be still, my indelible friend, you are unbreaking

how the “l” in love rolls off the tongue,  how fluid, my love.  i. love. you. 

the way the “v” vibrates on the lips,  however rough or soft, emanates the warmth of a kiss.  i. love. you

just as the “y” in you searches outward, the air propelled off my tongue and cheeks, my hands inch closer, closer.  i. love. you. 

i beg of you, understand the weight of my words,  the selfish manner of myself,  the naturally occurring phenomenon of my fervour,  and how i reach for you, endlessly,  endlessly. 

i. love. you.

beer. from the glass into bucky’s system it goes. great, now it’s gone. another, please! before he knew it, the bartender eyed bucky, horrified, with twelve pints of beer gone from their stock in less than thirty minutes. ‘maybe it’s time to leave.’ he swivels around on his barstool and holy shit.

BANG! is anyone gonna check on that sound? no, of course not, silly. because that was the sound of his heart falling out of his chest and thud-thud-thudding along the wooden planks. or at least that’s what it felt like, because bucky has never felt so enraptured by another, feeling more adrenaline in his system currently than during that awful, gruelling mission. that grin, those eyes, your lips. crap, are his hands sweaty? that’s new. bucky needs to catch himself before he falls irrevocably deeper into this hole…and before people notice the creepy staring. 

he forces the lump in his throat down, and he opens his mouth, “hi.” you turn. 

‘you stupid motherfucker. out of everything you could’ve said.’ 

“hello,” you reply, smiling. 

‘oh my. she’s smiling at me. okay, say something, smart guy.’ 

“um,” 

‘fuck’

he continues, delivering a painfully strained introduction. 

“could i buy you a drink? miss…” 

you say your name, and, oh. he repeats your name, and for a split second, he thinks about what it would be like to whisper a heavy sigh, your name, into the crook of your neck, before gently placing a kiss shortly after. he extends his hand, fingers toward you, “it’s lovely to meet you.” 

“likewise,” as your palm meets his, you slip into the barstool next to him, “i would love that drink.” 

conversation flows almost as well as the beer down his throat, and goodness, bucky doesn’t think he’s been so out of breath in forever. every word you say, the way each syllable rises from your larynx, slips off your tongue, and hits his ears sends shivers down his spine.

the drinks arrive as you ask for his number, to which he immediately grabs the closest napkin and begins scribbling. you glance at the napkin and smile. he adores that smile, doesn’t he? he realises that, with each second you spend with him—talking, smiling, laughing—the knots in his shoulders and neck dissipate, the burning behind his eyes replaced with a flurry in his stomach.

shit. he feels like a kid again. 

applause for the band’s last song floods the room, and they start the next tune. you jump up, excitedly, “this is my favourite song!” 

saying he would commit war crimes doesn’t mean much to bucky, given he’s been recognised as a war criminal in the past, but bucky would listen to marvin gaye’s soundtrack to troubleman for a decade straight if it meant getting to see the lights dance in your eyes. you drag (well, drag is a stretch; anywhere you go, he goes) him to the floor, and your scent envelops him: a mix of whatever alcohol you fancied and your sweet perfume. he could get used to that smell. all he can feel is you, see is you, smell is you. 

his head spins, the walls bending, blurring. maybe he’s had too much. not too much alcohol, but you. you, intoxicating you. you smile once more, and his vision tunnels. after all, the rest of the universe has no consequence when you’re in the room. 

your hand slips from his, a vague sound to the effect of “wait!” tumbles from his lips, and you’ve run away from him, lost in the crowd, dancing to your favourite song. 

he wonders about the dip in your lower back, where two halves of the same flesh meet the spine, how deep, how wide, how quickly his fingers could traverse the arch before reaching the other side of your waist, pulling you closer to his side. he allows his mind to drift to the curves of your shoulders, the way your feet slip into your shoes, the way you grip a steering wheel. 

he weaves, like a thread through the eye of a needle, through the crowd, searching for you, your eyes, your voice, your scent. he never got your number, did he? song after song passes, and the worrying feeling of anticipation grows, rising in his chest. maybe he’ll ask you out on a proper date. no, he will ask you out on a date; he swears that, as hopeless as he may be, you’re it for him. there’s no one else. your scent lingers back to him, your giggle grows as he reaches the far wall. 

there you are and…oh. oh. well, what else did he expect? he turns on his heel, looking, looking back at you. once, twice. she catches his figure through the crowd, glancing between the leather on his back and the lips of the man before you. once, twice. making his way to the doors of the bar, he steals one last look at your grin as she leads the man before you to a room at the back by the collar of his jacket.