These came out more Cg!Punz and Little!Reader so if you aren't comfortable with that you don't have to read these :]
Cargiver!Cc!Punz:
-The definition of the best caregiver ever!
-It does not matter what age his little regress to he is fully prepared for everything
-He is the most Patient, Caring, Supportive Caregiver ever!
-If you are coloring he will always compliment you on it
-If you need help with something he is there and ready!
-He is a surprisingly good cook and if you both don't feel like cooking he will order out and pay for everything so that you don't have to leave the house if you have anxiety and so you don't have to worry about a thing
-He is calm and collected if things go wrong
-If there is crying involved he will just hold you and rock you back and forth until you are ready/until you have calmed down well enough that your heart rate is steady again
-He has a drawer filled with little stuff for you and a section in his closet dedicated to your onzies and blankets if it's a onzie kind of night!
-In that drawer contains super fun toys and some adorable stuffies and pacis of course if his little is that young or regress to paci age or just wants one!
-He has all different kinds, different themes, colors, ect! Some even light up!!
-He loves giving you nicknames as well!
-He will walk with his hand in yours everywhere you two go if you two have to get up for any reason or he will carry you if that's what you want more, he will do anything he can do for you/his little
-He does the knee bounce thing sometimes with you/his little on his knee and will just bounce you up and down
-He is a big hugger/cuddler so he will just hold you close if you are comfortable with that of course and just lay there, play with your hair and tell you how amazing you are and how much he cares about you
-He always asks you what you want
-He is awesome!!
-Don't let his awesomeness fool you though, he is a very stern and driven man
-So when it comes to the rules he is serious about them, of course he would never yell or get angry at you, he is flexible but he just wants the very best for you/his little! :]
-If you two are out together getting groceries he won't let you leave his side, and he will let you ride in the grocery cart if you want! He would never put you in a position where you would be anxious
-The same thing applies if you happen to slip when you are around his friends, he will take you into another room, make sure you are comfortable and if you are comfortable with letting his friends see it or if you want to go home, ect, he is so nice!
-His friends know about it already and are super chill about it so if you are comfortable they will all do their part to help take care of you
-One time you were little in front of the group and that caused someone else in the group to slip into little space too (*Cough* Dream *Cough!*) and the team had two littles to take care of! It was wild but so much fun!
-Punz is also a bit protective of his little too! Not in a toxic way, He loves that the others can help and he appreciates it very much but he just feels like it's his duty as your caregiver to take care of you
-And he just wants to always be your favorite! He might get a little jealous but that is all good, he gets over it pretty face and plants kisses all over your face!
-He loves seeing you smile and hearing you laugh so tickles are a given within your relationship!
-He is more on the gentle side of things when it comes to tickles, unless you ask otherwise for him, but he loves just holding you and tickling all over your tickle spots with such gentleness but incredible speed and accuracy it is insane
-He just wants to make you happy in any way he can!
Parts 1 and 2 are tagged ls!reader on this blog. The end includes some ✨spice✨, so beware if that’s not something you’re interested in.
Bucky Barnes was in hell. Actual hell. He’d been stuck in a house with you and Sam for a month and a half. And, when Sam wasn’t grating on his last nerve, you would appear, wearing the skimpiest shorts he’d ever seen and a loose shirt, looking so beautiful it’d make his mouth go dry with nerves. (Shut up, Sam, it couldn’t be anything else). Before long, you’d do something that would inevitably send his mind straight into the gutter. (His latest fixation had been about laying you out on the table and taking his time exploring).
You seemed unwilling to talk about what happened (or didn’t happen) between the two of you before all this safe house bullshit. He could still feel the electricity between the two of you anytime you got close. If it got any closer, Sam was going to start feeling it. To make things worse, all his dreams were suddenly about slowly sliding his hands up your legs, feeling the little prickles from where you’d missed a spot shaving and listening to your little gaps as he pressed his lips to exactly the right spot...
He’s well and truly fucked.
See, his plan had been to avoid getting close to anyone until he was sure the Winter Soldier wasn’t coming back. But he’d shown up on your doorstep and you’d taken him in. The two of you had grieved for Steve together, had put together something like a life. You’d made sure he ate on something like a regular schedule, had made him tea when he had a nightmare. He made sure the creepy assholes who lived down the street left you alone. And it had been really fucking nice, to have someone who cared about him, to care about someone like that again. He’d cared about Steve like that once, worrying over his every move and happiness.
Bucky could have happily stayed with you forever, making tea and watching movies on Friday nights. He would have settled down and started watching the shitty shows you liked. (Something about a fiancé? And 100 days?) He’d do anything to see a smile light up your face.
It had all been going great until the Incident.
You’d kissed him and he ran away like the coward he was.
You’d kissed him and it had been the best kiss he’d had since...well ever. You’d been so soft against his chest and he’d wanted to stay in that moment forever. He wanted to hold you, to see your smile when you finally broke apart.
He wanted to kiss you again.
(He wanted to do more than kiss you.)
Instead, he’d ran halfway across the world in a panic. Sam and Zemo, no matter how irritating, were safer than examining his feelings for you. So he ran away, tried to avoid thinking about you or anything to do with you (which was impossible because you seemed to be inhabiting a permanent space in his brain). His therapist would call it avoidance, he called it self preservation. His feelings for you were a dangerous, unstable bomb. You were grieving the loss of your husband, the man you both loved deeply. You were his friend, the one person who didn’t care if he woke up at two in the morning, thrashing and screaming. Your happiness meant as much to him as his own.
After everything, you’d ended up trapped in a tiny house, avoiding each other. He missed the way you smiled at him, the way you would rest your hand on his arm to silently ask if he’s okay. And now, with Sam off on some mission meant to show the world that Captain America is alive and well, you’re alone in the house. It’s like it was before, when you shared an apartment. Except you’re not talking to each other and everything is fucked up. He wished Steve was here, he’d know what to do.
Bucky makes amends the way his mother taught him: food. He realizes halfway through cooking that maybe the Depression era food of his teens wasn’t considered good anymore. The dish is mostly potatoes, butter, and salt. It’s bland but it kept him, his sisters, and their parents fed during the hard months after his dad lost his job. You were probably used to world class food in fancy restaurants. His stupid potatoes weren’t enough.
You’re clearly surprised he cooks. You’re even more surprised he’s a good cook. Dinner is a little awkward, Bucky talks to fill the silence. He talks about his childhood, and his family, and growing up with Steve. In turn, you tell him about your life. Your family, hometown, what it was like to have Tony Stark as a Godfather.
It’s so fucking nice to talk again.
He waits for a lull in the conversation as you clean up before he finally asks.
“Are we ever going to talk about it?” You hum noncommittally, washing the kettle he’d boiled potatoes in. “Talk about what?” You know damn well what he’s asking about. He’s asking about the kiss and that moment before Sam and Torres had shown up. That moment that had pushed its way into your every waking thought.
Before you can come up with another smart ass remark, he’s crowding you against the counter. There’s an intense look on his face, somehow different from the one he usually wears. Your heart races and you think your body might actually be on fire.
“About the fact that you drive me crazy.” There’s no time to respond before Bucky’s kissing you. Your hands automatically go to his hair, clutching the short locks. Dimly, you curse the fact that he cut his long hair. Your mind is filled with dirty images of tugging on his hair, of your fingers laced in his hair as he licks and sucks at the apex of your thighs.
Bucky’s hands, meanwhile, are mapping your body. His left is resting on your hip, hesitantly rubbing circles on the exposed skin. His right hand is cradling your head, keeping you as close to him as possible while you kiss. You stay in this cramped position for a few moments, enjoying the feel of each other, before he breaks away. Your lips are swollen and your hair is mussed, making you look downright sinful.
You’re both at a loss for words at this new development, so he doesn’t say anything. He sits at the table, settles you in his lap, and continues. Before long you’re grinding against his thigh, making breathy little noises and whines.
“James.”
It makes his brain short circuit. All he can hear is white noise as a rush of pleasure spreads through him. He wants to make you make that noise again, wants you to call him James in that tone of voice. Somewhere, he distantly realizes you’re chanting his name and rutting against his thigh. It sounds like heaven.
After, he’ll make sure you’re both cleaned up and settled into your respective beds. After, he’ll wonder what exactly this means for the two of you. Right now, he’s too busy to care.
Idk when this is set, sometime after Steve leaves and but before Bucky moves in. I just really needed angsty reader letting Steve have it bc she was shouting in my brain.
Drunk you doesn’t make the best choices. Drunk you calls Steve at 2am from your bathtub. Your friends, bless them, convinced you to head out to some party and one drink turned into two then three then too many for you to think straight. You come home, grab the wine bottle off the table, and stumble to the bathroom. There’s a little part of your brain, the part that isn’t completely shit-faced yelling for you to slow down, to take it easy.
(Steve loved that part of you, the part that no matter what was going on, still kept calm and rational.)
You gulp down some wine, kick off your ridiculous shoes, and plop down in the bathtub. At some point, the exact series of events is blurry, you reach down and dial Steve’s number. He answers on the third ring alert despite the late hour.
Hate wells up in your throat and threatens to burn you to ash if you don’t unleash it. “I hate you.” Steve sighs, probably runs a hand through his hair. “I know.” It’s a simple agreement and it’s not satisfying. “I gave you everything and you left. You threw me away like I was nothing to you and I hate you for it. I hate that your stupid coffee cup is still here and that it makes me think of you every time I see it. I hate that I can’t smash it like I should because the stupid fucking coffee cup doesn’t deserve that. It’s not its fault you left.”
There’s a sound on the other side of the line, like Steve’s ready to say something. “No. You don’t get to apologize or whatever bullshit you’re going to do!” There’s tears running down your face, falling onto your exposed breasts in little drops. There’s wine splattered across your sleeve and the tile. “I’m so fucking mad and so fucking sad and I just want to know why. Why was she better? Why couldn’t you be happy with me? What did I do wrong?” There’s no answer and you feel the oddest combination of relief and heartbreak that he won’t tell you.
“I loved you. So much, maybe too much.”
“I still love you.”
His words tear a wail from your throat as you drop the wine bottle. It shatters, the perfect metaphor for your heart in that moment. It’s suddenly too much, too much hearing his voice and picturing him in his bed and not here with you. Steve’s yelling your name, demanding you answer him, and let him know you’re okay. You reassure him you’re in one piece and hang up.
The wine soaks into the grout, your sleeve stains, and you begin the process of rebuilding after Steve.
I don’t know what the fuck this is, but here it is.
How to court a girl in the 21st century
What is a tinder?
Do men and women still go steady?
What to do when you sleep with your best friend’s widow?
Google, or whatever the fuck it was called, had been exactly no help in figuring what the fuck to do about sleeping with you. Had that been considered sleeping together? As Bucky remembered it, when he allowed himself to think about it, sleeping together had involved a lot more than you rocking on his lap, looking like heaven come down to meet him. After, you’d looked up at him with those big eyes and he’d have given you just about anything. If you’d asked for the moon, he would’ve personally delivered it to you no questions asked.
You hadn’t asked for the moon, you hadn’t asked for anything. You’d grinned shyly and disappeared into your bedroom. In the past, he would’ve followed, would’ve shown you exactly what making love with him was like. Instead he just watches you go, painfully hard. He corners you the next day, pinning you against the counter and kissing you like a man starved of oxygen taking his first full breath.
“‘M gonna court you, make you mine.”
It’s a promise, the way he says it. He’s promising you he’s going to court you, promising that you’re going to be his. You want to believe him. (He wants to believe himself.)
Sam is no help, he suggests Google then refuses to help Bucky figure out how to use Google. It’s the guard at the front door, a pretty young woman with blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun, that finally helps him out. He’s shocked to find an article from Cosmopolitan. His mom and aunties used to read it religiously. It’s comforting when he finds things that remind him of his past. So many things are gone, lost to time. The alley where he and Steve met in is now a road. The building where he enlisted, demolished. It’s a special kind of yearning, one he can’t share with anyone else now that Steve is gone.
A little voice in his head tells him that maybe he could share it with you, you who understands what it’s like to be with someone who was yanked out of time. But being with Steve and being with him are completely different. Steve was good, Steve didn’t have blood on his hands. His thoughts spiral until he’s forced to go for a run, sprinting until all he can feel is the ache in his lungs and all thoughts have dissolved into the rhythm of running.
It’s a nice evening, the flowers in front of the safe house (who tended to those?) are blooming, filling the air with a sweet, floral scent that reminds him of the spring before he shipped off. It’s a brutally hot summer, a brutally hot evening, too hot for the fifty fans in the house to cool anyone off. In their infinite wisdom, the geniuses at the State Department had decided on a safe house without air conditioning. Someone with more than two brain cells had thought to provide an inflatable pool to at least pretend to cool off in.
It’s not unusual to see you relaxing in the pool in the evenings, drink in hand. It’d become part of your nightly routine to relax in an attempt to get cool enough to get some sleep so he’s not surprised when he first sees you outside. But when he really gets a look at you, his brain short circuits. There’s a white noise buzzing in his ears and if someone had asked him his name at that moment, he probably would have said Steve Rogers. You’re relaxing in the pool topless, your breasts on display. If he’d known you were topless, Bucky would’ve turned and walked back to New York, probably further. His mother had done her best to teach him manners. Those manners did not include spying on pretty women who were bathing topless. Bucky wants to look away, knows he should look away, but he can’t. His eyes are glued to you. He’d seen tits before, had even held them and worshipped them.
None were as beautiful as yours, bathed in the glow of the soft evening pinks.
Your face is utterly relaxed, upturned towards the sky to catch the last rays of the dying light. You’re prettiest like this, looking so relaxed. You deserve to be this relaxed all the time, to never have to worry about assholes like John Walker.
You open an eye, probably feeling his staring, and shatter the moment. You start, your tits bouncing a little in the water before sinking down in an attempt to cover yourself. There isn’t enough water to cover anything, mortifying you both.
“I’ll...I should…” Bucky turns and motions towards the house, a blush creeping up his cheeks. He’ll go back inside and you’ll never talk about this. You’ll never mention that he saw you topless in the yard and the awkward tension will continue until one of you dies. Probably you, Bucky was too stubborn to die. Instead, you stand, revealing everything to him.
“You don’t have to go, James.”
His head whips around when you call him James. It sounds pretty on your lips, makes him feel like a different person, like he isn’t the piece of shit he is. It makes him think about the last time you’d called him James. “I really do. I don’t think…” You’re walking towards him, still wet from your time in the pool. (That weird static noise is back in his brain, is he having a stroke? Can super soldiers have a stroke? He is 104.) You’re standing in front of him now and he’s aching to reach out and touch your skin. It’s probably soft and smooth, beautiful just like you. Images of you in his bed, your back arched in pleasure flash through his mind. He remembers how pretty you looked when you were rocking on his thigh, taking your pleasure.
Bucky wants more than anything to reach out and touch you, to pull you flush against his chest and kiss the living daylights out of you. That’s what he would’ve done before, before he went to war and everything changed. But he’s trying to be better, to actually court you instead of just take you into his bed. Instead, he hands you the towel on the lounge chair so you can cover yourself.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to surprise you, my bad.”
Things are awkward for a few days after. Sam laughs like the asshole he is when he hears the story. “Man, you just gave her a towel and left? You’ve got no game!” Torres defends him, says it was the sweet thing to do. You avoid him.
Before he can figure out how to make it up, you’re released back to your homes. Sam goes back to Louisiana, Torres is needed back on the base, and you disappear back to your life. Bucky goes home and tries to figure out how he’s supposed to woo you. He settles on flowers. Women like flowers.
You’re elbow deep in paperwork when Bucky shows up with flowers. You welcome him into the apartment, invite him to eat dinner with you. It’s a quiet moment when you start talking about you and Steve.
“He was late to our wedding, did you know that? He got sidetracked helping someone and it made him late. I thought he stood me up. Then he showed up and we got married and...I suppose you know that rest.”
You look destroyed as you take another sip of your drink. Bucky wants to pull you into his chest and make sure you never cry again. He wants to take care of you. He wants to punch Steve for ever making you feel like this.
“I’m not even mad he left anymore, I just wish he would’ve told me. I could’ve understood it if he had just told me about it. I came home to a note. A fucking note.” You sniffle angrily and stand abruptly. “No sense crying, ‘m gonna clean up.” Bucky stands as you do, almost overturning the table. Suddenly, he feels too large and too awkward to comfort you. He’s nothing like Steve, the husband you still missed. Steve would know exactly what to do right now.
“I’m sor--”
You turn on him before he can even get the words out, eyes blazing. You’re suddenly angry and it makes you look beautiful. “For fuck’s sake, Bucky! Don’t! I’m so fucking sick of talking about Steve and everyone apologizing! Everyone looks at me like I’m some broken woman because Steve left. I’m not broken, he didn’t break me! Then you showed up and and it finally felt like there would be someone there for me! But you left, just like he did! One moment we’re practically sleeping together and the next, you’re blowing me off. Pick one, Bucky!”
You stare at each other, both surprised by your outburst.
“I didn’t leave--” You open your mouth to protest and he holds up a hand, stopping you. “Let me finish. I didn’t leave because I wanted to or I didn’t like you. I got nervous. I haven’t done this in--it’s been awhile. And you’re so beautiful, I didn’t know what to do. I still don’t know what to do. You’re so good, and I’m not.” You surge forward at his lame finish, cupping his face in your hands. His stubble scratches against your palm as you gaze into his eyes. “Don’t say that, James. You’re one of the best people I know. You’re good. The things they made your body do are not things you did. I love you, James.”
Your words hang in the air between you. You want to grab them out of the air and take them back. You want to unsay them.
“You can’t love me. Loving me is dangerous.”
“I think I should be able to make that choice for myself.”
He gives you a long, hard look. Finally, he relents, sighs, and pulls you into his chest. “God help us.”
A/N: A couple points: 1) I made a new blog for these writings to make them easier to find 2) I have a tag list! lmk if you want to be added to it 3) For my non US babes and others, your third amendment rights say you can’t be forced to house soldiers. Long Story Short
Contains TFATWS Episode 5 spoilers
****
With John Walker being Honorably Discharged after an International Incident, you’re stuck under house arrest. (The United States Government would tell you house arrest is too strong of a word, it’s simply Strongly Advised you stay in your apartment.) You want to scream from the rooftops that you had nothing to do with him, that it was all an act, but you’re being Strongly Advised, so that’s not an option. You hope, wherever he is, Bucky is having a better time than you are.
Five Days; Eastern Europe:
Bucky is not having a good time. They’re in a country where everyone wants them dead, holed up in a shitty motel and all he can think of is the absolutely devastated look on your face when he walked out the door. It makes him brood.
“You have to talk about her sometime.”
“Who?”
“Whoever makes you frown like that.”
“‘M not frowning. What do you know about it anyway? You’re single.” So maybe he was being an ass about it. You were so far away, probably cuddled up with John or Steve, and he was here, sitting in a motel room with Sam. John Walker was probably feeling you up right now, running his hand over those beautiful thighs of yours as you kissed him, making soft little noises--he clenches his fist so hard he breaks the bowl he’d been holding, splattering rice and beans all over the floor cracked tile floor.
“Yo, man, what the fuck?!”
Day One; New York City:
Steve’s allowed to visit, because of course he is. He flashes some badge and the guards (who are Strongly Advising you), stand down. “Why are you here, Stevie?” And you hate that you still call him Stevie. Stevie is what you called him on the quiet nights when you two were alone and he was still yours. Steve gives you his sad smile and you want to fall into his arms, to sob into his chest and tell him how you fucked it all up. You don’t.
“Just go, Stevie.”
Four Days; Eastern Europe:
Sam goes to do some surveillance, announcing that he “couldn’t deal with this shit,” leaving Bucky alone in the shitty room they were sharing. Before he’d been deployed, he would’ve spent an afternoon alone in a hotel curled up with a pretty girl or a handsome boy. During the war, he’d spend a quiet day catching up on some sleep or rereading a well loved copy of The Hobbit. During his Hydra days (which he hated thinking about but also couldn’t stop thinking about), there really weren’t days off. There were days where he killed and days where he didn’t. Since then, he’d spent most of his days off trying to remember how to be a human.
You had made those days feel like living again. And now you were John’s girl, dressed all pretty up for him and everything. Bucky’d been fucking stupid to think you’d want someone like him, someone damaged, someone with blood on his hands. You were good and soft and pretty. You spoke four languages and had probably read every book ever written.
You’d been good enough for Steve.
He breaks another bowl and has to lay down after.
Day Three; New York City:
You glare down the solider that’s sitting in your kitchen, eating a sandwich. “This is violating my Third Amendment Rights, you know.”
The smug bastard grins and keeps eating his sandwich.
Two Days; Louisiana:
“That shield’s the closest thing I’ve got left to a family, so when you retired it, I felt like I had nothing left.”
The mission had gone down as well as any of their missions go, they’d been shot at, gotten out by the skin of their teeth. Sam left to go back home as soon as he could, Bucky followed. Where else did he have to go?
“You have her.”
He didn’t, not really.
“I don’t want to talk about her, Sam.” Bucky tosses the shield, scowling deeply.
Sam sighs, catching the shield. He turned to face his friend, were they friends?, and looked him up and down. “Yeah, you do.” So maybe Bucky does want to talk about you, about how betrayed he feels by you choosing Walker over him. The government hadn’t been powerful enough to stop some gossip magazine from publishing a spread of you and Walker, you in a little red sundress that makes you look incredible and his hand on your thigh. There’s some bullshit story about how you met and had been so enamored with him you’d asked him for coffee on the spot.
It makes Bucky physically sick with rage.
Day Four; New York City:
After four days of being Strongly Advised, you’re ready to start pulling out your hair. The news is nonstop coverage of what happened to John Walker, the green beret who had gone crazy and killed a man in a moment of grief induced rage. And to top it all off, People released a spread that makes you want to scream. The whole shoot hadn’t been your idea, some government publicist had insisted it was necessary to sell the story. In reality, it’d been five hours with John’s hands all over you, grinning like the cat that got the cream. During a break, he’d asked you about Steve, his tone suggesting something that was none of his business.
“You don’t get to talk about Steve.” John had smirked at you, running his tongue over his teeth. It clearly annoyed him, someone thinking he wasn’t good enough for something. “What about your wife, John?” A look of surprise crosses his face but it’s gone in a moment, the mask he wears to keep people out back in place.
“Olivia isn’t part of the deal. I thought we could be friends,” he spits the word out like it’s dirty, “but clearly you’re not interested in that, clearly you’re interested in--”
“Be careful how you finish that sentence, John.” Your voice is low, betraying the landmine he’s almost stepped on. Given the chance, you’d stab John Walker in his pretty face. Decades in prison means nothing when the love of your life abandoned you and the man you thought you could count on ran out. (So maybe you were thinking about Bucky, it doesn’t actually matter.)
Bucky had been a solid presence in a sea of uncertainty. He’d made you feel safe and okay. After Steve’s departure and the death of Tony, the only member of your family left, solid and safety had been in short supply. He’d showed up, ate his cold beans in silence in the kitchen, and hadn’t left. He’d made you laugh in a way you hadn’t in months. You’d developed a routine, Bucky would wake up before you and boil water for tea, you’d stumble out and cook something to serve as breakfast, and you’d both go about your days. In the evenings, you’d come together, talk about the stupid shit that had happened during the day, watch a movie on Friday nights, and go to bed. It was nice to have a routine, something and someone you could depend on.
The nights had been quiet since he left.
Twelve Hours; New York City:
Bucky’s plane lands and he breathes a sigh of relief.
It’s raining when he steps out of the airport, a down pour by anyone’s standards. Fine by him, less people to avoid. He manages to make it to the little coffee shop outside your apartment without getting too soaked. Going up there wasn’t an option, not when you were probably angry with him for running out. So he sits, drinks endless cups of coffee and watches.
“She takes it two creams, no sugar, if you want to bring it up to her.” Bucky turns and finds himself face to face with Steve. His friend looks old, but happy, at peace even. There’s so much he wants to say, he wants to ask Steve why he left, what he thought about Walker. He wants to punch him or throttle him or hug him. Bucky wants a long fucking hug.
“I don’t think she wants to see me, punk.” Steve sits, shaking his head.
“I didn’t think she wanted to see me, either. Sometimes she doesn’t know what’s good for her..”
Before Bucky can reply, before he can really process what Steve is saying, he gets a text from Sam and he’s off to save the world again.
Day Five; New York City:
Because the universe hates you, you can’t even use your phone to entertain yourself. Someone leaked your personal number and it hadn’t stopped ringing since. And, since the internet has no nuance, they’re mostly death threats. You’re reading a book when the guards who are Strongly Advising you abandon their posts. There’s something going on, something that no one bothers to inform you about.
You go back to reading your book. Hopefully Bucky’s not being thrown through a wall.
Thirty Minutes; New York City:
Bucky gets thrown through a wall.
It fucking hurts and he’s dizzy after. Like can’t-walk-straight-am-I-actually-drunk-dizzy. Sam, the useless bastard, loads him into a taxi, tells him he’ll be fine, and gives the driver your address. Bucky’s dimly aware of this fact, aware of the fact that this poor man is driving him, a bleeding super solider, to the one place he wanted to be but wasn’t welcome.
Two Minutes; New York City:
The guards aren’t back by the time the downstairs buzzer starts ringing incessantly. You’re in the middle of your book, right at the moment where the head-strong damsel and the Lord she hated are about to kiss. You try to ignore it, With a groan, you stomp down to the doors.
Standing there, half supported by Vasily, the Russian cabbie (who is definitely into some shady business), is Bucky.
Now; New York City:
You thank Vasily, telling him you’ll pay for the cab when you see him on Friday for Shabbat, and take the bleeding Bucky into your arms. Bucky mumbles something, clearly speaking Russian but too lowly for you to actually understand. Vasily glares at him, muttering curses as he stalks away.
Dragging Bucky up to your sixth floor apartment means sharing a run in with Daisy Mae, your elderly neighbor who’s 90% blind and enjoys loitering in the elevator. She seems to take offense to Bucky mumbling Russian children’s songs to himself.
“Speak English dear, not Communism. We’re in the United States.”
“Mind the business that pays you, Daisy Mae.”
She hmphs, but doesn’t say anything else. Bucky, for his part, gives a rousing performance of the Russian alphabet. Finally, you get Bucky into your apartment and unceremoniously drop him on your couch.
It’s not long before he falls asleep, leaving you to stare at him for hours, wondering just what he’s going to say when he wakes up.
When he does wake up, it’s to the scent of your soap, sweet watermelon that always leaves an aching in the pit of his stomach. Waking up on your couch, smelling your soap, and listening to you cook feels like a dream. How many times had he thought about this exact moment while he was with Sam? Soon enough you’d turn the corner from the kitchenette and smile at him, that beautiful smile that never failed to make him feel a little dizzy.
And then he’d wake up in a shitty hotel room, listening to Sam take a shit through the paper thin walls.
He waits, but when you appear, you’re frowning anxiously. And God, you’re so fucking beautiful. You’re wearing a pair of tiny sleep shorts that expose your long legs to his greedy eyes. Your hair is pushed back off your face, exposing the most beautiful eyes he’s ever seen.
Steve was a lucky man, to be able to love you. Maybe one day he’ll find a woman like you to love, if he’s lucky. Has he ever been lucky?
Bucky looks confused when you appear holding tea. “Hi.” He doesn’t say anything back, just frowns back. Your mind races, realizing he probably doesn’t want to see you, that he was dropped off here by some well meaning friend, and he was going to get up and walk out the door again.
“At least let me clean you up before you go.” Bucky nods wordlessly, looking like he’s still a little stunned. He takes a seat at the kitchen table as you pull down the first aid kit you’d put together when Steve was still here. There’s a cut above his eyebrow that’s still oozing a little blood. It’s in such a place you have to situate yourself between his legs in order to get to it.
It’s quiet while you work, Bucky’s never been a man of many words and now he’s probably trying to figure out how to tell you you’re never going to see him again. As soon as he’s cleaned up well enough that you’re satisfied he won’t die sitting at your kitchen table, you step away to admire your handy work. Bucky’s left hand, his metal hand, catches your wrist and pulls you back to him. It holds you there while his right hand comes up to cup your face, running a thumb over your cheekbone.
“You’re so beautiful.”
He’s not sure what possesses him when he pulls you back into him. All he knows is if he doesn’t get you close, if he doesn’t tell you how fucking beautiful you are, he won’t be able to breathe. You make a little noise of exasperation, your gorgeous lips parting. “I mean it.” “Bucky…” You try to pull away but he holds you there, studying every inch of your face and committing it to memory. There’s an electricity between the two of you, it feels like the air is charged enough to light that stupid snail lamp you’d bought from Arrow or whatever that store you loved was called. “Bucky…” You repeat, your voice softer, in a tone he can’t quite describe
Before either of you can move or say anything else, the door swings open to reveal Sam and Torres, flanked by three soldiers. None of them take notice of what feels like a very compromising position.
“Oh good, you’re here, Sargent Barnes. You're all being moved to a safe house. Pack enough for an indeterminate amount of time.”
