Summary: A mysterious stranger enters your second-hand bookstore. Maybe this blustery day won't be so cold after all.
Pairing: post-CA:WS!Bucky x reader
Word Count: 1745 words
Warnings: brief cursing, mentions of shoplifting, kidnapping, and stabbing, melancholy ending
A/N: This is my little submission for @pellucid-constellations love letter writing challenge. It's also the first Marvel fic I'm ever posting, so I really hope you love it! Post Winter Soldier, Bucky's just trying to figure out who he is. I'm also writing a Steve fic for the love letter prompt, so stay tuned for that coming soon. Thanks so much for reading!
★★★
Your latte was lukewarm, steamed foam turned back to milk at the base of the paper cup, and it was starting to seep through. You had your head in a book, but you’d read the same paragraph again and again, unable to concentrate with weary eyes and the chatter of your teeth each time the door swung in the breeze and let in the chill of winter air. Each time, you looked up, hoping for customers, for human interaction, only to find it was just the unpredictable hinges, and you went back to your book.
The dimly lit used bookstore around you didn’t accommodate your need to be alert, and you felt your eyelids weigh in exhaustion. You’d stay up far too late the evening before, sexting some asshole you met at the club last weekend. You’d drank near a full bottle of wine, and the end of the conversation wasn’t even close to satisfying, but you were lonely and he started it.
With another creak of the door, you let out a groan and curved your back into a hunched stretch, waiting for the flow of breeze to hit you. When it didn’t come, you opened one eye to the elements and found a man had stumbled through the rickety door. A hulking man, well over six feet, with black gloves and a tattered jacket. A dark blue ball cap covered long, dark hair. You scrambled upright behind the counter, plastering on a fake smile amid the panic of being caught off guard.
“Good morning!” You greeted, seemingly startling the customer who rounded on you with his fists clenched. He wore a backpack, and a grim expression beneath the shadow of his cap, and alarm bells started going off in your mind to memorize the details of him should you need to call the police for shoplifting.
Blue hat, dark hair, khaki jacket, black stubble across a dimpled chin, massive build, baggy jeans, hiking boots.
“Can I help you find something today?” You asked, changing your tone from polite to less-than.
The man, rigid-shouldered, sucked his lower lip beneath his teeth and thought about it, head still lowered to hide his eyes. “Do you um… do you have a section on World War Two?”
You blinked back at him, tilting your head ever so to catch his gaze, but he adjusted as well. With narrowed eyes, you pointed to the far corner of the back alley store. “Aisle 5C. Here, I’ll walk with you.”
You waited for him to protest, but he just answered with a curt nod, and you led the way down winding stacks to a shelf of worn and torn volumes of history books and memoirs. “So, are you from DC or just visiting?” You asked, patting the butt pocket of your jeans to ensure you kept your phone on you.
The man lifted his gaze to the books then, and you noticed the chisel of his cheeks, the dark length of his eyelashes in profile. “Just visiting,” he responded gruffly. You watched his fingers, gloved in black leather, caress the spine of a volume highlighting the successes and loss of Captain America.
“Well it’s a good place to visit if you’re interested in American history.” You leaned against the shelf, turning on the small-talk charm, and you saw his eyes flick to your features, ocean blue and world-ending.
“Thank you.” He offered the weakest smile, jaw still clenched. It was a way to get you to leave. You showed him the books he needed, and now you could fuck off. Only you’d just breached the surface, and Blue Eyes over here, shoplifter or not, was more of a God than a mere mortal man like the idiot you’d spent your evening with. You wondered for a moment what sort of late night, drunken dick pic this Adonis would send over the air waves.
You sputtered when you realized your gaze had trailed the lengths of his abdomen to the crotch of his jeans, and you pushed off from the shelves pounding your fist against your rib cage to swallow the drool gathering in your mouth. Laughing to yourself, you started backing toward the register. “Right, sorry. Um…”
His polite smile furrowed into worried eyebrows, and he outstretched a hand, but you waved him off.
“I’m good. I’ll be fine.” And then, in a moment of panic, you shouted your name. Just your name, to the furrowed confusion of this gorgeous man in your store, who could be a shoplifter. And then to explain yourself, you had the audacity to hold two thumbs to your chest. “That’s me. So um… if you need me, just holler!”
He nodded and turned back to his shelf, pulling the Captain America book out to peruse.
Cursing under your breath, you scurried back to the counter to endure the cold breeze and chug the remainder of your ice cold latte milk.
—
Nearly a half hour later, after several panicked text messages to your best friend and your confidence waning, you stood from your spot to see if the Mystery Man had slipped by without your notice (impossible). You craned on tippy toe to see if you could make out the ball cap over one of the largest stacks, and were startled to see him rounding the corner, book in hand, several pages deep.
Your hand slapped to the desktop to maintain your balance, and his gaze flew to meet yours. You felt your fact heat, and you flashed him a polite smile. “Find everything okay?”
He nodded and approached you, one again biting down on those perfect, pink lips. “I uh… I don’t have the money to buy this right now, but I will be in tomorrow, I think. Is there a chance you could hold it for me?”
The spine closed with a light crack, and he placed it carefully on the countertop between you. You glanced from it to his apologetic gaze and back before setting a hand atop Steve Roger’s boyish grin and sliding it closer. You nodded, lifting a stack of sticky notes and a pen. “Sure, but my manager will be here tomorrow. Can I get a name for the hold?”
Mystery Man looked frantic at that, blue eyes carefully surveying your face and then the book resting at your waist and back. He licked his lips, and you cocked a brow, waiting for an answer. Finally he sputtered, “J.B.”
“J.B.” You smiled and scribbled the letters and the appropriate hold date onto the yellowed paper and peeled it to stick over the Star Spangled-Man. You could barely make out those white teeth through the initials.
“Thank you,” J.B. muttered your name, a dull rumble in his chest that sent chills through you, and your heart began to pitter patter as you looked up at him again. “You’ve been very helpful today.”
“Anytime,” you breathed a laugh, embarrassed at your full body reaction. A ding from beside you signaled the screeching encouragement of your best friend, and a bit of bravery kicked you right in the ass. “Actually, um… if you need me to hold it longer than tomorrow, or if maybe you need some company for coffee some time…” And you scribbled your own digits onto the pad beside your name. “I know you’re just visiting, but I’m always here so…” Dear God, stop the rambling.
You peeled the note off the top and his gloved fingertips met your outstretched palm to take the paper. The adhesive stuck to his middle and forefinger, and your mouth went dry as you waited for him to read and interpret the actual grenade you’d just thrown at him. His broad shoulders, ever-rigid, seemed to relax, and the corners of his pout upturned to expose a dimple on a scruffy cheek.
He reached to itch the back of his neck and he pocketed the sticky note. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks uh… thanks again.” And with an awkward wave, and the cool relief of winter air, he was gone.
—
Days, and several inappropriate daydreams later, with no word from J.B., the mystery man, you stumbled into work toe-first, arms full of hot latte and purse and bags of books from the donation bin out back. You managed to prop the door open with one boot, jiggling your keys from the ancient lock and you heaved the bags from your shoulders the moment the door rattled against the jam behind you.
You flicked on the lights and greeted the resident ghosts, hauling your own purse over the counter to boot up the practically DOS-system computer. While that turned on, screen buffering, you sipped your coffee and texted your friend that you’d arrived without being stabbed or taken by aliens, like she often worried you would be.
As well as the Mystery Man, you’d seemed to have been ghosted by the politician, shocker, making your sleeping schedule far better than you had hoped. You glanced over the sales goals paperwork and peaked to see if the store had received any action in the couple of days since you’d worked last. And there, on the clipboard, atop your manager’s chicken scrawl, was a sticky note with your name on it.
Sorry for the note. I’m leaving town and want to thank you for your kindness. I haven’t received generosity like yours in years, nor have I met someone as beautiful or as enticing. If only it had been in another life. I wish you well, and maybe our paths will cross again someday. All the best, J.B.B.
The scratch was capital letters only, everything slightly tilted to the right, and your stomach conflicted with butterflies and heartbreak. You peeled the note from the clipboard and folded it onto itself, adhesive sticking to its one back so you could slip in into your wallet past your frozen yogurt gift card, a safe space where it wouldn’t be found for years.
You sighed and sunk onto the rickety stool, staring wistfully at the rattling door, wondering now if you’d ever find true love again, surely not like the palpitations that hit the moment you saw his woeful blue eyes.
You watched the computer monitor continue its struggle and pulled your phone into your hand to inform your best friend of the tragic news, and you took a scalding sip of your latte. If only it had been in another life. Maybe your paths would cross again someday.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Clint Barton
Characters: Clint Barton, James "Bucky" Barnes
Additional Tags: Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Canon-Typical Violence, Hero Worship
Summary: Three weeks after the Triskelion falls, Clint has the opportunity to deal with the Winter Soldier, one on one.
This was my final fill for the @winterhawkbingo (Recovering Together) as well as another fill for my @buckybarnesbingo (Clint Barton/Hawkeye).
