.☘︎ ݁˖ erina .☘︎ ݁˖

"Careful, Bucky!"

"Whaddaya mean, doll? M'careful, m'so— woah—"

You giggle as Bucky stumbles out of the jazz club and you grab the back of his shirt to stable him. It's still raining, but it's softer now, a light drizzle that clings to your lashes and hair, small droplets landing on your clothes.

"You look like you're being careful."

Bucky mimics you, making a weird face and moving his head animatedly. You thwack him on the head, and he cries out assault! in jest as he clutches his head.

You shake your head, grasping the bend of his arm, "C'mon, Barnes, let's get you home."

"I'm supposed to take you home." He pouts, but he puts one foot in front of the other anyway as you walk.

"We literally live across the street from each other, you can watch me walk back from the front door."

Bucky grumbles, "S'not very gentlemanly, is it?"

"Neither is being drunk," You point out, "Y'know, just because someone challenges you, doesn't mean you have to accept it."

He puffs out his chest and raises his chin, "But I won, didn't I?"

You sigh, "Yes, Buck, you won. Congratulations."

The two of you continue on in silence, only the soft patter of rain and the click of your shoes could be heard as you walked side by side.

And then Bucky stops abruptly, and you frown, "What?"

"Dance with me." 

"Dancing?" You blink, ". . . in the rain? We've been dancing, Bucky!"

"Dance with me, doll." There's a certain look in his eye you can't place, wide-eyed and almost pleading, his voice breathless.

Whatever that look is, you’re hopeless to it.

So you face him, chest-to-chest, letting one of his hands grasp your hip and yours on his shoulder, and then your free ones lace together.

Bucky leads in a gentle sway, humming softly, hooking his chin over your shoulder. You breathe slow, deep, inhaling the mix of his cologne, smoke and whiskey as his arm curls around your back.

It's way past midnight, and the two of you should really be getting home. But under the glow of a flickering lamplight and the gentle trickle of rain, Bucky Barnes let's his eyes flutter shut and believe that, in this moment, you're his.

Music thunders throughout the house, loud enough that the pulse of it can be felt under your feet as you shove past the throes of college students and stumble out the front door and into the rain. Your heart's pounding from both what you've just seen and the amount of alcohol you'd consumed tonight.

You had to get out.

But Bucky's quick as he jogs after you, catching your arm.

"C'mon, wait up—"

You turn to push him away, but the alcohol in your body makes the world spin, you lose your footing and hit the floor.

"Jesus," He breathes, dropping to his knees beside you.

"I'm fine." You sniffle, cheeks flushing, pushing his hovering hands away feebly.

Bucky shakes his head, "You rushed outta there like a bat outta hell. . . don't lie to me."

"It's silly."

He shrugs, "Tell me anyway." 

"I saw you, with Nat," You whisper shakily, "And I know we're not— we're just— we're messing around, but. . . but it not like that for me, not anymore."

Bucky's eyebrows furrow in confusion, and you watch the moment realisation dawns on him, and then his expression softens into something you're too afraid to name, "Oh, baby—"

"Don't call me that," You choke out softly, "Please, I can't— we—"

"She means nothing," Bucky's hands cup your cheeks, thumbs brushing away your tears, "Okay? Nothing to me. Nat kissed me, I didn't kiss her back, okay? I'd never. . . because it's you."

You frown, wobbly and uncertain, ". . .what?"

He tilts his head, smiling softly, "I don't want Nat. . . I want you. You are the one, you idiot. Since the day you dropped those books on my feet in the library."

"Am I dreaming?" You croak.

Bucky chuckles as he stands, scooping you up off the floor, rain still pouring around you, "No, baby, you're not."

"Then say it again." You sniffle.

He kisses your forehead, "You're the one, and I'll remind you again in the morning, when you're hungover and regretting your life choices."

Laughter and the rhythmic tapping of shoes on the dance floor echoed throughout the jazz club, music pulsing, the air thick with smoke.

It was packed tonight, the bar was crowded, people sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, nursing their drink of choice for the night.

Someone familiar catches your eye, illuminated by the dim amber light of the club, sharp line of his jaw on display and a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips at the end of the bar, a whiskey in front of him.

"See you're drinking without me." You quip as you approach, your voice raised so he could hear you over the cries of the saxophone and the staccato of the piano.

Bucky turns, plucking the cigarette from his lips, a lopsided grin appearing on his face, "Thought you weren’t comin' for a second there, doll."

Your arms cross over your chest, "Had to clean up after a wet rat scittered into the diner, didn't I?"

"Well, the wet rat's *very* sorry and is hoping to make up for it with a dance."

You grin, tilting your head, "You better, Barnes, what else do you think I'm here for?"

"For me, maybe?" Bucky jokes, and you whack him on the arm.

"Shut up, c'mon, get your ass up."

He jumps from his seat, downs the rest of his whiskey and stubs out his cigarette in an ashtray, snatching up your hand and pulling you towards the brass band.

You both talk about your work days and throw your heads back in laughter when someone says something funny. You sway and move to the music, and Bucky twirls you until your dizzy and stumbling over his feet.

But there's a moment there, where the light hits your smiling face just right, wisps of hair in your face, your joy infectious and hypnotic.

Suddenly, the world around him fades away, and there you are— beautiful and bright.

He's so hopelessly in love with you that the thought of you laughing and smiling like this for anyone else makes his heart ache.

"I'm gonna make her mine," Bucky whispers to himself, "All mine."

A sacred promise that was more than two decades old between him and his heart that has always yearned for the girl twirling away from him.

Ever since they were small and racing down the street, shoulders shaking with laughter as you were shouting, "C'mon, Buck! I'll chase you if you chase me!"

He's going to get the girl, and he's going to make little Bucky proud.

The bed shifts as Bucky bolts upright. 

Cold sweat clings to him, the echoes of past gunshots still ringing in his ears and old codewords making his skin crawl with a dreadful anticipation of something that isn't coming.

But still, Bucky waits.

He waits for that switch to click, for himself to be shoved back, locked away, and for the Winter Soldier to take his place.

He waits for the chilling, clinical sound of a voice that isn't his own to leave his lips, acknowledging the shift, ready to comply.

It never comes, and it never will again.

"Buck?"

Your sleepy voice draws him back, an anchor to reality he desperately needed before he spiralled further.

"Sorry." Bucky rasps, his heart starting to slow, his breathing beginning to even out st the sound of your voice.

Hydra's gone, he recites it in his head like a mantra.

You can tell he's had a nightmare by the rigid tension in his shoulders, so you rest your hand against his spine. A grounding, tender touch.

"You're okay." You murmur.

Bucky nods stiffly, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes for a moment before letting them drop into his lap.

"My head's just. . ." His jaw ticks, watching the metal plates of his arm shift as his hand clenches, "It's still in a bad place. . . sometimes I wonder what it's good for."

"Lay back down."

He shifts onto his side, facing you. You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek which makes his eyes flutter.

"Healing isn't linear," You remind him, "Take every day as it comes."

"What if I never heal?"

You smile softly, "You've already started."

"Thanks to you." He mumbles, curling his hand around yours.

"No, Bucky," You whisper, "You did that on your own."

The wind billows through your hair as you stand outside, the party behind you still raging on. You bounce on the balls of your feet, arms curled around yourself, Bucky's suit jacket the only thing keeping you warm as you wait for him to bring the car to you.

That's when it happens.

A hand skims your ass and squeezes. You freeze, blinking in shock.

Rumlow smirks, standing too close for comfort, "Lookin' good, sweetheart— where's Barnes, hm? Leaving a pretty thing like you out here all alone for the vultures. . ."

"She's not alone."

A shaky sigh escapes you at the sight of Bucky, sleeves rolled to his elbows, jaw grinding and silently seething.

Rumlow turns, "She sure seemed like it."

Bucky grins, shows them pearly white teeth, and then swings.

The crack is defeaning, ripping through the quiet of the night, the sick crunch of bone under his fist as it connects with Rumlow's nose.

You gasp, "Buck—"

"Stay there, princess," His hands fist Rumlow's shirt as rivulets of blood pour from his nose, "Gotta make sure this asshole knows not to touch what's mine."

"You ever touch her again," Bucky whispers, his voice so calm it sends a chill down your spine, "You'll be six feet under."

"Fuck you," Rumlow snaps.

Bucky's hand grasps roughly at the back of his neck, turning him around to face you, "Apologise."

Rumlow spits at your heels, leaving a splatter of blood, and Bucky jerks his head forward with a snarl.

"Apologise, otherwise I'll personally send you to Pierce in fucking pieces."

"Bucky," You murmur, "I just wanna go home."

His voice softens when he glances up at you, "We will, babydoll, I'm gonna take you home, but I'm not gonna let him disrespect you and walk away unscathed."

Bucky's hand tightens, fingertips digging into the sides of Rumlow’s throat until he chokes out an apology.

You watch Bucky shove him to the floor, satisfied as he watches the man drop, and then holds a hand out for you.

Your hand slides into his palm, intertwining your fingers, letting him pull you closer— safe and secure.

"You'll always be mine, babydoll," He whispers against your temple.

"I know."

Bucky gaze down at you for a long moment, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

"C'mon, let's go home."