apricity

. . . Well, let’s be honest, he still would’ve rolled his eyes and told them to fuck off.

But hey! At least this time they wouldn’t be wrong, but he’d never admit that to their face. Or to anyone else’s for that matter.

The first time Bucky meets you, you almost slice his ear clean off.

Honestly? That’s the moment he thinks he fell in love with you. Love at first sight. . . or possible ear amputation, in this situation.

It was his own error. He was walking in the gym, too in his own head and oblivious to his surroundings to notice you and walked right in front of the target you were hurling throwing knives at. They were all crammed around the center. Defenitely could've got him if you wanted to.

There’s no panic, there’s no loud dramatics like gasps or hands flying to mouths in shock, you're not rushing to take a look and see if he’s okay and spewing out apologies.

You just stand there and narrow your eyes with a head tilt that doesn’t say you’re concerned, but rather you’re lucky.

“You good?” You ask simply.

Bucky's mouth goes dry, and he finds himself being able to only nod in response.

He was doomed from the very start.

———

After your first encounter, he kept running into you.

In the gym (again), the kitchen, the common room. He seemed to gravitate towards you like there was something nudging him in your direction.

Bucky’s the one to ask you on a date. No grand gestures, just a simple question in the hush of the quinjet on your way back from a mission. Broken, bloody and bruised, the sun setting behind you.

This was one of the moments where you were at your softest. You were exhausted, your arm resting in Bucky's careful palms so he could stitch together a small gash on your arm.

“This is gonna hurt.” He says softly.

“I’ve had worse.” You whisper gently. No flat tone or sarcasm falling from your mouth like usual. Just you, tired and recovering.

He cleans it with antiseptic, and you welcome the sting with a shaky inhale, eyes fluttering shut.

The silence stretches between you. Steve controls the jet upfront, taking the three of you back to compound. That’s when Bucky asks you on a date.

And to his surprise? You say okay.

He blinks like he heard you wrong, his gentle grasp on your wounded arm going slack, "Really?"

You shrug, "Sure, why not."

His mouth stays a little agape, and you shake your head softly and rest your head back against your seat. Your eyes flutter shutter, tapping his chin, "Close your mouth, Barnes. You'll catch flies in that trap."

Bucky blinks again, and then his mouth shuts promptly.

The date is nothing overly fancy, an Italian restaurant somewhere in downtown Manhattan because he overheard you in conversation with Natasha once about it and how much you liked their tiramisu.

You wear jeans, a simple top and a pair of heels, all various dark colours, hair pulled away from your face. When Bucky hears you coming he turns opens his mouth like a fish out of water when he catches sight if you. He stumbles over his words, shooting up from the couch and almost tripping over his own feet.

"With limbs flailing like that, no-one would ever believe you were the Winter Soldier," You quip with an unimpressed arch of your eyebrow, "Just a man with bad coordination."

"You, uh— you look, uh, really nice." He chokes.

"You don't look so bad yourself, Barnes." You reply, already sashaying your way to the exit, "Are you just going to stand there or am I going on my own?"

Bucky prays for strength and to not make an absolute fool of himself, scoops up his car keys, and then jogs after you.

———

Ever since that first date, and the dates that followed, Bucky has been so totally whipped, and he knows that.

Sam says that to his face at least three times a day.

Bucky doesn’t deny it, not once— he can't. 

You spar one time just for fun, and you told him not to take it easy on you. You both pounce at each other, hitting and deflecting like you were practicing choreography, like you had memorised what comes next after he swung his arm in a low arc.

You catch him off guard at one point, and suddenly your swinging up and around his neck before he can blink, thighs squeezing either side of his throat.

And he. . . doesn’t do anything.

Brain short circuits.

Bucky.exe has stopped working.

What a good way to go, is about the only thing rolling around in his brain.

“You’re distracted,” You pant as he sets you down, sweat dripping from your temples and wisps of hair sticking to your forehead.

“No shit,” Bucky huffs, his eyes lingering on you for longer than necessary, “Kinda what happens when you wrap your legs around my head.”

You shake your head, exasperated, “Always thinking with your downstairs brain.”

Bucky grins, “Only when it’s you.”

You give him a sharp stare that would probably unsettle anyone else. It just makes Bucky melt like ice-cream left in the sun.

Only you would wrap your legs around your boyfriend’s head and expect him not to be completely distracted by that. . . or maybe you do, and you’re messing with him. He can’t be sure, and your expression doesn’t give anything away.

All Bucky knows is if it’s psychological warfare you’re playing at?

He’ll never win.

———

You're stood at the foot of the bed, sorting your clothes, a basket of Bucky's waiting on the floor for its own turn to be sorted after.

“Sam says I dress like I’m going to a funeral,” You grumble, folding clothes with more vigour than necessary, “Who the fuck wears dark green to a funeral?”

Bucky approaches you from the doorway, pushing the door gently behind him. He wraps his arms around your waist, and you tense for a moment before letting yourself relax into him.

A kiss is pressed to the back of your neck, soft and gentle, “Think he just means you wear a lot of dark clothes, baby.”

“I know what he meant,” You mutter, folding socks over each other so you don’t lose the pair, “The comment was uncalled for.”

Bucky huffs a laugh into your shoulder. You squirm like you hate it, but Bucky knows you don’t. He nuzzles into, thumbs running in soothing circles over your hipbones. 

"Since when have you ever listened to Sam?" He murmur, peppering kisses against the soft skin behind your ear and trailing them down neck.

"I don't listen to Sam," You mumble, eyebrows furrowed and your lips pursed.

"He's trying to get under your skin."

"He's annoying."

"Aggravatingly so."

You lean into his touch as his hands curl around your hips to hold gently instead, until your eyes lock onto a basket of clothes that're pink and your body goes still.

"Bucky?" You say softly.

That tone of voice is never good.

That tone of voice means he's in trouble. 

He doesn't register it though, he only hums noncommittally. You feel the vibration against the sensitive skin of your neck that makes you flinch before you can try to stop yourself from reacting. 

Bucky grins, happy with himself, and lifts his head from your neck. He kisses your cheek, "Yeah, baby?"

You point at the basket of clothes he left on the floor, "What is that?"

His eyebrows furrow, looking at where your pointing, "My clean clothes?"

You grit your teeth and turn your head just enough to catch him in your peripheral, "Yes, but why are they pink?"

Bucky does a double-take, blinking at his clothes. He picks up the basket and sets it on the foot of the bed next to your neatly folded clothes. 

He chews on his bottom lip, "They looked white in the washing machine."

You scoff, "Oh, so the air made them pink?"

Bucky doesn't say a word.

You rummage through his clothes, dress shirts and t-shirts and vests and socks, until you find the culprit. You hold it up slowly, dangling it in front of him.

The look on your face says he's fucked up.

"Are you gonna kill me?" He blurts out.

"I might've if it was my clothes, but you did this to yourself," You huff, gesturing at the ruined pile of his clothes, "How do you even do this, Bucky?" 

He shrugs, "Wasn't paying attention."

You hold the offender in your hand— a single red sock. Not even a pair.

"I can see that," You deadpan, "Now your whites are all. . . pastel pink."

At least he has the audacity to look a little sheepish.

"You had one job," You continue, "Just one."

Bucky nods solemnly.

"I did."

"You failed. . . how do you fail washing clothes, Bucky?"

"I didn't fail washing them," He corrects, "They're clean, aren't they?"

You blink at him, "They're pink. They're supposed to be white!"

"I just— I missed the red sock!"

"You have pristine vision!" You exclaim, "You're a super-soldier, it's part of the package!"

"Yeah, but I don't have x-ray vision!"

You huff, shaking your head and muttering about your useless 106 year-old super-soldier boyfriend who can't wash clothes correctly under your breath.

You're complaining, but it still has the corners of Bucky's mouth upturn fondly.

He guides your hips to turn you around, wrapping his arms back around your waist, one hand splayed across your lower back, the other coming up to knead the back of your neck gently.

Your jaw grinds, and you stare at him, that same stare from the first day he saw you in the gym, but this time there's something else there. 

Love.

And it's for him.

And isn't that something special in itself?

"I'm sorry," He whispers softly, brushing hair from your face, "I'll never touch the washing again."

You try not to smile at that. It's a failing task.

"I'm an 106 year-old man, we didn't have washing machines," Bucky exaggerates a long sigh, "All this technology. . .”

"Alright, old man." You roll your eyes, patting his chest.

He grins, a thumb stroking over your cheek before leaning in to kiss you— slow and soft, a kiss that warms you on the inside and makes you melt. 

Something that makes you feel safe, cared for, loved.

Everything the two of you deserved to be.

"I love you," Bucky murmurs against your lips, soft like a prayer, his hand cradling your cheek.

"I love you too," You sigh in a rare defeat, nipping at his lower lip in warning, "But if you ever do that to my clothes, Bucky. . ."

"Told you, I'll never touch the washing machine again," He offers quickly, "Or try to be helpful."

You roll your eyes with a lingering smile, "Might be for the best."

You can still feel the honeyed trace of his lips that had just been pressed to yours, residual warmth still seeping into your skin like sunlight. 

If he's going to kiss you like that? You ought to have to him apologising more often.

He tilts your head just enough to kiss you a second time, pouring love into you as if it comes from an endless source that lives in his chest. 

Your eyes flutter shut, hands coming up to cup his cheeks, and suddenly the reason why you were mad at him in the first place slowly begins to fade away.

Later, he'll buy you flowers as an apology. A small bunch of red roses and he'll make a silly joke about the two of you and true love. You'll scoff and give him a playful shove, but you'll take the bouquet and inhale the floral scent. You'll gingerly untie the ribbon and put it in your pocket, filling a vase with water and placing the flowers inside with the utmost care.

But for right now? You can settle for this.

———

Some of Bucky's favourite moments with you is in the morning, specifically when the sun is rising and shines through your bedroom window.

Hues of orange and yellow bleed into the darkness of the room, slithering through the gaps in the curtains that had been haphazardly drawn the night prior.

Your face, illuminated by the rising sun from its golden light spills into the room and streaks across your face, will be an image he will never be able to rid from his mind.

In your sleep you had always looked serene, as though the traumatic weight you carry on your shoulders doesn't exist at all. The wrinkle between your usually furrowed eyebrows is smooth and that flat, unimpressed look you usually wear is nowhere to be seen.

It's just you, stripped of that façade you wear like armour. 

Sometimes, he can't believe that he's lucky enough to see you just as you are.

Bucky tucks hair that had fallen in your face behind your ear, and the soft sweep of his fingertips against your skin has your face twitch, the corners of your lips quiver at the fleeting touch.

"Shhh," He hushes softly as you shift, seeking him out with a deep sigh.

That alone could've made him melt.

His grumpy girl, searching for him even when she was asleep. 

Your hand settles against his chest and a leg weaves between his. Bucky watches the tension that had started to rise in your body slowly dissipate until you were pilant against the sheets once more. 

He smiles, his metal arm enveloping your back, and curls his free hand over yours where it rests against his heart.

———

You in your element is something that Bucky will never quite get over.

He watches you move— dangerous and deadly, your body twisting fluidly and your limbs swing in arcs meant to deliver heavy blows to take down men that're twice your size.

Bucky sighs wistfully.

Sam blinks, looking both mildly frustrated and slightly horrified at his reaction.

“She’s doing her job, Buck.”

Bucky huffs, “Yeah, but she looks good doing it.”

“Are you two finished with your mother's meeting or what?" You yell, glancing over your shoulder at them with a withering stare.

Someone takes this as the chance to try and rush you.

You curse under your breath, exasperated and utterly irritated, jaw clenched as your body moves fluidly, whirling around on your heel and swinging your leg in the air. The heel of your boot connects with his face, a sickening crunch under it where his nose snaps to the side. 

He staggers from the force of it and swears, trying to grasp clumsily at your leg in his disorientation. You grab him by his shoulders and smack his head against your knee hard, and he falls like a sack of potatoes— unconscious.

"Seems like you have it handled." Sam quips.

You roll your eyes, pointing a throwing knife at him, "Careful, Wilson, or it'll be you next."

"What about me?"

"You're such a machochist, dude." Sam huffs with a shake of his head, following redwing down one of the corridor's that'll hopefully lead you all where you need to go.

"If you want a punishment, James, you know where to find me." You tease with a roll of you eyes, but there's a hint of a smile there.

And that's for him.

When he doesn't move from his spot, you huff softly and take his wrist to drag him along with you to follow Sam, still failing to hold off that smile, "C'mon, old man."

Bucky grins and trails behind you like a puppy.

There's no place he'd rather be.

Omega!Reader, who catches it some days, a scent barely there, threaded under the flour and caramel. Metal and leather, and beneath that something warm. Clean sweat and musk and something unnameable that makes her hands still mid-fold, her pupils blow wide.

Omega!Reader, whose instincts scream at her to walk outside. To follow it. To find the source.

Omega!Reader, who doesn't. Omegas going into alleys at night was how news headlines started.

Omega!Reader, who keeps working, keeps ignoring it, until one day the wind shifts. The scent that slips through the vent isn't subtle anymore. It's unmistakable. Alpha. Raw and dark and something that makes her knees buckle.

Omega!Reader, whose body reacts before her mind catches up. Slick, warm, and unwanted, sliding down her inner thighs while she stands frozen at the prep counter, flour dusting her trembling hands.

Omega!Reader, who has never felt this with any alpha she's actually touched. But some phantom in an alley makes her body weep for it.

Omega!Reader, who goes to clean herself up in the bathroom, her pulse throbbing between her thighs.

Omega!Reader, who doesn't hear the drag of metal fingers against brick outside. Doesn't notice the change in the alpha's scent, sharper now, edged with something feral. It smells her slick, and the world narrows to that vent.

Alpha!Soldat, whose ruts are chemically suppressed into non-existence. It doesn't remember what it feels like to want. HYDRA can't risk their asset going feral over an omega at the wrong moment.

Alpha!Soldat, who has never scented an omega outside of sterile facilities.

Alpha!Soldat, who is deployed on a routine extraction, catches your scent through the bakery vent and freezes mid-step for the first time in 70 years.

Alpha!Soldat, who short-circuits because you smell like brown sugar and yeast, not fear and antiseptic. Its brain doesn't know what to do with that.

Alpha!Soldat, who instantly tenses and braces for agony that doesn't come after scenting you.

Alpha!Soldat, who starts deviating from its routes to pass by the bakery's alley.

Alpha!Soldat, who had never seen you, but that vent two meters up breathes your scent into the dark, and it stands there like something waiting to be fed.

Alpha!Soldat, who never processed being an alpha in any healthy way, and now its instincts return chaotic, confused, starving.

Alpha!Soldat, whose perpetually limp cock starts to stir for the first time in decades, thick and insistent against the fabric of its tactical pants.

Alpha!Soldat, who paws clumsily at the unfamiliar bulge, chest heaving in the alley shadows.

Alpha!Soldat, whose suppressants are starting to fail.

And then, The guy beside you. Taller than Steve. Broader. Easy smile. The kind of guy who doesn’t look like he has to try to exist.

Steve’s stomach drops. He looks away fast, like he’s been burned.

“Don’t,” Bucky mutters beside him, not even looking up from his drink.

“Don’t what?” Steve says too quickly.

“Do that thing where you pretend you don’t care.”

Steve scoffs, but it’s weak. “I don’t— Buck, she’s just—she’s dating. That’s… normal.”

Normal. Yeah. Normal for someone like you. Not for someone like him. Across the room, you laugh at something your date says—and it’s not even a big laugh. Just a small one. Polite. Careful.

Steve knows your real laugh. That loud, unguarded one you try to hide behind your hand. The one that makes your shoulders shake. You’re not doing that now.

But the guy doesn’t notice. Of course he doesn’t. Why would he look that closely?

Steve’s jaw tightens.

“Go talk to her,” Bucky says.

“No.”

“Stevie—”

“No,” he repeats, sharper this time. “She’s… she’s got someone.”

Someone better. Someone who doesn’t look like they might get knocked over by a strong breeze. Someone who doesn’t have to hide how winded they get from climbing stairs. Someone who doesn’t have everything wrong with them. Steve grips his glass a little tighter.

“She deserves…” he trails off, shaking his head. “Not me.”

You notice too. You always do. It’s stupid, really. The way your attention drifts no matter who you’re with, no matter what they’re saying. Like there’s a magnet in your chest and it’s always—always—pulling you back to him. Steve. Sitting across the room. Small in his chair, like he’s trying to take up less space. Shoulders slightly hunched, hands wrapped around his drink like he’s not sure what else to do with them.

He looks… nice. He always looks nice. Soft. Gentle. Careful. The kind of person people overlook. The kind of person you notice too much.

“—and then I told him, I said, no way, man—hey, you listening?”

You blink, dragged back. “Yeah—sorry,” you say quickly, forcing a smile. “Just… long day.”

Your date chuckles. “Yeah? You seem kinda distracted.”

Because you are. Because every time you look over, Steve looks away like he’s not allowed to be caught staring. Because earlier, you saw the girl Bucky introduced him to.

Pretty. Small. Everything you’re not.

Your stomach twists.

“Do you… wanna get out of here?” your date asks, leaning in slightly.

You freeze. Because this is the part where you say yes. This is the part where you prove you’re normal, that you can do this, that you’re not— Your eyes flick up again.

Steve’s already looking. And for a split second, neither of you look away. It’s quiet. Just for a heartbeat. Something soft and aching passes between you.

Then he drops his gaze. Of course he does. He always does.

You swallow. “…Actually,” you say, pulling back slightly, “I think I’m gonna call it a night.”

Your date frowns. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry.”

You don’t wait for him to argue. You just grab your bag and turn—and walk straight toward Steve.

He doesn’t realize you’re coming until you’re there.

“Hey,” you say.

Steve looks up so fast he nearly knocks his glass over. “H—hey,” he stammers, scrambling to steady it. “I thought—you were—uh—”

“On a date?” you finish, a little wry.

“Yeah. That.”

You shrug, trying to play it off. “Didn’t really feel like one.”

Something flickers across his face. Hope. Quick and fragile. “Oh.”

There’s a pause. Awkward. Thick. God, why is this always so hard?

You shift your weight. “How about you? Your… uh… setup?”

Steve lets out a small, humorless huff. “Left. While I was in the bathroom.”

Your heart drops. “What? Why?”

He shrugs, but it’s too casual, too practiced. “Guess I’m not exactly—” he cuts himself off. Don’t say it. Don’t. “—what people are looking for,” he finishes quietly.

Something sharp twists in your chest. “Steve—”

“It’s fine,” he says quickly. “Really. I mean—look at me.”

And there it is. That self-deprecating little laugh. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s fact.

You stare at him. “Yeah,” you say slowly. “Look at you.”

Steve blinks, confused by your tone.

“You’re kind,” you continue. “And funny. And you remember stupid little things I say from weeks ago. You walk me home even when it’s out of your way. You—” your voice wobbles slightly, but you push through, “—you’re the only person who actually sees me.”

He goes very still.

“Why would anyone not be looking for that?” you ask softly.

Steve’s throat works. “Because,” he says, barely above a whisper, “that’s not enough.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Yeah,” you murmur. “I know.”

His eyes snap up to yours. “What?”

You laugh, but it’s small. Not your real one. “Every guy I go out with makes it pretty clear,” you say. “Too tall. Too much. Not exactly what they had in mind.”

Steve’s expression shifts—hurt, confusion, something deeper. “That’s— that’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” you shoot back, a little sharper than you meant. “Because it keeps happening, Stevie.”

Silence. Heavy.

Then, quieter he says, “You deserve better than them.”

You almost smile. “Funny,” you say. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

Steve frowns. “What?”

“You deserve someone who actually wants you,” you say, your voice softening again. “Someone who doesn’t walk out. Someone who—” You stop.

Because his expression has changed. Completely. “—someone who what?” he asks.

Your heart is pounding now. This is it. You can feel it. That edge you’ve both been circling forever. “Someone who doesn’t think they’re too good for you,” you finish, barely audible.

Steve stares at you. “You think that’s why I don’t—?” he cuts himself off, shaking his head. “No. No, I don’t— I don’t think I’m too good for you.”

“Then why don’t you ever—?” you start, frustration slipping through.

“Because you are,” he blurts.

You freeze. “…what?”

“You’re too good for me,” Steve says, all at once, like it’s been trapped in his chest for too long. “You always have been. I mean—look at you. And look at me. I can barely— I’m not— I’m just—”

“Steve.”

He stops.

Your voice is steady now. “Do you have any idea how stupid that sounds?” He flinches slightly. “I’ve spent months thinking I wasn’t good enough for you,” you continue. “That you’d never look at me like that. That you’d always want someone smaller, prettier—”

“Prettier?” he echoes, genuinely baffled. “Are you serious?”

“Yes!”

“You’re—” he cuts himself off, shaking his head like he can’t even process it. “You’re the most—” He stops again. Takes a breath. Tries again. “You’re it for me,” he says, simply.

The world goes very, very quiet.

“…what?” you whisper.

Steve swallows hard. “You’re it,” he repeats. “Have been. For a while now. I just… figured you’d never want—” he gestures vaguely at himself, “—this.”

You step closer. Close enough that he forgets how to breathe. “You’re an idiot,” you murmur.

His lips twitch faintly. “Yeah. I’ve been told.”

“Good,” you say. “Because I’m apparently one too.”

And then—before you can overthink it, before he can talk himself out of it again— You kiss him. It’s soft. A little clumsy. Like neither of you quite believe it’s happening. Steve makes a small, startled sound against your lips, hands hovering awkwardly for half a second before settling—hesitant, careful—at your waist. Like he’s afraid you might disappear. You don’t. You lean in closer instead. And when you pull back, just barely— He’s looking at you like the world just rewrote itself.

“Hi,” you whisper.

Steve lets out a shaky breath. “…hi.”

Across the room, Bucky slams his hand on the table. “FINALLY.”