Random

Your mom would lecture. Your roommate was visiting her boyfriend. Wanda was… somewhere. And going back to the dorm wasn't an option; you'd already gotten written up twice this semester for noise violations, and if the resident advisor found you stumbling in drunk at 2 AM, that was strike three. Which meant a meeting with Residential Life, which meant possibly losing your housing.

Bucky's number sat third on the list, right below the campus library. You stared at it, thumb hovering. He probably had better things to do than deal with drunk undergrads, even if he did tutor you every Tuesday in social theory and sometimes almost smiled when you made him laugh.

But you were out of options, so you pressed call.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?" His voice was rough with sleep. Oh god, you'd waken him up.

"Bucky!" You tried to sound sober and failed spectacularly. "Hi! Hey, it's me!"

There was a pause, and you could almost picture him staring at his phone confused. "I know it's you, are you okay?"

"I'm great! I'm so great, actually. I'm at Murphy's—you know Murphy's? The bar with the good fries?— and I can't find Wanda and my phone is dying and I can't go back to my dorm because Collin's, that's my RA… well she already hates me and if she catches me drunk I'm dead, like actually dead, like expelled from housing dead, and I didn't know who else to call and—"

"Jesus Christ," more rustling, the clink of keys. "Stay inside, I'll be there in ten minutes."

"You're coming?" Your voice went embarrassingly soft. "Really?"

"Stay inside." He hung up.

You clutched your phone to your chest and waited, trying not to think about how much trouble you were in or how Bucky had sounded annoyed or how you'd definitely just ruined everything.

Bucky looked like murder when he pushed through the bar's front door.

His hair was messy, shoved back from his face, and he hadn't bothered with a jacket even though it was October. His jaw was set in that way that meant he was pissed, and when his eyes landed on you,something like relief flickered in his expression, but he masked it immediately with irritation.

"Hey!" You lit up despite his scowl, smiling up at him. "You came! You actually came! I wasn't sure you would because you sounded kind of mad on the phone, but you're here and you look—" You reached up, fingers catching his sleeve. "You look really nice, I mean, you always look nice, but right now you look extra nice even though you're making your grumpy face."

"My grumpy face." His voice was flat.

"Yeah, the one where you do this—" You scrunched your eyebrows together in imitation. "When I get something wrong during tutoring, but I think it's cute so it doesn't really work as intimidation."

"I'm not trying to intimidate you, I'm trying to get you home." He caught your wrist as you reached for his face. "How much did you drink?"

"Not that much!" You held up your fingers, trying to count. "Like… this many?"

"That's seven."

"Is it?" You looked at your hands delighted. "Math!"

He took your elbow, firm and impersonal. "Come on."

"Wait, I should find Wanda—"

"Already texted her roommate, she left an hour ago with some girls from her anthropology class." He was already steering you toward the door, moving with efficiency. "Now walk."

You tried, you really did. But the floor was tilted and your boots were too heavy, and you stumbled into him, grabbing his shirt with both hands.

"Whoa! The ground moved."

"The ground didn't move, you're drunk." His arm went around your waist, steady and sure. "I got you."

"You always got me," you said happily, beaming up at him. "Every Tuesday at three PM, you've got me and social theory and sometimes you bring me coffee even though you pretend it's because you were getting some for yourself anyway."

"Because I was getting some for myself."

"Liar, you don't even drink the fancy vanilla stuff… you think it's too sweet, I heard you tell your roommate it tastes like liquid cookies.

His jaw ticked. "Walk."

Outside, the October air was crisp, and you sighed, turning your face into his shoulder. He was so warm and solid and he smelled like laundry detergent and something woodsy.

"You smell really good," you announced. "Like, really, really good. Is that your shampoo? Or your detergent?"

"It's called basic hygiene."

"No, it's more than that." You nosed against his collar, shameless. "It's like… woodsy. Clean. Really nice."

"I'm not nice. I'm the guy, who makes you rewrite your essays."

"Because you want me to do well." You pulled back up to look at him, which was a mistake because the world tilted again and he caught you, his arm never leaving your waist. "That's nice! You're secretly nice, Bucky. You walk around with your grumpy face and your serious eyes but you're actually—"

"Stop talking."

"—really, really attractive," you finished. "Like, so attractive. Wanda says I have a thing for grumpy guys but I think it's actually just you. Just specifically you."

He made a noise that sounded deeply pained. "You're drunk."

"Doesn't make it not true!" You reached for his free hand, fumbling until your fingers tangled with his. He let you, even though his expression stayed carefully neutral. "I think about you a lot. Like, a lot a lot. Sometimes during Professor Williams' lectures I'll completely zone out because I'm thinking about Tuesday and the way you lean back in your chair and you look so—"

"Stop."

"Why?"

"Because you're going to hate yourself tomorrow."

"I won't," you said earnestly. "I mean every word. You're the smartest person I know and you're so patient with me and sometimes you smile at me like you actually like me and it makes my whole—"

"We're almost there," he said, which wasn't an answer at all.

A couple passed you going the other direction. The guy glanced at Bucky with a smirk. Bucky's expression went ice-cold.

"Fun night?" the guy asked.

"Keep walking." His voice could've stripped paint.

But his hand around yours was so gentle.

"Are you mad at me?" you asked quietly.

"No."

"You seem mad."

"I'm not mad at you." He squeezed your fingers once. "I'm mad at the situation."

"What situation?"

"The one where you're drunk and saying things you don't mean."

"I do mean them," you protested. "I mean all of them. You're smart and hot and nice and your hands are really—"

"We're here." He stopped in front of a building you've never noticed before. "Come on."

You looked up at the brick facade, then back at him. "Where's here?"

"My place."

"Your place?" You felt your whole face light up. "I'm going to your place? Like, your actual apartment?"

"You can't go back to your dorm and I'm not leaving you alone like this." He was already pulling you towards the entrance. "So yeah. My place."

"This is the best night ever," you said enthusiastically.

He muttered something under his breath you couldn't understand, but the drunk haze had taken over your brain at this point for you to care at all.

Everything about Bucky changed the moment his apartment door closed behind you. The hard line of his shoulders dropped, his expression softened, and when he guided you to the couch, his hands were careful on your arms.

"Sit." He crouched in front of you, and you watched him unlace your boots with steady, practiced movements. "Let's get these off."

"You're taking care of me."

"That's the idea." He slipped off one boot, then the other, setting them nearby the door.

"No one really does that." You said it without thinking, and his hands stilled on your ankle.

"Does what?"

"Takes care of me. I'm usually the one taking care of people. Wanda calls me her emotional support golden retriever." You laughed, but it came out sadder than you meant. "But you came to get me and you're taking off my boots and being so nice even though you're pretending not to be."

He looked up at you, but you couldn't read his expression. "I'm not pretending anything. Stay here."

He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a pint glass of water and two ibuprofen. When he sat beside you on the couch, you immediately listed into his side.

"Drink," he said, holding out the glass.

You drank obediently, very aware of how his thigh was pressed against yours, how he smelled even better up close. When you finished half of the glass, he took it from you, setting it on the coffee table.

"Better?"

"Yeah." You turned to face him, tucking your legs under you. "Bucky, I need to tell you something."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"I'm gonna tell you anyway." You smiled at him. "I have the biggest crush on you. Like, the biggest. It's embarrassing how much I like you."

His throat worked. "You're drunk."

"I know! That's why I can finally say it!" You reached out, tracing the line of his jaw with your fingertips. He went very still. "I've wanted to say it for weeks but you're always so serious and smart."

He didn't pull away. That was the first thing you noticed through the fog of alcohol and exhaustion—Bucky stayed perfectly still as your fingers traced the edge of his jaw, his eyes dark and unreadable in the dim light of his apartment.

"You're going to regret this in the morning," he said quietly, but his voice had lost its edge. It was almost gentle now, the way he spoke to you during tutoring when you were frustrated and on the verge of giving up. "All of it."

"I won't." You were so sure, so absolutely certain, even as the room spun gently around you. "I've never been more sure of anything. You're the best part of my week, Bucky. Every Tuesday. Sometimes I wish I was stupider so I'd need more tutoring sessions."

A sound escaped him—not quite a laugh, but close. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. And for the record, you're not stupid at all."

"It's true!" You dropped your hand from his face but only so you could grab his hand instead. His fingers were calloused and warm. "You're so smart it's intimidating. And you're so grumpy but you're actually the kindest person I know. And your hands—I think about your hands a lot. Is that weird? That's probably weird."

"It's the alcohol talking."

"It's the alcohol letting me finally say it." You yawned, and Bucky's expression went softer. "M' sorry. I'm not tired. I want to keep telling you how great you are."

"You can tell me in the morning." He stood, and the loss of his warmth made you make a noise of protest. "Come on, you need sleep."

"I don't want to sleep, I want to stay here with you."

"You'll still be here with me." He held out his hand, and when you took it, he pulled you gently to your feet. The world tilted dangerously, and you grabbed his shirt with both hands to steady yourself. "Easy, I've got you."

"You keep saying that."

"Because I mean it."

He guided you down a short hallway to his bedroom, and you were too tired to properly appreciate it—the books stacked on his nightstand, the worn paperback face-down on the bed, the fact tht his sheets were dark blue and looked incredibly soft. He pulled back the covers with one hand while keeping you upright with the other.

"Lie down," he said, and you obliged, sinking into the mattress with a sigh that turned into another yawn. The pillow smelled like him and you pressed your face into it shamelessly.

"Your bed smells like you," you mumbled. "S'nice."

He was quiet for a moment, and then you felt the covers being pulled up to your shoulders. "Sleep."

"Are you going to sleep too?"

"I'll be on the couch."

"No." You reached out blindly, catching the hem of his shirt. "Stay, please?"

He hesitated. You could feel it in the tension of the fabric under your fingers.

"You're drunk," he said finally, gently detaching your hand. "I'm not going to take advantage of that."

"Not taking advantage," you protested, but your eyes were already closing. "Just want you close, you make me feel safe."

There was a long silence, then, so quiet you almost missed it: "You make me feel a lot of things too."

You wanted to ask what he meant, but sleep was pulling you under, heavy and inexorable. The last thing you registered was the brush of his fingers against his forehead, pushing your hair back from your face, and the soft click of the door closing behind him.

Sunlight was a personal attack.

You woke up in stages: first the pounding head, then the dry mouth, then the dawning realization that these were not your sheets, this was not your room and you were absolutely, catastrophically still wearing your clothes from last night.

You sat up too fast that the room spun around you. You groaned and pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes.

Oh god.

Fragments started filtering back: Murphy's, the phone call. Bucky's face when he'd walked through the bar door, his arm around your waist, his hand in yours… The things you said.

I have the biggest crush on you. Like, the biggest.

I think about you a lot. Like, a lot a lot.

Your hands—I think about your hands a lot.

Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.

You were going to die. Actually, literally die of embarrassment. You'd have to transfer to a different school. Move to another country. Change your name. You could never look at Bucky again without wanting to sink into the earth.

The door creaked open, and you flinched.

Bucky stood in the doorway, dressed in a henley and sweatpants, holding glass of water and the ibuprofen bottle. His hair was still messy from sleep, and there was a pillow crease on his cheek, and he looked so unfairly handsome that you wanted to cry.

Or climb him like a tree.

"Morning," he said. His voice was neutral, but his eyes were watching you carefully.

"Hi." Your voice came out as croak. "Um. Good morning, I'm so sorry."

He raised an eyebrow, crossing the room to sit on the edge of the bed. He set the glass and pills on the nightstand. "For what?"

"For… everything?" You couldn't look at him. You stared at your hands instead, twisted in the dark blue sheets. "For calling you at two in the morning and making you come get me. For… whatever I said. I was really drunk. I don't usually—I mean, I shouldn't have—"

"You don't remember what you said?"

"I remember," you admitted quietly. "I remember all of it. And I'm so, so sorry. I didn't mean to make things weird. I know you're my tutor and I'm just some drunk undergrad you had to rescue, and I completely understand if you want me to find someone else for tutoring because this is so unprofessional and—"

The words died on your lips as he closed the distance and kissed you.

One moment you were spiraling into panic, words tumbling out faster than you could control them, and the next his hand was cupping your jaw, tilting your face up and his mouth was on yours soft, but insistent.

"You done apologizing?" His voice was rough, but his eyes were soft. "Because I've been waiting to do that since October, maybe September."

You blinked at him, heart hammering so hard you were sure he could feel it through your ribs. "You—what?"

"I like you too." He said simply, like he was stating a fact. "Have for a while. Thought I was being obvious, honestly."

"Obvious?" Your voice came out squeaky. "You glare at me when I get citations wrong."

"That's me flirting." A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I'm not very good at it."

You stared at him, cataloging every Tuesday afternoon: the extra coffee he always had waiting, the way he leaned closer than necessary to point at your notes, the fact that he never once looked at his phone during your sessions even though you knew he was busy. Or last night, when he answered your call at two in the morning without hesitation.

"Oh my god," you breathed. "I'm an idiot."

"You're not." He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "You're the best part of my week too. Every Tuesday. Sometimes I wish you'd fail more assignments so you'd need extra sessions."

A laugh bubbled out of you, half-hysterical. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've heard."

"Yeah, well… you started it."

You kissed him this time, leaning forward and catching his mouth with yours. It was messier than the first one—you were still groggy and hungover and your aim was terrible—but he made a pleased sound against your lips and his hand slid into your hair, and suddenly the headache and the embarrassment were all worth it.

When you broke apart, he rested his forehead against yours. "I was going to tell you eventually. When you weren't drunk and I didn't feel like a creep."

"When were you planning that?"

"Next Tuesday. I had a whole thing planned, was gonna take you to the coffee shop after tutoring, buy you one of those vanilla monstrosities you like, and tell you I'd very much like to take you on a date."

Your heart did something complicated in your chest. "You definitely hate vanilla lattes."

"I hate seeing you light up when I hand you one even more." He pulled back, and his cheeks were faintly pink. "That came out wrong. I mean—I like seeing you light up. I just hate pretending I don't."

"You're so bad at this," you said, grinning.

"I told you." He shrugged, but his eyes were warm and steady on yours. "I'm not good at flirting. You'll have to be patient with me."

"I can do that." You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his the way you had last night. "I can be very patient for you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I have a crush on you, remember?"

"I remember." He squeezed your hand. "You told me at least seven times last night. Also that my hands are attractive and I smell good."

"Oh god." You buried your face in his shoulder. "I'm never drinking again."

"You're adorable when you're drunk." He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "Confusing, but adorable. Now drink your water and take the ibuprofen. We can talk about all of this after you don't look like you're about to pass out."

"Bossy."

"You like it."

You did. You really, really did.

You reached for the glass of water, but didn't let go of his hand. And when he smiled at you, you decided that getting drunk at Murphy's was maybe the best accidental decision you've ever made.

"So," you said, after swallowing the ibuprofen. "Does this mean Tuesday is still happening? The coffee date thing?"

"If you want it to."

"I want it to."

"Okay," he let out a breath you haven't realized he'd been holding. "Okay. Tuesday. But maybe we can also do something before then? Like, I don't know, dinner tonight? If you're feeling better?"

"Are you asking me on a date, Bucky?"

"I'm trying to." His ears were turning red. "Is it working?"

You leaned up and kissed his cheek. "Very much yes."