyish charm on display when he’s being a self-centered prick around you.
“Maybe,” you raised your eyebrows suggestively.
Bucky’s jaw dropped and blushing cheeks made his eye color pop. You thought you had him. He grabbed the back of your seat. “I suspected you have a thing for these baby blues.” He tucked his hair behind an ear to give you a better view. He spoke with such confidence and delight and in that moment you decided you would have to worry about Clint later. Right now you had to get away from this cocky bastard.
“I’m going to need some air because your ego just sucked all the oxygen in here.” You pushed past him to leave but it was going to take some maneuvering. Bucky refused to budge. He blocked the path, forcing you to lean into him in an attempt to elbow your way out of the cockpit. It was like asking a concrete wall to move but you were equally as stubborn, if only for the sake of your pride. He laughed over your muffled grunting, like he was being tickled. On the other hand, you began to get exhausted.
After a minute of this childish shoving competition you had no way of winning, you clambered over the seat instead, propping a hand on his shoulder on your way out of the cockpit.
He followed you to the ramp, soft chuckles mocking you. “Just admit you like my eyes; I won’t feel objectified.”
“Oh please, they’re not that blue!” You retorted before storming down the ramp.
Immediate embarrassment flooded you. It wasn’t from lying about the arresting blue of Bucky Barnes’ eyes; it came from realizing he’s on to you now. Your boots hit the dirt as you stomped your way to a lone tree a few feet from the jet.
“What, just sorta kinda blue then?” He said from behind you, which you pretend not to hear.
There’s no justice for ordinary humans like you, who recently realized just how into Bucky you were. It’s not even funny when he winked at you at the compound, prompting Sam to say things like, “You guys are too adorable, now stop making eyes at each other, people are trying to eat here.”
“Blue-ish?” Bucky continued to blab from the foot of the ramp.
You paced under the shade of a tree, faking interest in a patch of weeds and wishing he’d shut up. He couldn't even name another shade of blue; he just kept repeating the word. Bluesy. Bluer than blue. Ocean blue. Blue like your faded jeans.
He was setting bait. You’d be stupid to bite, but the urge, Jesus, the urge to list shades of blue to his face was nearly impossible to resist.
Part of you entertained the idea of confessing from where you stood. That ought to shut him up for a few seconds. If you were lucky, he’d smile sincerely and give you the “aww shucks” look he did so well, the one where his puppy dog eyes twinkled and you forgave him for whatever stupid stunt he just pulled.
If you weren’t too lucky, he’d say he’s flattered but he just doesn’t feel the same. Sometimes he can be quite an ass, but he’s a good guy at heart, Bucky, and the thought of him letting you down gently made you feel nauseous. It would devastate you and you’re going to have to ask for a transfer, plain and simple. The threat of rejection was enough to make sure you kept a lid on that little chest of explosive emotions.
Your apprehensions drowned out Bucky’s rambling. You didn’t even realize he’d followed you under the shade. He startled you when he grabbed your arm, forcing you to face him.
“What’s wrong with you? I asked you to get back to the damn jet three times!” He dragged you back with him to the aircraft without waiting for a reply. Bucky’s grip didn’t ease up, not even after the ramp retracted and he sealed the jet.
His fingers pinched your arm, close to cutting circulation off. He pushed you against the side panels without another word, standing so close to you, his feet planted next to yours.
“Buck-”
He frowned and shook his head. Bucky’s forehead creased. His eyes were on yours and you could tell this was no longer about how many kinds of blues he could name.
He wasn’t angry at you. He was trying to focus. You gingerly placed a hand over the one clutching your arm. “Starting to lose sensation here,” you spoke softly, careful not to contribute to the tension.
His eyes followed your hand and within a blink, Bucky released your arm, but he did not step away. “Fuck. Did I - shit I’m so sorry. Fuck I’m sorry.” He kept whispering apologies, his lips brushing your ear, and his hand caressing the air next to your arm. He couldn’t bring himself to touch what he’d been so close to seriously hurting.
You moved your hand over his chest to get his attention. His heart pounded against your palm and you immediately realized something was amiss. “What’s wrong?”
He inhaled sharply. “Three to four vehicles headed this way. We have a couple of minutes.”
“Clint?”
Bucky shrugged. “No way to tell.” He inspected your hand on his heart and released a strained sigh, not unlike the one you made earlier. “I’m sorry - you have to believe me, I just - had to get you back inside; it’s safer here.” He rested his forehead on yours to catch his breath. When he finally lifted his head to address you again, Bucky wore a determined expression. “Gotta deal with incoming.”
Your head spun. You registered the mounting worry in the back of your head. “What does that even mean?”
He sighed impatiently. “As soon as I’m positive Clint isn’t out there, I’ll let you know. Get ready to leave.”
You didn’t like it, but you had to agree it’s the best course of action.
“Listen for my signal.”
You truly despised waiting, especially when Bucky sacrificed his own safety to ensure yours. A limp hand fell to your side and you turned away in an attempt to hide your fear.
“Thought you’d be happy to see a handful of henchmen rough me up some.”
“Don’t act like you don’t know how I really feel, Bucky,” you snapped at him. You pushed him away, knowing it was a futile attempt. Bucky didn’t move unless he wanted to.
“Hey.” The urgency in his voice was enough to make you stop struggling against him. “This sure as hell isn’t the time for this, but I'm not stepping out there thinking the love of my life hates my guts.”
His words knocked the irritation out of you. Even Bucky appeared stunned by his own admission. For the first time since you’ve known each other, Bucky looked like he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do next. He recovered after a moment. With a gentle, steady hand, he lifted your chin. He seemed amused by what just took place but you couldn’t help but wonder if there was also relief in his face, like a weight has been lifted. “You don’t have to say anything,” he said.
He switched into super soldier mode the moment he stepped away. Within seconds, he’s armed and ready. When Bucky glanced at you again, he was the mission leader ordering you to open the rear.
You hit the button with a resigned fist. The ramp descended and this time the air entering the jet felt dry and suffocating. Your heart raced and you nearly missed the crackling radio signal under the droning ramp gears.
“Clint?” You pressed the device deeper into your ear even though that did nothing to improve the signal.
“...got a bike!” His agitated voice yelled over the roaring engines. “...two jeeps on my six!”
You raced to the cockpit and checked the display panel. As if on cue, the monitor picked up incoming movement south of the jet. “We see you.” Within seconds, you’ve readied the jet for take-off.
“Barton, are we doing magic tricks or Shoot To Thrill here?” Bucky kept watch by the rear. The racing vehicles kicked dirt up in the distance.
You didn’t know what those words meant, but you assumed you’ll find out soon enough.
“Ah-” inaudible chatter followed. “- see if I can lose them first… wait…”
“Barton, forget it, just get yourself back in here! I know someone who flies a fighter jet pretty well. She'll take care of them.” He didn't look in your direction, but a tiny smile lived on his lips. Your heart swelled as you looked at his profile.
Silence followed. Clint could have gotten cut off or lost signal again if he swerved deeper into the woods.
“I hate waiting,” he mumbled after a quiet minute. “Remind me to punch Barton in the face later.”
See, everyone hated the waiting. It was your turn to chuckle, but before he could even ask you what was so funny, Clint’s garbled voice returned. “Trashed the bike but problem’s been dealt with.” He paused to catch his breath. “Give me a couple of minutes to get there because I ain’t running.”
You checked the monitors. “We can come to you.”
“No. I’ll go to you. Just in case they have more friends on the way. It’s best if they don’t see the jet.”
Bucky didn’t argue with that. He continued to glare at the horizon. He must have fixed his bun ten times since Clint made contact.
You tiptoed toward him. “About what you said.”
“I say a lot of things,” he responded without taking his eyes off the view.
“You do.” You stepped in front of him with your back to the ramp. When Bucky didn’t move away, you looped your hands around the back of his neck. The tension in his shoulders evaporated. Encouraged by the searching look in his "not that blue eyes," you found your voice. “I love you too, by the way.”
The “aww shucks” grin returned, wider than before, and lit up like a Times Square billboard. Bucky rubbed his face in an attempt to hide it. “Yeah?” His tone was wistful, nose scrunched. He couldn’t quite believe what he just heard.
You nodded and tiptoed.
He received the message instantly, his face swooping to meet yours. Bucky’s skin was on fire and he kissed you frantically, like a time limit had been imposed and he needed as many kisses as you’d give him. “Don’t even know why I waited this long to tell you,” he muttered, his lips covering every inch of exposed skin.
His scent always made you feel slightly drunk; it’s why you’re flustered when he moved around your space. You fell asleep to the feel of his arms around you and the sound of his steady breathing. You woke up inhaling his warm skin tangled in your sheets. Bucky only had to exist to get you feeling some type of way.
Your nails dug into his back when he nuzzled your neck.
He panted against your collarbone. “C’mere.” He hoisted you up, lifting your legs to his waist. His satisfied, commanding smirk greeted you as you reached his eye level. “There she is.” His arms secured you in place. “That’s better.”
You traced a finger across his jaw and saw a twitch. “Marginally.”
“That right?” He grunted before tossing you gently in the air, testing the friction.
You whimpered and your thighs automatically clenched around him. “Bucky.” It was half a plea, half a warning.
“Yeah, thought so.” Bucky’s hungry lips descended on yours again.
Just as you began to think about the long term effects of oxygen deprivation, someone cleared their throat.
“And this is why I said I didn’t want to go on missions with couples.”
Clint’s disgusted voice forced you apart, although Bucky didn’t release you from his arms. He only turned to your teammate, proudly demonstrating the hands cupping your bottom in your current position, and said “You’re late.”
Clint gave both of you an exasperated look. “Yeah, and you’re welcome assholes.”
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Thanks for reading! Please reblog or like or comment if you enjoyed this. I hope you're having a lovely weekend.
Pairing: Bucky x Reader
Summary: You asked Bucky out. He said no. Cool. How do you move on? You don't. Notes & Warnings:
DNI if under 18 | Fluff, swearing, canon typical violence, some angst, lotsa pining, sexual content
I don’t give permission for my work to be copied/reposted/translated anywhere.
Word Count: 4K+
Series Chapters || Masterlist
Another Word For Surveillance - Part Nine
Sometimes there’s a chill, nothing unusual, this being New York after all. Steve’s birthday would come in a few weeks and it would still be too warm to wear anything thicker than a three-year old hoodie, but Bucky welcomed the icy air at night.
He retreated to the balcony, stepping out into the night barefoot, with only sweatpants on, messy hair down because he managed to lose another hair tie. From somewhere in the apartment, Steve wondered aloud if they were finally getting old, because Bucky ventured out half-naked and Steve’s knees registered the drop in the temperature.
Bucky ignored his friend’s rambling. He would stand outside until the chill tickled. It traveled from the center of his forehead, crossing his skull to the base of his neck, making the hair on his arm stand.
His chest tightened. The cold triggered a eerily similar response to being strapped to a chair while a handful of weary strangers, staring down at Bucky with a detached, almost empty look. They had as much life in them as Bucky’s left arm. They entered the room in single file before surrounding him to start the procedure. Adrenaline kicked in. Bucky was ready to fight, without knowing why.
He didn’t remember how long it took to shock a man’s brain into forgetting days and weeks of killing sprees, but Bucky had seen HYDRA footage of the procedure. That’s how he knew spaghetti boiled faster than a mad scientist can fiddle with someone’s memories. His head always felt like an overcooked noodle after the procedure. Mushed.
Bucky remembered the icy pulse that started between his eyes, just behind the sockets, he supposed. How far deep into his skull didn’t matter, it went deep enough to cause short term memory loss didn’t it? The slow pulse grew into a wave washing over his cranium, crashing into the base of his neck, where the head and spine connected.
These days he could summon the sensation with little effort when it was cold enough. He stood in the balcony with clenched fists, hanging on to the feeling as long as possible.
Not because he relished his time as a robot, a wooden puppet on invisible strings, but one that could hurt and bleed. By some strange circumstance, or maybe it’s his body finally forgiving him - the chill that used to trigger his fight or flight response felt the same as the rush he felt when you touched him.
And this time, he didn’t want to escape it.
He sought it out. He sought you out.
So even when he was supposed to be the compound’s designated cranky senior citizen, the sullen new arrival, Steve’s dark shadow - Bucky let you bully him into tasting the rubbery monstrosity called Gummy Bears the day you met. He dressed up for silly work events because you asked him to. He cleaned up the language on his reports because “we get it, Steve’s an overripe grape with a deathwish, but the feds - they don’t appreciate poetry like you and I do.”
You weren’t supposed to make him feel a little light-headed, borderline giddy, whenever you gave him a puzzled smile.
Bucky didn’t do “life goals,” at least not like most people. He was content with not being a prisoner of war.
He can’t remember wanting something so bad that he didn’t know what to do about it and now he found himself in the most fortunate position of liking a person so much, he couldn’t really think straight. It made him bungle opportunities and worse - made you doubt your place at the top of his priorities.
He’s lived long enough to know life wasn’t meant to be black and white. Nothing was guaranteed. But lately he wondered with increasing frequency, maybe - you were it.
It’s a truth lodged in his throat whenever he saw you, and sometimes he could only manage a quiet nod because he’s awe-struck by you, by the gravity of his feelings, and if he could only manage to put these thoughts and feelings into words, maybe he wouldn’t be in so much trouble. And misery.
The tragedy was that the simplest of things are often the hardest to explain.
Bucky exhaled into the night, his breath coming up as silvery clouds before his eyes. The faint whirring sounds from his metal hand comforted him. He looked at the dark sky and wondered if it was better to take the bike instead of a car tonight.
“Steve!” The carpet warmed his feet the second he stepped back in. Bucky slid the balcony doors shut, sensing the cold air vanish instantly. “I’m going out!”
“You’re gonna be late.” Steve looked up from a three by three grid of post-its on the dining room table. He stood over his laptop with crossed arms. “Maybe throw a shirt on too?”
“I’ll take the bike.”
“And I hear shoes do a good job of covering feet,” Steve’s attention returned to his notes. “Still gonna be late,” he mumbled as an afterthought.
“Not if I don’t drive like you,” Bucky hollered over his shoulder, laughing at Steve flipping him off.
The mid-week VA meetings rarely gathered over six people, which was why Bucky preferred going on Wednesdays instead of Saturdays. The large crowds didn’t bother him anymore but the interactions seemed more relaxed with only a few people huddled around him.
Nothing extraordinary happened apart from the majestic nature of the sun rising and setting weeks in a row or maybe he was just more inclined to be forthcoming in warmer weather, but Bucky started opening up about his nightmares after a handful of sessions. He skipped the really scary details (these would be classified information anyway), focusing on feelings and outcomes instead. No one else would have a story about waking up with a Soviet Union-era metal arm, but fighting cold sweats, becoming short tempered, and lashing out at the people who least deserve it because fear and anger had to go somewhere - that was a fairly common experience not only with vets but people in general, Bucky discovered.
But mostly, he liked listening. Sandy once suffered a panic attack in the middle of his eight-year old’s ballet recital. PJ decided to learn Farsi. Eddie Elbow dreaded his upcoming surgery, his third this year.
As for Bucky - he used to have really bad dreams.
About botched surgeries. Attaching the metal prosthetic took multiple operations by doctors who didn’t necessarily have experience soldering metal into flesh.
About feeling someone’s pulse racing before plummeting into a half-beat against his thumb and in his dreams the Winter Soldier never let go until that half-beat lulls into nothing. When the Soldier finally released the neck, the body folded onto the floor without ceremony, and never neatly.
He got used to these dreams over time.
Then he met someone amazing. Of course his nightmares became rare but worse. Bucky woke with a bitter gut, like he had a hole in his stomach. He’s had a few of those, but once he reached the hospital, internal bleeding was someone else’s problem. When he dreamt about feral HYDRA agents locking you up in a bunker overseas, Bucky carried the toxic fear around until he’s ready to let it go.
And in his dreams he always seemed powerless to save you.
Bucky’s acid reflux only got worse.
The VA gang wasn’t troubled by this. Eddie Elbow said everyone had nightmares involving friends and family. He kept his eyes on his wonky limb as he spoke. “You worry about someone. Congratulations for being a decent human being.”
The group grunted in agreement.
Bucky was never going to be a smooth talker - not now, not after a hundred of these meetings - but he was learning how a three-minute anecdote about having to leave the house for the first time in days because the milk had gone bad was part of the healing process.
It’s not about the action, Sam told him. Action and follow through are important. But so is introspection and sharing. “You’re not a machine. We just like calling you Cyborg Man.”
So Bucky talked when he felt like it. And he listened in solidarity.
The evening group session concluded, and he enjoyed the brisk walk around the back of the building, thankful for the crisp air. His nose felt the chill as he tugged on his sleeves.
Your name flashed on the screen seconds after he took his phone off airplane mode and Bucky swiped before he remembered that texting back within seconds was needy.
Haha didn’t quite convey the pitter-pattering in his chest but Bucky replied to the cat meme anyway.
Since your teary-eyed confession the night he sneaked out of the hospital, Bucky knew he had to work against the clock. Not because you could suddenly just decide to walk away, or that you could run into someone who was slightly more capable of telling you things like, you smelled nice (Bucky’s favorite scents rolled into one person, and when you rest your head against him, he could breathe you in and nothing else mattered that moment.)
He had to move fast because you didn’t deserve it. The self-doubt. The sorrow. The loneliness, maybe, that came with Bucky’s half-assed excuses.
It’s not like he wasn’t sure about his feelings for you. He risked infection, not to mention Steve’s wrath when he walked out of a secure hospital wing and dragged his semi-drugged self to your apartment just to see you.
You were his entire guest list. He scrawled your name on a form quickly, before he lost his nerve, and handed it back to the security personnel arranging access to their residence. You could come to his room at night without setting off Stark’s million-dollar security system and set Bucky’s books on fire.
(He also had opinions about better things for you to do if you ever decided you wanted to slip into his room.)
Yeah, he was serious about you. Winter Soldier dead serious, and even Steve wasn’t going to laugh at that analogy.
Making you believe this without a shred of doubt was Bucky’s mission.
Importing limited screen edition chocolate from halfway around the world was child’s play. He saw your browser from across the table during a meeting and it only took him one call to find someone who can ship a month’s supply to New York.
A couple of days ago, he convinced Sam, Wanda, and Scott to join the business contingency exercise you were running this year before you even had to request help to round up volunteers.
“Sam’s not pulling my leg right?” You doubled-back when you ran into Bucky outside the office. He was on his way out, and you followed him to the sidewalk.
“Pardon me?” He scratched his head for effect.
“Remember the thing I was doing, the BCP drill for staff? You have to practically pay people to do it but slots filled up after Sam and Wanda signed up.” You tapped his left forearm and even the Vibranium sensors knew how much of a thrill that was. “Hey - you want to volunteer too?”
“Uh, it’s probably not my thing.” He replied slowly. “The talking to people, you know. So I-“ Bucky shook his head.
He didn’t know why he couldn’t just reveal he got his friends to help you. God forbid it made Bucky sound like a nice guy. Someone who cared. Deeply. Probably too much for his own good. About you.
“There has to be something else I can help with,” he recovered quickly.
When your face brightened up, he knew he was about to be roped into doing you a favor. “We could get coffee and donuts for the volunteers?”
Bucky was pretty sure Steve needed him to comb through a stack of files and hours of footage that weekend. “You got it.”
“Perfect.” You reached for his jacket sleeve and swung it back and forth absent-mindedly.
Bucky couldn’t bring himself to look away from your joyful eyes, or mention that this was an outright breach of the no-contact rule - you haven’t spoken about it for days but he assumed it was still very much in effect.
He was late for a meeting with Stark, but he’d endure an entire afternoon of snide remarks about punctuality for a few more minutes of this, standing next to you, wearing a goofy grin because you looked at him like nothing else existed.
He was crest-fallen when you dropped his arm though.
“It was you.” Realization settled on your face, Bucky felt somewhat smug about being able to read your expressions.
He raised his brows.
“You bribed Sam to volunteer.”
“I can’t make that man do anything he doesn’t want to.”
You crossed your arms but the curl around your lips was encouraging. “You’re up to something.”
Bucky exhaled. “Am I?” He crossed his arms, mimicking your position.
You shifted your gaze back to his face, determined not to be distracted. You cleared your throat. “That doesn’t- I don’t- Bucky…” Your voice trailed as you thought you lost control of the situation.
“Hmmm?” He took a couple of steps back, giving you another nod before turning around.
“Nothing!” You replied as he began to walk away.
Bucky chuckled. You’d demand a straight answer from him when you were ready and able to believe he was not going anywhere. Until then, he’d happily wait and do the things that left you momentarily speechless or mutter “You didn’t have to Bucky.” The smile you fought to contain told him he absolutely would be doing these small gestures for you again and again.
Things were going well to a large extent but Bucky was all too aware about the parts of him that were not as ecstatic about your renewed friendship characterized by emotional vulnerability from a distance of too damn far for a kiss.
Sam called it Bucky’s Labors, not because he studied English literature in college but because he had better manners than Steve who called the distinct lack of action Bucky’s Blue Balls.
Bucky wasn’t going to admit his suffering, but all this time apart - physically - only seemed to make him more attuned to your presence.
Just the other day, he instinctively turned to the grassy area on the way to the hangars.
“Who’s that?” Sam squinted across the field. He clocked the pout Bucky thought he was not doing.
The running path connecting Grids 3 and 4 offered a view of your favorite bench. You paced around it, gesturing wildly, phone on one hand, bowl of Skittles on the other.
Sam stopped walking and glanced at Bucky. “Are we coming ‘round to say hi?”
“No.” Bucky was being petulant, he’d admit to that. He could practically hear you start to speak, edit your thoughts mid-sentence, and keep rambling until you figured out what you wanted to say to whoever it was on the other line.
He watched you from the other side of the field torn between taking up Sam’s suggestion and Bucky’s wounded ego.
Why weren’t your senses telling you that Bucky, the love of your life, or so he hoped, stood right here?
“No.” He repeated more for his benefit than Sam’s.
“Man are you two still pretending the other idiot has playground cooties?”
Bucky wasn’t even going to acknowledge that.
It’s been over a month since you returned from DC and since then Bucky had been in such physical agony, he couldn’t even remember who thought keeping a respectable distance from each other would be a good idea.
It amused both of you for a few days - having to sit across each other during meetings and making sure you were never alone with each other. Not in a meeting room. Not in an elevator. Not even in the hallway. Bucky couldn’t even completely guarantee he won’t make a move if he found you alone in the parking lot at high noon.
Technically he could give you a hug but then he’d want to kiss the top of your head, and it drove him crazy because you cooed into him, right on his collarbone, a sound so hushed and muffled maybe you weren’t even aware you did it, but it happened often enough in the past for Bucky to be quite certain you liked forehead kisses very much.
And he was happy to oblige. Always. Except he couldn't stop at the forehead. He would not.
Which brought him to this. No kissing. No touching. These were rules he must follow. Rules he had to abide by if he wanted to keep his promise to you.
Bucky was dying and this was worse than when he got shot all those 78 other times. And he didn’t just need the release - as a male of his species in peak physical condition, he had no trouble dealing with base urges in the privacy of the apartment or during a hot shower at the gym.
He felt empty and his dick hated him.
But when you gave him a lingering, intrigued look whenever he did something for you or generally made an effort at work, that made you smile and it was all he needed to survive and keep going.
There was that time he swung by your desk to let you know he’s going on a two-day mission to the Mediterranean. He didn’t mean to sound like he needed your permission to go, but as previously established, he was never going on another op again if things weren’t fine between the two of you - anyway, his focus is sharper when he can picture you peering up at him with mischievous eyes that he’d like to think was only for him.
Bucky cleared his throat. He promised to text you while he was away. You gave him assorted bite-sized chocolate snacks in a zip lock baggie the next day.
Steve made quick work of the candy but your cheerful albeit lopsided grin as you waved Bucky away with his bag of sweets stayed with him. It kept him warm in the Quinjet and it kept him cool when he was tempted to drive his fist through someone’s face.
He texted you up until the crew had to go radio silent and by the time he could message again, Bucky had a dozen of photos and messages to send you.
He assumed he’d run out of things to tell you eventually. He didn’t. There was always something suspicious happening in Florida and Steve would predictably get into trouble for being himself. Now and then Bucky had a nightmare. He spared you the details but you would ask a second time - never more than that - with a patient look, and he found himself telling you anyway. Broad strokes - you didn’t need minute details. You just wanted him to get it off his chest.
It’s fascinating, this perpetual mental hard on for you. Bucky was dying and feeling very much alive at the same time.
Admittedly he may have been thinking with Not His Brain when he tailed you to the First Resort one evening. Forty-two days since he brought the new screen to your apartment and left with his brain congratulating him for heading out the moment things became a little too intense, and his lower half threatening to kick his ass for heading out the moment things became a little too intense.
He would never stalk you. Not like this. But when he ran into you at work - Bucky had to grab you by the arms to stop you from slamming into him, much as he’d love that - you only blinked at him like you didn’t recall that Bucky knew where to touch if he wanted your absolute full cooperation.
That would not do. Bucky casually glanced at the stretch of hallway behind you, in case of any masked assassins in pursuit. “What’s the rush Sweets?”
More blinking. A few more seconds, and then the color returned to your cheeks, the happy tiny smile reserved for Bucky appeared.
“What happened to the no-touching rule?”
Answering a question with a question. Now that’s classic Sweets. His Sweets. Maybe.
He raised both hands in surrender. It didn’t seem like the best time to make idle chat, not while Claire openly watched from twenty feet away. Bucky never had a lot of willpower when it came to physical contact with you. “Can I shoot whoever came up with that? Just on the foot.”
Your laughter was music.
“I’m serious.”
“Surely not about shooting yourself on the foot.”
“I’m serious,” Bucky insisted.
You both knew it wasn’t about anybody’s foot. A frown replaced the amused twinkle and your mind was off to another universe again and Bucky did not presume he could follow.
He exhaled slowly. “You ok?” There was a wayward strand on your forehead he warned himself to ignore.
You nodded but your gaze was already on Claire. “I have to ah - CC’s evil eye is like - so I should… but I’ll come find you? We’re probably due one of those talks huh?” Your eyes flicked back to Bucky and when your knuckle grazed his sleeve, Bucky’s heart stopped. At that moment you were back with him.
He gulped and nodded once.
With smiling eyes, you turned and walked over to your friend.
“You ok?” He asked again. You weren’t the only one who got to ask a second time.
You gave him a thumbs up instead.
He watched Claire guide you back to your seat. How was he not going to be interested in whatever it was you didn’t want to tell him?
So yeah. He got on the bike and followed you to the bar when he caught you leaving the building alone half an hour after running into each other.
You took your usual seat by the window, right by the neon lights that would always remind him about his biggest regret - choking the first time you asked him out. You spun the bottle clockwise instead of drinking from it. Bucky waited to see if you were meeting someone but after a while, he got bored of watching you stare through your beer.
He entered from the back of the bar, making a mental note to talk to Happy about the ease with which he was able to breeze through the staff entrance.
“Hi.”
You looked up with wide eyes. “Uh - hey.” Then you gave him that smile. The one meant for him. “So you-“
“I followed you, yeah.” Bucky looked around the bar. “Are you expecting company?”
“Not really.”
The knot in his shoulders relaxed. “Can I - can I sit?”
You gave him a funny look. “You gonna buy me a beer Buck? Doesn’t that violate Chapter Four Section Three of the Field Surveillance Handbook? What’s the book called?”
Bucky wanted to wipe the sarcasm off your face using his face. “You don’t seem to want beer right now.” He nodded at your barely touched drink. “And you’re not under surv-“
“You just admitted you followed me here.”
“Can’t a guy walk into a bar and pretend to run into you?”
You drummed your fingers. After a few seconds, you took a long drink, never taking your eyes off him.
Bucky was transfixed.
“Not James Barnes, no,” you replied, setting the bottle down to punctuate your statement.
“No?” He raised a brow. Bucky thought about how he had all the time in the world to rehearse what to say before slipping in through the back of the bar and plopping himself across you like your entire non-relationship with him did not start with him refusing to get a beer with you.
Now he couldn’t quite figure out how to inform you that yes, he ditched a security briefing with a four-star general because he wanted to know if you were ok.
And he missed you.
And he liked you. Fucking idiot.
You finished your beer without breaking eye contact. In the back of his mind, Bucky knew this silly back and forth only fanned flames and what he should be doing was keep things steady, and give you as much time you needed to come around and see he wasn’t playing around.
“Let me get the next round.” He slipped out of the booth before you could protest.
Your mood seemed to improve by the time he returned with a couple of beers. You asked about his day and why the Grid 2 fields were overrun with weeds. Bucky launched into the details of the larger blade he installed on the mower and how he convinced the landscaping team to leave the grass alone for a couple of weeks so he could test the design.
”You stopped making sense at… three-blade motor… something.” Your expression was deadpan but you continued to ask about the prototype.
He asked about your childhood, fishing for happy memories and watching your eyes darken momentarily at the thought of your brother, before lighting up as you recalled childhood pranks and family trips that made you think fondly of road trips and the smell of sunscreen and saltwater.
Two rounds became three, and quickly four after you knocked over your bottle while laughing at Bucky’s terribly accurate Steve Rogers impersonation. Whatever it was that had you worried, Bucky could tell from the carefree toss of your hair and how you angled your body toward him the entire time, you had set it aside to focus on the present.
You nudged the empty bottle to the middle of the table. “It’s late.”
Bucky nodded. He finished his beer and set the bottle down, almost clinking against yours, but not quite.
Both of you remained seated.
He hummed over the gentle clicking of his metal wrist. You watched him flex his arm and then blushed when he caught you staring with unabashed interest.
“I know where we can grab a decent slice at this hour.” The words tumbled out. Bucky held his breath.
From his peripheral view, he saw you lean closer to him. “Yeah?”
Your curious tone encouraged him. “You can’t tell anyone else.” Bucky raised an eyebrow, daring you to come with him, to make the night last a little longer.
He stood up without waiting for your reply, more out of jitters than confidence. Is it working, he wondered.
Or has the past few weeks been for nothing?
Bucky didn’t get a response but he heard you scramble out of the booth and in a couple of seconds you were right behind him. He felt the movement from a foot away, your boots creating a muffled squeak.
Summary: You asked Bucky out. He said no. Cool. So how do you move on from that? Ha! You don’t.
Notes & Warnings:
DNI if under 18 | Fluff, swearing, canon typical violence, medical procedures, angst, lotsa pining, mild sexual content
I don’t give permission for my work to be copied/reposted/translated anywhere.
Word Count: 9,525
Series Chapters || Masterlist
Another Word For Surveillance - Part Six
The operation was not fine. Someone dunked the mission in a vat of gasoline and then flicked a match at it.
Of course something like this would happen to him now. Bucky wanted to laugh at the timing, but his lungs were currently incapable of doing anything beyond feeding him oxygen. In the smallest of quantities.
“Do we have to tell base we found the Quinjet you lost last year?” He asked over the sound of bullets zipping through trees.
“The one that’s gonna rain bullets on our sorry asses soon as someone finds the thermal scanner?” Steve retorted. Even with closed eyes, he exuded annoyance. He looked every bit his age which was never a compliment as far as he and Bucky were concerned. “For the record, I did tell you not to land the damn jet in the clearing that time.”
Bucky ignored the comment about losing highly-advanced tech to an organization of a terrorist nature. He peered out of the abandoned shack they found in the middle of the woods. “So do we have to? Report it?”
Another string of shots fired from a distance. Judging by the increasing volume of bullets tearing through trees and the intensity of the ground shaking, the retrofitted Quinjet was undoubtedly moving closer to their location.
“Yes Bucky. Thanks for checking. We kind of have to report that a HYDRA offshoot has one of the older jets-“ Both of them ducked, hands covering their heads as the plane fired another round of bullets into the ground. The sporadic bursts implied the pilot wasn’t used to operating the fancy jet, but it didn’t change anything about Steve and Bucky not being bulletproof.
“Right.” Bucky checked the time. They missed check-in twenty minutes ago. A crisis team would have been assembled back in New York by now to determine if the break in protocol was caused by equipment failure or death by one or both soldiers. Or something in between.
You would have been notified as the analyst assigned to this mission.
As he forced air into his lungs and listened for the engine of the evil Quinjet hunting them down, Bucky thought at least you’d have something to eat while you monitored the situation from the compound.
Before returning to the private residences yesterday, Bucky picked your locked drawer to leave a sleek, very expensive box of artisanal chocolates. Wanda assured him you would appreciate candy that can’t be bought from a vending machine for a change.
He imagined you’d be very annoyed because you were right. Barely a few minutes into entering the airspace over the borders of Brazil and Argentina, the team was forced to make an emergency landing as four jets, including the Quinjet they thought had been damaged beyond repair, attacked the group mid-air. Steve and Bucky lured hostiles to the wooded area to give Wanda time to inspect the plane and restart the stalled engines.
“I told him, I fucking told him!” You would pace around your desk, chomping on chocolate, like it was the candy’s fault that an older jet bested a new-generation Quinjet.
Bucky won’t even flinch if someone threw a knife at him but your anger scared him. It was the rarity maybe - he’s never seen you livid, and even when you were upset, you’d just walk away and that was the end of that.
He often wondered what you’d be like if you caved in and let angry flames engulf you. It would terrify him. And maybe turn him on to be honest.
His ability to entertain raw adult thoughts as he inched toward death impressed Bucky. What else was a dying man supposed to think of anyway?
Steve crawled over. Dirt and sweat streaked from his forehead to his jaw. “We’re gonna need to move soon buddy.”
Bucky took another shallow breath, feeling the tightness in his chest. Funny thing about taking the impact of an explosion - the body healed but it never really adapted to pain. It always hurt like the first time. Bucky grit his teeth. “Then let’s move.”
Steve glanced at the pool of blood over Bucky’s shoulder. “If I haul your ass out of here, you’re passing out in minutes.”
“Good thing you’re a fast runner then, Rogers.” Bucky tried to remember the numbers you threw at them. 16 meters per second top speed? Was that him or Stevie? Severe blood loss did nothing to improve the memory.
The metal plates in his arm kept readjusting, the mechanical noise filling the ominous silence. Bucky didn’t have to run diagnostics to know there was something very wrong with the arm. He was no engineer or scientist but he figured it had a lot to do with the holes dotting his back. He recalled shoving Steve out of the way before something behind them erupted, sending shards of rock and dirt everywhere. The impact knocked him out for a few seconds. When he came to, Steve had dragged him into the shack.
Bucky coughed. There’s a coppery taste in his mouth that he did not care to explore. “Don’t act like you haven’t been shot before.”
“By you or are we speaking in broader terms?”
“Fuck you, Rogers.” He might be dying but Steve Rogers will always be a jerk.
“Fuck you, Barnes,” Steve replied with equal fervor.
Hurling insults and foul language revived them, if only for a temporary period. The deranged Quinjet could not be more than a half a kilometer from their location. They needed to move now.
“Help me up. Let’s go,” Bucky insisted. Blinding pain tore through him when Steve pulled his other arm. The blonde know-it-all was not kidding around, he was losing a lot of blood. They would need to move a hell of a lot faster to get back to their own Quinjet. Assuming they can locate the damn thing in the woods.
Steve hesitated and it was Bucky who urged him to keep going. Outside, they had a chance at escaping. Staying here was guaranteed death.
They shuffled to the door. “I liked Sweets first,” Bucky mumbled under his breath.
“Shut up. Just - shut up,” Steve said, hiding his fear under indifference.
Asking his best friend to let you know that you had it all wrong was the only reason Bucky could even hold on to consciousness.
If he had any strength left, he would weep and beg the heavens for time. It’s been a long time since Bucky feared death. He’d forgotten the paralysis that came with it, the indignity of helplessness and resorting to bargaining with an invisible, higher power.
If anyone was listening, he didn’t want to go like this. Not when he had something to live for.
Bucky closed his eyes, hearing your delighted laugh when he tossed Skittles in the air and caught them effortlessly in his mouth. He only did it to impress you because making you laugh was his new obsession. You doubled over, squeezing his leg as you caught your breath. His thigh tensed but you didn't notice.
“Do it again,” you begged him mid-chuckle.
God your laugh . He wanted to chuckle too but at that point Bucky even shallow uneven breaths were a chore. Of course he’d die just when found out there’s more to life. “Write that in the damned report, ok Rogers?”
Even his friend didn’t have the energy left to pretend things were peachy. Steve wiped his face with a bloody hand and nodded.
The blonde soldier kicked the door open. They had not taken five steps from the shack when Bucky stumbled. He thought he fell back. Or was it forward? He’d lost sense of direction and was almost grateful when everything turned black.
“Take it easy.” Every medical professional warned him about the physical, psycho-social complications of re-entering society after being asleep in Wakanda for months. Doctors encouraged him to be patient. To stay still and get reacquainted with himself. With this second chance he’d been granted.
Bucky was in no rush. No one knew better than him just how much he needed “easy.”
Steve hovering relentlessly during his first week back home did not necessarily make things easier, but Bucky appreciated the gesture. He couldn’t remember the last time someone bothered to ask him if he’d eaten or wanted to go for a run. Three to four times every hour, Steve would come around his room with a question, acting like he wasn’t sure where things were, like he’s the newcomer and Bucky had lived in the compound for ages.
Steve also suspiciously woke up right around the time Bucky took his breakfast every day during that first week.
“No one believed you were dead. Not after DC.” He watched Bucky eat cold oatmeal in the common dining area when he could be doing something useful. “You really can’t take 30 seconds to heat that up?”
What a bothersome asshole. That’s how Bucky remembered his best friend and the familiar annoyance he felt that moment comforted him too. Could you be best friends with someone who didn’t drive you up the wall on a daily basis?
“No.” To prove a point, Bucky shoved another spoonful of bland mush into his mouth. Oatmeal was easy. Bucky wanted easy , so no, he will not wait thirty seconds to eat warm bland mush. Someone ought to tell Steve all this talk of death can bum a guy out. “Why are we talking about how I kicked your ass in DC again?”
His friend smirked. “Sure, you kicked my ass, pal. Anyway, you wanted to know how we found you.”
“I vaguely remember asking that 15 minutes ago.” Steve really took his time getting to the point. Two more scoops and Bucky finished breakfast.
Steve sighed like a martyr. “We checked properties repossessed by the city after tenants passed away. It takes several weeks for most housing units to be occupied or put back into the market. Once we discovered that, it was surprisingly easy to pick up your trail.”
“We?”
Steve rolled his eyes. “Fine. It was Sam and one of the ops guys.” He followed Bucky to the sink. “Oh and did you return the call from Pepper’s office?”
Bucky rinsed the bowl and dried his hands on a towel.
“Buck.” Steve didn’t bother to hide his irritation like he was any better at doing things by the book.
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll give them a call.” It wasn’t the first reminder and it wasn’t like he didn’t have time - in fact Bucky had plenty of it.
He’s just taking it easy - as ordered by the entire medical profession.
“Do you want me to do it for you?” Steve offered, showing his eagerness to get Bucky settled in as quickly as possible.
He crossed his arms. “Do what?”
“They’ll ask you standard questions to find out if they need to arrange security access for guests.” Steve raised his brows, as if Bucky was supposed to know what that meant. “Someone on your list can enter and leave the building without being escorted. Started when Tony used to live in the basement and he couldn’t be bothered to get the door when Pepper visited.”
Bucky noticed the sun peeking through the trees. He’d need at least five sets of hands to count the number of people who would love to enter the apartment and off him. That didn’t even include everyone else in the past 70 years because some of them were lucky enough to escape their conscience by dying or losing their minds in their old age.
It would be a fairly short conversation then.
If Maria Hill was disappointed by Bucky’s lack of enthusiasm for working behind a desk, she didn’t show it.
Not like he was in a position to make demands. He’ll have to take what’s on the table, keep out of trouble, and that’s how things would be for now.
“Give it time,” the shrink reminded him. “You don’t have anywhere else to be but here and now.”
Here and now, it wasn't that bad. Bucky’s threshold for what’s truly evil extended far beyond working behind a desk; it’s just that he would rather be on the field even in a limited capacity. He happened to be terrific at tactical work and if everyone could just forget why he’s quite prolific at combat, espionage, and blowing stuff up really well, that would be fantastic, thanks.
Hill listed the departments with vacancies and which teams would benefit from Bucky’s expertise. “R&D has a new team testing weapons. Operations Analysts do a lot of work with everyone in the compound, not just with Rogers and Romanoff. How about-“
Bucky leaned back. “Operations Analytics.” Maybe he’d find the bastard who figured out how to flush him out in Bucharest and say thanks for being a proficient stalker who probably saved his life. “They do research?”
“And contextualize the data. In a nutshell.” Hill eyed Bucky. “Your field experience would come in handy, and you’ll practically be part of the missions. From behind a desk. Doing paperwork. Reading intel from the screen.”
All the doctors said, open up, try new things, make friends. Steve said, why not, it’ll be good to work missions from the other side. Sam joked, what’s the worst that could happen, Bucky gains a few more pounds from sitting on his ass for hours?
Bucky gave Hill a noncommittal shrug. He’d probably be bored for the next couple of months, but at least that’s a year of living out in the world, which was definitely better than being stuck in a freezer like someone’s leftover chicken meal.
He was prepared to be bored on his first day in the office and you ruined that for Bucky.
Steve warned him against glaring at people, so he put on the most blank expression he could manage, trying not to think about how he’d just walked in on you tossing candy in the air.
The hard shell clinked against your teeth instead of dropping neatly into your mouth. You kept saying “Ow!” but you didn’t stop until you caught one.
It’s you .
Bucky “borrowed” Sam’s laptop yesterday; that’s how he came across your name in files related to the grand search for James Buchanan Barnes in Eastern Europe.
“The network is faster than the one Tony’s using. Don’t ask me how.” You dictated a series of characters to help him connect to the network and then held out a palm full of red M&M’s. “I know they’re supposed to taste the same, but red ones are my favorite.”
Proper etiquette dictated he should accept it. The tip of his middle finger brushed your open hand when he scooped up a few pieces. He reflected on the static buzz from the millisecond contact while the red hard shell chocolate melted in his mouth, sweetness pooling over his tongue.
Bucky expected you to walk away after the introduction. He wanted you to walk away because he can’t observe you closely if you stood next to him.
Apparently, you weren’t done talking.
“Seven steps to sweets,” you referred to your desk.
Sweets, Bucky repeated to himself, momentarily distracted when you popped another piece of chocolate into your mouth.
No, it’s the chewing. He was distracted by your chewing, that’s all.
He made a show of checking the distance from his desk to yours. He could cross that distance with one leap. Easy. When he corrected your estimate, you countered with an “Is that so?” grin that threw him off. He assumed a numbers-cruncher, no-nonsense data analyst would have located him in Bucharest, something the Interpol and the combined resources of five G8 countries failed to accomplish for decades.
Surely, a pushover wouldn’t have the tenacity and ruthlessness required to find one of the most feared assassins in the history of spycraft.
You walked around offering candy to everyone who came into the office before settling down at your desk, seven steps from where he sat. Four, for a guy with Bucky’s height.
Steve hounded him as soon as he returned to the apartment at the end of the day. The walk from the public areas of the compound back to the restricted area past the fourth grid was a pleasant one, so quiet and still, even his thoughts couldn’t bother him. As soon as he saw his best friend waving from the window of their apartment building, Bucky wondered about turning back.
“How was it?”
“Couldn’t find bullies to bully today?” Bucky side-stepped Steve.
Every floor had common areas: a living room, dining area, kitchen. To get to his room, Bucky would have to walk through the shared spaces. The whole point of living in the compound was to socialize, which made sense, it’s just that they assigned Bucky to the floor Wilson and Rogers occupied.
“Must be on holiday,” Steve retorted. If there’s anyone who can match Bucky’s pace, it’s Steve. “Well?”
“There was a kid walking around feeding people candy.”
Steve’s laugh boomed across the hall. “That kid is a senior analyst who tracked you down when nobody could.”
The man had a point. “I know, just didn’t think Sweets would be so-” Bucky stopped at his door and glanced at the ceiling. What did he think about you? “Unexpected.”
He slipped into his room, closing the door before Steve could enter and ask if Bucky made new friends during lunch break.
Steve’s muffled voice came from behind the door. “What’s Sweets now?”
Apparently, you weren’t only brilliant at making sense out of patterns and random numbers; you were also crazy enough to stick your neck out when Stark was in one of his moods, and it’s not the one where he handed out nicknames to everyone.
The more Bucky thought about it, and he found himself reviewing the facts periodically since he met you, the more he couldn’t believe you pinned down his whereabouts when he thought he’d done a solid job covering his tracks.
Stark crashed into a cliff yesterday because one of his suits malfunctioned. No one was hurt, apart from his ego. Bucky heard about the incident last night from Sam. When Bucky caught the mistake in the data Stark wanted to see that morning, he predicted a minor outburst.
Worry flashed in your eyes after Bucky pointed out the error. “What do you mean they don’t match up, Gardner said he finished this yesterday?”
Bucky shrugged. He’s only been in the team for two months but Gardner’s been an asshole since Day One. If Gardner can’t be bothered to stick to the review procedure or at least raise his hand to ask for help completing a report, how can anyone in the team have his back?
“How bad is it?” You dropped your voice as Stark entered the meeting room with unmistakable contempt. He removed his sunglasses and revealed a nasty bruise under his left eye.
Bucky eyed Stark, who gave him a curt nod. “Gardner’s getting his ass handed to him.”
As anticipated, it took the genius engineer thirty seconds to fish out inconsistencies in the presentation. “What the hell is this, I’m not going there on foot-” He tossed the binder to the table. With an exasperated sigh, he massaged his temple. “Who did this?”
The room fell silent. Only Bucky maintained eye contact with Stark. Seconds passed and he thought about giving Gardner up, who unsurprisingly remained silent. The analyst had a good poker face, Bucky assumed that made up for the absence of a spine.
“Well?” Stark asked the room.
You sat up. Bucky swiftly tapped your elbow using a rolled sheet of paper and shook his head. He couldn’t help Garner, but he could still warn you against taking Stark on especially on a day like this.
Bucky’s eyes widened with incredulity when you ignored him. After clearing your throat, you spoke slowly. “We’re sorry about the error.”
What the hell was wrong with you?
“What am I going to do with an apology?” Tony’s patience had obviously run out even before he arrived at this meeting. “Is this yours?” He jerked his head toward the discarded report.
“No, but we’ll get it corrected. You’ll have the new file today.”
Tony eyed you as he debated whether or not he even wanted to bother with getting help from the unit. “I want this back within the hour and god help us all if I find another mistake.”
Bucky did not miss the tension in your neck and the faint crack in your voice. “Understood.” You didn’t want to break in front of Tony but you weren’t a trained operative either.
After the meeting, everyone returned to their desks except for you and Claire. From his window on the third floor, Bucky saw you waving your hands in the air as you walked back and forth in front of the bench across the office. He didn’t need a bug to figure out what you were talking about. You needed to let off steam, and instead of yelling at Gardner, you opted for punching the air and wringing an invisible neck until you calmed down.
The stupid stunt reminded him of Steve, as far idiotic actions go. It wasn’t impressive or worthwhile - just plain impulsive. You could have gotten humiliated or fired.
It was pointless trying to save Gardner and Bucky was right about that. A month later Gardner applied for a transfer to the State Department. Bucky hoped he wouldn’t be accepted into the program but on the other hand he also could care less about Gardner.
It baffled Bucky, how kindness and stupidity went together sometimes, and often with a stubbornness that bordered on reckless.
It nagged him for months. Bucky couldn’t let it go - he just couldn’t ignore it. He couldn’t figure you out.
Bucky was torn when he received word about being reinstated to the field, and Steve picked up on it right away.
“You don’t want to be back?” He jogged in place and his eyes lit up after taking another look at Bucky. “No - you want to stay.”
There was no outrunning his friend, but Bucky could try. There’s a path circling all of the grids. He could run until his legs gave out, and that could be potentially hours of not having to tell his friend about you.
Steve’s head bobbed as he circled Bucky. “Why? Is this about-”
“It was a temporary assignment. You’ll be yelling orders at me soon enough.” Bucky’s metal arm whined, and the sharp sound surprised both soldiers.
To Steve’s credit, he backed off that time. He resumed his pace, waving for Bucky to follow.
The dark-haired one waited for the arm to quiet down. He flexed the prosthetic and curled the fingers to form a fist.
Take it easy , he’d been told. Don’t fight it.
A few seconds later, he opened his palm, shook his shoulders, and ran off to catch up with Steve.
Bucky barely remembered fragments of their escape. Steve located the Quinjet by some miracle and Wanda managed to restart the engines with guidance from the engineering team over comms. Bucky recalled soaring in the air when Steve tossed him like cargo, maybe it’s payback for something the Winter Soldier did to him one time, and Bucky landed face first on the bay with a resounding thud.
“Hey! Careful!” Wanda hollered over the engine firing up.
“It’s just a face, guy’s bleeding out from his back,” Steve yelled back.
That explained the swelling on the right side of Bucky’s face. The next thing he recalled was being surrounded by faceless figures as he lay under white blinding light. In his confusion, he tried to get up and realized his arms and legs were bound to the bed.
No!
His pulse raced instinctively. He groaned and struggled against the restraints. The heart monitor beeped frantically. Everyone in the room froze.
“Buck. It’s me. It’s ok.” Steve’s voice crackled through the speakers.
There was knocking on glass. Bucky fought through the haziness and followed the sound. Steve stood on the other side of the wall, wearing blood-stained gear and a panicked look. Bucky immediately came up with a couple of ways to insult his friend’s appearance, even though he was certain he looked ten times worse.
“You’re ok,” Steve said, resting his hand on the glass window.
The gesture centered Bucky. He stared at his friend with wide eyes and ignored the doctors hovering around him.
Has anyone told you what happened?
“Calm down buddy,” Steve pleaded. He caught the look and gave his friend a subtle nod, a shorthand between two people who knew each other too well. “I’ll take care of it. Soon as you let the doctors work on you, Bucky.”
He stilled his body, commanding himself to surrender, fighting against every instinct to flee. He gave in to exhaustion. His vision blurred as the beeping machines and whispers of a masked crowd faded into nothing.
He knew he’d been out for hours by the dryness of his throat. His tongue seemed heavy and metallic. The room smelled of antiseptic. Bucky glanced at his arms, following the tubes up to the bags of IV fluids hanging by the bed. He blinked in an attempt to get his mind to focus. He was no stranger to pain medication, Bucky was certain he’s on the good stuff that moment because he can’t even feel the stitches on his back.
He liked to think it was your heartbeat that woke him up in the hospital, but that’s horseshit. You were tearing Steve a new one in the hallway and Bucky would be falling out of his bed laughing but he’d just been drugged, stitched up and stapled everywhere and the doctors begged him to stay still.
Your voice slipped filtered through the cracked door.
“It’s called all cards on the table, Steve, the more information we have, the fewer risks you’ll have to take, the better the preparation.” You and Steve stood outside Bucky’s door, speaking in hushed tones and it’s the unadulterated outrage in your voice that roused him from what seemed like the tenth nap he’s had that day.
Bucky frowned at the jar of Skittles on the table next to the bed. The only source of color in this otherwise decidedly gray and white facility. That jar was full the last time he checked. Dammit Wilson .
“Suicide missions get you guys off, I’m not going to stop Beavis and Butthead from jumping off a cliff because that’s your thing, I fucking get it, but when you ask me to get you info and I tell you something smells bad, don’t tell me it’ll be fine.”
“Listen-”
“No no no. Steve, I’m not the one risking my life out there every time, but I’m a part of the god-damned team too and I-” You didn’t finish the sentence.
There was something buried in your tone. If Bucky could only see you, he could read you in a second. If he could just see you, then he’d know how you were doing, and if you weren’t well, he’d find a way to fix things.
He suspected you’d been crying, and if he weren’t hopped up on painkillers that moment, he’d be in a better position to follow the conversation. Before Bucky could call out to you, and rescue his best friend from a public dressing down, you walked away. The footsteps died down after several meters.
No.
He swore you were just in here. The room smelled less of industrial cleaner to start with. The drugs dulled his senses but Bucky found your scent lingering around the bed. His core tightened immediately at the thought of you. It took him a few minutes to realize someone pulled his hair up into a half-bun, and he probably looked silly but it was nice to wake up without hair sticking to his face.
Who else would have done that for him?
But when he finally shook off the remnants of a very nice dream, he saw Steve standing by the window, staring at the distance.
“Why are you here?” Bucky croaked.
His blonde friend pretended to be offended. “Hello Steve, thanks for watching over me while I snored for hours.”
They’ve done this so many times, one keeping vigil while the other recovered after undergoing surgery. They just skipped over the pleasantries.
“I just meant…” Bucky checked the room for any sign of you. “Where’s my candy?” If Sam finished the entire jar, he can guarantee war in the apartment the moment the doctors released him.
“About that…” Steve faced him with an apologetic look. “They want you to have something a little less sweet.”
“A little less sweet?” He’s over a hundred years old for Chrissakes.
His friend gave him a look. “While you’re in here.”
Bucky exhaled. He didn’t want to be ungrateful, Steve did save his life after all and Bucky had already lost count how many times that’s happened, but he’d dreamt of you, fragments of conversation, an echo of your laughter, and the heat from your hands pressed on his skin.
So yeah, he would have preferred to wake up to you instead of Steve just then. Bucky drank from the cup of water handed to him and casually inquired if you’d been around.
Steve eased into the chair that was too small for him. “You saw the candy from yesterday.”
“The one Sam stole from an injured man’s room?”
“They asked us to take it out and if you want to blame someone, it was Natasha,” Steve replied with an amused smile.
He mentioned the time you brought coffee while they waited for the surgery to finish. You’d visited a few times since, staying in the room for a few minutes only and then stepping out to give Steve a piece of your mind.
The smile on Steve’s face vanished and he paused to consider how to relay the situation. “I get the impression you’re easier company when you’re snoring.”
That would explain why you’re never around when Bucky awoke. He’s asleep 75 percent of the time but you were all he could think of when he was running on adrenaline and visions of you circled his mind when he was high on pain medication.
You were his first coherent thought after the drugs waned off and the last thing in his mind as he drifted off to sleep.
Would it kill you to stick around?
“Are you sulking?”
Bucky was used to the mockery. The serum gave them numerous gifts - maturity was not one of them.
To appease him, Steve added that you had reminded Sam to bring the Spider plant from Bucky’s room and you asked if someone ought to bring a few clothes over.
Bucky mumbled something about putting your name on his guest list. You could actually walk into his room anytime and grab the plant. If you wanted to. Then you’d have a reason to visit him again. Maybe tomorrow. If you felt like it. Up to you.
That piqued Steve’s curiosity. “Since when?”
Bucky told him the exact date. Weeks before they even knew about the Stark Foundation Gala.
Steve rocked back in the seat, slapping his thigh because you’ve had access to their private quarters for months - even Nick Fury didn’t have this level of freedom to move around the compound - and nobody but Bucky knew.
Steve wasn’t too surprised; he suspected that’s how you were able to exit the apartment that time without the alarms going berserk. “There’s gotta be a better way to let someone know how you really feel about them.”
Bucky simmered. He could have told you dozens of times in the past.
When he came up with plausible excuses to swing by and leave chocolate on your desk, because you always looked surprised when he did that. You protested but your lips curled timidly. You couldn’t quite look him straight in the eye right after either, but your eyes twinkled anyway.
Or when he stood across your apartment building, that time you’d been working from home, presumably avoiding him after Steve’s glib comments about going to Pepper’s event. It’s not surveillance, he insisted to his conscience after his third walk around the block. He lost whatever confidence he thought he had and went back to the compound without telling anyone where he’d been.
Or when he kissed you for the first time. Your eyes pulled him in, long before you even grabbed his shirt. He fantasized about kissing you countless times, but he followed his instinct that day, leaning when he would normally walk out hurriedly to get you out of his head. Even the voice that often warned him he wasn’t ready for this, that he was supposed to take things easy (when did kissing a friend you were really into didn’t complicate relationships?), failed to get the message across.
The instant his cheek grazed yours, Bucky understood not even a very angry Dr. Banner can pry him off you. His skin warmed upon contact, like an ember coming alive, and Bucky was drawn to you by an inexplicable force. He kissed you, tasting sweet pleasure he had never known before. He nearly had a heart attack when you cupped his face and pressed your lips into his, begging to be devoured.
Or he could have told you when you asked him out again before the mission, instead of lying about having to sleep early.
There was nothing he’d rather do more than spend time with you, but he panicked. This wasn’t only a case of being an idiot, although his inability to effectively coordinate his brain and his mouth when you looked at him directly definitely made the problem worse.
Making snap decisions with deadly implications shouldn’t shock Bucky as much as it did, when you turned to him with all the light you carried, eyes that followed him whenever both of you were in the same room, and asked if he wanted to get a drink with you again.
Nobody said anything about it being a date, but Bucky had known for a while from the way you saw through his impatient stares and how he voluntarily told you blackmail-worthy stories about himself because they made you laugh, that it may not be a date when you order the first round of drinks, but there wasn’t a chance of him ending the evening not being a little bit more infatuated with you.
Every detail of his send off at the bar was burned in his memory. The only reason he even agreed to come with the team that day was because he’d heard that the team had to talk you down from decorating the table with balloons and streamers.
Before meeting you, all Bucky wanted to do was sneak into the garage and take the lawn tractors for a spin. For the rest of his life. Stark would have the flattest, neatest lawns in all of New York.
You said you wanted to get a beer with him again, and suddenly he saw a future where he wasn’t alone, and the realization slapped him in the face. Hard, like the time Steve called the Winter Soldier his friend.
He told himself he has to take it easy. Your face crumbled in disappointment, revealing a vulnerability you’ve never shown him before, but quickly masking it as you shrugged off his measured response. Your decisive recovery took him aback and Bucky found himself swimming against giant waves of instant regret.
He hoped it would come up again at some point, and he’d have a chance to redeem himself and make things right, but you never mentioned it again. In fact, every time the subject of Bucky’s send off came around, you switched the topic immediately, and wouldn’t glance his way until it was safely in the rearview mirror, not to be addressed as far as you were concerned.
Until the day before the mission.
By then things between the two of you evolved. It didn’t have a name, and it’s not due to Bucky’s lack of imagination. If he were slightly infatuated a year ago, now he was hooked and his concerns had taken on a slightly more sinister color.
Bucky turned to Steve, who was content to study him on the hospital bed, letting Bucky wallow. This was not the man anyone should turn to for relationship advice. He may be an idiot but he picked up many of his bad habits from hanging around that guy. Their friendship was never based on sharing enlightenment or guiding each other on a journey of self-discovery. With the exception of a couple of years when they were actively trying to kill each other, Steve and Bucky mainly operated based on a “don’t start shit, but if you do, and I know you will - come find me” friendship model.
But he was a desperate guy. The hospital bed is cold and lumpy, his arm wouldn’t stop hissing and squeaking, and he hasn’t seen you in at least 48 hours now. The words tumbled out before Bucky even knew what he expected from saying them aloud: “How do you know it’s not going to be a disaster?”
Steve snorted.
Bucky stared at the ceiling. “Someone could tranq me while we’re having a drink at the bar. For starters.”
Anyone with half a brain would know they can’t just shoot a tranquilizer at Bucky. They put a bullet into his head on sight.
From the corner of his eye, Bucky saw Steve nodding. “That could happen.”
Dread settled into his stomach, it was bitter and corrosive, but it’s not even his safety that he worried about. What would he have to do to make sure no one got to you?
“Look at it this way. Maybe someone could pull a gun on you. Can’t blame them. Hell, half the time I think about punching you in the face. And maybe you go for that drink and you’d be a really boring fella. Who knows?”
“Is there a point you wanted to make?”
He paused for effect. Steve was good at that sort of stuff. “You think you’ll be bored at any point during this hypothetical date?”
Not a chance. Bucky could watch you sleep and not think about being anywhere else.
Steve was never a play-it-smart guy, but he surprised Bucky sometimes. The candidness didn’t do much for the swirling pool of apprehension surrounding Bucky, but it’s not quite unwelcome because it’s about you.
There was a time when Bucky relished sleeping like a baby, months of doing the same thing - getting up, going to the office, grabbing a pizza, hitting the sack - before he let you into his life.
Minutes passed and Steve rested his head against a wall for a nap.
“Okay,” Bucky declared over the uninterrupted sound of Vibranium gears spinning.
“Hmmm? You need something?” Steve propped his elbows on the chair to pull himself up. It took him a few seconds to notice Bucky’s focused stare. The ceiling should have a hole in it by now. “Whatever it is you’re thinking, don’t.”
“I’m not thinking.” Bucky closed his eyes, knowing he hadn’t fooled his friend.
His body healed faster when he had fewer drugs running through him but as Bucky knocked, his knuckles hitting the door harder than he intended, he wished he’d taken out the morphine drip at the last second.
Instead, he ripped the IV out of his arm the second he made up his mind about going through with the plan. He needed his body to heal faster and his mind to be a little sharper, and going off pain meds would help with that.
Not surprisingly, Sam dropped by the other day but he forgot to bring the Spider plant with him. Steve had to work. Some business back south. Sam mentioned a couple of new assignments that kept everyone at work busy that day. Names weren’t specified, but Bucky inferred it was supposed to explain why you have not been around to see him.
He can’t change the way you felt about not visiting poor, wounded, lonely soldiers on their deathbed, but there were things that were still within his control.
He knocked again, and this time the force was intentional. He leaned against the doorframe for support, breathing slowly. That always helped to alleviate the stinging pain of an entry wound.
There were shuffling, barefooted steps approaching the door, and the metal clicking alerted him. Bucky counted under his breath. One. Two. Three. After the third deadbolt unlocked, the door swung open.
The surprise on your face was shadowed by the overwhelming rush of relief enveloping Bucky. Clad in an oversized blue sweater and black socks, you stood in the entryway, mouth open because you have to say something, you’re just not sure what. Bucky dropped his arm to his side, taking you in, eyes frantically capturing every detail because some part of his mind worried he remembered the curve of your neck or the color of your lips differently and that’s unacceptable.
He was basking in your proximity. From this distance he picked up your scent without putting any effort and he thanked the universe profusely for his life.
“Hello.” Not the best opening, but he’s had a long day.
His sandpapery voice caught your attention.
You placed a hand on your forehead. You bounced from shocked and relieved, to worried and upset.
The building was quiet. He didn’t have any problem getting to your floor but he really shouldn’t be loitering in the hall in case one of your neighbors stepped out for a late night walk or store run. “Can I come in?”
You frowned in response to his grin. Bucky kept his mouth shut when you stepped back to allow him entry.
He quickly shut the door behind him. You continued to walk backward as he approached. “Stop.” He took another step. “Sweets.”
Your face softened. “I told you not to-”
Bucky swooped in, wrapping his arms around you, burying his face in your shoulder. His senses were overwhelmed, he wanted to lose himself in you. All of a sudden, he is whole, but he is tired and weary, like decades of fighting finally caught up with him.
His jaw clenched and Bucky readied himself to choke on his cries. He nearly lost you. Maybe all the atoning, denying himself joy because he didn’t deserve to just walk away unburdened, had paid off. Maybe he could finally accept his penance and forgive himself too. Tears gathered at the back of his eyes; he was certain the slightest movement, a cough, a sigh, would release them.
You buckled under his weight. “Are you-” You stumbled when he refused to let go. “Okay, okay-”
He allowed himself to be led forward and a few steps later Bucky felt your hand on his chest. It amplified the beating of his heart and you stilled too, sharing the moment with him.
“Bucky.”
He pressed his face deeper into the exposed skin of your neck. He could almost taste you, but right then his need to survive by breathing you in superseded other desires.
“Do you want pizza?”
The simplicity of the question - like he hadn’t been shot, like you hadn’t been arguing about the risks of the mission days ago, like pizza was something you could be asking each other on a regular basis if he could just get his act together - soothed Bucky, as if they were magic words.
He nodded.
“One of us is going to sit. One of us is going to get the pizza ready.” Your hand rubbed his back idly and Bucky was ready to change his mind again. Were you even aware of what your touch did to him?
He released you with great reluctance and he slowly eased into your couch. Your apartment came into focus behind you as Bucky steadied himself, already missing the feel of your skin.
You gave him a look - stay still - and you rolled your sleeves up before hurrying to the kitchen. He followed you with his ear as his eyes wandered around your home.
You lived in a new development, newer compared to the old brownstones in the city. It’s a small apartment, but there’s enough room for one person to move around comfortably. Interior decoration was clearly not a hobby. You selected furniture based on their function, but at least you had the sense to match a few of them. There’s a framed picture in the far corner, the only picture in the room. Judging by the shared facial features, he guessed it’s of your family, taken over ten years ago.
Bucky kept the aches at bay by listening to you moving in the kitchen with the efficiency of someone who lived on pizza dinners for years, and focusing on the sturdy couch - not too soft or hard, it supported his weight comfortably, and he thought to himself, it wouldn’t be unthinkable to lose hours just sitting here.
He sat up when he heard your footsteps returning. You handed him a glass of water and he grazed your hand on purpose when he accepted the drink, smugly noting the little crackle of electricity your fingers exchanged.
“Why are you here?”
“I haven’t seen you in days.” He couldn’t help the little whine that accompanied the statement.
“I visited a couple of times -”
“When I was knocked out.”
You crossed your arms and looked at the floor.
Bucky finished the glass of water before trying again. “I know you were there.”
“They were worried you’d wake up and rip out all the IV-” You sighed because Bucky ended up doing the same thing anyway. “Someone had to keep surveillance.”
He flashed back to the few times he’s driven around your neighborhood to check you got home safely and there was that time he very nearly thought about knocking, but he didn’t on the off chance someone tailed him.
“You don’t know the first thing about surveillance.” It was a provocation, meant to get a smile out of you.
You did not take the bait. “You sleep like the dead, by the way. Anyone ever told you that?” You fixated on the cuff of your sleeve. “No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”
Bucky debated the merits of pulling you over to the couch. Based on experience, conversation seemed to flow between you freely the closer you were to each other. He observed your fixed stance, and decided not to push his luck.
“Steve said it took them a while to detach your arm. You continued to bleed out until they got somebody from Wakanda to talk them through it.” You rubbed your eye with a clenched fist.
The doctors told him the same story. Bucky had forgotten what it would be like for someone to deal with news like that for the first time.
“How’s your back?” You asked quietly after a few seconds of silence.
“Numb. Probably a good thing, huh?” He lied and waited for the lecture, the sarcastic commentary about field safety, or at the very least an outright “I told you so.”
Instead you watched him with undeserved concern. “Should we tell someone you went out for fresh air and ended up here?”
Anyone who knew him well would know where he’d be right now. The fact that no one called you yet meant they were giving Bucky the benefit of the doubt. It wouldn’t last long and he’ll catch hell for this stunt, but it would be worth it.
You are worth everything .
It was a truth, central to who he was. Not something he aimed for, certainly not one he manufactured - not consciously at least, but even after foolishly refusing to date you years ago, he found himself sneaking out of a secure hospital facility because he missed you.
“No.” His inability to get any sort of emotional response from you began to nag at him though.
You can’t even look at him for more than two seconds.
“Do you want me to call Steve?”
“No.” Bucky needed to sleep; you looked like you needed sleep; the logical thing would be to ask you to squeeze in next to him so you can both get some goddamned sleep and not leave this place for days. “Do you want me to leave?”
Your lips pressed into a firm line. You remained standing in the middle of the room, not far from the couch but still out of his reach. Hair had fallen over the side of your face, but you didn’t seem to notice. His hands itched to brush them off your cheek. He would happily tear the stitches in his back open if he could just feel you close to him again.
You cleared your throat just as the microwave dinged, the sound intruding the stand-off in the living room.
“I should-”
Bucky threw his head back. “Jesus Sweets, you’re breaking my heart here,” he said, grinning at you to lighten the mood. Bucky felt helpless again, unable to make you understand how badly he needed you.
“I’m breaking-” Your eyes widened in disbelief and you took a step closer to him. “I’m breaking your heart? That’s - well - that’s so rich coming from you.”
The temperature rose. It wasn’t enough for you to notice, but it’s all Bucky needed to know he’s finally getting a human reaction out of you.
You glanced at the kitchen again.
“Look, stay, you can yell at me all you want.”
“And what would yelling get me, Bucky, how’s that going to change anything?” It was your turn to glare at him, conveying layers of frustration and longing, without speaking further.
It would really be so much easier if you would just scream expletives at him and detail how wrong he was not to tell you what he knew about the mission. That he was an idiot for saying he wouldn’t go out with you, when he wanted to, more than anything. That adding your name to his guest list - which you still didn’t know about - so you can come visit him at home anytime wasn’t the grand gesture he thought it was.
Bucky blew at the wayward strand of hair that kept slipping from behind his ear. Your eyes followed the movement carefully. It drove you mad, his messy hair. It’s the only reason he never bothered to tie his hair back properly.
Maybe honesty would get him somewhere. “I need you to yell at me, so I can apologize again for not listening to you and maybe you’d forgive me, and if you forgive me, I’ll make you dinner back home.” It’s a flurry of requests and promises he thought he’d rehearsed properly during the trip to your place from the compound medical unit.
Your jaw dropped for the second time that night. “I can’t do this when surgeons just closed bullet-shaped holes in your back. Sorry.” You shook your head and appeared stunned for a moment. Then without another word, you spun and headed to what he assumed was your bedroom, shutting the door quietly.
Bucky pounded his forehead with a fist. He pictured this evening going very differently. He stared at your bedroom door, correctly predicting you were curled up on your bed. He thought he was supposed to apologize for the mission.
Three minutes later - yes, he’d been timing it - your feet returned to the floor. The door opened and you returned to the living room with the same frown.
He’d had enough of this distance. Bucky rose. He didn’t know why, but he was convinced, if he could just hold you, he could make sense of everything.
“Sit, before you bust a stitch. You’re going to sit, ok James Buchanan Barnes, you’re going to sit and listen to me.”
He obeyed without a second thought, falling back to the couch, his pulse racing. Bucky realized he wasn’t catching hell tomorrow - it was happening now, and it was coming from you.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
You groaned. “Ask me to dinner, genius!”
Now he was confused, although he didn’t know why he was even surprised by your reaction - it was never going to be easy with you was it?
To say that Bucky survived impossible circumstances was an understatement, so why would people think he needed to take it easy? What if he wanted confusing and mind-bending? What if what he needed was someone who kept him on his toes instead of treating him like a fragile, decorative ornament best kept behind glass?
He felt very dumb for having to ask, but how else was he going to know? “Why?”
Your face took on a calmer expression, and it dawned on Bucky that this wasn’t the first time you’d thought about this. “I’m not anyone’s dying wish. Don’t ask me out because you thought you were going to die.”
“I’m not - it’s not-”
You weren’t done. You shushed him with a finger. “Don’t ask me out because you know I fucking like you.” You narrowed your eyes, daring him to feign innocence, to claim he thought you were only fooling around and having fun.
Bucky laughed unintentionally and every wound in his body made him regret it. He wheezed, muscles spasming as he took air to his lungs in the smallest amounts and wished the sharp ache away.
Without realizing it, you’d taken another step closer to him.
“You like me huh?” The pain dulled after a while, and he could smile again. You liked him.
“And don’t ask me out just because I asked you out. Twice. And you rejected me, by the way. Twice.”
Just like that the sting returned, and this time it came from you.
“Sweets.”
“How many times do I - stop calling me that.”
He reached out with his hand. “Come here, please?”
Your hands moved to your hips. “Here’s good actually.”
“For whom?” Bucky heard himself whining again but he needed a little understanding from you too. “I can’t have candy. I can’t invite you to dinner. I can’t call you Sweets. What the hell am I allowed to do?” He exhaled, panic rising. “Don’t do this.”
You raised your eyebrows.
“I was wrong; I need to make it up to you and I’m gonna make it up to you. But please don’t run away.” He swore and he was prepared to get on his knees, but he had a feeling he’d get yelled at if he so much as moved an inch from the couch.
You covered your face with both hands. He thought you’d scream, but you didn’t.
“You’re not listening, Bucky. I’m not being mean to you by not spending hours at the hospital. I blamed myself for not finding the information about the fighter jets sooner. I couldn’t breathe until the engineers confirmed the Quinjet was coming home. You want to know how fun it is to hear you’re bleeding out and all I could do was go out and buy coffee for everyone?”
Your lips twitched and that was the subtle movement that opened the floodgates he’d managed to control until now.
Bucky gasped when he felt hot tears falling down his cheeks and he quickly wiped them back with a closed fist. His chest shuddered and the muscles on his back trembled uncontrollably, stretching the stitches he’d been repeatedly asked not to mess up.
“I’m trying to protect myself because this isn’t going to go anywhere, is it, and I know that and yet I - I don’t quite know how to stay away from you.” Your voice faltered and your hands dropped to your sides. You’re done putting up a fight.
Your admission crushed him. He couldn’t believe how reckless he’d been, playing this out like a chess game without considering your feelings.
Without thinking, he rose and you flinched, your face turning away as if you anticipated pain from the subtlest of his movement.
Horror hit him. He reached out with shaking hands, moving as slowly as he could, praying you’d let him touch you.
When you stayed put this time, Bucky finally pulled you to his chest. His eyelids fluttered with relief when you wordlessly sank into his embrace.
“Tell me how to make things right,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry, Sweets. Please. I’ll do anything. Tell me how to make this right.” He kissed your forehead gently, determined to soothe every pain he’d caused you.
You quivered in his arms while catching your breath and after a few minutes, you stopped shaking altogether. You nuzzled his chest and said “I don’t know how,” in a scared voice.
Bucky kissed the top of your head again out of sheer habit, aware it was probably more of a comfort to him than to you. He was a fool, blaming his enemies when all this time he’d been the one causing you harm.
His only saving grace was your crumpled fist, wound tightly, clinging to Bucky by the fabric of his shirt.
