Life was finally good. You were married to the love of your life, James Buchanan Barnes. Your best friend, Steve Rogers, couldn't be sweeter. And then Bucky died, and you and Steve sacrificed your lives, waking up in the 21st century, needed again to save the world.
Hello everyone! Welcome back. Here we have the second entry into the (Y/N) Barnes Reboot. Bucky and the Reader are starting to spend time together and get to know each other.
If you have any feedback, please feel free to send it to me!!!
WARNINGS- BRIEF MENTION OF PREVIOUS ATTEMPTED SEXUAL ASSAULT
TIMELINE- 1937
It had been nearly a week since Bucky had saved you from your attacker, and you waited patiently at the library. The night you invited him in for tea you talked about your job at the library, and he told you all about his job at a factory near the docks and his best friend Steve. The affection that came off of him in waves as he spoke of Steve warmed your heart.
The night after the attack, you stepped out of the library after saying goodnight to Sasha, and Bucky was there. He walked you home and you invited him in for tea. The night after that? He walked you home and you invited him in for tea. The two following nights? Yep, he walked you home and you invited him in for tea. Each night, the conversation had been easy. It had never been easy for you to talk with anyone. Your anxiety had always impeded your ability to easily connect with anyone. And yet, you had connected with Bucky from the moment you took his hand. It wasn’t just your strange ability to sense emotions. There was something special about him.
You read your book outside the library when you felt it. That warm, kind, honest energy. You looked to your right and smiled as you saw Bucky approach. He smiled back with his gorgeous smile and waved.
“Ready to go?” he asked.
“Ready,” you stuffed your book into your handbag. And he walked you home.
You had another comfortable evening with him, talking about anything and everything. You had never been able to speak this freely with anyone. Anyone. But with Bucky, you barely felt any anxiety. You even felt bold.
That boldness took over when he drained the last of his tea, ignoring how cold it was (he didn’t admit to you until after he proposed that his tea was always cold because he put off finishing it so he could spend more time with you).
“Alright (Y/N), I should get home. Ma’ll worry if I’m too late,” Bucky said, standing. “Do you want me to walk you home again tomorrow?”
“Oh... I’m not working tomorrow…” you said. You sensed a slight disappointment on Bucky. You felt the same. And then your boldness took the wheel. “But you could come over for dinner, if you’d like.”
Bucky thought for a moment then smiled. “Sounds good. I’ll see you here tomorrow night?”
“Alright!” you tried to push down your excitement. “Have a good day at work.”
“Actually,” Bucky turned from your front door, “I have tomorrow off too.”
He opened the door and waved fondly, leaving you to feel the fluttering in your chest at the idea that Bucky wanted to see you on his day off.
Hello again everyone! My name is Becky, and I have decided to reboot my series, (Y/N) Barnes (which might be renamed at some point) after a long absence. I feel as if my writing has improved a great deal, and was no longer satisfied with a lot of my old pieces, though I will be keeping them up on my old account. As with my previous account, I may not always be writing this in order, instead writing/rewriting as the mood takes me, then slotting them into my masterlist in the correct order. I'm excited to be back, and I hope that you're all doing well and will enjoy hoping back into the shoes of Bucky's empathic wife!
WARNINGS- ATTEMPTED SEXUAL ASSAULT, MENTIONS OF ABUSIVE FATHER, BLOOD
TIMELINE- 1937
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Shelving the library books that had been returned that afternoon, you hummed. You didn't realise you were humming of course. You very rarely did. It was a habit you had picked up when you first moved out. A way to fill the silent moments that made you feel uncomfortable. You tended to hum more frequently when you were stressed, or anxious. Or scared. And in that moment, you were all three of those things.
You weren't sure how, but your father had managed to track you down at work. He had been slipping letters addressed to you under the library doors during the night. You never read them, instead opting to throw them in the bin, in various states of destruction. And you had told everyone you worked with not to give your address or your phone number to anyone. Sasha had suggested calling the police, but you shook your head. They wouldn't be able to do anything.
Sliding the last book of your stack into place, you stretched your back and made your way into the office. Sasha smiled at you from her desk, still a considerable amount of paperwork in front of her.
“Do you need me to stay and help,” you asked.
“Don't be silly,” Sasha said with a shake of her head. “Go home and get some rest. I'll see you in the morning.”
You gathered up your bag and coat. “Are you going to be ok getting home?”
“Yeah. Mum's picking me up again. I'll be fine. You should get going, it'll be dark soon.”
“Alright. Goodnight Sasha.”
“Night (Y/N).”
Outside, you glanced about yourself, biting your lip. You couldn't see anyone resembling your father nearby. Looking up, you saw that it was getting dark. You had to hurry if you wanted to get home before the sun set.
You pulled your book from your bag, opened it to where you had left off after your lunch break, and began weaving your way through the crowd with ease. You weren't sure if it was a skill to be proud of, but you had always been able to read and walk simultaneously. It was a skill that you had grown to appreciate. It helped you to block out all that overwhelmed you. The sounds of the traffic. The chattering of the pedestrians. The niggling anxiety you felt. And, the emotions of those around you, which you had been able to sense since you were sixteen.
You had read on your way home from work every day, with no trouble. This day, however, trouble found you. You were getting closer to home. It was nearly dark. You were in a quieter part of the neighbourhood. You were so wrapped up in your book that you didn't notice the man walking closer and closer, until his hand was wrapped around your wrist. You dropped your book in surprise and he dragged you into one of the many alley ways that littered Brooklyn.
You tried to scream, but he put his hand over your mouth, and pushed you against the wall so hard you were winded.
“Scream, and you'll regret it.” He muttered into your ear, voice like gravel.
You nodded.
The man lowered his hand from your face and tore your bag from your shoulder. You felt a small amount of relief at this. Maybe he would take your purse and then leave you to the rest of your evening.
He threw your bag to the side and that hope was dashed. He began unbuttoning your blouse. You couldn't stop yourself from crying out for help.
The man growled, back handing your face. You went to scream again when you noticed a metallic glint in his hand. He pressed the knife to your throat.
“You bitch. You'll pay for that!”
“Please,” you whimpered.
“Shut it.” You felt the knife nick your skin, and a small trickle of blood.
You stayed as quiet as you could manage, not sure what else to do. As the man began to lift your skirt, you saw a blur of movement out of the corner of your eye. A stranger was sneaking up on the man. When he saw you notice him, he placed a finger on his lip to quiet you.
You tried to ignore the stranger, not wanting to alert the man who was attacking you to his presence. You were scared that the stranger would frighten the man and cause him to slice your throat with the knife. And you were scared the stranger wouldn't be able to do anything to help you.
The stranger stood silent, seemingly waiting for something. That something came when the man lowered his knife to try to figure out the stockings that the library management insisted you wear.
The stranger wrenched the man away from you. With him no longer pressing you into the wall, your legs, which felt like jelly, gave way. You fell to the ground and looked toward the scuffle.
The stranger was proficient in self defence, that much was clear. He managed to disarm the man, and with a few punches to the face, he was lying in the dirt unconscious. The stranger picked up the knife and threw it into a nearby dumpster. Then he moved toward you slowly.
You flinched.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said gently. His voice was deep and calm. Could you believe him? You closed your eyes and focused on your strange abilities and found his energy in front of you. You could feel his worry and, more importantly, no anger or hatred. He meant you no harm.
He reached his hand out and again you felt uncomfortable. You did your best to avoid touching people. You ignored your hesitance and took his hand. You were immediately flooded with his good nature. He pulled you up from the ground and passed you your book and handbag.
“Th-thank you,” your voice was still shaking.
“No need to thank me,” the stranger said. “I was just doing what any decent person would do.”
“Then you’re the first decent person I’ve ever met.”
The stranger frowned. “You’re bleeding.”
You reached up and touched the nick on your neck gingerly. Your hand came away wet with blood. “It’s not too deep. I’ll clean it up when I get home.”
“Do you need help getting home?”
You paused. In truth, you were scared to finish your walk home alone. But, could you trust this man?
The warm tingling still in your fingers told you that you could.
“Yes please.”
The stranger smiled at you and you exited the alleyway, leaving your attacker behind.
You walked side by side in silence. You kept going over all the things you could say in your head, then deciding that it was stupid. Damn your awkwardness. Ten minutes passed in this fashion and you found yourself outside the front door to your apartment.
“This is… this is me,” you said, pointing to the door. You inwardly cringed.
“Are you going to be alright?”
“Yes, I’ll be fine.”
“Alright then. Stay safe,” the stranger went to turn around. You sensed hesitation. The same hesitation you felt in letting him go.
“Do you… do you want to come in for tea?” Goodness, were you really that lame?
“That sounds nice,” he said, a ripple of relief coming from him.
You pulled your keys from your bag and turned to open your door.
“By the way,” the stranger began. “My name’s James. James Barnes.”
