Country Spice

Little Rebecca had behaved even more so than she usually did. She was a pleasure to raise, that was for sure. Polite and always smiling. She had yawned and curled her tiny hands into fists around your shirt as you carried her to the bathroom.

When you dropped her off at daycare, she didn’t fuss one bit. She waved brightly and yelled, “Goodbye, Mommy!” while trying to balance four different colourful blocks on her hands.

The outlook for the day was ideal, which meant you were more than bummed when things started going wrong.

On your way to Pilates, your car stopped three different times. Three different occasions in which you had to awkwardly signal to the cars behind you to drive around because the engine had decided not to start after you had stopped at the red light. You swallowed the insults and turned on some music.

The next blow came in the middle of the street. You hurried, balancing your weight in those brown leather boots you had bought the week prior. New York was as busy as ever; time waited for no one, and you were not about to be left behind. It was a short walk from your work to the grocery store, and if you hurried, you would be able to catch that perfect time right before the store got flooded with customers.

Turns out, the street said, 'Not today.' One wrong step and a loose tile later, and you were clutching your poor ankle. “Dammit—” You winced in pain as you stopped walking. Your foot had twisted into some uncomfortable position, surprised by how the hard floor had dipped when the tile moved.

You took a deep breath; you could push through it.

The pain only worsened when you returned home to find the elevator to be ‘out of order’. That was five stories with a handful of grocery bags and an injured foot.

You unlocked the door to your apartment with arms aching and out of breath. You dragged your feet to the kitchen and placed the bags on the counter. Some water would fix it, you were certain. You reached out into your tote bag, only to find a huge, wet mess. The water bottle had the lid separated enough from the actual bottle to allow quite a few drops of water to spill.

“God fucking dammit!” You cursed out in exasperation. You covered your face with your hands, already feeling the tears behind your eyes, which only made you feel worse. Were you seriously going to cry because of a bad day?

That was the last stroke.

With whatever strength you had left within you, you threw the soaking wet tote bag on the clothesline before making your final choice: you were fed up, and you were going to visit your husband.

In that moment, there was nothing that you needed as much as a kiss, a hug, and reassurance that everything would be okay from one of the people you loved most in the world.

Your car was left in the parking lot. There was no way you would risk it again. You took the subway instead. In the short path between the subway station and Bucky's work, the grey clouds in the sky began their slow but steady downpour.

You had brought no umbrella.

By the time you crossed the main entrance to Bucky’s office building, you were barely holding it together. The rain had got enough water in your hair and clothes to make it uncomfortable. The workers at the front desk paid no mind; they were used to you. The problem came later on, when you were about to knock on Bucky’s door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” A young woman asked,

“Yeah, I’m just here to see my husband.” With the way the woman looked at you, with her eyes wide and lips turned down, you knew what was coming.

“That’s a nice try, honey. But Mr Barnes is busy.”

“Ma’am, seriously. James is my husband—”

The woman was stepping closer, sharp in her heels. “I don’t know why so many women think they can get to him. He’s a busy man.”

“Many women?” You stuttered, confused and increasingly irritated. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have time for this.”

You took one final step over, swinging the door open and stepping into your husband’s office, knowing that if you waited a second longer, things would get messy. Bucky looked up immediately, dropping the pen in his hand when he caught sight of the scene.

“Mr Barnes, I’m so sorry; I tried to stop her—” the woman cried, placing her hand on her chest. You did not like the way she looked at your husband one bit.

“Stop her?” Bucky asked, standing up from his desk. His eyes scanned over you, noticing every single detail. The way you leaned all of your weight on your healthy ankle, or your wet hair, or the way you shivered, or simply how miserable you looked.

“This is my wife.” His tone was more like an angry boss and less like the tender husband you knew. “Always let her in. Always.”

The woman nodded awkwardly and scurried out of the door. Bucky waited until she had left and was far away enough. His head turned back to you. There was this thing that Bucky always did with his face when he was concerned about you, his brows would knit and his eyes would widen.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, curling his fingers around your arms. “What happened?”

You did not waste a second before jumping into his arms. Your face rested on his chest, right next to that blue tie of his that you loved to take off him. His arms embraced you, and one of his hands traced your back.

Bucky held you like that until he felt the tension start to leave your body. He pressed a warm kiss to your head before he pulled away. He held your gaze until you spoke.

“I just had the worst day ever,” you began, holding onto him tighter. “My car stopped like three times on my way to Pilates, and then I stepped on a loose tile and hurt my ankle—and then the fucking elevator was out of order, so I had to walk the stairs all the way to our apartment, with the grocery bags, mind you. And then I spilt water—and I think I might get my period soon, and I just feel, so, so terrible.”

“Hey, shhh, sweetheart,” Bucky’s hand ran up and down your arms. At that moment, he needed you to relax before he could begin to unpack what was bothering you so much to be able to help you. “You said you hurt your ankle? Here,” he carefully led you to his office couch, allowing you to use him as an aid to sit down. “I’ll take a look, alright?”

You nodded, pushing the wet strands of hair away from your face. With a carefulness that was solely reserved for you, Bucky removed your boot. He placed it on the floor and grabbed your ankle with one hand. Trying hard not to make the injury worse, he slipped your sock.

“It’s a little swollen,” he confirmed, and for a moment, he looked almost offended. “That loose tile and I will have a chat.”

You almost laughed. “Not the time, James.”

“Alright, alright,” he raised his free hand in mock surrender before going back to your leg to trace small circles on your thigh. “How about you rest here for a while, hm? I can have Natasha bring you some tea; I’m sure she’ll be more than glad to see you.”

“James, honey, are you sure this isn’t too much trouble? You don’t have to drop your entire schedule just because I’m having a bad day—and for stupid reasons at that.”

He sighed, sitting on the couch next to you and draping one of his arms on the headrest behind you. “It’s not stupid. You’re allowed to have a bad day, and you’re more than allowed to reach out to me when you do. What kind of terrible husband would I be if I shut you away? And as for my schedule, that’s the great thing about being the boss: I get to plan my own week. It’s not the end of the world if I delay some tasks to make sure you’re okay, sweetheart.”

The tone of his voice and the way he looked at you told you everything you needed to know. He meant it. He always did.

“I still need to pick Rebecca up…”

“I’ll drive you, or we can have Steve and Sam pick her up—you know she loves her uncles.”

You nodded with a growing smile. “That she does.” You shifted closer on the couch, resting your head on Bucky’s chest. His arm wrapped around you, and he kissed your head. “Thank you.”

“Always. Don’t ever doubt it.”