We're Not Really Strangers
Three levels. Two people. One night. You and Bucky learn a little bit more than anticipated about each other from a simple card game.
▸ PAIRING: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader ▸ WARNINGS: Hurt/comfort, fluff, alcohol consumption, miscommunication final boss (because im a sucker for it), idiots in love (fr, you have been warned) ▸ WORD COUNT: 7.5K ▸ A/N: happy bday to my beloved bucky! failed to write a quick fic again. for @star-and-shield-monthly's february prompts for "tipsy and in love" and "what would make you the happiest right now?" no smut? who am i. hope you enjoy anyway!!!
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Level 1
Bucky flips the card over in his hand, frowning as he squints. “If MySpace were still a thing, what would my profile song be?” He looks up at you. “What’s MySpace?”
You stifle your laughter, swallowing it before it can scream you’re so incredibly endearing. He was already hesitant about partaking in this little card game you picked up, so teasing him would be counterproductive. You force yourself to deadpan, “Sometimes I forget that you skipped an entire internet developmental stage.”
He gives you a look, those sharp blue eyes landing in your chest with a thud. Your heart shouldn’t be racing, you shouldn’t feel all warm and tingly from his gaze alone, but you never really had control over your body’s responses to Bucky Barnes.
Tearing your gaze away from him, you explain, “It’s a social media platform, where people would post status updates about their lives or follow other people. You can choose a song to represent you on your profile!”
The befuddled look clings to his face. Social media has always been a strange concept to Bucky, who is used to living incognito; he thinks it’s a security risk, has even made you share yours so he can vet it.
“It’s not a big deal, we can go to the next question,” you say, increasingly flustered the more Bucky stares at you as if you have all the answers.
“Hold on,” he murmurs as he settles back more comfortably into the couch. He tilts his body to face you, elbow propping up on the back as his head leans against his balled fist. His messy hair, wind-swept still from the mission earlier, falls across his forehead.
Your finger actually twitches with the urge to brush it away from his face.
“What do you think my song would be?” His lips are curled into that smile — mysterious, almost teasing, like he’s relishing watching you squirm.
A nervous laugh escapes you as you look towards that deck of cards again. “I don’t know, it certainly won’t be Sabrina Carpenter.”
“It’s… not my thing,” he presses his lips together. You bite down a smile. The scandalous lyrics had, well, scandalized Bucky. He’s no prude, but he also isn’t very used to people singing about how tears run down my thighs on the radio.
“We’ll figure out a song for you, Buck. Maybe one of those sad white boy ballads you’re always listening to in the shower.”
His cheeks flush pink. “They’re good songs!”
“I’m not saying otherwise, don’t worry.” You hold your hands up.
“I don’t like this game already,” he grumbles under his breath.
“Well, would you rather have me destroy you at poker again? Or Risk? Or monopoly?”
Bucky’s mouth curls into the cutest little pout. You don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it; the great Bucky Barnes wouldn’t ever be caught dead pouting. Sulking like a child.
“You don’t even have it hard! You don’t even feel the effects of alcohol so, even if you don’t want to answer, you won’t get drunk from drinking. When I think about it, that doesn’t seem fair, does it?”
“You were the one who made the rules.”
You hum, stroking your chin thoughtfully. Bucky still regards you with that amused tilt of his lips. “Alright, then how about this — you get another penalty if you don’t answer.” His eyebrow raises in question. “Maybe I get to make you do a dare instead.”
Bucky immediately scoffs. “Now that hardly seems fair. You get a sip of a wine that you like and I might have to potentially backflip off a roof if you dare me to?”
A laugh bubbles up your throat. “First of all, you’ve survived literally jumping off a moving plane,” you point out and he makes a face. “Second of all, are you scared of a little challenge, Buck?”
For a second, his eyes thaw into a calmer blue. The sharpness gives way to the warm pools of his irises. You blink at him in surprise and he jerks back to the present, coughing as he looks away from you.
You swear his cheeks are tinged pink but maybe it’s because of the heat running on full blast. “Alright, fine,” he grunts, “Dare. But if it’s anything too crazy, just know that my liability waiver only applies to the Avengers, not you and whatever game you’re makin’ me play.”
Snickering to yourself, you miss the way his grin stretches a fraction wider. “You’re lucky the legal team’s asleep, Tom would definitely take my side.”
The corners of his lips tighten. You’re once again caught off guard by the shift in his expression. You almost hate how sensitive you are to his changing moods (this is a lie, you love that you notice these things about him; it makes it easier to discover his feelings about certain things — like how he had balked at your first attempt at lasagna but had politely said “delicious, I’ll take another slice”).
He was being kind. Bucky’s always kind to you. It’s why you find yourself so enamored with him.
Maybe you’re a little silly — mistaking goodwill gestures for something more — but you can’t help the way your poor little heart dreams.
“You and Tom close?” Bucky asks, drawing you out of your thoughts. His voice is low, almost contemplative.
“We chat.” You shrug, flipping open another card. “Oh, what’s the first thing you noticed about me?”
Bucky flushes a deep shade of scarlet, colors reaching the tip of his ears. Your heart stutters against your ribs.
“Damn, that bad, huh?”
“What?” He blanches. “No.”
“Why do you look like you’re about to run away then? It’s an easy question.” His lips twist together in disagreement. “It is! You really want to pick up your dare on this of all questions? You do realize we’re only on Level 1?”
“There are multiple levels?” Dread settles hard and fast on his face.
“Yes, so you might want to save those for actual questions you don’t want to answer. What? Are you scared of offending me?”
His tongue digs into the inside of his cheek as he relents with a deep breath. His gaze flies to the ceiling as he mutters, “Your eyes.”
“My eyes?”
“You’re very…” he pauses, “expressive.”
“Expressive?” you parrot again, still confused.
“I can tell how you’re feeling based on your eyes alone.” Your head tilts in question. Bucky’s lips tip up. “First time we met, it was right here on campus. I was coming back from a debrief with Steve when Tony introduced us.”
You remember that day. You had been so overwhelmed with meeting everyone on your team, not to mention running into one Avenger after another, heroes you’ve idolized for so long. The final whammy was bumping into Steve and Bucky on your way out.
“Your eyes went wide, size of saucers,” he chuckles, “I didn’t even need to hear you stutterin’ to know you were scared of me. Couldn’t even look me in the eyes.”
At that, you frown. You seem to remember this interaction very differently.
Before you can question it, Bucky continues, “When you’re upset, you have this little pinch between your eyes and it’s like all the light goes out. Your eyes usually just kind of — I don’t know — sparkles? When you’re irritated, you have this dead look; if looks could kill and all that. When you’re sad, it’s similar, like you lose your shine, but softer in a way. Your eyebrows go like this—” He angles his index fingers downwards to represent your supposedly upset brows. He chuckles then, “But when you’re excited, you take in all the light, absorbing all that sunshine that you become it yourself.”
You’re at a loss for words. How do you even respond to that? You didn’t even know Bucky really knew you existed, not until the two of you found company in your fellow insomniac. But the way he talks about you, how well he can differentiate between your moods, you almost feel… seen.
Bucky stiffens when he realizes how much he’s said, quickly casting his gaze away to the coffee fireplace crackling before the two of you. “Anyways,” he swallows, “that’s it. That’s the first thing I noticed about you.”
Heat licks up your skin and you’re sure it’s not from the burning embers.
“I wasn’t scared of you,” you blurt out and Bucky perks up. “It was my first day and you — well, you’re you. You’re an Avenger. I was just in awe that I was going to be working for the Earth’s mightiest heroes.”
“I wasn’t a hero,” Bucky corrects a little too quickly, a little too harshly.
“Yes, you were and you are, Buck,” you softly admonish him. “Give yourself a little more credit. You’ve done a lot for everyone. I’m grateful that I get to work with someone like you.”
His eyes flicker between shades of blue before the fireplace. For a moment, he’s silent like he’s appraising you and you wonder if you’ve said something wrong. Just because the two of you have formed some semblance of friendship — or so you think — in the late hours in this building doesn’t mean that you can speak out of turn.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to— forget I said anything,” you look down at the deck again, “your turn.”
“Thank you,” Bucky murmurs and your gaze immediately lifts to see him. Him smiling so gently at you. Without addressing it further, Bucky picks up another card.
Level 2
The first question in Level 2 leaves you wondering what has been your happiest memory in the past year. The first one that comes to mind is immediately when you and Bucky took an emergency trip to the farmer’s market to pick up groceries for an abrupt birthday celebration for Bruce (Tony did not clue you in early enough for you to plan). It was a simple afternoon but it was one that left you feeling all fuzzy inside.
After all, you did have Bucky all to yourself for a good two hours — and he was following you around like a puppy as you bounced from stall to stall, carrying all of your purchases with one hand.
“I see you smilin’, what is it?”
You realize that you do in fact have a shit-eating grin on your face. Bucky must think you’re a lunatic. How embarrassing.
“Uhm, I need to think about this.”
He smirks, zeroing in on the shame quickly etching itself across your face. “Oh no, you were already thinkin’ of something.”
“But what if that wasn’t the happiest?” you whine, an attempt to deflect.
Bucky doesn’t let you. “It’s the first one you thought of, it should be. Come on. What is it?”
You don’t think twice as you pick up your glass and take a swig. A big gulp, actually. The wine slides with a slight burn down your throat, acidity melting on your tongue. You wince.
“Really? You’re drinkin’ to that?”
“My choice,” you huff, “next question.”
You reach for a card and turn it over.
“Has a stranger ever changed your life?”
Bucky hesitates, eyes flicking over to you briefly. He looks deep in thought, you can almost see the gears in his mind turning as he calculates the risk between a dare from you and being honest here. He likely makes the right call when he simply says:
“Yes.”
You wait for him to elaborate.
He doesn’t.
“Oh, come on. Don’t be a spoil sport. Tell me.”
“It’s not a big deal! I answered the question, didn’t I?”
You cross your arms over your chest. A few more voluntary sips of your wine have made you bolder in the face of Bucky Barnes. “You know, for someone who can talk nonstop during missions and debriefs, you sure keep yourself pretty tight-lipped about personal things.”
“Such a brat,” Bucky mutters, low enough that he thinks you don’t hear him.
But you hear everything.
You gasp, a smile on the cusp of breaking across your face. “Excuse me?”
Instead of addressing it, he continues, “It was during my first month here. First few weeks and I could barely sleep. The nightmares were— they were still rough. I kept waking up. One of those nights, I got a phone call.” You perk up. “Just happened to be awake so I picked up. Someone I considered a stranger then was babbling to me, drunk, about my schedule the next day.”
For some reason, his words trigger a blurry image. You with your friends. The first night you have off on a Friday. You blink and the image is gone.
“That, um, doesn’t really sound like a stranger. I don’t know if that counts.” You crinkle your nose. “Also, how does someone calling you drunk change your life?”
“Well, they were a stranger to me then,” Bucky smiles, a touch of smugness in the curl of his lips, “and they told me to stop listening to all the noise. Focus on the present. There was a lot of press during that time about me joining the team, a lot of very displeased people, particularly politicians. And — I don’t know — somehow, after that call, it was just… quiet. I didn’t think about it too much. Like they said, focus on the here and now and, eventually, all that noise just disappeared.”
Your heart melts, tinged slightly with guilt. There’s a contented look on Bucky’s face, a peace that you didn’t know existed amidst the constant onslaught of war. You remember how brutal the press was during that time, article after article with his face splashed across the front page, accusations of his involvement with the Russians and the assassinations over the years.
You cannot count the number of times you’ve collected all the newspapers in the building to feed them to the furnace in the basement. At least those tabloids should serve some purpose after destroying forests to print absolute garbage.
“So, yeah, it wasn’t this seismic change that shifted the trajectory of my life but, at the time, it helped.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t apologize,” Bucky chuckles, hand reaching out to squeeze your shoulder. “I’d ask the exact same question in your shoes.”
You press your lips together into a thin line. Reluctance tugging at your heartstrings. “I’m glad that they called you and told you that, because it’s true. It’s all stupid anyway. We know who you are. That’s all that matters.”
Bucky softens. “Thanks.”
“Also, a stranger saying that to you? Cool, but bold. Very bold. How do they even have your phone number?”
His lips quirk up with the ghost of a smile again. “I wonder.”
He reaches for another question.
“What questions are you trying to answer most in your life right now?”
You let out a little huh and lean back, taking yet another sip of your wine. The buzz is helping with the proximity. Being this close to Bucky, getting a whiff of his clean scent, isn’t great for your fragile heart.
“Thinking about my career,” you murmur. Bucky’s eyes flit up to meet yours at that. You look away.
“What about your career?”
“I don’t really know where I want to take it next. I’m enjoying being here, I’ve learned a lot, but I can’t help but think that maybe I should try something else.”
Bucky is quiet for a moment, a pensive look in his eyes as he stares at the flickering flames. “You thinkin’ about leaving?” He asks, quieter.
A sigh heaves from your chest. “I don’t know yet. Keep thinking there’s more to explore out there. I love being part of the team though, it won’t be easy.”
His arm on the couch extends a little further, enough to brush over your shoulder. The gentlest of touches. You might not have felt it if it weren’t Bucky, if you weren’t so hyperaware of him. “I—” he stops, “we all love having you here. You’re one of us. It would be a real shame. Anything I can do to convince you to stay?”
The words catch in your throat, letters tumbling into the void as your lungs constrict. Bucky’s fingers ghost over your shoulder again, the cotton of your shirt is a flimsy barrier against the warmth of his touch.
“I, uhm—” you try but stop again, “I’m not leaving yet.” A nervous laugh. “I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it a bit more.”
Bucky hums, his hand reaching a little more to brush the hair off your shoulders, the barest of a graze along your neck. “Well, if there’s anythin’ I can do, I’m here. You can always come to me, yeah?”
You nod shyly. “Yeah, thanks, Buck.”
Clearing his throat, Bucky draws his hand back almost reluctantly. He pauses for a second, like he’s about to say something else.
But the words never come.
So you pick up the next question for him.
“What has been your earliest recollection of happiness?”
At first, you think the question is sweet. Nostalgic in a way that makes your heart ache. But then you remember who you’re talking to and how Bucky has been through countless rounds of his memories, his happiness, being washed away again and again.
“You don’t have to answer this one,” you say gently.
“No, I like this question,” Bucky hums, leaning back and looking out to the fireplace again. “Makes me think a little harder.”
You can only nod in agreement.
“Probably me and Stevie. First time we went to the movies. It took us some time to get enough money to afford a couple of tickets but we splurged on snacks and the latest Hollywood production. It was… simpler back then. Steve got beat up in the alley afterwards because he picked yet another fight against some asshole with a loud mouth. I had to beat up the other guy. Mom was none too pleased about two young adults coming home, one with a split lip and the other with split knuckles.”
Bucky looks fond, the usual frown lines on his face dissolving into wistfulness.
“Sounds like a good time,” you whisper, “what movie did you watch?”
“Don’t remember. Some western comedy thing. It was a popular name and we thought it would give us conversation starters with the ladies.”
You giggle, “Ladies’ man Barnes. Steve did mention you were a bit of a player back then.”
“Stevie’s exaggerating.”
“You’re handsome, so there’s no surprise there.”
The amusement slips away from his face, freeing his lips to form a circle in surprise.
Heat immediately floods your cheeks. How could you be so careless? Flirting — or at least trying to flirt — with your boss? A colleague? Bucky? You must be out of your mind.
“You think I’m handsome?”
The teasing lilt in his voice has your blood freezing. “I—”
The corners of his lips lift a little higher.
“I think we should read the next question,” you declare and launch for the card first.
This has to be some sort of sick joke.
When you take too long, Bucky slips the card from your fingers and reads it out loud.
“Are you lying to yourself about anything?”
You immediately lift your wine to your lips, Bucky’s hand darts out to wrap around yours.
“Already? Seems like a simple enough question.” He cocks an eyebrow.
“My choice, right?”
Bucky’s lips twitch. “What are you lyin’ to yourself about, sweetheart?”
Oh. Oh. He plays dirty. How could he use such a heart-wrenching nickname with you? How dare he make your heart flutter with one simple word?
Sometimes, you tell yourself that you’re not in love with Bucky. Because you’re not. He’s a friend. He’s part of the team. He’s a colleague. That’s all.
You tell yourself this enough times, maybe one day you’ll believe it.
“You keepin’ secrets from me?” Bucky smiles.
“No,” you answer too quickly and his lips tug wider.
You take another sip of your wine.
Level 3
Perhaps you shouldn’t have been so generous with the wine for yourself, because now you’re swaying a little bit going into the final level. Your body is alert, but your mind feels a bit hazy. Like you’re floating on a cloud. A very fluffy cloud.
“You’re drunk.”
“No,” you deny with a huff, then laugh, “just a little tipsy.”
“Let’s get you to bed.”
“Too good to be true,” you mutter under your breath, low enough that Bucky misses it and raises an eyebrow at you. “Let’s finish the game first. Let’s do a few more of the Level 3’s. This is where it gets real serious, Buck.”
Bucky shakes his head but the fondness in his expression is undeniable as he regards you carefully, measuring whether this is truly a good idea. You don’t give him time to doubt you further, instead asking your first question.
“What insecurity of yours holds you back the most?”
A choked laugh spills from his lips. “We’re going straight into it, huh?”
“Level 3 ain’t no joke, bucko.”
“Bucko—” Bucky repeats in a choked laugh. “Alright. Clearly.”
“Well, answer the question,” you widen your eyes, wiggling the card before him.
This time, he only gives you a wry look. Not a word. Just a look. The Bucky look.
You frown at him. “What?”
“Do I really need to say this one out loud?”
Your brain may be functioning at half the speed it usually does, but you’re still at a loss with the way he’s staring at you — like the answer is right under your nose and you can’t even smell it. “I’m… confused,” you drawl out.
“Really?”
“I— is it supposed to be obvious? You have insecurities?” The two of you are sharing matching expressions of disbelief, both for entirely different reasons. “That just— that feels unbelievable for you, Buck. Come on. You’re Bucky Barnes. You’re the Bucky Barnes. An Avenger. A superhero. You take down bad guys with one arm. You jump out of planes. You somehow keep Captain America, of all people, together. Plus, you make a killer sourdough loaf — oh yeah, buddy, I know it’s your starter that’s sitting on the counter. I can smell when you bake at night.”
Color rises on his cheeks again at the accusation, but he doesn’t deny it. Not the last part at least. He opens his mouth then promptly clamps it shut again.
“So tell me, Buck, what insecurities do you have?”
“Nothing,” he flushes, “next question.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Bucky reads the next one, “How does one earn your vulnerability?” You pinch your lips, thinking. “This, I’d like to know as well.”
“I’m vulnerable with you!”
“Are you? Or do you deflect with compliments about other people to avoid shining light on yourself?”
You gape. Well, you do do that. Sometimes. Not all the time though. Scowling, you grunt, “I don’t like this game anymore.”
Bucky laughs again and the sound is delightful. “Answer the question. Don’t drink. You’ve had enough.”
“Okay, Dad,” you roll your eyes. You see his lips and fingers twitch. “Vulnerability,” you hum to yourself, “I feel like I’m plenty vulnerable.”
“Yeah? You trust me? Enough to be vulnerable?”
“I’d think so.”
“Then what are you lying to yourself about?”
Your jaw drops. “That’s not fair. I drank to that!”
“I know you did.”
Pursing your lips together, you squint at him. “I think… I’m quite vulnerable with people I consider friends. If we talk enough and I sense that you can trust me, I can trust you back with my heart.”
Bucky’s silent to that. His blue eyes are warm as they assess you, assess your words. There’s a weight in the air, a thickness that constricts your lungs. It’s the way he looks at you, carefully. Thoughtfully. You try to force yourself to look away, but you can’t.
“Do you trust me?”
“‘Course I do.”
“In a way a friend would?”
More than that. I’d trust you with my life.
“Let me ask you this, do you think I trust you?”
Your lips part, a yes on the tip of your tongue, but then there’s that niggling skepticism that questions why on earth would Bucky Barnes trust you? You of all people. Then you swallow. “I don’t know, do you?”
“I do.”
Simple. Fast. Your heart beats a fraction faster. “Why?”
“Because you’re you and I don’t think I’ve ever trusted anyone as fast.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is to me,” he shrugs. “Can’t tell you why exactly, but something about you makes it really easy to trust you. Ask anyone in this place. They’d give you the exact same answer.”
Your chest tightens with an unnamed feeling. Awe? Surprise? Fear? You’re grateful most of all.
“So, I’d like it if you could trust me a little bit more with your feelings too. I want to be here for you, the same way you are for me.”
Maybe it’s the wine, or maybe it’s the fact that Bucky’s looking at you with such sincerity, but tears prick your eyes and you’re quick to swipe them away with a cough. “I appreciate that,” you whisper.
Your next question has him grinning.
“How would you describe me to a stranger?”
“Cute.”
He stops there and you quirk an eyebrow. “Well, how would you describe me?”
“I answered. Cute.”
“Oh,” you stiffen. “Why am I cute?”
“It’s self-explanatory.”
“Nu-uh, I don’t think so.”
Bucky chuckles, “You just want me to compliment you.” Your responding grin has him rolling his eyes in amusement. “I’d tell them that you’re one of the most considerate people I know. I don’t think anyone knows this team better than you do. You keep things running. You’re the only one who can keep up with Tony’s crazy, who can make Natasha laugh until she spits water, who can ground Steve to the earth and realign his moral compass — and even after all that, you still manage to make room for me.”
Your heart seizes.
“I’d tell them you’re perfect.”
A laugh bursts from your lips. Bucky’s not doing the same. He’s serious. “Buck, you can’t be serious. I’m far from perfect.”
“Well, you are to me,” he mutters then quickly grabs the next question. His ears are stained pink. You don’t comment. “What would be the perfect gift for me?”
Your lips stretch into a smug smile. “This is easy. A day off. You and your bike, full tank. You— you’d want to go somewhere quiet. Away from the city, or at least Manhattan. I’d think you’d go down to Brooklyn but you think that borough’s too gentrified unless you go all the way down. You probably want more nature instead, so you’d go upstate. Rent a cabin for yourself for the week. Ideally, all comms would be off but your strong sense of responsibility means you’ll never leave this team stranded, so you would… keep it on you at all times.”
There’s pin-drop silence for a few heartbeats. As time passes, the more silent Bucky is, the less confident you become. Worry that you’ve gotten it completely wrong has you opening your mouth.
But Bucky beats you to it — “That— does actually sound perfect.”
Your heart skips a beat, a quick pulse that you’re not sure Bucky can hear.
“Really?”
“Yeah,” he laughs, surprised, “I think you should suggest that to Tony for my birthday.”
“Putting that down on my list.” You’re onto the next. “Based on what you’ve learned about me, does my social media portray me accurately?” You set the card down and nearly reach for another.
Bucky stops you. “Wait, why aren’t you letting me answer that?”
“You do not use social media. You rarely even check the group chat.”
“That’s because Thor spams it with those images with words. It’s too much.”
Memes. He means memes.
“But I check sometimes. Your Instagram.”
That surprises you. “Oh, you do?”
He nods, smiling as he leans back. In the time the two of you have chatted, his fingers have drifted along the back of the couch again. Once again gentle over your shoulder, like he’s simply trying to remind you he’s there — as if you can forget.
“‘S cute. I like seeing your life outside of here.”
“I barely have a life outside of here,” you point out.
“Touché, but the life you do have — I like seeing it. I like seeing you enjoy yourself. You post silly pictures with friends who clearly love you. Food you eat, so many of the things you eat. It’s a nice, curated version of you. So I do think it portrays you accurately.” He pauses, “I like that you don’t show too much though, like there are parts of you that you keep to yourself.”
“Hm, like what?”
“Like how you take your coffee in the morning, milk with lots of sugar. Or how you refuse to fold the pages on a book so you carry around ten different bookmarks with you at all times. How you’re secretly competitive but never boastful, even when Thor posts about how he wins one time against your five times. Little things.”
Heat kisses your skin. “I… didn’t realize you noticed.”
“More than you think,” Bucky smiles.
For a brief moment in time, the two of you are simply coexisting. Sitting together as if Bucky isn’t a superhero constantly saving the world and you aren’t part of the team that sits behind the scenes. Playing a game like you’re two friends who met under more normal circumstances. It’s a feeling that sits heavy in your chest. A good kind of weight.
He flips open a card and grins. “What would make you the happiest right now?”
Oh.
Oh.
There’s one answer that comes to mind. And you shouldn’t say it out loud because your judgment is partially impaired by the wine and you’re really just feeling warm and fuzzy from the fireplace and the smell of Bucky’s detergent. And this could risk everything but you don’t think about that right now because all you want to be is honest.
Vulnerable.
So the words leave your lips before you can think twice.
“If you kissed me.”
You watch in real time as Bucky’s entire body tenses. His face morphs into a wince.
You feel in real time how your heart plummets to the floor, the small smile wiped clean in dismay.
“Sweetheart, I— we shouldn’t. I can’t do that.”
He’s pulling away, curling into himself. He clasps his hands together, fingers digging into the back of them so tight, you can see the way his skin pales.
No, no, no. You were making such good progress. You were friends. Now you’ve gone ahead and ruined it all. Ruined this perfectly good friendship. All because you were too selfish to keep your own desires at bay.
Shit.
“No, of course not,” you immediately sputter, embarrassed. Your heart is falling and it’s falling fast and you can practically feel it in your gut. You feel nauseous, stomach churning with guilt and regret as you shuffle your feet closer together, facing the fireplace instead. “Sorry, that was stupid I shouldn’t have—”
You can almost hear him flinch. He’s trying to be kind. He’s always trying to be kind with you. “It’s not stupid. It’s not.”
“I’m going to go, um, to bed. I’m pretty tired,” you rise to your feet, the sudden height making you dizzy and you almost tumble back down.
Bucky moves faster, hand latching onto your elbow to steady you. “You’re drunk. Let me walk you.”
“No, no, I’m okay. I promise. I just— I’m gonna go.” Mortification is rooted deep in your skin. Your feet are weighing you down as you force yourself away from Bucky. You can’t even look at him again. “Goodnight, Bucky.”
Without another word, without another glance, you leave.
Level 0
Sleep evades you for the remainder of the night. Twisting and turning in bed for hours on end do nothing to distract your mind from the absolute humiliation of what had happened with Bucky. As if it can’t get any worse, your mind pulses with the aftermath of your terrible consumption habits as you go into briefing the next day.
The team is supposed to go on a mission tonight and you’re there to support with anything they may need prior.
The team includes Bucky which means he is also one of the first faces you see when you arrive at the conference room.
One of the first faces means you and him literally arrive at the exact same time. Bucky freezes, so do you.
“Um, morning,” you croak, wincing.
Bucky frowns then looks away. “Morning,” he coughs, “how are you feeling?”
“Miserable, but I deserve it,” you laugh and it sounds bitter.
“Maybe we can get you some Advil, I think there should be—”
“No, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine,” you smile weakly up at him.
Bucky stiffens, gaze dropping to your mouth before flying to the door. “Okay, let me know.”
How can he still be so nice to you after the absolute humiliation ritual you put yourself through last night? You’re a fool to think that just because Bucky’s nice to you that he likes you — likes you enough to kiss you.
As you’re handing out the briefings, you reach Bucky with your heart beating against your ribs. You hope he can’t hear the rattling inside your body as you pass the pages over to him. Bucky tenses again when your fingers brush, eyes quickly shifting away from you.
Your soul slams into the ground.
He’s uncomfortable. You’ve made him uncomfortable around you.
It feels as if someone tore your heart from your chest and twisted your insides with something ugly. You try not to let your trembling fingers show as you complete the rest of the distribution, tucking yourself into a corner for the rest of the meeting.
Bucky’s eyes wander to you a handful of times throughout the meeting. You don’t have to look up to see it, you could feel the weight of it burning into your core. But you refuse to return the gaze, fearing that you would be upset by what you see. After your fumble last night, you wouldn’t be surprised if he looked at you with disappointment or worry.
Or worse, disgust.
You don’t want to remember Bucky that way, you don’t want to think of him being repulsed by you. Ignorance is bliss.
When the meeting concludes, you’re immediately dashing out of the room. You make a beeline for literally any deserted hallway that you can hide in. Bucky calls out your name, you pretend not to hear it.
It’s stupid and childish, but you’ve never claimed to be anything other than. When you’re ready to face Bucky, you will.
In ten, twenty years. Maybe.
Avoiding him is easier than you expected. You don’t live on campus and you busy yourself with tasks that do not involve him. He’s gone for a few days on a mission anyway. He texts you, asking if the two of you could meet before he leaves, but you miss the message in your attempt to keep your hands occupied.
Bucky goes near radio silent in his absence. However, he never fails to check in at the end of the night.
Back at base.
Arrived safely. No injuries.
Steve says hi.
It’s not out of the blue that he sends you these messages. The first time they went on a mission and went completely AWOL, you were a nervous wreck. Your team tells you that this is normal and you had asked them how is that possible? You don’t even know if they’re alive!
Someone told Bucky afterwards, how you had been restlessly pacing, wearing out the carpets until the day they all returned. Since then, he’s never missed an evening text just to check in.
Your jittery heart only calms when you see the text from him.
It’s cordial, like he always is when he sends these. You don’t give it much thought. The last one did get an eyebrow raise but you suppose he’s simply being kind. An olive branch to return things to normal.
You can be normal.
When he comes back, you can be normal.
Except, you’re a lying liar because when he comes back, you avoid him like the plague again. Your phone is constantly on do not disturb to avoid temptation of checking his messages throughout the day. Every time he comes to find you at your cubicle, you’re off doing field work; things that aren’t usually part of your dailiy routine.
Again, immature, but it’s better than the alternative.
Bucky telling you that he’s uncomfortable around you.
Bucky telling you that he needs distance.
Bucky telling you that he can no longer be your friend.
You had seen the way he stiffened, how he couldn’t even look you in the eyes. Whoever said it would be worth it to ruin the friendship has never risked it themselves.
Steve runs into you once, seeming surprised that he even catches you in person. You haven’t been to the team outings in a while. The Avengers are Bucky’s friends first; you’re just another staff member supporting the team.
“Hey!” He beams, “Haven’t seen you in a while. How are you doing?”
Your lips tilt in a wry smile. “Hey, Steve. Good. Busy. You?”
“Yeah, good. Are you taking care of yourself? Do you need anything? Are they working you too hard?”
You blink at him in surprise. Sure, you’ve made conversation with Steve but he’s usually too busy to be peppering you with inane questions about you. It’s a strange feeling you can’t shake. “Uhm, it’s fine. I’m okay.”
“Are you sure? We missed you on game night.”
Wincing, you shake your head. “Sorry about that, duty calls.”
Steve hesitates, like there’s more he wants to say but he stops himself. “If you ever need anything, let me know. Or Bucky — you know he’s—” Steve’s words die out when he sees you stiffen at the mention of him, “nevermind. Just— we miss you. Come hang out with us again.”
“I will,” you smile weakly. You don’t say when.
When all is said and done, the Avengers are his family and you — you’ve got your own life. And maybe that’s okay.
Even if you miss him. Even if you really fucking miss him.
Level 10000000
Your evasion attempts last a couple more days before it all comes to a climax. You’re getting yourself ready for a potential night out. You’re not in the mood for it, you would rather sulk alone at home in your feelings, but your friend refuses to let you drown. The makeup does its job of hiding the weariness behind your eyes and the dress you slide on has you feeling put together for the first time in a bit.
You always dress up for work, but it’s different when you’re dressing for yourself.
You’re halfway through putting on your earrings when the doorbell rings. Frowning, you glance at the clock to find your friend a whole hour early. She’s never early.
The door swings open.
It’s not your friend.
Well, not the one you’re expecting at least.
Bucky stands on the other side of this threshold. You haven’t seen him in quite some time and the sight of him leaves your heart aching. There are shadows under his eyes that you’ve never seen before, rimmed slightly red from what seems to be exhaustion. A slump to his usually straight shoulders.
“Bucky? What are you doing here?”
Some light returns to his eyes when he sees you. It goes out just as fast when he finally takes a good look at you.
Damn, that bad?
“Are you going out?”
“Um, just with a couple of friends.”
Bucky presses his lips together, gaze shifting behind you then back to you. “Not on a date?”
A snort leaves your lips. “No, definitely not.”
His shoulders sink a little lower.
Was he hoping that you were? Maybe he was hoping that you got over your crush on him. Maybe he was hoping that you would move on so that things could go back to normal. So you’d stop making things so damn awkward for everyone else.
“But I’m back on the apps so maybe soon!” You try. It’s a lie. You haven’t touched dating apps in years. Not since you met Bucky. Everyone else paled in comparison.
Bucky’s lips part before they twist again. Irritated. He looks irritated.
“So what are you doing here?”
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
“Bucky—”
“You have.”
You lick your lips, the strawberry gloss now tasting sour for some reason. “I have.”
“Why?”
“Bucky,” you sigh, “it’s really not a big deal.”
“Do we need to play that game again for you to be honest with me?”
Oof.
“Fine, then ask me one of those questions.”
“What? Why?” You frown.
“Just do it.”
You sputter, panic clawing at your chest. You’ve never been that good at being put on the spot. “I don’t know! What are you most scared of?”
“Can’t answer that.”
Now, you’re the one exasperated. “Then why’d you make me ask you?” You huff.
“I’m not answering,” he says resolutely, “so dare me. Anything. Anything at all.”
“Bucky, what the hell are you going on about?”
It’s his turn again to apparently be peeved with you. Why? You have no clue. “If I don’t answer, you give me a dare, right? So dare me. Anything you want. Anything your heart desires.”
You hold your hands up. “I’m actually very lost right now.”
“Dare me to kiss you,” Bucky blurts out then goes taut. “Actually, no, shit. I don’t need you to dare me. If that’s what you want, I’ll do it.”
For a moment, you’re stood still. Frozen in time. Then your blood boils over because what the fuck? Is this some kind of sick joke? “I don’t need a pity kiss, Bucky,” you spit out, “I’m a grown woman, okay. I was tipsy and stupid. You don’t have to feel bad for rejecting me.”
“I didn’t— I mean, I didn’t want to—”
“Yes, I know!”
“No, I mean I didn’t want to not kiss you! I wanted to. I still want to. Desperately. I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long.”
“What?” You balk, disbelief coloring your features. “You literally said—”
“You were drunk. I wanted you to be sure. I wanted to make sure you weren’t just asking me to kiss you because — I don’t know — I was convenient?”
“You think I’d ask you to kiss me just because I thought you were convenient?”
Bucky pales, “I’m going about this all wrong. I’m stupid. I’m sorry. The point is, I wanted you to be really sure that that’s what you wanted. I was going to talk to you about it the next day but you were pulling away from me and I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
“Me? You looked uncomfortable! You tensed up whenever I got close. You wouldn’t even look at me.”
His hand flies to his face, rubbing in frustration as he lets out a groan. “You— every time I saw you, I had to stop myself from looking at your lips. I couldn’t stop thinking about— all I wanted to do was kiss you. I didn’t know how to approach you. I should’ve kissed you that night but I wanted you to be a hundred percent sure because if I kissed you, I wasn’t going to let you go.”
You falter, knees weak.
There’s barely any distance between the two of you but you still feel miles apart.
“And then you were calling me Bucky.”
“That’s your name.”
“I’m always Buck. I’ve always been Buck to you.”
Your lips part. You hadn’t even realized you had shifted.
“If I haven’t completely fucked up this situation, I’m hoping you could give me one more chance. Just one more to make things right. I’ll do it right this time. I can’t promise you I’ll be perfect, because I’m far from it, but I can promise you that I’ll do my damndest to do right by you. To make you happy. With me.”
“Buck,” you whisper.
He takes a step forward, hands sliding up to cradle your face. His thumbs brush the apples of your cheeks, warm and certain and present. “Can I kiss you now?”
You nod, barely trusting your voice.
And he finally, finally closes the distance between you.
The kiss is soft, almost like a dream that’s long been out of reach. Then he deepens it, apprehension melting away into conviction. Suddenly, your hands are in the clouds and you’re floating. He tastes like every desire you’ve never had the courage to say out loud. He tastes like sunlight and hope and promises of forever. His lips move with yours in perfect rhythm, heartbeats syncing as one.
When he pulls back, it’s brief, barely a whisper of a distance, and it’s only enough for him to rest his forehead against yours. His breath mingles with yours as he murmurs vows — of you and him, of the rest of your lives.
And the thought doesn’t terrify you the way it should — grand desires when you’ve barely had a day — but you believe him and you trust him.
You always will.
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