P.s. Not all my Bucky works are on this list, just my personal favorites.
✯ - Fluff
✪ - Angst
✰ - Alternate AU
⋆⋆⋆ - Comfort
🛦- Series
Here's the link to the poll on series options (just to get a general idea of what to expect)
Picture Perfect✯ - it's the 1940s, and Bucky comes home from a hard day at work, but his wife is there to make every moment of his hard work worth it.
Careless Whisper✪ - Bucky dances with another woman. (1940s)
Case Study 1✯ ✰ 🛦- Prologue of how the geneticist and the detective met.
Merry Christmas✯ - Christmas with Bucky post WW2
An Unexpected Welcome✯ - Bucky mistakenly stops at Y/N's house, thinking is a BnB, as he's travelling into the countryside (for some or other reason idk why I'll try and establish that).
Corrival✯- Y/N and Bucky fight constantly, and its getting to a point where Sam literally cannot take it anymore, so he (and Zemo) friendly forces them into something he's sure will get them to sort their nonsense out.
The Brigand Man✰🛦 - Raised an outlaw, James, known rather as "Bucky" or the "Winter Soldier" by the public, has followed a life of executing order after order. Living a life controlled by others, he sees no aim in an attempt at a different life, until a task he's given breaks through his hardened mind and heart; Kidnapping the banker's daughter, Y/N Y/L/N for ransom money.
Catch ✯✰ - She is at a hotel for work conference. Chill day, spending it in the pool. A kid's ball accidentally splashes her when it lands in the water next to her. She ends up spending majority of her afternoon with kid, playing catch with him. When the Dad comes, beyond stressed because the babysitter had fallen asleep and lost track of the kid, he sees Y/N looking after his kid he falls hard.
Oh Brother✯✰ ⋆⋆⋆- her first introduction to her roommates brother goes... well in a way that Rebecca (Bucky's sister) never would've expected.
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It’s been almost exactly a year since the split. Clark left with a resounding slam of your door. You got the papers a week later, tears streaking down your cheeks, but if it was what he wanted, you’d sign. So you did, you gave him his share and made do with yours. The argument regarding your safety due to Clark being Superman had strained your relationship to the breaking point. And like so many other unlucky couples, you just couldn’t work it out.
When you get a random call around 2:30am the day after Thanksgiving from Ma, your heart drops. The connection is weak; all you can make out is, “Clark… Hurt… Please come as soon… He asked… you.”
It’s enough for you to throw clothes into a duffel and book the next flight. You still loved him, even after everything. And he needed you.
You laughed at the irony of your vows. You would still keep them. You hoped Clark wouldn’t send you away when he came to.
Warnings: Mentions of Violence, Clark has Kryptonite Poisoning, Clark is Whiny, Husband Clark Kent, Hurt/Comfort, Very Slight Reference to Sexual Content, Guilt, Fear, Reuniting with your Ex-Husband Superman, Unsolved Tension, Lots of Angst, Slight Mentions of Near-Death Experiences, Pain, Reader is Down Bad, Clark is also Down Bad, This is Angst City, and I am the Mayor
You glance over at the clock, and it reads 2:15am. Great, another sleepless night, alone. The bed feels cold and empty beside you, hollow from days past. You roll over, trying desperately to get into a comfortable enough position to sleep. You know it’s hopeless, but you try anyway.
The wind whips against your window pane, reminding you of the harsh reality of the time of year it was. Late November, Thanksgiving had just passed, and it was your first Thanksgiving without Clark. You’d spent the day binge drinking and watching horrible Hallmark movies about city girls and country boys.
You sigh in defeat. It would only be a couple more weeks until he’d been gone for a year.
The sadness sank deep into your chest, aching and beating slowly in your sorrowful heart. The tears had all but vanished, causing you to lie there, eyes dry. You quit feeling sorry for yourself a long time ago, but the holidays reminded you so much of Clark, hopefulness lingering in everyone’s attitude that you passed on the street.
The difference was that each of your friends had someone to come home to. Lois had Jimmy, and you could sadly tell that they pitied you, often offering to take you to dinner, letting you third wheel their events, and pretending that everything was okay.
Lois had cussed out Clark when he’d made the decision to leave you. Calling him a “selfish asshole," and stating that his resignation to The Planet was "Total, utter bullshit!" Jimmy tried to stay out of it as long as he could, but he ultimately sided with Lois every time. You’d been really thankful to have someone on your side. Because once the media caught wind of Superman’s secret love affair, they’d immediately taken it way too far.
Rumors of cheating, emotional abuse, etc., lingered in the magazines for a few months. You barely left your house, afraid to be assigned a lead on 'the mysterious wife of Superman.' Clark spent many weeks as his alter ego fighting to have every false allegation taken down. He loved you so much it hurt, but he couldn’t bring himself to put you in constant danger, not after your accident. That was his sorry excuse for walking out on you.
You blamed it on his fear that too many people were uncovering the possibility of Clark Kent being Superman.
You ponder the thought of calling him, and glance at your phone, thrown lopsidedly to the pillow next to you. After all the pain and abandonment, you had only called Clark twice. The first time was on your birthday. Lois had taken you out for drinks, and well... you got wasted.
You had called him, just for the phone to ring twice before going to voicemail. You cussed him out for not calling and singing to you, sobbed into the phone as your friends tried to calm you, and puked onto the floor when Lois finally ripped your phone from your hands. She muttered something crossly towards Clark in the message, stating that it was "just like you to not call her on her birthday. No contact doesn't mean forgetting everything she means to you."
The no-contact rule was torture for both you and Clark; he told you it was the best way to keep you safe. But he was unwilling to hear just how desperate you were to keep him in your life. You longed to know how he felt. You wanted to know the truth: that he missed every inch of your skin, just like you missed his. You were sure that he truly just hated you, and it pained you so bad that you spent many nights on the roof of your apartment building, pondering the fall.
You wondered if Clark would catch you halfway down.
You doubted it, the longer he'd been gone.
Abandoning those thoughts, you roll in the opposite direction of your phone, mentally cursing yourself for the pure audacity to think of calling Clark right now. He was probably out saving some damsel in distress anyway. You sigh, gazing into the clock that now reads 2:24am.
This was going to be a long night. The kind of night that promised nothing but silence.
You close your eyes, huffing into the stillness of your bedroom, and try to count sheep.
You’re about four sheep in when your phone rings, the song “You Are My Sunshine” echoes into your ears, and you sit up. That was Ma’s ringtone.
Your heart drops to your stomach. Clark.
Picking up the phone without a second thought, you raise a shaky hand to your mouth, biting your nail in anxiety, “Ma?”
The line cracks, muffled and broken between what you’re sure is Ma crying, and she speaks, “Y/n! Sweetheart, is that… we need you… Clark’s hurt… please… as soon as possible… he asked for you.”
The line goes dead.
You brush some of your bed head off your forehead and inhale with an open mouth. Your head spins and you stand on two wobbly legs. Clark was hurt. Superman, hurt. Your Clark. The cheeky man that had stolen your heart with his messy black hair and rigid dimples. The same Clark, who used to kiss your stomach unhurriedly and stare at you too long with those ocean blue eyes. You prayed for him to be alive within the cold air of the night.
Tears somehow found their way to your cheeks again, running like rain on a car window, recklessly. You pulled out a bag and quickly stuffed a charger, some clothes, and god knows what else inside. You didn’t pay it much mind, thinking only of Clark, and the quickest way to get to him.
You would catch the next flight, no matter what it took to see him again. Ignorant of the price, even though you had very little. You cared only to see Clark, to brush his hair between your fingers and whisper sweet nothings into his temple, breath brushing his ear. That was what you used to do when a fight went South, when a civilian died. You were the only one who could console him. He went at ease when you were near. Maybe that's why he needed you.
Ma used to call you his ‘emotional kryptonite.’ God, you missed him.
As you pass your kitchen on the way out, you glance at the fridge. No, you were still far too full from Thanksgiving dinner at Jimmy’s to eat anything. But you hesitated. Clark loved your peanut butter brownies. They’d go bad otherwise. Maybe that’s what he needed.
You sigh, rip a Tupperware container from its place in the dishwasher, hands shaking from stress and worry, and dump the remainder of your brownies in. Every little thing in this apartment still screamed his name, his presence. The candle by the couch, one he’d bought you after saying it reminded him of your shampoo. Each dent in the drywall, where he’d slammed you into the wall after a long day when he just needed release, nipping at your neck with want. The robe that used to be his, hanging on a hook, which now acted as your oversized towel after a bath.
It all became a way of coping. Every first aid kit you had on hand for the cuts on his knuckles, every pocket protector you’d stuffed away into a drawer with no need for them anymore. You slowly forgot the meaning of living with him, the meaning of living. But he was still in every sentence you wrote at The Planet. He lingered in every breath you drew in, alone.
Your life had faded into a concept of surviving. And you did everything you could to stifle any hope of him returning.
He’d made it very clear that he wouldn’t.
You zip up your duffel, brownies inside. Your heart still beats wild and uncomfortably in your chest. Every second you wait, you’re not there for Clark. He asked for you. Your lip tilts up, it’s not a smile, but it’s something.
The gate is quiet, the crowd small but steady. People shuffle between TSA checking and cuss at a small volume when they get flagged for the fluid bottles in their bags. You pass through, keeping to yourself, too hurried to worry about the way a woman shoulder checks you. You brush it off, rushing for your 4:30am flight to Kansas City. Pa would meet you there in his dusty red Chevy, probably halfway squeeze the life out of you, and cry like the old sap he was.
You loved it, you missed the family you lost because of those damn papers.
You take a sip from the four-dollar water bottle you bought in the small gift shop by your gate. The water tastes like metal and something else you can’t quite put your finger on. When they call for boarding, you spring up, wiry and light on your feet, clutching the strap of your duffel like it was rope and you’re hanging off a cliff.
You take the aisle seat on the fourth row, eager to be one of the first people off the plane. You had no luggage to pick up, no rental car to wait for, only the promise of your quick feet and small frame to shift through the crowd. You willed the plane to arrive before schedule, and sat back, headphones playing “The Mighty Crabjoys.” You chuckle, strained, and raise a head to your forehead, rubbing away the memories like smudged lead on paper.
The flight was four hours; that meant you had four hours to try and sleep. You crack your neck in restlessness, recoiling in the thought of how Clark must feel. Hurt, alone. A feeling you’d become far too familiar with. Still, it left a heavy sting of guilt deep in your stomach, causing it to churn with unease.
Every second you’d had with Clark was magical; you felt like you were in heaven in the moment. He was the dream, the perfect gentleman. He memorized your heart and made it his. Promised you a life full of adventure, risk, and happiness. You never expected him to stomp on it all with his custom Kryptonian boots. You didn’t think he meant to, truly. But now you looked back over the years like a sad nostalgic dream, crushed by the weight of every harsh truth and splintered trust.
It must be nice to never feel like this. You cursed every delusional happy couple; they all had what you still hoped for with every moment alone in the shower, someone to love. To hold.
Where you two had left things, it didn’t promise much to look forward to. The argument, which caused Clark Kent of all people to slam your door, snapping several hinges, explained his reason for never calling you, never sending a card. The way he’d spoken to you, the way you’d spoken to him, it was lethal. It destroyed years' worth of admiration, every morning naked in bed, giggling, every night dripping in sex and sweat. You both had crushed the walls you once built with hammering words, shattering the mirror of truly seeing one another.
Your heart died that day, with every word he’d uttered, fists drawn tight and rigid to his sides. And god, when you’d slapped him, he raised one of his fists. You both stared at it like it had betrayed you each in its own way. His eyes widened, and he gulped so hard you heard it. Your breath sucked in with a sharp gasp, and you flinched away. He crumbled, tears spilling down his cheeks, “baby, no, no… You know I would never. Oh god, Y/n, sweetheart, you have to believe me.”
“Get out, Clark.” You’d whispered, eyes screwing shut, your own sorrowful tears spilling all the way to your collarbones. He flinched like your words had slashed his middle. “Y/n, not until I know you’re okay—” but you’d cut him off, hands slapping to your cheeks and angrily swiping at your hot tears. You stared into his eyes, yours cold with hatred. “G-get the fuck out, Clark.” A breath, “Please, don’t make me ask again.”
He hesitated, watching your chest rise and fall quickly. He gave you one long and suffering look, his face screaming anguish. His mouth hung open, angry words dangerously hanging on the tip of his tongue. Hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, right foot beginning its anxious habit of tapping against your floor.
Then without warning, he’d turned sharply, grabbed his coat from the rack he’d hung only weeks prior, and left. No more backward glances, no more second chances. Clark read your mind in that last look, and had seen just how much he needed to go. So he did. The man was painfully true to his word.
You wish you could take back every word. Every cutting touch and angle you’d pushed. He only wanted to protect you, and you’d freaked. It wasn’t entirely your fault; you knew what you were getting yourself into from the start. Clark was never satisfied, knowing you were always unsafe.
Every encounter you’d made with villains, most of them run-of-the-mill losers who had figured out Clark's identity, had chalked up to another point towards an at-home fight. You were certain that you could handle it. Clark was never so sure, always so afraid of you breaking, of losing you. He didn’t know that he eventually would lose you in an even greater fashion. You weren’t glass, you weren’t a damsel in need of saving. You knew the cost of loving Superman; it laid heavy in your chest like a stack of bricks.
But the difference was you knew that it was worth it for Clark, and he didn't.
But then, the accident happened. You were never supposed to be there, if you’d just listened. He wouldn’t have almost lost you. Clark had been too late.
You could confidently confirm that when you’re about to die, your life does indeed flash before your eyes. It had, in a burst of darkness and dust. Then, you were gone.
You jolt awake at the force of the plane landing. Ah, you had fallen asleep. Clark. You were almost home. Please hold on.
When the airplane clears to exit, you shoot up. Offering a quick apology to those ahead of you, and shuffling between the rows, practically running down the loading gate. You sprint through the crowd, avoiding a businessman and his steaming latte. Your eyes scan the pickup lane, finally landing on Pa.
He’s waiting, cardboard sign in hand, with your name scribbled messily. You smile softly, and your heart aches with pure and utter homesickness. You run up to him, taking him by surprise as you wrap your arms around him. He chuckles in shock and returns the hug, squeezing you tightly like an overprotective parent when their child returns from war. You don’t realize the tears until they’ve already fallen, and he’s whispering, “I missed you, buttercup,” into your ear.
“Please tell me he’s alive, Pa.” You murmur, voice breaking, desperate and raw. Pa nods firmly, pulling back from the hug. “He’ll be okay. I think this fight woke’m up from the horrible, ugl’ah nightmare of losin’ you.” He confirms, patting your shoulder in comfort.
“He doesn’t miss me. I just wanted to see him. I-I had to know… had to know he was okay.” You cry, burying your head into his neck. Pa sighs, rubbing at your shoulder blade with his worn hands, “Sweetheart, he doesn’t know just how much he needs you.”
You bite back the words “I still love him” and instead nod, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. Pa smiles, flashing you a true American farmer grin, and opens the door of the truck for you. You climb in, breathing in the scent of the Kent household and relax back into your seat. A feeling of anticipation begins to thrum quietly in the hollow of your heart.
The drive feels shorter than you remember, Billy Joel and Diamond Rio streaming out of the radio in their regular fashion. You watch the corn fields pass, remembering the first time Clark had brought you home with him. You’d been so nervous, even though you had no reason to be worried. Ma and Pa were the parents you never had.
When the split happened, they didn’t know who to call first. They’d called Clark, obviously. But you were the one they visited. That meant something real to you. You weren’t sure Clark knew, so you’d stowed it away with every flannel he hadn’t bothered to pick up.
You see the sign for Smallville, and your heart leaps in your chest, with a sudden burst of anxiety.
You pull up to the driveway, and with every yard closer, your chest grows increasingly tight. The house looks the same as you’d seen it. Crooked shingles and white siding frame the childhood home that Clark grew up in. The fields outside whistle in the wind, drifting with memory and nostalgia. You grip the handles of your duffel and pinch your wrist. This was truly real.
When the tires screech to a stop, you sit still against the leather, waiting a minute before hopping out. Ma meets you at the screen door, pulling you straight into her arms and brushing your hair with a soothing hand. You meet her with a sigh, “Ma…” She shushes you, just breathing into your shoulder with a shuddering inhale, holding you. Your face twists into something deeply uncomfortable, scrunching up like wrinkled laundry. You hold back the tears, and break apart, holding each of her shoulders, “I need to see him.”
She nods in understanding, stepping out of your way. “You know where to find him, babygirl.”
You move down the hall in a silent tradition, without a second thought. You pass the endless frames, which hold everything sweet and innocent about Clark beneath their glass. The hallway moves around you as your feet hit carpet, slow, sure, and familiar. Everything comes to a slow rhythm of instinct. The door to Clark’s bedroom is ajar, allowing you to see his posters, trophies, and baby blue wallpaper from the outside.
Your feet come to a rest at the threshold. Blinking in slow motion, your eyes well up once more. You’re not sure if it’s from fear or excitement. Maybe it’s just the overwhelming sensation of knowing that the love of your life waits inside. You haven’t seen him since he slammed that oak door back in the city.
You weren’t sure about this.
But nothing stops you from stepping inside, a vow kept in the hushed corners of the Kansas house. You were here in sickness, in health. Through the fall from grace and the cold, bitter reality of hurt.
When you behold Clark lying on his full-sized bed, completely crushing it beneath his massive frame, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. He’s not asleep, but he hasn’t noticed you yet; that or he’s pretending you aren’t there.
His eyes flicker to yours, and he draws in a quick, faltering breath. “You came,” he cracks, with a pitiful and wretched timbre of disbelief. His eyes pinch together with a raw and painful flinch.
You drop the duffel and stride to his side in three short steps, collapsing to your knees.
“You called.”
He breaks, the waterworks instant. His chin quivers in a way that tells you everything you needed to know. That he regretted those words too, that he missed you every. damn. day. That he tried so hard to stay away that it had utterly destroyed him on the inside.
You drop your head onto his shoulder and sob, “I thought– I thought, oh god, Clark. I– I thought you were gone.” Your tears wet the flannel on his chest, and you bring a hand up to feel at his face. He struggles, weeping openly and watching you cry too, clutching your body with one strong but weary arm.
“I’m so fuckin’ sorry. I’m so sorry,” he whispers, painful and pure with every shake.
His voice is muffled in your hair, strands spread across his chest. He holds you like something scared, secret. It’s a moment that you both know you’ll store away somewhere safe. The air around you shifts in a tense click.
You lift your head, meeting his red-rimmed eyes, bluer than ever through his crying, with yours. They hide away a hideous guilt, masked by his determination to make the right decisions. All the while, Clark knew he hadn’t.
He’d stormed out that day, only to collapse into the brick outside the building, tearing at his shirt and sobbing unashamedly.
Every day he’d spent without you had been true hell, and even now, Kryptonite poisoning and all, his chest felt lighter at the graze of your touch. It was all the pain medicine Clark needed.
“I’m glad you’re here.” He admits, not quite meeting your eyes this time. His chest rises in a steady thrum, and he rests his head back against the plush pillow. He doesn’t dare to lie, to fake some sorry excuse due to the no-contact rule. It was a dumb, fucking stupid rule that he had used to cower from his problems.
The truth was, Clark hadn’t felt like Superman since he’d left.
He felt like a traitor to the name of Justice and Hope.
You were his hope, you were his peace. It was all because of you that he could wake up every morning and promise the people of Metropolis his best self.
He hadn't promised anything in a real long time.
Clark stares at the ceiling as you shift off your knees, rising again to your feet and searching for the chair by his desk. You pull it to the bed, sitting down slowly.
“I came as quick as I could, t-took the next flight out.” You tell him, searching his eyes with yours, reminding him of just how much you cared. He looks at you again, and for a moment you both sit there, silent. The intensity leaves a pit in each of your stomachs. Clark clears his throat, coughing slightly in strained air, “Thank you, Y/n.”
You nod without restraint, your neck cracking at the sudden movement. You both huff out a laugh. It feels like everything.
You’re not sure how this moment feels so reverent, so private. But it does. You feel miles away and nearby all in the same twitch of your fingers. Clark stares at you like you might disappear into the light of the lamp beside you if he blinks. His hair is a mess, swamped around his bloody forehead.
“You need some serious sun, golden boy,” you laugh, calm and slow this time. Clark breathes out a sigh of relief at the domestic tease. “Wow, teasing me already, sweetheart? It’s true, nothing’s changed, has it?” He eases, but the words are more than a tease; he really is asking. The words hold the weight of the truth, the ugly and bitter loss of time together you’d each given up. Clark didn’t know just how much you had changed. All the ways you tried to survive.
You meet his eyes again and hold your breath. His face still screams apology, so you let it slide, allowing an instant quip to smooth out on your tongue. You wouldn’t start anything; not now.
He still realizes what he’s said, and mutters another stream of haphazard ‘I’m sorry’s.’ You just stroke at his collarbone with your thumb and shake your head, dismissing his fears.
You speak again after a moment of peace, the only sound being his clock ticking and the rustle of the covers from him shifting around, soft groans accompanying his change. "What hurts?"
He laughs, a deep tenor you had once heard in the shell of your ear and between your legs, and coughs, "The question really is: What doesn't?" It makes you furrow your brows and give him a pitiful look. He hated it, he always had. The look you gave him when he'd come home from a fight. You looked like you'd taken every single hit with him, and your eyes reflected the pain of every punch.
You always felt guilty, as if you'd held him a little longer, massaged his muscles a little harder, it wouldn't have hurt him so badly. Your empathy was your greatness weakness.
"'m so sorry, Clark," you breathe, voice laced with desperation. He shakes his head, "No. No, sweetheart. This ain't about that." It makes you immediately hush, nodding and trying to swallow down the pain you still long to express. He notices your retreat, and reaches out a hand, catching yours. "What I mean is... I wish I hadn't. I-" he pauses, flashing you a quick look of hesitation, and his Adam's apple bobs up and down.
"I never should've walked out of that door. I never should've pushed you away. I thought I-I was protecting you." He mumbles, words shattering the fragile veil of certainty, head tilted down in shame. Everything was up for question now. You gasp sharply and your face scrunches again, tears coming close to erupting.
He watches with a sick look on his face, swallowing down his own sorrow. You reach for his jaw with your palm, fingers spreading across the familiar dimple on his cheek. You dip the tip of your thumb into it on instinct. "I should've fought more for you." You whisper quietly.
His chest quivers, and his hand curls up around yours, grounding you.
"I can't keep pretending like I'm half the man I was when I had you."
You both let the words sink in, and you just stare. His face looks tired, lonely. The apologies promise more hope than either of you had been able to manifest. But there was still hurt, so, so much hurt.
But now... You each let it hurt. You take the first step towards acceptance. As a team.
You stand, and paddle over to your bag, reaching for the one thing you'd brought to lighten the mood. Clark breathes in an awkward laugh, "You didn't."
You smile at him, and for a second he remembers just how truly beautiful your smile is. You look perfect like this, messy hair and sore eyes. You had never needed to be anything but yourself for him to fall on his knees for you.
"I did. Always for you, Clark."
He frowns, and a tear spills over his cheek.
"I don't deserve it."
You sigh, and rub at your eye. "You don't decide that, Clark."
You sit back down, this time on the edge of the bed. The springs creak in protest, almost as if to say, "Really? You too?" But you pay them no mind.
In the silence of the dusty childhood bedroom. You raise a brownie to Clark's lips. As always, he takes a timid first bite, letting the flavor hit his tongue with a groan. You smile, he smiles back.
The pair of you still, and finally enjoy each other's presence. The moment is nothing solid; it flows like water, unsure and without balance. But it flows all the more, running over into every harsh moment alone, and flooding them into oblivion.
There is no promise of something future, no guarantee of something grand and romantic, no sign that leads to a full recovery. But for now, you're just happy to be with him again.
Your Clark.
Your love.
Your husband.
In sickness, in health.
In hurt, in heartbreak.
"I missed this," one of you whispers, the other nodding.
"Me too."
THANK YOU FOR READING!!!! This is my baby. I hope you enjoyed.
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Summary: her first introduction to her roommates brother goes... well in a way that Rebecca (Bucky's sister) never would've expected
Warnings: like 1 swearword sorry
A/u: college
A/n: In this au Bucky's favorite song is The Less I Know The Better by Tame Impala, and he's a music nerd. Also in this him and Steve had a fallout :(
Hope you guys enjoy xx
xxxx
She sat at the kitchen island, hands flying over her laptop keyboard, One Kiss by Dua Lipa blasting through a cheap speaker. The door rattled, groaned, and then was forced open with a loud bang and a grunt. Yup. The apartment's rackety old door. Only, Becca, her roommate, wasn't due home for another two hours. Maybe her flight was earlier than she remembered. Her head lifted, expecting to greet a brown-haired girl. Instead, she was met with sharp blue eyes belonging to a man.
"Hi,"
He spoke, casual, like one would to a friend you'd known for years, as he walked past her and behind the wall, then into Becca's room. Her head followed him, mouth ajar. She blinked several times as she stared at the wall, expecting it to answer her questions. The song changed, to The Less I Know The Better by Tame Impala. The man's head peaked from around the corner, approving grin on his face.
"Good song,"
He spoke, giving a singular nod as he disappeared behind the wall. She shook her head, suddenly realizing what she'd just witnessed. She pushed back from the counter, grabbing her phone, and standing. She shook her head as she marched to Becca's room.
"No, wait, just wait one hot minute."
The stranger turned to her, brow quirked.
"Yeah? Isn't that a Red Hot Chili Peppers album?"
He strode to the door, casual in a way that made her blood boil. His arms folded across his broad chest as he leaned against the doorframe, causing her brain to short circuit momentarily. Her stomach flipped at his spot-on reference, and she looked to her room to make sure her door was closed, to hide the fact that she had a RHCP poster up. Her head snapped back to him, her own arms folding defensively across her chest.
"Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my apartment?"
A laidback grin spread across his face.
"She mentioned that you're feisty."
"Excuse me?"
Her brows pinched together, offense beginning to overflow her alarm.
"You're excused,"
He pushed off with a fake yawn, turning his back to her, and walking back into the room.
"Hey! I'm talking here,"
"Ohh, you sound just like a Yankee dollface."
An irritated scoff left her.
"You literally have an accent that screams 'I grew up in the slums of Brooklyn'."
His shoulders tensed, which she noted finely. A nerve struck.
"Spot-on sweetheart. What's next, my shoe size?"
"I'm being seriou- can you please look at me while I'm talking to you?"
He hesitated a beat long enough to notice before turning to her, coolly. As if on cue, Can't Feel My Face by The Weekend started to play, the first verse. That irritatingly hot grin stretched across his stupidly perfect face, spurring her on further. She inhaled sharply to subside the irritation bubbling in her chest.
"Who are you? How did you get in here? And why?"
His eyes flickered to the floor as his tongue skimmed across his top teeth. He tilted his head up and to the side, gazing down at her through hooded eyes. Oh he looked so fucking handsome, she wished she could take a picture. She braced herself for another witty remark, hand twitching in preparation to smack that perfect face.
"I'm Becca's brother. And I'm assuming she didn't inform you that I'm coming."
Her face dropped, in relief and embarrassment.
"Oh,"
A snort escaped him, a laugh, as he shook his head, turning away once more.
"Now hang on how do I know you're not just saying that?"
"Want an ID?"
"Yes."
"You cannot be serious."
He turned to her, bewildered expression on his face. When he saw that she was, in fact, serious, he sighed dramatically, reaching into his jean pocket, and tossed his wallet at her. She caught it, eyes narrowing on him before she clipped it open. Her brows raised in surprise.
"For someone 'from the slums', your wallet sure is stacked with cash."
"I've been working. And don't take any I'll know."
She rolled her eyes, pulling out his ID card. She eyed it, and then him, like a TSA agent. Which made him roll his eyes again as he stuck out his hand.
"Relax TSA its real."
She put the card back, clipping the wallet closed, and handed it back to him. Both of them ignored the fireworks in their bellies when their hands grazed.
"Well, James Buchanan Barnes. I suppose its nice to finally meet you."
"You too, Y/N. Rebecca told me your name."
He rushed before her bewildered expression at the knowledge of her name could become a string of questions. She stood awkwardly at the door for a few moments.
"So, how long are you here for?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?"
That stupid grin was back. So was her irritation.
"Yes, I would, since I live here."
"I'll be here until Bex comes back, and then a day after that."
"So a day and a half?"
"Yeah, whatever."
"And you'll be sleeping in her bed?"
"Nah, want her to come back to a fresh un-slept in bed after the trip. I'll take the couch, or the floor in her room if the other option bothers you."
Her defensive posture faltered slightly, face softening.
"That's... oddly considerate of you."
"I may be a schmuck, but my Ma raised me right."
Y/N nodded, thinking back to Becca's polite mannerisms.
"Well, I was about to make coffee if you want some."
She turned back out.
"Now that's oddly considerate of you."
"Don't get used to it!"
She called from around the corner.
..
"You guys seriously live here?"
They were now both sat on the tiny couch, each as far to the other side as possible. James looking around the shoebox apartment.
"No, we just reside here."
Her sass earned a deadpan stare from him to the side of her face. She couldn't help her smile. The silence was less awkward now, almost comfortable. Y/N flipped through her playlist, skipping a few songs, before settling on Comfortably Numb by Pink Floyd. A brow was raised by James, his mouth quirking into a surprised smile.
"You have impeccable taste in music, just by the way."
Thanks, she grinned back, as coolly as possible. Her eyes then flickered to his shirt, a Mötley Crüe shirt, and back up to his face. He was bearing that grin again, her eyes rolled, already knowing what he was going to say.
"Like what you see?"
She groaned, dragging a hand down her face as he laughed, head tilting back. Through her fingers, she allowed herself a peak, cheeks tinting at the sight.
"So how come you seem to know a fair deal about music?"
His laughter slowly died down, and he turned to her, arm over the couch, cheek pressed against his fist. He eyed her like she was his favorite album, making her squirm and fight for her cheeks not to tint (if that was even possible).
"Don't know, I'm just drawn to it."
Now it was his turn to rake his eyes across her figure. Suddenly she was grateful for the baggy old shirt.
"Oh turn it up its my favorite song!"
His eyes suddenly lifted as the first chord had hardly finished. She grinned, flicking up the volume.
"How come this one?" (The Less I Know The Better)
He shrugged again, eyes casting to the couch as his fingers toyed with a loose thread.
"I relate to it."
"Yeah? A girl called Trevor steal your girl?"
It was a joke. One could her it in her tone. But his shoulders tightened once more.
"Something like that,"
His voice was slightly dejected, before the usual nonchalant side took over again.
"But his name was Steven. Kinda sounds like Trevor. Kinda."
"Oh... I'm sorry."
He shrugged, leaning back on the armrest of the couch.
"Was a long time ago, doesn't bug too much anymore."
But in fact it did. It killed him, all those years ago. They were pre-school best friends, who grew up together in the slums, and went through school together. Then a transfer student came, and they both fell in love. Bucky got the girl. But then Steve's folks suddenly got rich, and Steve stole the girl from Bucky. Bucky, though hurt, was willing to look past it for the sake of their friendship. But Steve no longer wanted to do with 'slum scum'. Steve's own words.
"If its any consolation, I have a similar experience. Guy left me for a 'better looking' girl. Guys, in fact."
"Its not, but thanks for trying."
She rolled her eyes at that, but both of them knew he was only joking. Would Rebecca likely kill her for what she was about to do? Yes. Did she care on that moment? No, because Rebecca wasn't there to witness it.
"I wouldn't have dumped you."
A surprised chuckle escaped him, head snapping up toward her.
"Then I wouldn't have left you either."
"No, I seriously mean it. I mean you're irritating as hell sometimes, but you're a genuine guy. You're decent, come from a good-hearted family. And, you're hot."
He tipped his head back again as he laughed. This time he kept it on the couch, only turning it to meet her eyes.
"You were ready to veto my stay earlier and now you're flirting? Maybe I should be cautious about you."
She breathed a chuckle through her nose, also resting her head on the couch, eyes locked on his.
"Hey, as that one Metallica song says, or was it a cover? Anyway; Carpe Diem Baby. Seize the day, baby. I've spent enough time missing out on opportunities because I was afraid of looking like a fool, or because I stuck to societal norms. So I'm gonna shoot my shot. And however it ends up, at least I tried and can sleep in peace knowing that."
His lips parted, stunned, as he blinked slowly. Eyes peeling open like a beautiful sunrise.
"You sound like an old person giving advice on the radio."
She rolled her eyes, sitting up.
"Seriously that's what you take from my heartfelt confession?"
His hand reached out, lightly grasping hers.
"Yes. That and, how I'd like to carpet denim as well-"
"Carpe diem."
"You know what I meant. But as I was saying. I want to seize the day, baby, too."
His hand gave hers a gentle squeeze. A smile broke out on her face, and she shifted closer, her hand closing around his. She leaned her head back on the couch, their faces mere inches apart. They hadn't even heard the commotion. And as they stared into each others eyes,
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Summary: She is at a hotel for work conference. Chill day, spending it in the pool. A kid's ball accidentally splashes her when it lands in the water next to her. She ends up spending majority of her afternoon with kid, playing catch with him. When the Dad comes, beyond stressed because the babysitter had fallen asleep and lost track of the kid, he sees Y/N looking after his kid & falls hard.
A/n: hope you guys enjoy. Also for the moodboard sorry its not more inclusive, couldn't find a dress that matches the vibe I was going for.
Xxxx
The pool water was lovely, not too hot, not too cold, as she dipped in via the stairs. She felt good. Single with many eyes on her, in a nice new swimsuit, hair and makeup done, ignoring work on her off day, mostly worry free, at leisure in a nice hotel all expenses paid for. Nothing could break her stride. Except for a sudden, unexpected splash, drenching her pricey hairdo. With a shocked gasp, she removed her sunglasses, water dripping down every inch of her body.
"... Sorry miss.."
A sheepish little voice sounded from behind her. She turned, eyes landing on a boy, no older than 7. Big blue eyes stared at her, wide, frightened, little hands reaching out for the ball that was bobbing beside her in the water. No doubt the cutest kid she'd ever seen. She turned, reaching for the ball.
"No worries, dude."
What the heck else do you call some random kid not to sound rude or creepy? She tossed it back to him, fixing her sunglasses back in place, still dripping, but mostly cleared of droplets. Before she knew it the ball was flying back at her, and on instinct, she caught it. The same blue eyes stared back at her, but this time they weren't frightened, but more curios, testing. She tossed it back. A childlike, joyous, smile bloomed across his little face. He looked to the water, then back to her, then back to the water.
"What the heck, I'm already wet."
She smiled, moving aside to let him jump in. The little boy wasted no time in jumping in, well more like belly flopping. A surprised laugh escaped her as she watched the kid surface, hands patting for the ball. She nudged it closer. He grabbed it, swimming away to the stairs. Mounted on a step where he could stand with his hands above water, the boy looked at her, expectant. And that's how she got caught up in an endless game of catch, in a pool, as an adult at a work conference.
"Where are your parents?"
"My daddy's here in a meeting . My nanny's watching me."
"Oh, okay. Good."
The experience was nicer than she expected. She found herself giggling, as if she herself was a kid, heart healing in ways she'd forgotten were possible.
Bucky, on the other hand, had just come from a very draining conference, head still ringing from the buzz of all the questions and chatter and disputes. He pushed his hotel room door open with a hushed sigh, expecting to see his son and the babysitter (who of course had her own room but for now she was looking after Bucky's son until he was done with his meetings). What alarmed him first was the silence. No giggles, no patter of running feet, no irritating toy sounds (that Bucky actually dearly missed when he was away, which is one of the reasons he brought his son with on the trip), no TV.
What worsened his fright was the sight of the babysitter, asleep on the couch, phone in her hand, same reel looping. Perhaps she'd set him down for a nap, Bucky thought as he quietly stepped in, walking to the bed. Empty. He spun around, and again, looking everywhere. Bathroom, no. Minibar, no. Couch, no. Bedroom, no. His briefcase landed with a painful thud, waking up the babysitter.
"Where's he?"
"Who?"
She yawned, rubbing her eyes.
"My son?"
He breathed, exasperated. Her eyes widened, and she was suddenly wide awake, standing in an instant.
"I-I don't know, he was playing with the toys like two minutes ago. Maybe he's in the bathroom."
"No! He's nowhere in this room I've looked. And how come you were on your phone you know the agreement."
"I was just responding to a tex-"
"On Instagram reels? Sure. Y-"
He cut himself short, shaking his head.
"We will discuss this later. Right now, you're going to shut off the phone, and we're going to split up and look for him. And if you find him, you switch it back on and call me. Clear?"
She nodded, though her posture looked anything but willing to follow out his instructions. But he didn't care, patting his pocket to make sure he had his phone as he strode out.
He felt sick to his stomach as he darted across the hotel, ready to hurl at any given moment. All those horrible stories he'd seen on the news, heard from colleagues, seen remotely himself, resurfaced as he searched. His vision doubled in fright, every boy suddenly looking like his. He got many curious stares as he ran across the hotel lobby, several glares too. His composed self would never be doing this, but when it came to his son all composure was lost, and he'd do literally anything for the kid.
Security was not of much help as he fumbled to tell them, inform them, beg them to shut all exits. The babysitter had no idea when exactly he'd slipped out, worst case, he could be gone by now. The mere thought sickened Bucky even further, and he felt the familiar flushes of a panic attack.
No. Not now.
He ran, outside, suddenly remembering that his son was a water baby, just like his aunt. Damnit! Why couldn't he have remembered that sooner? Though, he was exhausted after a long week of conferences, a particularly long day, and unbeknownst to anyone in his close circles, he was battling ongoing court cases against his ex.
His polished shoes skidded as he turned the corner, narrowly dodging a waiter carrying a tray of glasses. Usually, he'd apologize, well under normal circumstances he wouldn't be doing this at all. But this was not normal, and his chest was about to implode under his racing heart.
He stopped short of the edge of the pool, eyes frantically scanning across the water, over all the heads. He was suddenly very grateful for those private swimming lessons he'd paid an arm an a leg for. He scanned the pool again, heart beginning to tighten as he didn't see his boy, when a familiar laugh bubbled up to his right. He spun towards the sound, eyes landing on a sight that warmed him, shoulders literally sagging with relief.
There he was, safe and sound, little face brighter than he'd seen it all week, playing catch with a stranger, a kind stranger. A beautiful stranger.
"George!"
Y/N's head snapped toward the sound. A suit-clad man stood above her. Gorgeous. Same blue eyes flickering between her and the kid, who she concluded was his son.
"Daddy!"
Y/N's heart warmed at the excitement in the little boy's voice as he paddled to the stairs, ball forgotten.
"Look Daddy I made a friend!"
George, she now knew, funny how she didn't even think about what the kid's name could be, just focused on making sure the kid was safe and content, pointed to her. A smile cracked on her face, and she turned to the suit-clad man to see his reaction. She expected a nod, or a smile, but he wasn't even looking at her. His face was blanched, hands shaking at his sides, eyes trained on his son. Her heart shifted uncomfortably.
"George James Barnes what on earth were you thinking!? Do you realize how worried I was!? You cannot just run off like that! Something horrible could've happened to you. What do you think I would've done if something happened to you, hm?"
The man stepped to the pool, gripping his son's shoulders as he spoke, eyes wide, panicked, face still pale. His eyes scanned across the boy to look for any injuries.
"But daddy Sharon said I can come."
His spine straightened instantly, face hardening.
"Did she?"
"Yes daddy I was playing by my planes and she was on the sofa 'n I asked her if I can play by the pool."
"And she said yes?"
His eyes scanned his son again, turning him slightly to see if his back was injury-free.
"Uh-huh. And I asked her if she was going to come too and come see I'm safe and she said sure."
She saw the man's jaw tick. Brows furrowing.
"Go grab your ball. We're going to have lunch while I talk to Sharon."
"No Daddy I'm playing!"
George shrugged his father's hands off, stepping back.
"Georgie I'm not asking, I'm saying."
"No no no no!"
The boy ran to the pool.
"George! Don't you d-"
Splash. The boy jumped in. Y/N surged forward in the water, having awkwardly watched the entire interaction. The man sighed heavily, one hand on his hip as the other shakily dragged across his face. Her eyes flickered back to the kid, who was now clinging to his ball with a furious pout.
"Georgie, why don't you go eat with daddy? I promise we can play after lunch. But between me and you,"
She leaned closer, whispering playfully, a small smile on her lips.
"I think your daddy needs some lunch in his tummy."
The boy cracked a small smile himself, eyes darting to his father.
"Promise you'll be here?"
"Pinkie promise. I'm only leaving tomorrow afternoon."
The boy hesitated, eyeing her, before he reluctantly swam to the stairs and trudged out. The man's hand instantly went to the boys shoulder, gently resting on it. His eyes lifted to Y/N's. They darted across her face barely noticeable it was so swift.
"Thank you. For watching him."
"No worries. I tried keeping him in the shade."
The man's eyes flickered back to his son, skin fine other than slightly tinted cheeks and his little button nose.
"Give me a form of contact so I can repay you."
She shook her head, raising her hands with a smile.
"No need. I didn't mind."
"I insist."
Yes, he did want to pay her for keeping his son safe and happier than he'd seen him in a while, but a selfish part of him also wanted her number for... other purposes. More romantically inclined purposes.
She tilted her head, that stunning smile on her stunning face.
"I'm Y/N. Here with (company name). Go sort out your dilemma, I'll be here tomorrow."
"Oh, yeah. Of course. I'm here for business too, (company name)."
"Oh! Well perfect. We're temporarily amalgamating as a team building something tomorrow morning."
"Yeah that's right. Completely slipped my mind thanks for the reminder. And thank you, again, for watching George. We'll discuss payment tomorrow."
"See you then."
She waved, sending a specially widened smile to the boy who turned back to wave at her.
The restaurant was buzzing when she walked in that evening. A black tie dinner for the companies. She looked around for her table, spotting it in the far corner against the window. She started walking there when,
"Y/N!"
Little George jumped in her path, looking adorable in a little suit with his dark hair slicked back.
"Well hi there George. Don't you look dashing."
She smiled.
"Can we swim tomorrow?"
She chuckled, adjusting her purse in her grip.
"We sure can, as soon as I'm done with my meeting, and if daddy says yes."
"Daddy has to swim with us!"
She chocked in surprise, eyes widening slightly.
"Oh- okay."
A large frame appeared behind George. The handsome man from earlier, in the same suit. She did not miss the way his eyes trailed across her. She was especially thankful then that she'd packed in her nicest dress.
"Evening, Y/N."
"Good evening to you too..."
She trailed off. His eyes flashed and he raised a hand.
"Apologies. Completely slipped my mind to introduce myself after this afternoon. I'm James."
James. She could finally put a name to the face. And, it was the same as George's middle name.
"Nice to meet you, amidst better circumstances."
He chuckled, nodding.
"Why don't you sit with us?"
She hesitated. As much as she'd love to, they were assigned seats.
"Well, we were assigned seats."
"I haven't seen anyone adhering to that."
She looked around, seeing her colleagues all over at different tables, strange faces at theirs.
"True... Alright. Where do I sit?"
"Right here,"
He pulled out a chair for her. Her cheeks tinted as she smiled, walking up, and sliding into the chair.
"Why thank you."
He beckoned with his hand for his son to join them as he sat down.
"No Daddy that's my seat!"
George protested as James slid into the seat next to her. He chuckled, standing.
"Where do I sit then?"
George shrugged as he settled onto the chair. Bucky looked around the table, a seat was open on the other end and one to the right of their new friend. Oh well. He sat next to Y/N.
"Sharon went home today."
"George-"
"Daddy fired her."
"George."
Y/N chuckled, looking between them. She assumed Sharon to be the babysitter, well ex-babysitter.
"I... let her go, yes. However I did pay her this month's allowance, in full despite today, and bought her tickets back home."
"That's understandable."
"Well whilst we're on the topic let's discuss what I owe you for looking after George. I could tell you her hourly rate but that'd be far too little regarding the fact that A, it's not your job, and B, you did it adequately, and C-"
"You said we could discuss it tomorrow. Let's just enjoy tonight."
Y/N interrupted him gently, chuckling. A smile crossed his face as he sat back in his chair. Perhaps, in some twisted way, he owed a thanks to the negligent babysitter. Because he's sure her negligence led him to meeting his future wife.
Pairing:Racer!Bucky x Ex!Childhood Best Friend!Reader
Summary: James Bucky “Bullet” Barnes hasn’t taken a proper break from his professional racing career in years. Feeling homesick and a little lost in life, he decides to take an extended break and return to his hometown. What he doesn’t expect to learn when he gets back, is that you and his sister Becca are no longer best friends. Not only that, but no one’s heard from you in years. And Bucky fears his biggest regret, a mistake he made in his sophomore year of college, is the cause of that.
WC: 13.3k
Contains: 18+ mdni / fluff / angst / smut / female reader / childhood friends to enemies to …? / ex!best friend’s brother / miscommunication / misunderstandings / reunion & revenge / street racing (I did some research, but I took some liberties for plot purposes) / bucky is clueless and down bad / illegal activities tied to street racing / not everything is as it seems / lots of back and forth between these two idiots in love / backseat car protected p in v / dream sequence that takes bucky down memory lane / fun cameos / buckys pov so the truth of it all isn't revealed until the end
a/n hi barbies! 💗 this fic is for @stantastic-association's barbie collab! thank you to our darling @miraclediviner for putting this gorgeous collab together 💗 And thank you to the prettiest barbie of them all, my bestie @thelomlbuckybarnes who listened to me yap endlessly about this fic until it was ready for everyone to read. 💞 Thank you for reading! ₊˚⊹♡ Likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated!! ♡♡♡
bucky's dreamhouse | bucky masterlist | main masterlist
This was it.
Bucky was home.
Nostalgia should be hitting him the hardest right now. The longing pull to be back in his childhood home with his Ma's cooking, his Pa's laughter, stupid arguments he can only get into with his sister that always end with Bucky giving her the reason. Sleeping in until his body feels like waking up, getting to pick what he wants to do in the day instead of sticking to a tight schedule—being able to just exist instead of only living for the sake of his career. He should be looking forward to all of that and more right now.
And he is, to some extent.
Underneath the nostalgia, there's an persistent thrum beneath his ribcage. Poking at a part of his heart that's been deeply tucked away within him for years. It made itself known the moment he decided to take a break from racing and come home. It followed him through press conferences and meetings, to his apartment while he was packing his bags and preparing to head to the airport. The thrumming only got louder, harder to ignore, the second he landed in his home town.
And it has your name written all over it.
"Hey! James! Over here!" Rebecca’s voice can be heard from somewhere in the distance, pulling Bucky from his thoughts. The airport was bustling with activity, people rushing to catch their flights or make it home. Bucky maneuvers through the crowd, his suitcase in tow, scanning faces at the arrivals bay until he finally spots his sister. Only half a year has gone by since he's last seen her, and yet she looks different, more grown up if that's even possible. It makes his chest squeeze slightly with the uncomfortable reality of this being one of many things he misses while he's gone.
"Hey Becs," his greeting comes in the form of a smothering hug, the kind only big brother's know how to give. She whines dramatically about him ruining the sign she made for him, pushing at his chest. He looks down at the piece of poster paper squished between them and chuckles. It's a small cheesy welcome home sign, clearly written in haste as most of the letters are wonky and the glitter thrown at it looks half-assed. He pulls away, grabbing it from her hands and smoothening it out before giving it back, "See, all better." She rolls her eyes, slapping at his arm and grumbling under her breath, "You big buffoon, learn to be more careful." Bucky barks out a laugh in response that only serves to annoy his sister more. Oh, how he's missed this.
He ignores her protests as he slings an arm around her shoulders, pushing them past the crowd of people in the direction of the elevators. "Folks didn't come?" He asks her as they get in and she shakes her head, pressing the button labeled L2, "Ma wanted to stay home and cook you up something nice for tonight. She's driving us all crazy making sure everything's perfect for you." Bucky frowns, and Becca looks at him like she's said too much, "Everything?"
The elevator doors open and they step out. "Yeah, you know how Ma gets about her cooking," Rebecca replies, waving her hand in the air like it's no big deal. He decides it's best not to press the issue, it's just dinner after all.
The conversation changes as they make their way to her car. Rebecca catches his up on her life post graduation. She talks about her new job in the city over, the apartment she's renting with a couple roommates, the coworker she doesn't get along with, how she still visits their parents on the weekends and oh, how can she forget to mention how ridiculously in love her roommates are with his teammate and friend, Steve Rogers.
"You have to get me tickets when you go back. I don't think they'll forgive me if I don't give them a chance to meet him," she mentions, and he hums in response, not fully paying attention as he places his suitcase in the backseat. But it's not like she has anything to worry about, her little sister privileges always win over Bucky in the end.
"Let me drive," he offers, closing the backseat door. Rebecca looks at him like he just asked her something atrocious. "Absolutely not. My car, I drive. Now get in," she orders, not hearing him out at all and getting into the driver's seat. Bucky is too tired to argue, so he heads over to the passenger seat and reluctantly buckles in. But as she's pulling out of the parking lot he realizes, there's something, no, someone she hasn't mentioned at all.
Bucky says your name out loud, pretty as always, but foreign on his tongue as he hasn't heard it anywhere, but in his head for years. Rebecca's body goes rigid, and he doesn't notice at first as he asks, "How's she doing?" He knows he has no right to ask. He knows he has no right to pry into your life or know anything about you now, but he can't help it. He needs to know. Maybe if he knows that insistent thrum beneath his ribcage will finally go away.
Rebecca stares straight ahead at the traffic on the road like it's the most interesting thing she's seen in a long time, exhaling apprehensively, "I don't know."
Well that's shocking.
"You don't know?" Bucky echoes, face pulling in a frown of disbelief. Rebecca's hold on the steering tightens ever so slightly, clearly uncomfortable with the topic of conversation being you. "Yeah, I don't know. We haven't been friends for years. Why would I keep up with her?" At that revelation, Bucky can practically feel the way his eyes bulge out of their sockets, a dreadful feeling creeping in to his system.
"Wait—hold on. You haven't been friends with her for years? When did that happen?" He's trying his best to wrap his head around it all. His brain picking out every memory from the last few years, holidays and birthdays he attended and not once did anyone mention you and his sister no longer being friends. Well, no one mentioned you at all, and your absence was felt, but he thought your absence had to do with what happened between you and him, not what apparently happened between you and Becca.
"Years ago," she replies simply.
"Becca."
"What? You asked, I answered."
Bucky stays silent, staring at his sister expectantly. She glances at him briefly, biting the inside of her lip knowing her brother is too stubborn to not keep pushing for more answers. "We stopped being friends after our first year of college. Things were already rocky when we started, but… I don't know we drifted apart—things happened." Her response was vague, like it took effort to reach into the past and look for a proper explanation.
"Things?" He couldn't help, but keep pushing.
Rebecca sighs, "Yeah, things. New friends, boyfriends, different schedules—look, it was a lot of things, but mainly she changed. A lot."
"What do you mean she changed?"
She rolls her eyes, Bucky evidently having pushed her too much, "God, what's with all the questions? Why do you even care?"
The truth is on the tip of his tongue, but he's too much of a coward to let it out. "I don't know, maybe because the three of us were best friends from the moment you two were put in the same kindergarten class. Because we were basically like family to each other."
"Yeah, well, that's in the past now."
The sadness in her voice tugs at Bucky's heart, watching her slump in her seat. It's obvious she wants the conversation to end, retreating into herself the way that she is. Whatever happened between you still weighs heavy on her heart. Whatever Bucky hoped to learn about you upon his return will have to wait. He thought his sister would be the one to give him answers, but all she managed to do was raise more questions.
Bucky turns to face the window, deciding it's best to not bring you up anymore. Rebecca's shoulders relax at that, reaching over to turn on the radio so the music can fill the tense silence. He closes his eyes, trying to focus on the music, but nothing can stop his thoughts from drifting to things he's been avoiding.
When he first decided to take a longer break than he usually gives himself, it was to give himself a chance to figure out what comes next. Racing professionally had always been his dream, but once he achieved it, he felt lost on the after. His racing career took off when he was young, too young to understand when something takes off so fast and bigger than himself, some people get left behind in the dust.
For years, his racing career was overwhelming in the best way. Making a name for himself, proving he was good enough, was all he strived for. His parents and sister had always been supportive, even when certain family members gave their unwanted opinions on how he'd never make it, certain he'd fail. And even though they only got to see him during the holidays or when he flew them out to one of his competitions, his parents and Rebecca cheered him on every step of the way. Promotions, sponsorships, media events, touring—it took up all his time for over half a decade.
But when he finally has made a name for himself, when he finally has the fame, the recognition, when he always wins… what's the next big thing he has to look forward to?
That question brought him back here, back home. Feeling lost on his purpose and fulfillment in life made him come back to where it all started. But being back here brings him back to you. And back to the biggest regret of his entire life.
Beyond the window of the car, the streets stretch out into something more familiar. They pass his old high school, the local bakery his mother used to send him to get fresh bread every week, the street that leads to his father's office, the corner store where your first boyfriend used to work, a sleazy guy he remembers punching the hell out of in that very corner for breaking your heart. They pass a park that's been here for ages, the rusty almost rundown playground evidence of its lack of maintenance, but all the years of usage. He remembers taking you and Becca there all the time when you were kids. Chasing you two with his friends around the playground, or pushing you on the wings just a little harder every time to hear you laugh harder. Every inch of this town were where his roots were founded on and surely it must have the answers to what he's looking for.
It takes another fifteen minutes before Becca pulls into the driveway of their childhood home, a cozy light blue two story building with his mother's meticulously cared for flower beds with blue and pink hydrangeas proudly displayed in the front. There's more cars on the street than he last remembered, but he guesses the number neighbors must have grown since the last time he's been here. It wouldn't be the only thing that's changed since then.
Bucky steps out of the car, wondering if maybe he has a chance to take a nap before dinner. He vaguely listens to his sister ramble on about their mother's plans for tonight as he opens the backseat door to get his suitcase. Becca is whining about how they'll probably have to play Yahtzee for the millionth time, when he gathers his things and follows behind her.
His sister walks to the side of the house, confusing Bucky until she explains. "Gotta use the side door, the front's stuck again." Right. At least that's another thing that stayed consistent. No matter how many times his father or Bucky put in the effort to fix the door, it somehow always managed to get stuck. And his father was always too stubborn to replace it no matter how many time his mother asked him to. Stubbornness seems to run in the family.
They step into the backyard, and Bucky was halfway through making an amused comment about his father not fixing that damn door when a loud cacophony of the word surprise startles him. When Becca had mentioned the word everything earlier, when it came to what their parents had prepared for him, what she meant was a welcome party. Various family members and friends of the family were all gathered to welcome him home at least forty people. Tables were set up in neat rows decorated with blue race car table covers to match the balloons tied to each ends. Blue pennant banners were strewn from tree to tree, and whatever his parents were cooking at the grill had his stomach growling like he hadn't eaten in weeks.
So much for hoping to take a nap.
Bucky is touched by the effort his family put in to welcome him home. Although, from the moment he stepped into the backyard he isn't left alone. His mother comes over to engulf him in a hug that is larger than life itself. His father gives him a welcoming hug too before insisting he needs to sit down and eat. Bucky lost count on how many cousins, uncles, aunts, family friends, and others came up to him to welcome him home, hugging him, patting him on the back, and passing him around from greeting to greeting. Once he finally gets a moment to sit down his parents pile up enough cheeseburgers on his plate to stuff him full for a whole week.
The celebrations are enough to keep his mind off of other things for awhile. Between savoring some home cooked food, sharing stories and catching up his cousins on his adventures, and being pulled into a game of dodgeball, he barely has time to think of anything else. And yet, every so often, his eyes drift to different sections of the party as if they were searching for something. He could lie to himself about not what, but who he was searching for. Someone he foolishly hoped would be hear despite what he was told.
By the time the sun starts to set in the sky, Bucky can feel his energy deplete to a point where he can no longer hide it. It's an exhaustion that goes beyond having to evade dodgeballs to the face. Things have started to settle and everyone's migrated to their own corner of the yard depending on whether they wanted to keep playing games, relax by the bonfire, or eat leftovers. He spots his mother at the grill heating up leftovers and he makes his way over to her.
"Need some help, Ma?" He asks, grabbing one of the tongs not waiting for her answer. His mother shakes her head, "I got it, hun. You go back to having fun." She tries to get him back to the party, but at that Bucky shakes his head, scrunching his face up with a clear I don't want to look. His mother laughs at his expression and then instructs him to help out with the burger patties. She starts asking him about his travel here and how he's been liking his party, little things and start conversation. Bucky's giving her simple answers when he looks out at the guests one more time, biting on his bottom lip absentmindedly. His mother can tell he's distracted, and more than that. It seems like she knows exactly what's going on in his head.
"She wasn't invited," she starts, causing Bucky to whip his head in her direction, eyes wide like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't have been doing as she continues, "It's not like your dad and I didn't want to, but your sister was against it."
"What?" Bucky sounds and looks dumbfounded, and his mother can only respond with a short exhale. She says your name, and Bucky's heart races and breaks all in one. "How did you—?"
"You can't hide things from your mother, James," his mother interjects as if it were obvious. He gaze locks with his mother's for a moment, and there's something close to pity in them. She's right. He was never one to lie to his mother, much less be able to.
A defeated sigh slips past his lips, "Is it stupid I thought she'd be here?" His mother prepares another leftover plate as she responds, "No, not at all," she hands the plate to one of his younger cousins who scurries off with it. "She wouldn't have come if she had been invited anyway."
Bucky clears his throat, suddenly feeling like there's something stuck in it. "Why not?" His mother gives him a look, like she has something to say, but no explanation for it. "I talk to her mom every so often, maybe once a month. She's told me they barely have any contact with her. No one really knows where she is."
"What? And no one's gone looking for her?" Bucky can't believe what he's hearing. His question has no short of worry in it, and he doesn't bother to hide it. The thought of you being out there somewhere and no one knowing—no one even bothering to look—it didn't sit right with him. It settles within him as well as poison would.
His mother's lips draw into a thin line, a somber look in her eyes. "I'm sure they've tried. I know her parents have, but it's not easy when your kids shut you out. Especially when they're in trouble." Bucky's heart sinks, "Trouble? What trouble?" His mother starts preparing another plate, like she needs something to do, "I'm not sure, hun. Her parents don't know and even your sister hasn't been forthcoming with the way things ended between them. All I know is she got mixed in with the wrong crowd and ended up dropping out of college. The last time I saw her was when Becca found out and they had a screaming match over it. I don't think I've ever seen your sister so angry…"
Out of all the thing Bucky could have been preparing himself to hear about you from his mother, none of this would have ever come close. There's something sickly brewing in his stomach and he thinks if he hears another word of your apparent disappearance, he'll spill his dinner all over the grill.
His mother can tell something is off, so she promptly sends him to bed. He wants to protest until he realizes he burned the burger patty he had been reheating and agrees some rest would be for the best. His mother gives him a goodnight hug and he presses a gentle kiss to the top of her head. Everyone at the gathering is still preoccupied with their own things, so Bucky forgoes any farewells and instead slips inside the house without anyone noticing. Every step up the stairs and toward his childhood bedroom feels heavier than the last.
When he enters his room, there's an appreciative smile that appears on his face when he realizes not much has changed in here either. He can tell his mother has changed the sheets and installed one of those little air freshener devices in preparation for his coming home. And besides his suitcase in the corner, which he still has to thank his father for bringing it up for him, everything else is exactly the same. Which isn't saying much since he's always kept his room simple the older he got. A few racing posters on his walls, shelves decorated with knickknacks, a bookcase filled with books he has yet to revisit, there's not much besides that.
He strips out of his clothes lazily just wanting to get into bed already, when his eyes stray to his desk. He knows why they did. He knows what he'll find when he looks. And yet, he walks over to it anyway, feeling the lump in his throat grow when he sees it's been left untouched. Above his desk on the wall there's a bulletin board frozen in time to the last time he ever used it. He has pictures pinned all across it, happy memories from his childhood with you with him in almost all of them. Every birthday card and letter you ever wrote him is pinned on the board too. Anything you ever gave him he saved and treasured down to the smallest thing. Even to the four leaf clover you once found, gently tucking it between tape for safe keeping. Giving it to him as a good luck charm, promising him it would help him win every race he ever dreamed up as long as he kept it close.
He keeps it in his wallet to this day.
Bucky blinks away the tears he can feel forming in the corner of his eyes. He finds himself more than upset now, maybe even bordering on an anxious frustration as he wills himself to look away. He hastily strips out of his clothes and climbs into his bed, hoping that his mind can quiet once he's bundled up in it. But of course that's not the case. All he can think about now is you. Why would you disappear? Why would you leave and tell no one? Why does no one know where you are? Why did you and Becca get into a big fight and stop being friends?
And why does he feel like it's all his fault?
As he drifts off into a restless slumber, there's a final image that haunts him. It's you. Holding back tears as you look at him with the kind of ire he deserved, but never excepted he would ever have caused you.
That image takes him back to where it all ended.
It happened at his parent's lake house, the summer after his sophomore year of college concluded. The summer you and Becca graduated high school, and had to adjust transitioning into adulthood and newfound independence. Your families had thrown a big graduation party for the two of you, but it was a little too family friendly for Bucky's liking. So without telling his parents, a couple weeks later, he threw a massive party at his parent's lake house in celebration of you two.
You had always held a special place in Bucky's heart, there was no denying that. Whether you or Bucky acknowledged it was another thing entirely. Your friendship with Bucky was just as deeply bonded as yours and Rebecca's, but it was different in its own way. Somehow you found yourself being more vulnerable with Bucky about your fears of the future, about school and life. There were times you wanted to appear strong or dependable to Becca when she was going through a rough patch, and yet Bucky was always able to crumble down your walls almost as if those walls didn't exist when it came to him. From patching up a cut on your knee you'd gotten when you were six while playing hopscotch, to holding you close and soothing you when you cried over your first boyfriend breaking your heart—Bucky had always been there for you. The trust between you ran deep, deep in a way that felt rooted in something tied to your souls.
Perhaps that's what always frightened him about acting on his feelings. If he ever told you how he truly felt, that he loved you in ways that went far beyond just friends, and you didn't feel the same or it didn't work out—he'd lose you for good. And the thought of that, he couldn't even imagine it. Not having you in his life. He honestly thought he'd never survive that.
Nothing was supposed to happen that night. He kept his drinks to a minimum, not wanting to get drunk so he could watch over the party guests. He threw it without his parents knowledge or permission, the last thing he needed was to have an accident happen that he couldn't explain away. You hadn't been drinking much, if at all, either. Mingling throughout the party a little lost since Becca had been hanging out with her boyfriend at the time. Bucky shouldn't have gone over to you when you were standing in the corner by yourself, but he did. He shouldn't have invited you to dance, but he wanted to so badly, so he did.
But he should've known things would end in more than a dance. Having you so close, your body pressed against his, touching him, all over him—it drove him crazy. Careful touches at your hips and waist turned into greedy handfuls that couldn't be satisfied despite the lack of distance. It lead to you two kissing for the first time, desperate and inevitable. And that one kiss led to two then three, until the two of you stumbled up the stairs, not being able to keep your hands or lips off of each other as you made your way to Bucky's bedroom. It led to Bucky caging you underneath him on his bed, kissing you senselessly until the heat between you became too much and you slept together for the first time.
The next morning, you were tucked into his side with his arms wrapped around you, holding you tight to his chest like it would hurt him to let you go. You looked so peaceful in your sleep, beautiful as the morning sunlight blanketed your form. Bucky didn't want to get up, but he knew he had to survey whatever potential damage was leftover from the party and possibly kick out anyone who overstayed their welcome. He kissed your forehead, whispering a promise of not taking too long before slipping on a pair of sweatpants. He groaned inwardly as he made his way downstairs, hoping the damage wasn't too bad. But a quick survey of the house settled his worry. Every room was trashed, but at least nothing seemed broken or irreparably stained. When Bucky made his way back to the living room he noticed Sam, his closest friend, stirring awake on the crouch.
"You crashed on the couch?" Bucky eyed his friend weirdly, he hated sleeping on couches. Sam yawned, stretching dramatically, "Yeah, figured you'd need help cleaning up."
"Aw, aren't you sweet."
"Shut up."
Sam threw a pillow at Bucky's head, which he dodged at the last second. Sam sat up on the couch, scratching the back of his head like he was still trying to come to, "Saw you two go up to your room last night. Congrats on finally getting the guts to make a move—thought you'd never do it. I can hear the bells already," Sam teased, humming out the tune for 'here comes the bride' while wiggling his brows at Bucky suggestively. Bucky can't remember why, can't understand why, but he panicked in that moment. The image of you in a wedding dress and saying I do freaked him out so badly because for the first time it dawned on him that's something that he wanted. But you were both still so young, with so much life and experiences to love ahead of you. He knew he was getting ahead of himself. He didn't even know if you liked him like he loved you.
Fuck, he's in love with you.
Bucky tried to play it cool. Tried to ignore the way his heart squeezed uncomfortably with the truth. He shook his head, playing it down, "Nah, it… it was just an itch I had to scratch. Nothing more. Just something I needed to get out of my system…" Sam was not amused by his lies, painfully seeing through them, "Bullshit. You and I both know you're hopelessly in love with that girl." Bucky's mouth opened to deny it, but another hard look from Sam had him crumbling.
"I know I know. And I think I messed everything up." Bucky slumped on the couch next to Sam, a devastated look on his face. Sam definitely was judging him. "You did not mess anything up, Buck."
"No I did. I wanted to do this the right way, ask her out on a date. Treat her right, like she deserves to be. Show her what she means to me—" A couch pillow hit Bucky square in the face, stopping him mid sentence. "Buck, you're spiraling, stop it. You didn't mess anything up. Trust me, just go up there and tell her how you feel."
Bucky rubbed at his face, soothing it from the hit, "But what if she doesn't feel the same?" Sam looked like he was two seconds from throwing another pillow, "I'm starting to think those engine fumes have caused you to go stupid or blind. Buck, that girl is so in love with you."
For a brief moment, Bucky dared to hope that Sam was right. That you do feel the same. That you'd want it to work out between you as much as he does. But then the image of you in a wedding dress flashed across his mind again, and that unrelenting voice in his head made him doubt everything once more. A voice that strangely sounded like his uncles. His father's brothers who constantly let him know how his racing career would never work out. How he'll never make good enough money and he'll just disappoint his parents. How he should just play it safe, smart. Become an accountant like his father and get rid of those silly childhood dreams because his parents didn't give up everything for him just to go "play racer." Scolding him like a child to stop being so ungrateful with his parents and get a proper job so he can take care of them like they took care of him. Voices of people who were supposed to love and encourage him and instead reminded him everyday that he wasn't good enough to ever achieve his dreams.
And if he wasn't good enough for his dreams, then he certainly wasn't good enough for you.
"Even if she is," Bucky swallowed hard, the words feeling bitter on his tongue, "even if we are, she deserves so much more than what I can give her right now."
"Buck."
"No, I mean it. Her life's just starting Sam. She's going to her dream college, finally getting away from this town like she's always wanted to," Bucky shook his head, like admitting his fears cost him something, "I'm pursuing something I don't even know will work out. And if it doesn't… I don't want to drag her into that. I don't want to drag her into my failures."
Sam sighed, feeling for his friend, "You're not going to fail, Buck. And even if you do—loves so much more than the good times. It's being there despite what happens, despite the obstacles." Bucky mulls over his friend's words knowing there's some truth to them. But, unfortunately, the voice in the back of his mind refused to let him go.
"Yeah, but loves also about walking away when the timing isn't right."
"Not when, if. You don't know which one it is yet."
With those last words, Bucky managed to find the courage to go back up those steps and back to you. With his heart on his sleeve, his hopes in the palm of your hands, and his blood pumping a mile a minute. But when he opened the door to his room, you were already making your way out of it. Eyes wide and teary when they narrowed on him.
"Hey, baby, hey," he reached out to cup your face, "What's wrong?" You flinched back from his hold like his hands were made of ice, his heart stopped. "Nothing. I'm fine," you bite out, clearly holding back. He stood his ground, "You know you've never been able to lie to me, come on tell me what's wrong." He pleaded, feeling distressed at your change in attitude.
"Nothing is wrong, just let me through already," you tried pushing past him, but his arm shot out between you and the doorway. "No. Not until we talk. Not until you tells me what's going on." He tried to get you to look at him, but your eyes were on everything but him.
"Bucky—" He cut you off by saying your name in a way that sounded somewhere between utter devotion and utter devastation. You sighed, broken and like you had something caught in your throat. "There's nothing we have to talk about, nothing important anyway."
Now that stung. Bucky would have preferred you slapping him across the face instead.
"What? So did last night mean nothing to you?" Bucky didn't stop the anger that was seeping through his hurt. You looked like you didn't know what to say or did and just didn't want to, "That's not what I said. And it doesn't matter what I think of it anyway. You got what you wanted." Bucky stared at you, scoffing in offense, "I got what I wanted? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"You know what I mean," you said with a finality that caused him to panic. You tried evading his arm by ducking below it. But he was faster than you and stopped you from getting past him. He was frustrated by your vagueness and confused on what you tried telling him without really telling him anything. This was a complete switch up from last night and he didn't know how to handle it.
"Look, I don't know where this is coming from, but just listen to me, sweetheart. I know I can't… I know I'm not," He ran his free hand through his hair, frustrated that he couldn't put his vulnerabilities into words, "My career's just starting. There's big opportunities ahead of me and I know I'm not guaranteed success. I'm not thinking of…I don't want to make any mistakes—" That last word, he should've never used that word. Because you didn't even let him finish when something between a cynical laugh and broken sob came out of you. "I get it. I was a mistake."
Bucky was quick in his attempt to shut that accusation down, "No! No! Absolutely not, that is not what I said," you tried to squeeze past him again, but this time he held onto your arm, "Would you please just listen to me?" You pushed at his chest, hard enough to hurt, the ire in your eyes and tone made his blood run cold. "Don't touch me." There was something close to hatred in your voice and that had him stunned, frozen in place. He was so stunned he could only watch you walk away to the guest bedroom. By the time he came to on what happened, he ran to chase after you only to have you slam the door right in his face. And no matter how hard he knocked, how long he waited, how much he pleaded into the wooden oak for you to talk to him, you never responded.
He was heartbroken beyond what you could every imagine. He couldn't understand where everything went wrong and why you were so upset. He wanted to talk to you, but he also knew he needed to give you space to cool down. He figured at some point in the day he'd be able to get you aside for a private conversation and clear things up.
He was wrong.
That small glimpse of you before the door slammed in his face was the last time he saw you for the next six whole years.
Reliving that moment in his dream was so vivid it startles him awake. Chest heaving, and face covered in sweat as the memory of that regretful morning resurfaces. Thinking back to the way you looked at him, to the way you spoke to him—it's enough to rip his heart to pieces all over again.
Even after all these years he still doesn't understand what happened back then, what had you so upset. At first he thought it was over his slip up and using that damn word, mistake. But thinking back on that moment throughout the years, he realized you had been upset before that. Something happened between falling asleep that night and him going up those stairs the next morning to confess to you that had set you off. And to this day he hasn't figured out what it was. The absence of you in his life, the hollow cavity losing you left in his chest—that's all he's really come to understand.
Bucky is surrounded by the darkness of his room, the crescent moon in the sky not providing much light to filter in through the window. His room suddenly feels stuffy, and the ache in his chest seems like it's going nowhere any time soon, so he gets up and decides to take a hot shower. Hoping maybe that can help him relax. He's in and out before he knows it, careful to not make too much noise in the hallway as to not wake his parents or his sister in case she stayed for the night. Thankfully, the bathroom's right across the hall from him, so there's not much noise he can make anyway.
By the time Bucky's back in his room he catches the screen on his phone light up. He reaches for it where it lies on his nightstand, seeing he's gotten a couple recent messages. He frowns when he looks at the time, it's just past midnight. Who could be texting him at this hour?
Mini Falcon: Heard you're back in town! You do not want to miss this.
Mini Falcon: [Attachment: 1 movie]
Bucky has an idea of what he's going to find when he opens the video from his old street racing friend. When he clicks on the video, sure enough it's Joaquin showing off a car meet he's at. There's a crowd of people already forming, showing off their cars and probably figuring out who's going to race tonight. He plays the video a few times, reminiscing on his street racing days, and a little envious at how nice some of the cars have gotten. God, there's no amount of money he wouldn't have bet to get a chance to race against some of those machines.
On one of his rewinds, he spots someone in the background that catches his eye. No, not someone, not just anyone.
It's you.
Bucky's jaw drop comically, pausing the video and hating how pixelated it looks when he zooms in, but even through the blurriness he swears that's you. An older you for sure, but it's still you nonetheless. He's recognize you anywhere. You're laughing with a brunette and a blonde, he thinks maybe they're you're friends.
But what the hell are you doing there? Since when are you involved in the street racing scene?
Bucky's mind is working a mile a minute, but if that is you—which he sure it is—he can't miss this opportunity to see you. Especially not after finding out no one knows where you are. If he's found you, then he's taking the chance to bring you home.
Bucky texts Joaquin back asking for the location of the car meet. He's scrambling to look decent, throwing open his suitcase and putting on the first outfit he finds, a matching pair of black sweatpants and hoodie, topping it off with a jean jacket and cap for good measure.
When he looks at his phone again Joaquin's sent him the location of the car meet, and when he puts it in his phone's maps it shows it's being held at an abandoned industrial complex in the next town, over thirty minutes away. With his skills he knows he can get there in half the time, so he wastes no more in getting ready and heading out the door. Extremely grateful that his father kept up with the maintence of his first car, a modified Honda Civic, and he has something of his own to get him there.
Just as he thought, he's able to get to the meet in half the expected time. He vaguely remembers racing here once or twice, which means he also remembers how it's one of the easier spots to get caught at because of the parameters of the race. He decides to park his car a few blocks away, hidden and tucked into a parking lot, a large patch of overgrown foliage and trees obstructing the view of it to anyone passing by. He makes his way over to the car meet on foot, locating it by the booming music echoing throughout the abandoned walls of the complex.
And yet, despite the music and all the engine revving getting louder as he approaches, he can still hear Joaquin's laugh above all that.
When Joaquin spots Bucky, he excitedly waves him over to where he's resting on the hood of what Bucky assumes is his car. "Bucky, man you made it!" They greet each other with one of those hand clasping, one armed embraces that guys do. "Yeah, after seeing the video you sent I knew I couldn't miss it." Bucky responds, making Joaquin grin, "Told you," he points to the guy next to him, "This is my friend Bob. Bob this is Bucky thee legendary Bullet." The man standing next to Joaquin turns to Bucky impressed, his doe eyes wide in awe as they greet each other. Bucky shakes his head, side eyeing Joaquin as if saying 'he's exaggerating'.
"He used to win all the races back in the day, he set all the records," Joaquin adds.
Bucky was going to say something when Bob beat him to it, "All the records Blitz beat?"
"Blitz?" Bucky inquires, not remembering that name in the roster of racers he knew back when he was racing here. Joaquin nods to the car positioned in the middle of the lineup race, a gorgeous blue Nissan GT-R Bucky's sure has been tuned up like hell. "That's what they call her. She's part of Rumlow's crew."
That catches Bucky's attention, "Rumlow's got a crew now?"
Joaquin hums in confirmation, "A few years back he got into a nasty car wreck. Car went up in flames and fucked up his body. He can't race now, so he got a crew to do that and his dirty work for him."
"Dirty work?"
Joaquin shrugs, "Don't know much about it. I just know he imports illegal parts from overseas to modify his cars, but I stay out of whatever they got going on."Bucky makes a clicking noise with his tongue, feeling sorry for any unlucky bastard that got stuck working for Rumlow.
"His crew hard to beat?" Bucky can't help but ask, reminiscing on all the times he beat Rumlow in a race. If his crews anything like him, then they're probably not that good. Bob is the one who answers his question, "Nope. Blitz is the best racer he's got. When he wants a certified win he has her race." Bucky takes that information in. If at any point he wanted to relive his street racing days, then it seems Blitz is the one to beat.
The three of them chat for another while. Bucky learns that Bob races too—for a team called the Thunderbolts—although he's still pretty new at it, so there's much he has to learn. Bucky offers to teach Bob a few things while he's in town and Bob seems more than eager to learn from him. Joaquin and Bob try to catch Bucky up on all the new faces in the racing scene, but it's too many names at once for him to really take anything in. Once the race starts, Bucky excuses himself from them, pretending like he saw someone he wanted to go catch up with so he could step away.
In reality, he's going back to concentrate on what he really came for. To find you.
He weaves through the crowds of people gathered, being careful not to bump into any of the showcase vehicles. As much as his eyes want to stray to admire them, he keeps his mind focused on you. He pays close attention to every single face he passes, hope blooming and then dying in his chest when he walks past someone that looks like you. When he circles back to where he started he's distraught at the realization that he might've missed you.
He goes back to Joaquin feeling dejected and like he has to start all over again with something he never really started. Bob is no longer standing with Joaquin, and Bucky barely catches the finish of the race. As expected by what he was told, Blitz comes in first with Yelena, one of Bob's teammates he pointed out to Bucky earlier, coming in a close second. He can't remember the names of the other races and quite frankly he doesn't care. They're not why he came here.
Although, even though Bucky only got a glimpse of how the race finished and a bit of the start, he's seen enough to know that whoever is racing for Rumlow is good—really good. Blitz drives like the car she's in is an extension of her body and she knows how to get it to do exactly what she wants it to. She's got the kind of control he's only seen with a handful of drivers. Him being one of them.
He finds it impressive.
Blitz's car door opens, and there's a small part of him that's anticipating putting a face to the name. And when Blitz steps out of the car, he finds himself receiving the shock of a lifetime for the second time that night.
You are the one to step out of the car.
You are Blitz.
That means, you're the one who's part of Rumlow's crew.
Shit.
What the fuck have you gotten yourself into?
Bucky is convinced this has to be a dream, he's rubbing the hell out of his eyes in hopes that it is. But it's not. You're standing by your car with a self-satisfied smile on your face as you're handed the winnings of the race. Yelena steps out of her car and heads toward you with a giant grin, congratulating you on your win. It's clear you two are friends. You look every part of belonging here and he doesn't know what to do with that.
Bucky clears his throat, bumping Joaquin's shoulder, "Hey, is that..?" He can't even finish the sentence, but Joaquin doesn't need him to as he follows the direction Bucky is looking in. "Blitz? Yeah, that's her." Joaquin's confirmation only makes the pit in Bucky's stomach grow. "And you said she's part of Rumlow's crew?"
Joaquin nods, not understanding the weight of what Bucky is asking. "Yeah, I don't know much about what else she does for him, but she's his main racer. Any time he wants a guaranteed win he sends her." Bucky's scared to know, but he has to ask, "And when you mention that Rumlow's got some shady business going on, how shady are we talking?"
"Class B felonies dude," Joaquin says it like it's gossip and not the worst news he could've possibly given Bucky. At his silence, Joaquin gives Bucky a look over. "Are you good? Bro, you look like you're about to spill your guts—literally." Joaquin steps back a bit just in case Bucky does.
"I know her."
"Who?"
"Blitz." He says your real name after. The name he knows you by, the name he knew you by.
"Oh shit." Joaquin doesn't know what to say. Not with Bucky looking like he's seen a ghost. "Look, dude, she's friends with Yelena and Kate, they're good friends of mine and I know they're always looking out for her. I'm sure she's okay. Maybe Rumlow's only got her racing, not in his other shit." Joaquin attempts to comfort Bucky, but it doesn't seem like what he said did at all.
"Yeah, maybe…"
"Are you gonna go talk to her or just stare at her with your mouth open?" Joaquin teases, trying to lighten the mood. Bucky shuts his mouth and glares at Joaquin causing him to laugh. Bucky roles his eyes at him, Joaquin might've grown up, but he's still like that annoying little brother he remembers. He won't tell him, but Bucky is a grateful to have that unchanged connection to his old friend.
Joaquin's words might've not done much to comfort Bucky, but his teasing was enough to give Bucky the push to walk away from him and toward you. Joaquin whistles to cheer Bucky on, throwing some words his way that resemble good luck. Bucky shakes his head, wondering how crazy you're going to think he is for finding you here.
Every step closer Bucky is to you throws his nerves into high gear. You've already gotten your car and yourself away from the concrete race track. Somewhere over by the corner where a cluster of smaller buildings and a smaller group of people were in. He really doesn't know what to expect once he finally reaches you, or what he'll say, but he knows he can't leave without trying.
The moment you spot him approaching time seems to freeze, your eyes widening and your lips parting like you can't believe what your eyes are seeing. But just as fast as the shock hits your face, you mask it with indifference, but the iciness in your gaze is something he feels penetrate down to his bones.
He sees the door slamming in his face again. The look you gave him the last time he saw you, staring at him through the closing door like he had reached into your chest and snatched your heart right out of its cavity. And now? Now, you were glowering at him like you would put a bullet through his head and not bat an eye. Eyes looking at him with such a disdain it makes him feel physically ill.
When he finally reaches you, Bucky can only come up with one word, "Hey." He says lamely, quietly like there's an obstruction in his throat. You blink at him, crossing your arms as your friends at your side give him wary glances.
"You." Is all you say back, the word coming out almost like an accusation. Bucky grimaces, but he knows he deserves that so he tries to stay calm. He doesn't say anything else, but he glances at Yelena and who he guesses is Kate next to you, before his eyes find yours again, feeling a bit awkward at involving anyone else in your conversation.
You sigh, taking the hint, turning to your friends to ask them for a bit of space. The girls don't look happy about it, but they listen to you. Kate doesn't spare him another glance while Yelena makes sure to give him one hard glare, acting like she'd break his arm if you asked her to.
He really hopes you don't.
"Please, don't look at me like that," he finds himself saying, to which you barely react to. There's clearly a wall you've built between you, one he doesn't know how to lower for the first time in his life.
"Like what."
"Like I'm the last person you'd wanna see here."
"Well," you shrug like that's enough of an answer. Bucky takes a tentative step closer to you, making you tense up. Your reaction makes something break inside him. He steps back, feeling too many emotions all at once. A frustration at you running away, fear at you working for Rumlow, disheartened at the way you're acting like he's a stranger—confusion over everything that has and hasn't happened in the last six years. It all accumulates the second he has you this close again.
"What the hell are you even doing here?" He didn't mean for the question to come out as harsh as it did. "Excuse me? What the hell are you doing here?" You throw the question back at him with bit of venom in your tone. He elects to ignore it.
"Looking for you," he replies honestly. And that catches you off guard, he can see it written all over your face. "A friend invited me to come watch the race, sent me a video and everything. I saw you in the background of it and I thought I was seeing things. But I had to come see for myself only to find out that not only are you a racer, but you're racing for fucking Rumlow of all people. What the hell is that about?"
You wave him off, "It's none of your concern." He says your name like you're testing his patience. "It's not," you reiterate, rolling your eyes and leaning on the hood of your car, “It’s not even that big of a deal.”
“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Bucky growls out with something deeper than frustration, debating on whether or not he should just drag your ass back home instead of trying to reason with you. You stare at him like you could bite his head off. "I haven't seen you in years and all of a sudden you want to show up here and act like you're looking out for me? Fuck off, Bucky," you raise your voice at him, your own anger increasing by the minute. Bucky's arms shoot out in exasperation, tired of you twisting his actions and words into something negative, "I am looking out for you! I did all my life and that care doesn't just go away because I left for some time."
"Six years," you correct him, the heaviness of all the time apart settling between you like a wound that hasn't healed. He swallows hard, letting out a shaky breath, "Doesn't matter, sweetheart. I thought about you all the damn time during those years. I cared about you then, and I care about you now."
You don't believe him, scoffing, "I'm sure you do." He doesn't know how to get through to you. Feeling as though his efforts are going nowhere. "I'm serious. I've been thinking about you all damn day since I got here—its been driving me crazy. Especially after Becca told me you two stopped being friends. What happened there?"
"It's none of your business," you're quick to say—too quick.
He says your name again, but this time in a plea, but you're done talking. "I'm serious, Bucky, fuck off. None of this is of your concern, none of this is your business. Leave me alone."
"No."
Before you can even start ripping him a new one, the music is cut off. Someone's voice can be heard yelling, warning everyone to get the hell out as the cops are on their way. Bucky doesn't hesitate, having through this same scenario many times before. You don't even see it coming, how fast he swipes the keys from your hand, rushing over to the driver's side of your car.
"Get in the car," he urges, and you're smart enough not to argue with him over this. He can tell you're biting your tongue as you get in the passenger's side of the car, not at all happy with him being the driver. Bucky turns on the ignition and speeds out of the industrial complex while others still scramble to get into their cars and do the same. He doesn't drive in the same direction as everyone else. Making a swift u-turn in the opposite direction everyone else is going. He ignores your protests directing him on which way to go and drives the car in the direction he left his. You don't know what he's doing until he ends up back in the secluded parking lot, parking right next to his car. There's no doubt you recognize it, having been in it more times than he can count. He shuts off the engine, making everything go quiet. There's only one streetlight working, the light flickering every so often making it even harder to see the cars past the foliage. If anyone were to drive by at this time of night, there's absolutely no chance you'd be seen.
The tension in the car is palpable, thick with everything left there is to say between you. Bucky's holding his breath like even his breathing could set you off at any moment.
"You can get out now," you say after a painfully long silence. "Not until we talk," Bucky sees the way the word spark that anger in you again. "I don't want to talk." Bucky shrugs, leaning back in the seat like he's got at all night to go back and forth, "That's too damn bad, 'cause I'm not leaving until we do." He pockets your keys in the chest pocket of his jacket, not giving you a chance to take them back.
"You're fucking unbelievable," you growl out, getting out of the car and slamming the door closed. You practically stomp your way to the other side, yanking the driver door open. "Get out," you grind out through gritted teeth.
"Don't want to."
"James."
You used his first name, clearly he's pushing you past your limits, and truthfully he doesn't want that. He just wants you to talk to him, that's all he wants. He wants to get to the bottom of whats going on with you in hopes he can help you in some way. So he gets out of the car, slower than you'd like him to, stepping to the side to give you enough room to look inside and notice your keys are missing.
"Barnes, give me my keys."
"Not until we talk."
"Are you serious?
"Deadly."
You let the door shut, before holding out your hand expectantly, ignoring his request. "Bucky give me back the keys, the car isn't mine. I have to take it back to Rumlow." Bucky's worry only grows at your words, "Why are you working for him? How did you get involved with him?"
"It's a long story."
"I got time."
"Well I don't."
You're at a stand still, neither of you willing to budge. But in the interest of moving things along, you're the first to break. "My ex got me into this mess alright? Now I gotta get myself out of it. It's that simple," you explain, but Bucky isn't satisfied with just that. "What mess?"
You take a deep breath before confessing, eyes lowering to the ground, "I dated Rumlow's cousin for about a year. I didn't know they were cousins back then, and I didn't know about the family business. He swiped some money from Rumlow and then disappeared. Since I was the girlfriend, Rumlow made me responsible for paying off the money my ex stole." At the revelation of your predicament, of you being taken advantage of, Bucky has to take a deep breath and reign in his anger before he takes his car over to Rumlow's and finishes off what the car wreck didn't.
"How much?" He's apprehensive to ask, but he needs to know. You shrug, "I don't know the exact amount. I just know it's in the six figures." Bucky's heart drops, blood running cold with dread, "Fuck, sweetheart," a beat passes as his head wraps around the amount of debt Rumlow's put you in, "How much do you have left to pay off?" You shrug again, "I don't know, Rumlow adds interest every time I race with one of his cars or some other bullshit reason. I don't think he's gonna let me go any time soon." His jaw clenches so tight, you'd think he's about to break a tooth.
"Let me go with you, let me talk to him," he says it not like he's asking you, but like he's letting you know in advance you're not doing this alone. You shake your head, refusing, "No, absolutely not."
"He knows me. I used to race against him all the time. Stop being so goddamn stubborn and let me help you." They weren't friends by any means, but there had always been a mutual respect between them.
"I don't want your help. I don't need your help." You deny, but Bucky isn't having any of that. "Yes you do. Look at you. You run away from home, you drop out of college, no one knows where you are, and Rumlow's got you racing and doing his dirty work." You bristle at being reminded of your situation. Like if it were the first time anyone's said it out loud and addressed it head on with you.
"And why do you give a fuck? I'm not your responsibility, Bucky," you spit out, making Bucky feel like he's back to square one with you. But this time, you've ran through the last of his patience. "Fuck, this isn't about that! I give a fuck because I care! I give a fuck because despite all these years you still mean everything to me! Because the thought of anything happening to you would actually kill me." His admission causes you to lock eyes with him and within yours he can see something is cracking, he's getting through to you.
"Shut up, and go," you whisper out the words weakly, but he shakes his head, "No. I'm not leaving you. Not again," he cups your face, brushing away a stray tear from your cheek, "I don't fully understand why you ran, although I can take a pretty good guess its got to do with that piece of shit…," a horrifying thought strikes him, "Is he threatening you?"
You tense in his hold, "Bucky drop it."
"He is, isn't he?"
Your silence is the only confirmation he needs.
A few things finally start connecting for him, "That's why your parents don't know where you are, why you barley contact them. Is he also why you and Becca stopped being friends?" The mention of Becca has you stepping out of grasp, his hands falling reluctantly to his sides, "Becca and I stopped being friends before that. So you don't have to worry about her being mixed up in this mess."
"So why did you? Is it because of us? Because of what happened between us?" He doesn't think he's ready for the answer. But he should know better by now that answers from you don't come easily.
"Nothing happened between us."
"No, don't brush it off like it meant nothing."
"Well I wouldn't be the first to do that."
There you go again being vague and cryptic—and sounding accusatory toward him when he doesn't even know what he did. "Are you saying that because of the whole mistake thing? You don't even know what I was actually going to say. You didn't even let me finish what I wanted to say back then. Not before you stormed out of my room and slammed that door in my face. Before you blocked me on everything and I couldn't even reach out to talk to you."
His grievances don't seem to move you, "Seems like you still haven't gotten the hint." Bucky doesn't know how many more of your dismissals he can take, so he decides to leave it all out in the open once and for all. "No I haven't, and I won't because I was so hopelessly in love with you and you left my room like what happened between us meant nothing to you. You left and took my heart with you. And now that I have it back I have some things I want to say to you."
His confession throws you off balance, stumbling over your own footing as you take a step back. But he's not letting you get away this time, he's saying his peace like it's the last time you two might ever speak. "That night scared the absolute shit out of me. Because it was the first time in my life I felt as alive as I do when I'm behind the wheel. The thought of you feeling the same way I did brought that out in me and I didn't know how to handle it, and that's on me."
"Bucky, please stop."
He doesn't.
"That morning, I was trying to tell you that deep down I knew I wasn't good enough for you. I was still getting my shit together, still trying to prove myself to people who didn't give a damn about me. But on the off chance that you felt the same way, I would've dropped everything for you. I would've pursued something that would've had me better off, something close to home, close to you. I would've done what I could to help you pursue your dreams and—" this time you don't cut him off with words, but with your lips crashing against his, hard and with purpose. Knocking the cap right off his head. He's taken by surprise, but when your lips press harder, insistent on not being ignored, he kiss you back. His hands landing at your waist to keep him grounded to you.
You pull away slightly out of breath, "I just wanted you to shut up," you tease, and Bucky takes in a shaky breath staring down at your lips like he wants another taste, "You wanna shut me up again?" You don't hesitate to take the invitation, kissing him again with a passion bordering on hunger. You're stumbling backwards, pulling him in as he's crashing full force into you, lips parting to let him fully in. You're making out, your back pressed against his car, as you pull sounds out from each other that echo in the night air. He takes a moment to tell you this conversation isn't over, but you quickly shush him with another kiss. The heat between you is growing quickly, and it's no surprise when you find yourselves stumbling into the backseat of his car to take things further.
The door shuts behind you with a soft click, his body hovering over yours. One of his knees slots between your legs, deliberately pressing on your core causing you to whine. You can feel the way you've soaked through your panties and tights already. He helps you take off your leather jacket and matching shorts, and he can't help himself as he tears away at your tights, making you gasp. "Bucky, what the—" He kisses you, mumbling into your lips, "I'll buy you as many new pairs as you want, sweetheart." His answer seems to quell your annoyance for now.
His hand reaches down to rub you through your panties, finding out just how soaked you are for him. He grins wolfishly into the kiss, "Fuck, baby. Didn't know fighting with me would turn you on so much." His tease is met with a slap to his bicep, which only makes him press harder along your slit making you cry out. He kisses your lips one last time, trailing featherlight kisses to cheek and jaw, all the way down to your neck where he nips at the skin. His fingers brush upwards toward your sensitive bundle of nerves to continue his ministrations there.
You only let him have his way for a few more seconds before you're pushing impatiently at his chest. He's already dazed by just a few kisses from you, so when you tell him to sit back he listens without putting up a fight. He sits back in the seat, watching you with something close to devotion as you go to straddle his lap, bracketing his thick thighs with your legs. You strip him of his jean jacket and hoodie, throwing it on the car floor somewhere, raking your nails down his chest with just enough pressure to make him bite down on his lip, looking like he's moments away from coming undone.
You start to grind on him, making a mess of his sweatpants, but he doesn't care, it feels too good to care. His cock twitches beneath you and with the way you smirk at him he knows you felt it. You're making him go crazy, drunk on you, and you're living for every second of it.
One hand snakes it's way beneath your white tee to palm at your breasts, while the other grips your hip to press you down on him harder. A deep groan leaves his chest, and it mingles with your own as you crash your lips to his again, biting down on his bottom lip hard enough to make him whine. Your hips continue their grinding motion, leaving you both breathing heavily enough to start fogging up the windows of the car. One of your hands finds the back of his head and tugs at his hair, pulling his attention long enough to slip your other hands into his sweats, giving him a teasing squeeze that his seems stars with how hard he's holding back from coming undone so embarrassingly soon.
"Oh, fuck," a deep groan rumbles with his chest when you squeeze him again, "Wait, baby, I can't. I don't got a condom on me," he grabs your wrist to stop you, "Just let me make you feel good okay? Let tonight be all about you." He tries to coax you, his hand leaving your wrist to bring the attention back to your cunt when you swat his hand away. He pouts, confused as he watches you pull your white tee off and reach into your bra to grab a condom out it.
His eyes narrow at you, "Why the hell do you have that there?"
You huff, the jealousy in his tone not getting past you, "Don't ask what you don't wanna know, Barnes."
Whether or not he wants to pry into that detail, you don't let him. Making his breath catch in his throat as you tear the condom wrapper with your teeth—an action he found incredibly hot.
He takes himself out of his sweats, squeezing the base of his cock to get himself under control. He's already leaking as you hastily roll the condom down his length. You're getting yourself into position when he stops you. Your gazes meet, a questioning look in your eyes. "You sure about this? We can stop if you're not. It's okay." He assures you, needing you to confirm you really want this. When you realize what he's asking, you smile at him. Taking his lips in a softer kiss, one that conveys how sure you are of this happening. "I'm sure, Bucky. I want this."
That's all Bucky needed to hear.
He rubs your folds through your panties a few more times before his fingers hook into the fabric of your panties and push them to the side. He helps guide himself inside you as you lower yourself down on him, inch by inch. "Baby, you're squeezing the hell outta me—fuck," he curses under his breath, urging you to take it slow. He hasn't told you, but it's been a long time since it's been anything other than his hand and him. And he feels every bit of that longing as your walls squeeze him tighter the more of him you take.
"Sweetheart, you gotta give me a minute. I can't. I don't want this to end so soon," he's pleading with you, breathing heavily as the need to thrust up into you gets harder to restrain. You cup his face, making sure he's staring right into your eyes as you lower yourself completely. His breath his hot against your mouth as he gasps, the sound turn into a moan the second you start riding him. Not giving him any time to adjust as if this were your way of getting payback for the way he pushed your buttons all night.
"Fuck, you feel so good," he grits out, guiding your hips with his hands to move you in ways that have you both moaning out for each other. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him in for a makeout that's all tongue and teeth—messy and passionate all in one. Breathing each other in like the only source of air you need can be found within each other. And that's when Bucky feels it again, his heart soaring with how right this feels, just like the first time you slept together.
"I missed you, I—" he mumbles into your lips, but when you pick up your pace, he forgets what he was going to say. You've got him pussy drunk and wrapped around your finger—right where he wants to be.
He can tell he won't last much longer at this pace, and he needs you to come before he does. His hand goes to where you're connected, pressing circles onto your clit in the way he knows you like, making you mewl. "That's it baby, you're doing so good for me, pretty girl." His other hand grips you tighter, keeping you steady as he starts fucking up into you, meeting your hips. You whine at how deep he's going, one of your hands shooting out to the fogged up glass like that'll help anchor you. He can feel how close you are, so he doubles down, fucking up into you harder and increasing the pressure on your clit. "Come on, baby, give it to me. Let go, sweetheart, I got you," he whispers affectionately and wrecked, bringing you in for another kiss that undoes you. You come hard, crying out his name, and he follows suit, coming harder than he has in years. You got him seeing stars with the way your cunt squeezes him for all he's got.
You're both panting in the aftermath, his head resting against the backseat as he tries to catch his breath. Your head drops onto his shoulder, his hand gently rubbing at your back to help you with the aftershocks of your coupling. He kisses your temple reverently, whispering soft praises and sweet nothings as you both come down from your highs. For a few minutes, the car is quiet with a tranquility Bucky wasn't sure you two would ever get to again.
Your head rises from his shoulder, moments later, a dopey smile on your face. He laughs fondly, his hand rising to stroke your cheek affectionately, "You're so beautiful." He doesn't know if it's what he says or the way he said it, but your smile no longer reaches your eyes. It makes his heart squeeze in his chest uncomfortably.
"Everything okay?" He's looking you over to make sure you're okay, fearing he might've been a little rough with you. You clear your throat, wincing, "Yeah, it's just—I'm feeling a bit sure already." His eyes widen at that and he apologizes right away, helping you gently off of him as you both wince, sensitive at the disconnection.
You start redressing yourself, confusing him, but he didn't question you. He had hoped you two could stay together a little longer in the backseat, talk a few things out and just enjoy this pocket of happiness you had granted each other. But whatever spell you two were under seemed to be broken. And faster than Bucky could process it, you were already dressed and getting out of his car. He scrambled to clean himself up with what he had at his disposal, tucking himself back in his sweats and hastily slipping on his hoodie just as he heard the engine to your car turn on.
He gets out of his car, rushing over to you and knocking on the window for you to lower it. You do, staring at him in a way that he can't read, but it makes him uneasy nonetheless.
"You're leaving already?" Bucky can't hide the disappointment in his tone. You sigh, picking at a nonexistent thread on your jacket to keep your eyes somewhere that isn't on him. "I told you I have to return the car to Rumlow, it's not mine. He's got trackers on all his cars, so I have to return it before he comes looking for it."
"I can go with—"
"No, you'd only make things worse for me, okay? It's best if you just stay out of this."
He can't accept that, leaving you to deal with this on your own. Especially after being the only one who knows exactly how much trouble you're in. "I dont know how to help you, but I want to. Maybe I can't help, but maybe I can find someone who can."
"No, Bucky, just drop it," your tone made it clear you weren't budging from this. And maybe he couldn't make you budge on this now, but later, later he could fully convince you to let him help. "Fine, I will—for now. But, there's still some stuff I want to talk about," you give him a look and he's quick to dispel your apprehension, "Not now, I know you have to go. But later I'd like to have a proper talk. About us."
Something about you changes in this moment. Bucky can almost see it in the way you straighten up in the driver's seat, in the way your eyes glaze over with something deeply broken crawling it's way to the surface. Something meant to hurt him just as badly as he once hurt you.
"Us? Bucky, there is no us. Tonight… you were just an itch I had to scratch. Something I had to get out of my system, so thanks for that," your voice doesn't sound like your own when you say that. It sounds distant and cold, like you're trying your best to keep yourself together. However, the way in which you said certain things rings alarms bells inside his head. He's barley able to stutter out a reply when you pull back and drive off, leaving him in the dust of the engine fumes.
Those words. He's heard them before, but not from you, no, from his own mouth. He's replayed those words time and time again in his mind for the last six years. The things he once said to Sam way back then when he stupidly was trying to deny how he felt about you. You used those exact words against him tonight. It dawns on him, horrifically, that you heard him say that back then. Your anger and frustration—the heartbreak of that morning. It came from you thinking you weren't anything, but a one night stand for him.
And now youd done the same thing to him, as if trying to make things even. Maybe you had.
Bucky slumps against his car, sliding down it until he hits the floor. Pieces of a puzzle he could never solve slowly start clicking together until he gets a better picture of what happened. He had messed everything up like he feared he would. And it wasn't something he had done, it was something he had said. He wanted to kick himself for ever saying those things. If you were still angry at him all these years later, then you must have not heard the rest of the conversation. You only heard the part that broke your heart and made you hate him all this time.
Was there ever a possibility you would forgive him?
Could you forgive him?
Bucky doesn't know the answers to those questions, but what he does know is that he won't find out unless he tries to earn it.
a/n Well my darling barbies, you now have a choice to make. If you decide to not forgive Bucky, then your story ends here. If you decide to give him a second chance, then you're in luck! A part two is already in the works. Once again, comments and reblogs are so appreciated! ♡♡♡
bucky's dreamhouse | bucky masterlist | main masterlist | purple divider by @/cursed-carmine ݁⋆⭒˚.⋆
who i would let borrow my car in lord of the rings:
boromir- would likely take it to a car wash and fill up the tank for me afterwards. no questions asked and the keys are in his hand before he finishes his sentence.
gimli- would change my tires for me. a bit worried about him off roading but he’d take care of it. it’s extremely likely that he also took it through the car wash but not out of politeness but because he got it caked with dirt and mud while driving.
elrond- i’m willing to bet my life on this man being a reliable driver. he could get negative traffic tickets- as in, the cops pull him over just to tell him how good of a three point turn that was. this man is married to the turn signals.
sam- there might be dirt and dog hair left over for weeks but yeah i’d trust him. he probably just needs the trunk space for a dresser he found on the side of the road.
who in lord of the rings i do not trust with my car:
gollum- yeah obviously he’d drive it into the swamp in .2 seconds. this little fucker does not follow road laws or any laws. the second gollum takes my car i know its over.
gandalf- i do not know how one sends an automotive on a quest but im pretty sure my car is in moria rn and i’m never seeing it again
legolas- has the biggest passenger princess energy i’ve ever seen. would total my car immediately after going diagonal across the highway because he saw a cool tree
thranduil- like father like son. passenger princess who has not been behind the wheel for decades. would guilt trip me into giving him a ride before even asking to borrow my car. gets pulled over for having a whole ass wine bottle in the cupholder.
pippin- there would be peanut butter stuck in the console for months and i’d be finding loose snacks and trinkets in my seats years afterwards. also strikes me as the type to be obsessed with the radio to the point of reckless driving
Warnings: he's a little grumpy, she's a little sassy
A/n: In this story he doesn't have a kid. But we still love little Morgan. This plays off in 2008.
xxxx
Robert sat over dis desk, shrugging his aching shoulders with a frustrated groan, only for the fabric to get stuck over his biceps; too tight. He stood, to get a better angle at stretching his tired shoulders, but his pants shifted, beginning to fall. He caught them just short of slipping off.
With a long sigh, he sat down again. During his lunch hour, he needed to get a belt.
Lunch couldn't tick by sooner. Every time he glanced up at the clock, it had barely shifted by 10 minutes. If lunch was taking this long, how long would the rest of the day be? His head was pounding, he hadn't been sleeping well, work was slow (for once, which was infuriatingly confusing), he had a flickering light in his living room that his landlord kept ignoring, and with Valentine's around the corner all the stupid decorations and adverts were being rubbed in his face; a painful reminder of what he didn't believe in and why (true love).
Finally, when he glanced up for the nth time, it was 12:58. With a relieved sigh he stood, eyes fluttering in annoyance when his suit pants sagged. Normally, he'd order in and eat Al Desko style, but he needed a belt.
The walk there was awkward, having to fist his hands into his pockets to keep his stupid pants up. And all the stupid flowers and hearts and cupid decorations everywhere.
And to add to his irritation, his regular haberdashery was closed. He stared at the glass doors with a potent frown, as if he could somehow open it by staring intensely. After a good 75 seconds of staring into the dark store, he gave in. Turning onto the street. His long legs carried him, until he found a quant little shop.
Trustee Tailors or something of that art, he didn't really give the name too much as he walked in. He looked around, not a soul in sight. Seriously? Just then a woman walked past, measuring tape draped over her shoulders.
"He- excuse me."
He called out, hand reaching to her, maybe he could magically draw her in for assistance. Her head snapped toward him, a smile forming on her face instantly. He hated how his stomach fluttered at a simple smile.
"Good afternoon. Do you need any help?"
His brows quirked, slight amusement, as a slow smile stretched across his face.
"Yes, please. Do you have any belts?"
She nodded, stepping closer. Removing the tape, and rolling it with practiced ease, not even looking at it.
"Anything in particular? A preffered style, shade?"
His eyes dropped to the measuring tape, watching it spin with proficiency. His gaze flickered back up to her eyes, lips slightly parted. He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head.
"Uh yeah, no. Just something to keep my pants up."
Her gaze instinctively dropped to his pants; bunched where he had his fists balled in the pockets (presumably to keep them up), hanging just a tad too long over his shoes, fabric rumpled in loose waves where it sat too loosely over his legs. His cheeks tinted as a skew smile settled on her lips, embarrassed.
"Yes they're the wrong size I only realized when I was already at work.
"No worries. I could adjust them for you if you'd like?"
"Just a belt, thanks. I don't have time for an adjustment."
"It shouldn't take long, I could just take it in at the waistline."
He eyed her, before a soft sigh escaped him, giving in.
"Alright how long?"
"Well the simple way would take me about 20 minutes. But I don't advise that because it'll look bad without your jacket covering it. And the proper method would take a few days which you don't ha-"
"20 minutes!? I just told you I don't have time."
"Right, yes, sorry. Well, the belts are this way."
She turned, walking, expecting him to follow. He stood, ashamed at his outburst, before he followed her.
"Shout if you need any help."
She walked away, disappearing between the mannequins. He stood for a moment, dumbfounded at all the options.
Y/N's head lifted when he approached the counter, and her right hand reached out to shut the drawer she'd been pulling paperwork from.
"Got what you needed?"
Her smile was professional as she took the belt he handed. He nodded, hands in his pockets as he glancing around. No valentine's decor.
"How come you haven't put up any decorations?"
She scoffed, shaking her head as she rolled up the belt, placing it in a bag.
"No. Not until the day before. And we take it down right after we close on valentine's. Wait..."
She pulled the belt back out, and his brows pinched together.
"What?"
"What color are your shoes?"
An exasperated half gasp half sigh left him. Her face, however, remained serious. So he looked down.
"Uh, black."
The tutted, removing the belt.
"A brown belt, with black shoes?"
"Yeah and?"
"Yeah and? Its a fashion violation, faux fashion, not stylish, tacky, new money. Whatever bad insult you can think of rich people, its that."
His mouthed opened and closed, like a fish out of water. She found is unbelievably cute.
"So what?"
"So go get a black belt."
He shook his head, muttering, "Don't have the time for this", as he snatched the belt, walking to retrieve another one, thankfully his pants were on his side, choosing to stay up on the walk there and back. He placed a black belt on the counter, eyes lifting to hers with an expression that read: 'there. Happy now?'.
She smiled, satisfied, and rung it up again, re-bagging it. He watched with the same diverted gaze, eyes trained on her hands as she worked.
"That'll be $50 dollars please."
(I think back then $50 was between like 73 to 75 dollars)
"50 dollars!? What?"
"This is New York City, sir. This is one of the better prices you'll find."
He sighed, fishing for his wallet. He inserted the credit card and paid.
"I'm still getting used to those,"
She mumbled at the relatively new creation. He hummed in agreement.
"By the way... Can't you just return those pants?"
"No I don't think so. I've already worn them for like half the day."
She nodded, handing him the bag.
"Enjoy the rest of your day."
He nodded, greeting and thanks, as he turned.
"You too."
He fought hard not to say beautiful as he walked out.
xxxx
Fin. Hope it was nice xx
Bro I hope this reaches the right audience there are like no fics for him:(
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This is based on my poll suggestion. I was hoping the Outlaw Bucky vote would win (I voted that one lol). As I'm drafting this I'm not sure which one will win, it was WS x Doc, but now its at Outlaw, which I'm stoked about. So without further ado:
Poll
Pairing: Outlaw!Bucky x high class!fem!reader
Summary: Raised an outlaw, James, known rather as "Bucky" or the "Winter Soldier" by the public, has followed a life of executing order after order. Living a life controlled by others, he sees no aim in an attempt at a different life, until a task he's given breaks through his hardened mind and heart; Kidnapping the banker's daughter, Y/N Y/L/N for ransom money.
A/n: This is also getting posted on my Wattpad account: (sheeriosity). I tried to make this as historically accurate as possible.
I'll try to post a chapter a week
Hope you guys enjoy it xx
Another A/n: This and doctor Bucky came equal. So I'll be writing for both. AND, this chapter is probably just a teaser.
She writhed against the hard body she was being held to, nimble fingers desperately trying to pry the gloved fingers from being clamped over her mouth. In response, the faceless figure only pulled her tighter to him.
She brought her knee up, a final attempt at freeing herself, and with a low grunt, she kicked back, her boot landing against solid muscle. The man stilled momentarily, stunned, before he yanked her toward his horse. Her legs struggled to keep up as he virtually dragged her to the white horse, who'd been watching the scene as if it were another normal day of grazing in vast pastures.
(just a side note: I tried to do adequate research on white horse breeds in the US in the early 1900s; Old King was the first in 1908, but the breeding only started around the mid to late 30s. So for the sake of the story just pretend there was another white horse that he stole)
As they neared the horse, he kept her firmly tucked to his chest. She felt his right arm shift, and heard a click that made her blood curl. A blunt, solid object was pressed to her lower back, making her spine rigid with misgiving.
"Now, you're going to mount this horse. If you try and bolt, this," he nudged the revolver deeper into her back, the feeling solid even through the layers of fabric. "is going to be made use of. Understood?"
She nodded, mind whirring in anticipation. Perhaps if she played along she'd get an opportunity to make a run for it, once he got used to the idea of her being compliant. He stepped back, giving her space to mount the horse. She hesitated, eyeing the horse as her brain calculated how she'd get on in her dress and corset. Out of haste and fear, she gripped the reins, bent her knees, and jumped. She didn't get very far, attempting to sling a leg over. Her cheeks burnt at the mental image of how ungraceful she must've looked.
Her left hand gripped the horse's back, right fisting the rein so tight her knuckles blanched. She started slipping down, dress rumpling. Her cheeks burnt so bright it hurt her skin as her left hand patted desperately for grip. Suddenly, she felt large hands pressed against the back of her knees through the layers of her dress and undergarments. She gasped as said hands pushed her up effortlessly.
Once she was mounted her hands flew to adjust her dress and hair, cheeks still stinging. She sat, chin up, head turned away from him, hands folded in her lap like a properly lady (despite her legs dangling on either side of the horse like a bandit). She gasped once more, in shock, as the same warm hands clasped around her hips and shifted her forward. Soon, she felt him settle on the horse behind her in one swift motion.
The revolver pressed to her back once more, her pulse vibrating under her skin as dreaded ideas of what the gun was capable of flashing through her mind.
"You're making a very grave mistake."
She quipped, trying and failing to keep her voice steady, as his left arm settled to her side, hand gripping the reins. Her eyes flickered to his hand, widening at the sight of scars poking out from the small gap between his sleeve and glove.
"So are you, running that mouth."
His response was gruff, words clipped. She wanted to scream, wanted to cry, as her body buzzed with nerves. But all she managed was to stare straight ahead as her mind tried to process what was happening. It had all happened so swift. One moment she was leaving the sewing upholstery, walking to her cart, and the next she was pulled into an alley with a hand over her mouth and a revolver to her back. Damn her for thinking she didn't need a chaperone that day. Why? Why her? The first tear dripped onto the fabric of her dress.
She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, biting down as her body fought against sobs.
Unbeknownst to her, her captor, aware of every movement of her, had bile rising to his own throat. Tasks usually came easily. He'd be given instructions, and he'd deliver them, no questions asked. He'd assumed it to be the same this time round. In and out. But something about those big glassy eyes staring into his, fear evident in them, had his blood curling, gut cold. And so, the two of them ventured down the long grassy path, each in their own internal turmoil.
Summary: Bucky comes home from a mission utterly exhausted. you take care of him. [WC 674] [AO3]
Warnings: hurt/comfort, angst
Request: @late-to-the-party-81 Hey darling - I have a prompt for you 😘 From the fluffy domestic prompts 95. Character rubbing other character's hair dry Reader x Bucky, but Bucky is feeling bad after a mission (either emotionally or physically or both) and reader helps him shower and dry his long hair after before tucking him up (in bed for sleep or couch for cuddles and movies), maybe running fingers through his hair and soothing him til he finally relaxes. Ending up to you. Love ya!
The bathroom is quiet except for the steady sound of water hitting tile. Bucky hasn’t said much since he got home. He’d walked through the door like he always does—controlled, composed, jaw set—but you saw it in his eyes. That distant look. The one that means something went wrong. Or maybe nothing went wrong… and that’s worse.
You help him peel out of his gear slowly. The leather jacket drops to the floor. His gloves follow. There’s a bruise blooming along his ribs and dried blood at his temple.
“Buck,” you murmur softly, fingers hovering near his face. “You’re hurt.”
“I’m fine.” Automatic. Flat.
You don’t argue. You just turn on the shower and test the water. He stands under it stiffly at first, like he’s still waiting for gunfire. Steam curls around him, softening the sharp lines of muscle and metal. His long hair darkens, clinging to his shoulders. The tension in his neck doesn’t ease.
You step in with him. Not rushed. Not invasive. Just… there. Your hands are gentle as you wash the blood from his skin. When you reach his hair, you slow down. Work the shampoo in carefully, massaging his scalp with patient fingers.
His breath hitches.
“It’s okay,” you whisper over the sound of water. “You’re home.”
He leans forward slightly before he realizes he’s doing it. Forehead brushing your shoulder. A silent apology for needing this.
You don’t mention it. When you rinse his hair, you shield his eyes. You treat him like something precious instead of dangerous. Like a man instead of a weapon. By the time you turn the water off, his shoulders have dropped an inch.
—
You sit him on the edge of the bed wrapped in a thick towel. He looks almost shy like this—long hair dripping, dog tags resting against bare skin, metal hand hanging uselessly at his side. “C’mere,” you say, standing between his knees.
You start drying his hair slowly, rubbing the towel over the strands, then scrunching it gently to soak up the water. It’s longer now than it used to be, brushing his shoulders.
He watches you for a moment. Blue eyes tired. Soft. “Didn’t have to do this,” he mutters.
“I know.” You switch from the towel to your fingers, combing through the damp strands. Separating them carefully so they don’t tangle. Your nails lightly graze his scalp, and he exhales in a way that sounds almost like relief.
Your touch grows slower. Rhythmic. He closes his eyes. You see it happen—the way the soldier loosens his grip on control. His metal hand flexes once. Then settles against your hip. “Stay,” he says quietly. Barely audible.
“I’m not going anywhere.” You help him into soft sweatpants and an old shirt. Guide him to bed. When he lies down, he hesitates—like he doesn’t deserve the comfort.
You climb in beside him anyway. He turns toward you immediately. You gather his head against your chest and begin running your fingers through his hair again. Slow strokes. Over and over. Combing through the strands. Light scratches at his scalp.
His breathing stutters once. Then again. Then it evens out. He presses his face into you like he’s hiding from something only he can see. “Too loud in my head,” he admits quietly.
“I know.” You kiss the crown of his head. Your fingers never stop moving. You trace through his hair, down to the nape of his neck, back up again. You hum softly under your breath—some tune that doesn’t need words. Your other hand rests over his heart.
It takes time. Minutes stretch.
His body slowly grows heavier against you. The tension drains from his shoulders. His grip on your shirt loosens. Finally— He exhales fully. For the first time all night. Asleep. Even in sleep he stays close, metal arm curling carefully around your waist like he’s afraid to break you. You keep stroking his hair long after he’s gone. Because this, this quiet softness—is how you put him back together.
