Best. Date. Ever.
Summary: This wasn’t quite what you had in mind.
Characters: Bucky x Reader Warnings: Bad language. A smidgen of murder. A splash of fluff.
A/N: This was written for the lovely @abovethesmokestacks ‘s summer challenge, and I’m a slacker who’s a week late, so thank goodness Pia’s amazing! This story came about because I was seriously coveting these shoes and because Pia gave me a super cheeky dialogue prompt, which you’ll find bolded in the story. Enjoy!
A/N 2: Check out Best. Proposal. Ever. to read more of these two!
If you want on or off the tag list, send me an ask!
MASTERLIST
Dress up, he ordered. Something fancy and sexy. I got a plan.
It sounded promising. A night at the ballet perhaps, or tickets to the opera. Dinner and dancing, maybe. Something classy. Something elegant.
After eyeing them in the window, you decide to buy that pair of outrageously expensive Jimmy Choo’s for the evening, anticipating something spectacular.
Well.
It was something alright.
*****
Black satin clutch tucked tight beneath your arm.
Quiet steps on the balls on your feet.
Gun drawn, cocked and aimed, you tiptoe down the dim hallway, keeping to the shadows, avoiding the puddles of yellow light spilling from vintage sconces lining the wall.
The target looms ahead, a heavy black door at the end of the corridor and a steady stream of quiet curses slips from clenched teeth as you move, damning his dumb ass to hell and back.
Eyeing the narrow beam of light lining the bottom of the door, you pause when muffled laughter slips beneath the crack. Momentarily confused, you wonder if you have the wrong room.
Nope.
“Answer the fucking question,” a frustrated voice suddenly shouts, followed by the dull thunk of metal slapping skin. Bucky’s responding groan is long and low, a guttural sound ripped from deep in his chest.
It sounds desperate.
It sounds wounded.
It sounds – excessively theatrical.
Of course.
Is it possible to roll your eyes so hard you see your brain?
Leaning into the door, you press an ear to the thick ebony wood. There’s a hum of unintelligible muttering and then plain as day, you hear Bucky’s cheerful response.
“Yeah, no. Feels like you’re hard of hearing there, big boy. You wanna hand me that knife? Let me clean out your ears real nice and careful like? Or maybe you were that stupid kid sitting too close to the TV growing up, watching cartoons while your Mommy was running around banging the mailma – ow! Fucking ouch god dammit, what the hell’s the matter with you?! Who the hell stabs someone? That fucking hurt!”
Pinching the bridge of your nose, you sigh.
Here’s the thing.
Now and then, the avenging gets slow. It happens occasionally, not often, but enough for you to discover an interesting personality twist. When the avenging gets slow, Bucky Barnes gets bored. And a bored Bucky Barnes is – concerning. Full of pent up energy, leaking sarcasm and sass, he has a small tendency to find trouble.
It’s not trouble, it’s called saving the world, he always argues.
It’s not saving the world, it’s called gratuitous chaos, you always respond.
The voice comes back, full of fury. Electricity pops and sizzles and suddenly Bucky swears at the top of his lungs.
“Wait, wait, wait, stop! Damn, fine, fine. You got me, just stop, please, I’ll talk, I’ll talk, let’s talk…about the fact that your mom was totally fucking the mailman, I mean come on – “
The sound of electricity buzzes louder and he howls in pain.
“Say it again,” you hear the voice snarl, followed by Bucky’s breathless reply.
“No joke man, you touch me with that thing again, I’ll shove it so far up your ass you’ll shit sparks for a week.”
In addition to the whole trouble thing? He’s also a massive drama queen.
“This is bullshit, Bucky” you hiss at the door, glancing at the absurdly expensive heels and reaching to brush dust from the toe. “I’m so fucking pissed at you.”
Seriously.
Clutching the gun tight, you carefully turn the knob and with a deep breath, hip check it open. And yep. The reveal is exactly what you could have anticipated, because you know Bucky Barnes way, way too well.
Dangling by his hands from a wide steel beam, his wrists encased in what appears to be a reinforced cuff, Bucky swings gently, the toes of his black boots barely brushing the ground. His faded grey t-shirt is slashed down one side, soaked through with thick splotches of blood and clinging to his body like a second skin. Twitching his head to shake away sweaty strands of dark hair, you see the impressive array of purple bruises painting his face, extending down his neck.
He looks terrible. Awful. A beaten man in terrible pain.
Except –
The anguished grimace fades when he sees you, morphing into a shit-eating grin. Wiggling his fingers in a mocking little hello, he gives you a wink.
What an ass.
Hearing the swinging door, the man in front of Bucky spins, raising a gun in one hand and a taser snapping lime green sparks in the other. Frustration is etched in every line of his face, which is, to be fair, a common expression for anyone talking to Bucky.
“Drop the gun,” he bellows, shaky hands holding both weapons in front and sounding for all the world like a two-bit security cop in a low-budget heist film.
Throwing him an impressively impatient scowl, you shake your head.
“Listen, I’ve had a long day and these heels are killing me and I just wanted to spend one night without worrying how I’m getting blood out of my clothes in the morning. So since that fantasy’s shot to shit, can you please just not?”
“Don’t try to distract me!” he yells in response. “Drop your gun or I’ll shoot you both!”
Looking past him, you meet Bucky’s wide-eyed, innocent blue eyes.
Innocent blue eyes. Seriously. What a crock.
“I’m fucking pissed at you,” you warn Bucky, pointing the gun down at your shoes. “These were expensive.”
He pokes his lip out in an exaggerated pout and swings himself playfully in the restraints. “Don’t be mad honey baby, it’s all part of the plan.”
“Jesus. I shudder to think what else you have planned.”
The guy follows the exchange like a tennis match, head swiveling in confusion, until he focuses on you again and opens his mouth to shout another disappointingly dull threat, but you hold your hand up to silence him and he looks unbelievably put out by the gesture.
“Look, I’m really not in the mood, alright? I gave you a chance.”
Flicking your eyes to the bloody, sweaty man dangling behind him, you cross your arms and wait.
Here it comes.
Vengeance fills his features, a blinding smile of murdery glee, and in the blink of an eye, Bucky curls his knees to his chest and hoists himself up with the metal arm. With a casual kick, he hooks his thighs around the man’s neck and squeezes tight.
Dropping both weapons, the man scrabbles at the dirty legs locked around his neck, panic flashing through his face.
“You sir,” Bucky states, as the man chokes, trying to wrench free, “are a real dick.”
With a graceful twist of his hips, he snaps the neck with a jarring crunch. The body collapses in a heap and Bucky glares contemptuously for a second and then proceeds to aim several childish kicks at the head, but his toes are just out of reach and he flails uselessly in the air.
He looks up in annoyance.
“Hi. Little fucking help here please?”
Stepping over the body, you rummage through the pile of electronic gadgets and random torture devices strewn across the table. Locating a small purple device attached to a SpongeBob keychain, you dangle it in front of him.
“Apology first.”
“No worries, I accept your apology,” Bucky says graciously. “Now get me down.”
“No asshole, I want an apology. You said dress up and now my Jimmy Choo’s have blood on them.”
“Okay fine, I’m sorry.” Skeptical of his quick submission, you punch the unlock button slowly and the cuff releases. Bucky drops to his feet, rubs the red chaffing around his wrist, and gives you a wide smile. “I’m sorry you’re a wet blanket who doesn’t appreciate fun, but anyway.”
He anticipates the move and ducks when you snatch a knife from the table and fling it at him, letting it smack harmlessly against the concrete wall behind him.
“I swear to god, you’re lucky you’re hot Barnes. It sure as hell’s not your personality that keeps me around.”
“The hell do you mean? I’m charming as fuck,” he argues. Wetting his busted lips, he uses the collar of his shirt to wipe away the pool of blood caked in the corner of his mouth, while interested eyes trail down your outfit.
Strapless black silk dress falling to your knees. Diamonds dangling from your ears. Bright red lips. Black Jimmy Choo heels with a flirty little feather on the side.
His smile turns a shade darker and ten shades filthier.
“You look smokin’ hot. Nice.”
“And it’s apparently a waste. When you said dress up, I sort of assumed we’d be doing an activity other than murder.” Tossing the keychain on the table, you come closer to scan his impressive mess of injuries. Probing the thick muscle below his ribcage, he sucks in a strangled breath as your fingers brush the source of blood still soaking his shirt.
“Buck – “ you start, but he cuts you off.
“Don’t baby me, I’m fine. Me and that bag of dicks just had a little disagreement over one of his brainless questions.”
“How did he go from asking questions to sticking a knife in your gut?” you ask, trying to tug up his shirt to confirm the damage.
“No, I will not have sex with you!” he says loudly, pushing your hands away. “God woman, keep it in your pants.”
“I’ll punch you in the knife wound Bucky. I really will.”
Sighing loudly, he stops struggling and lets you pull apart the remaining shreds of his shirt. Examining the blood under his fingernails while you examine the slow leak of blood down his side, he shrugs nonchalantly.
“If you must know, he just got a bit pissy because apparently suck my dick wasn’t the correct response to that question.”
Life with Bucky Barnes is akin to chasing an aggressively accident-prone toddler, so you’re actually prepared for this situation.
Opening the silver clasp on your clutch, you search for the extra-absorbent bandages you threw in earlier. Folding his hands obediently, Bucky rests them on top of his head and watches with a serene expression while you wipe away the blood from around the wound, before ripping open the bandage and applying it carefully to his skin.
“Has it ever occurred to you,” you ask, paper held between your teeth, “to try being a little less mouthy?”
Straightening the remains of his bloody t-shirt and wiping your grubby hands on his jeans, you look up to find him grinning.
“It did occur to me. But where’s the fun in that?” He holds his hand out expectantly. “On to part two. Did you bring my gun?”
The worst. Honestly. Sometimes he’s the worst.
“Yes, I brought your gun, you ungrateful douche.”
Lifting the edge of your skirt reveals the narrow straps of a black thigh holster, with Bucky’s favorite Glock strapped in place. He bites his lip and gives you that filthy smile again, crowding in close.
“Ugh. Dammit that’s so hot. Here, let me help,” his fingers snag the silky fabric, trying to pull up your skirt.
Slapping his hand and giving him a warning knee in the balls, he grunts and backs away with his wounded puppy face. Unclipping the gun, you flip it around and hand it over.
“Keep it in your pants Barnes, we don’t have time. The show’s about to start.”
Standing up straight, he salutes you with the barrel of the gun and cocks it dramatically.
“You’re the boss. Lead the way, you sexy little minx.”
*****
Navigating the labyrinth of halls, you find the back staircase leading up to a maze of crevices and hidey holes helpfully built into the rafters of the enormous ballroom. Finding a slot near the edge, you crawl into position, the smooth silk of your dress picking up the thick film of dust, making the slide easy.
God. Dammit. Bucky’s spending tomorrow morning getting this dress dry-cleaned and you better not hear a breath of argument from him.
“Seriously, I’m so fucking pissed at you,” you whisper, knowing full well his annoying super hearing will pick it up and sure enough, he rewards you with a stifled laugh.
The space is dark, muted light from the ballroom’s sparkling chandeliers allowing you to stay hidden from prying eyes down below. Bucky follows close behind, wiggling in next to you. Getting comfortable, he sighs happily and turns to you, gaze drifting from your face down your bare shoulders, over the swell of your ass, and that filthy smile appears again. Reaching down, he massages the back of your knee and runs his hand up your thigh, trying to pull your dress up again.
“Lemme see your panties.”
“For god’s sake, do not say panties, you weird fuck.”
“Fine. Lemme see your underpanties. Are they lace? Tell me they’re lace. You know how much I like lace.” His hand wanders further up to find your black lace covered bottom and he gives a whispered yes of delight.
Ignoring the wandering hand squeezing handfuls of your ass, you open the black clutch again, extracting four paper-thin pieces of metal. Clicking them together reveals a lightweight air-rifle with a narrow scope affixed to the top.
Bucky’s eyes light up.
“Gimmie,” he says breathlessly, releasing his death-grip on your ass and reaching grabby hands toward the weapon.
Still ignoring him, you prop the rifle on the ledge in front of you and peer through the scope, searching for the reason you’re stuck in the dirty ceiling of this exquisite ballroom, instead of somewhere fashionable with people making jealous remarks about your amazing shoes.
Bucky nudges you.
“Gimmie,” he says again.
“No, Bucky.”
“Yes, Bucky,” he insists, now trying to tug it from your grip. “Did you forget I’m the best shot the US army ever had? I even have a certificate that says so. You can’t argue with my certificate, it’s not patriotic. Captain America’ll arrest you.”
Still searching through the crosshairs, you peel his sticky fingers from the barrel with one hand.
“You drawing a picture of a gun, writing ‘Bucky rules’ on it, and taping it to the refrigerator does not mean you have a certificate.”
He gives an indignant little squawk. “Uh, I didn’t tape it to the ‘fridge, I superglued it to the ‘fridge. That fucker’s never coming down.”
“Can you please shut up? I need to focus.”
“Come on honeycakes, let me have the rifle,” he whines softly, resuming the light strokes down your thigh.
“No. I know you. You’ll shoot the guy in the eye just to prove you can, he’ll realize something’s up, and it’ll blow our cover.”
“Why would I do that?” His voice oozes shocked sweetness.
“Because you’re a showoff,” you mutter.
“I’m not a show-off,” Bucky argues and somehow in the narrow space he manages to crawl on top of you, straddle your hips and start licking your neck. “Sometimes I’m just vindictive, I can’t help that. Now come on and give me the rifle, hmm? Please? I got stabbed earlier, you should let me have my way. If I have internal bleeding and I die later, you’ll feel really bad about not giving me this one little thing. Come on, hand it over.”
He sucks your earlobe and tugs with his teeth.
Long ago, this strategy might have worked.
He is charming.
He excels at sweet talk.
He is murderously adorable.
The only thing working against him now – is that you know he’s completely full of shit.
“Get off me, you weigh a ton,” you respond instead, wiggling your shoulders to shrug him away.
“Did you just call me fat?” he whispers. He bites your ear harder.
“Maybe,” you shiver at the petulant huff warming your neck.
“I am offended.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No, I’m not, but someone with less self-confidence might be and would you like that on your conscience?”
“I’ll manage.”
In that moment, the crosshairs find him, a tall man dressed in an impeccable black tuxedo, his blond hair slick and shining. Even though he’s dead set on being an annoying little shit, Bucky instantly recognizes your posture change and goes motionless above you. Taking a deep breath, focusing on the small mole on the back of the blond’s neck, you gently squeeze the trigger. With a twitch, the rifle silently expels the microscopic dart and you know it’s a direct hit when the man scratches absently at the patch of skin above his collar.
Bucky gives a hum of approval and plants a sloppy kiss on your neck.
“Nailed it. High five,” he says and reaches between his legs to slap your ass. “But how come you’re always so mean to me? And why the hell does it turn me on so much?”
Breaking down the weapon, you pack it back in the purse and snap it shut.
“Because you’re a fucking masochist.”
“True. So – now what?”
“Now we wait.”
As the words leave your mouth, the chandeliers begin to dim, the hum of voices dropping as the crowd of people shuffle to their seats.
Folding your arms, you lay your head down to wait. Bucky finally stops fidgeting, settling on top of you, balancing his weight on his forearms and resting his chin on your shoulder. He smells like attic dust and irony blood, but his heavy presence is a warm and comfortable weight.
All fades to black. Absolute silence.
The single note trembles in the darkness, the vibrating twang of a cello. Low lights slowly illuminate the small platform at the front of the ballroom, revealing three musicians and the sudden haunting whine of a violin shatters the stillness.
The air overflows with music, Tchaikovsky, Mozart, Bach, a symphony of classics bleeding together, never pausing. Bucky stays still above you, his only concession to movement when he occasionally presses his lips to the space behind your ear, breathing in the familiar lingering scent.
And sure, he drives you bonkers half the time and he may be utterly full of shit, but a simple fact remains.
Nothing in the world, beats the feel of his mouth on your skin.
Ninety minutes of magic fly by and applause fills the room as the lights come up for intermission, the audience leaping to their feet. No one notices the blond man seated halfway back, slumped in his seat, nor the shadowy figures of two people energetically arguing as they slip from a hidden exit in the back.
*****
From a distance, you spy the neon sign, the only beacon of colorful life along this desolate stretch of highway. Bucky perks up and bounces in his seat.
“There it is! Pull over.”
“Bucky, no. I’m tired and you’re bleeding on my leather seats and I want to go home and shower.”
“But I’m hungry. I’m literally wasting away.”
“Figuratively. You are figuratively wasting away.”
“So, you agree then, I’m wasting away and we should stop.”
“Oh my god, fine.”
Swerving into the parking lot with a screech of tires, both of you clamber from the vehicle still debating his rampant disregard for basic language definitions and stomp into the brightly lit Taco Bell. At this lonely hour, it’s nearly empty, minus the energetic high school kid with headphones using his mop as an air guitar, the line cook playing Jenga with a towering stack of tomatoes, and the bored woman behind the counter, chomping her gum and watching your bickering approach with interest.
Glancing at Bucky, you flinch at the image. The harsh light throws his wounds into sharp relief, bruises already fading from dark purple to sickly greenish-yellow. The gray t-shirt is shredded and stiff with blood and sweat and what appear to be chocolate fingerprints, lifted from the half-melted M&Ms he found in your glove box.
To be fair, you don’t look much better. The previously elegant heels dangle from loose fingers, speckled with blood and holding two wilted feathers. Covered head to toe in dust and cobwebs, your knees are scraped up and your polished toes curl bare against the floor.
What the hell possessed you to walk barefoot into a 24-hour Taco Bell you’ll never know, but alas. Here you are.
Bucky saunters up to the register and slaps his grimy hands on the counter, giving the woman his most charming smile and what he believes to be a sexy wink. She simply raises an eyebrow and snaps her gum.
“Hello. I want the dollar menu,” Bucky says, squinting up at the sign.
“Which items?”
“All the items,” he replies promptly. “And a diet soda please, not a regular one. I’m cutting back on the calories, apparently I need to watch my weight. The lady here says I’ve been pudging out.”
Pinching the non-existent fat on his washboard of a stomach, he gives her a conspiratorial nod and points back to you.
“I most certainly did not say that,” you huff, glaring at him.
“Yes, you did, you called me fat earlier,” he reminds you. “Remember? When I was on top of you and tried to pull up your dress?”
The woman stares at him and blows a pink bubble. Her eyes slide to you and she gives you a slow nod, the kind that clearly says nice.
“No,” you say sternly, pointing a warning finger. “Christ no. Do not encourage him.”
Bucky laughs, the sound of his husky voice echoing through the restaurant and dammit, he looks like someone threw a brick at his face and used him to sharpen their knives, but he’s still the most attractive man you’ve ever met and how’s that for annoying?
Fifteen minutes later, you’re back on the road, flying along as Bucky holds tight to his food and watches the highway intently, counting out road signs. Finally, he points to a small green number.
“This is it, last stop,” Bucky says, his voice brimming with excitement. “Slow down, the road’s there.”
Arguing is futile, so you follow his directions, turning off the highway and bumping down a narrow strip of unmarked road. The path winds further and further and you wonder at his end game, until the trees suddenly clear and you hit the brakes in surprise.
The night sky extends in front of you, an infinite black road to the stars twinkling above the black ocean waves, a dazzling full moon low on the horizon. The secluded beach is empty, a quiet world existing for you and Bucky alone – and when you turn to him, you see him watching you with an adoring grin.
That damn smile. It gets you every time.
“I swear Barnes, you’re good. You’re really good,” you admit and Bucky tips his head back and starts to laugh.
Climbing from the car, you dig out a plaid blanket from your trunk, and with heels and soda in hand, the echo of crashing waves pulls you through the darkness. Finding a flat space, you fluff the blanket out and collapse, stretching out with a soft groan and closing your eyes.
Bucky drops his bag full of cheesy beef burritos and chicken quesadillas and caramel apple empanadas and kicks off his boots with a matching groan of pleasure. Falling to the blanket he rolls onto his stomach and tears into the food, making his way through each item in silence. Long minutes tick by as the damp breeze blows over your skin and you begin to doze.
“You know,” he finally says, chewing thoughtfully. “I’m calling it. Tonight? Best. Date. Ever. Gonna be hard to top this.”
Rolling to the side, you prop your chin in your hand. “Come again?”
“Yeah, I planned it perfectly! The whole night, it was all things you wanted to do.” He finishes chewing the last bite, tucks the wrappers into the bag and sits up on his knees, ticking off the evening’s events.
“So first, we did a fun couples activity.”
“Me saving you from an ass beating and you snapping a guy’s neck isn’t exactly a couple’s activity, but sure.”
“Second, I got us private box seats, so we could go to a – sold out I might add – classical music concert.”
“I mean, again with the murder and now a massive dry-cleaning bill, but okay.”
“And to cap off the perfect date, we’re having a romantic moonlit picnic on the beach.”
The sarcastic quip balances on the tip of your tongue and in all fairness, Bucky expects a sassy response. Sass is the bedrock of your relationship.
But the words don’t come.
Instead, you absorb the pure beauty of the glowing white sand and of Bucky’s handsome face, reflecting on everything about him that led you here tonight.
He’s incorrigible.
A pain in the ass.
Ridiculous.
Passionate.
Hilarious.
Adorable.
The love of your life.
Damn. You’re head over heels for this idiot.
Nodding slowly, your lips curve into the smile he loves so well, the one that melts his heart, the one he went to outrageous lengths to pull from you tonight.
“Yeah. You’re right Buck. You pretty much nailed it.”
Bucky grins at the compliment. He picks up your left hand, brushes specs of sand away, and places two kisses on your finger.
One above your wedding band, one below.
Contentment sings through his veins and he threads his fingers through yours.
“Happy anniversary honey.”
“Happy anniversary Bucky.”
“Do me a favor, yeah?” Bending closer, he rubs his mouth lightly against your forehead, your nose, your lips. He drinks up the word with a blissful sigh when he hears your reply.
“Anything.”
“Get those heels back on, I ain’t letting them go to waste.”
Laughing, you hand him the shoes and he pulls your legs apart and crawls between them, slipping the heels gently on your feet one at a time, leaving wet kisses on each ankle.
The filthy smile is back.
He tugs up your skirt.
And this time, you go with it.
*****
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