Karterroster

Sharp lines, blue eyes that could cut you like a diamond. Shoulders that could probably body you to the ground — and you’d thank him for it. “Are you alright, ma’am?” Oh, and that goes straight between your legs. 

You’ve never really been in love before. You’ve never even really dated. Your college life was spent with tearstains on your textbooks and essay papers until each piece of work contained a fat, red ‘A’ and added up to your perfect GPA. Countless hours networking with people to wriggle yourself into your dream job and now those hours are wasted behind a desk with a career that gives you carpal tunnel. 

Point is — when you set your mind on something, you obsess over it until you achieve it.

Your current target? One Sergeant Bucky Barnes from FDNY Engine 205. 

From the moment he stepped in and delivered that question, to the second he looked into your eyes and grinned, those sapphire eyes twinkling as he said — “That dinner looks delicious, what I’d kill for a homecooked meal,” you knew you were done for.

Ask and you shall receive. 

Now, on your work breaks, you find yourself stopping by with a platter of something new you’ve whipped up. Whether it’s a hearty protein-topped salad or a smoked barbecue selection or an array of sweet treats, you bring it as an offering to the local station.

Every. Single. Day. 

The first day, one guy looks at you reluctantly at your foil-covered container and you had to stand there in shame as he told you that they couldn’t accept it due to health and safety concerns. 

Your cheeks were hot as you held the tray closer to your chest, ready to hightail out of there before you can embarrass yourself further, when that familiar voice came.

“Steak alarm.” 

Your gaze lifted to find Bucky standing there. He’s wiping his hands on a dirty dishrag, tight shirt clinging onto his body with the sweat and… general fit of the fabric, as he made his way towards you. 

He lifted the foil and his gaze widened. It felt like you were taking a nosedive straight off a cliff into the Pacific — and you enjoyed every second of it. 

“Now that’s a meal.” 

Then he was summoning the rest of the station to take a gander at what you’ve prepared and suddenly they’re all picking away at it and thanking you for the first proper meal they’ve had in days. 

And when Bucky once again flashed you that charming smile, one that would probably set off all the alarms in this station, it was over for you. 

You should be embarrassed with being so obvious — some of the other firefighters have caught on to your teensy crush. Natasha, who’s probably the most badass person you’ve ever met, shoots you lopsided smiles every time you stare at Bucky. Sam and Steve are a little less subtle as they make comments like “your wife’s here, Barnes!” and you have to flail and panic until Bucky damns them with warning glares.

It’s not as if you talk to him. They’re much too busy for that. One of those days, you walk in and they’re actually gearing up to leave. Bucky had apologized profusely before he hopped in the truck and was on his way. 

Instead, you yearn silently. You tell yourself it’s enough that you can see Bucky smile every day, that you can watch him devour whatever new thing you’ve made. 

But the more you see him, the greedier you get. 

When he does have time, he talks you through the mechanics of his job or describes the truck in great detail — until Sam yells at him, “Nobody wants to hear about your damn truck, Buck!” Then he’s flushing and saying sorry for boring you. You tell him in honesty that he could never bore you. 

Suddenly, your days seem a little brighter. Instead of the humdrum life you’ve crafted for yourself, your pulse skips every time you think of something new to make for the station. You think of them as new friends. All of them know you by name and welcome you in with no hesitation. 

It feels as if you’re making strides in getting to know Bucky, in getting him to actually like you. Not necessarily in a romantic way, just as two people becoming friends. 

However, as you’re approaching the station late one day (your oven was being difficult), you find that the team is already on the upper level of the base having lunch. You reach for the stairway when you hear it. 

“Come on, Buck, you know she’s got a crush on you,” Sam teases. The others titter in agreement. 

Heat floods your cheeks. 

“Quit it, Wilson,” Bucky growls.

“What? She too much for you?” Sam presses with a chuckle. 

“She’s a handful, that’s for sure,” you hear Bucky mutter.

You hear your heart hit the ground. Laughter ripples through the space but there’s a ringing in your ears and your feet are moving before you can think twice. 

Handful. A handful.

All this time, you thought you were doing something nice, but you didn’t realize you were actually bothering them. The street before you blurs as tears prick your eyes. Your breaths come out shallow as you trudge all the way home, the baked goods in your hands suddenly feeling like deadweight. 

It’s only when you’re in the safety of your apartment that you allow yourself to breathe. At least as much as you can. You end up clearing out that tray on your own that evening with a depressing movie on screen.

From that point, you can’t imagine coming in to face them. You can’t bear the thought of pitying looks from the team or how Bucky is probably forced to smile to welcome you. Public servants and all. The last thing you want to do is inconvenience them when they’ve got a lot on their plates.

So you stop coming. You instead bury yourself in work, taking on more responsibility to keep your mind distracted — far away from the thought of being a handful. There are some nights when that melancholy morphs into irritation, how you wish you could spite him for not telling you the truth sooner. And then you realize that it’s not on him; you chose to do this. He was simply being kind.

You had mistaken that kindness for something more. 

It’s been a few days since you last came and none of them have said a thing. It’s not as if you ever traded phone numbers. At least this will be a clean slate. You can forget this fluke ever happened.

You’re trying a new chicken recipe, frowning at your box of butter, when a knock sounds on your door. Your instinct is to sniff the air, wondering if the scent has permeated through the halls and your neighbor Mr. Tilman is here to complain again. 

Wiping your hands on your kitchen towel, you swing the door open to find… not Mr. Tilman.

Instead, Bucky stands at your door. 

He’s still in his fire station t-shirt. 

He still looks delicious.

Those eyes that you’ve grown to adore light up when they see you. He smiles softly, “Hey.”

Your throat is dry. “Uh, hi.”

He looks you up and down and you realize now your disheveled state. Hair a mess, your oversized shirt is ratty and ends at your thighs. You reach up instinctively to try and fix yourself. 

“You open your door to everyone like that?” His gaze flicks to your bare legs before going back up, cheeks a little pinker.

“Um, I thought you were Mr. Tilman. He doesn’t like it when I use too many spices.”

“You open your door to Mr. Tilman like that?” Bucky cocks an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth quirked up in amusement.

You fight back a smile and shake your head. “No, not usually. I was still distracted with my cooking when you knocked. Can I help you with something?”

Bucky shifts a little nervously then and you finally notice the crinkling plastic bag in his hands. “I haven’t seen you in a while. I thought you were sick so I brought over some chicken soup. I can’t cook for the life of me so I bought it. I can promise it’s safe.” 

Dammit. How are you supposed to get over this man when he does things like this?

“Oh, thank you,” you swallow thickly.

“You don’t look sick though.”

“I’m… not,” you say slowly, unsure of how to approach this situation.

“No, you’re not,” Bucky responds softly, “we missed seeing you around.” 

Your feet shuffle closer together as you look down at them instead of him. “Yeah, it’s been busy.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

You look up and laugh awkwardly. The lie goes straight past your teeth. “No, no. Just work.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow, lips tightening. He knows. You should’ve spent the past few days learning how to fib instead of moping. “Is something wrong?”

“What? No. Why would something be wrong?”

Real smooth. 

Saved by the bell, your fire alarm begins beeping aggressively. You’ve forgotten your chicken. A curse slips past your lips as you hurry back in but Bucky beats you to it. He’s switching off your stove, telling you not to touch the pan, and reaching over to toggle with the alarm. 

And now the two of you are in your kitchen, standing side by side watching as the oil pops in your pan and your chicken is completely burnt to a crisp. 

“Well, guess that recipe didn’t work,” you joke to break the tension. 

Bucky is silent for a moment before he asks quietly, “Did I do something?”

“What?” You whip up to face him. 

“Is work really the reason why you haven’t been coming around?”

Your heart slams against your ribs. “Yeah,” you choke out a laugh again, “of course.”

The smile he gives you is almost sorrowful. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Flinching, you shift your gaze away this time. 

“If I did something, I want to apologize. I’d appreciate it if you told me so I can properly say sorry and so I don’t do it again.” 

“No, you didn’t do anything wrong,” you shake your head, “believe me. It’s fine.”

“Then why?” 

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, teeth sinking into your bottom one. Bucky’s gaze falls briefly again to your mouth before it returns to you. “I just don’t want to be a bother.”

His eyes flicker in surprise. “Why would you be a bother?”

“You guys are obviously busy and I don’t want to intrude—”

“You don’t— you could never intrude,” Bucky interjects softly, “what would give you that idea?”

You clear your throat and shrug.

“I lo—” he stops, flushing lightly, “We love having you there. All of us. We look forward to your visits, you know. Sam won’t shut up about everything you make. We might’ve taken you for granted and I am sorry for that, but I want you to know that you could never be a bother.” 

“Thank you,” you murmur softly. “I’ll, um, come by tomorrow maybe.”

“And you don’t have to bring anything all the time. You must be busy with work too. Could just swing by to chat with us. Steve also hosts weekly game nights with Nat and you’re more than welcome to join us.”

Now it’s your turn to be flustered as you wave him off. “No, no, that’s for your team.”

“People bring their plus ones too, it’s very casual.”

“Yeah, but I’m not really anyone’s plus one,” you laugh lightly.

Bucky digs his fingers into his pockets and you see that his neck and ears are stained red. His gaze shifts around the room before they fly back to you. Honest blue eyes. “You could be mine.”

Your heart skips. 

“I mean, you don’t have to— I just, you know, it would be nice. Of course, you don’t have to be my plus one. You could be someone else’s — scratch that, you could be the team’s overall plus one, but I think it would be nice if you were mine…” Bucky trails off and his usually tanned skin flushes a deeper and deeper shade of scarlet. 

You’re not sure how to respond to this. Just days ago, you heard him call you a handful. You thought you were too much. You don’t know what to make of this.

Is he just being kind? Maybe he feels bad that you’ve spent weeks coming around and now he wants to repay the favor.

“You know you don’t have to feel bad and invite me,” you gently say. 

“I don’t—” he looks taken aback, “I’m not inviting you because I feel bad. I’m, shit, I’m inviting you because I want you there.” 

“Why?”

Bucky rubs his face aggressively, groaning silently to himself. “I feel like I’m going about this the wrong way. I… really like you.” Your heart stutters again, your breath hitching in your throat. “I wanted to ask you out properly, but I wasn’t sure if that would cross any professional boundaries, given how we met. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. If I’ve misinterpreted anything you’ve done, please let me know. I just— you were coming around and the team was saying that you came around to see me — and I guess I got my hopes up.”

You’re silent, and your nonresponse makes him squirm. 

Why would he— this doesn’t make any sense. You heard him loud and clear at the station, right? 

“But I thought you thought I was a handful,” you whisper. 

“What?” He blanches, “What would make you think that?”

“I heard you,” you admit shamefully, “last time I came around the station. I thought— I figured I was being a nuisance so I didn’t want to overstep anymore.”

The gears are turning in his mind as he seemingly retraces his steps. You see the moment he remembers. His face pales. “Oh, fuck, oh god. No, shit. No, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s okay! Look, it’s totally fine. I get it. I can be intense and I don’t want to put that pressure on you.”

Bucky takes a deep breath, his eyes are kind and stern at the same time as he delivers his explanation. “I only said you’re a handful because you do so much and I don’t know if I could ever do enough to return the favor. I’ve been thinking about asking you out and I haven’t really… dated in a while — or ever for that matter — and I wanted to do it right. I wanted to do right by you. Fuck, I didn’t mean handful in that way, I swear.” 

“Oh.”

“God, I’m an idiot,” Bucky moans, “I’m so sorry. Shit, you must’ve thought— I’m sorry. I never want you to think you’re a bother. You’re not. You’re the best part of my day. Every day, I look forward to coming into work knowing I was going to see you in the afternoon. I prayed so that we wouldn’t get called out during those hours.”

Your lips part.

He takes a deep breath, “That first day you didn’t come, I was worried that something happened, but the others thought I would be too much if I stopped by. Not to mention, incredibly inappropriate since I know your address from that first time. But shit, I missed you that day. I didn’t realize how much I loved seeing you every day until that first day. Then you stopped coming and I couldn’t stop worrying so Nat finally unofficially greenlit me to check on you and I came straight here. But then I thought that you were sick so I stopped by to get soup and— now I’m rambling. You didn’t ask for all that. I just need you to know that you could never be a bother to me. Never. Even if you were a handful, I can’t imagine anyone else taking care of you— I don’t want to imagine that.”

“Bucky—”

“And that makes me really selfish right? But I want to be the first person you call if anything happens. If something good or bad happens, I want you to tell me first. Because I like you so, so much. I should’ve made that clear earlier. But, again, if all this makes you uncomfortable, then tell me. I’ll leave. No hard feelings.”

“Bucky!”

“Yes,” he shuts up.

“I—” you realize now that you should’ve prepared what to say, but how are you expected to respond to that? “Thank you, um, for clarifying. I don’t even know what to say. I can confirm that I was coming around mainly to see you,” you say, embarrassment written all over your face at your confession, “you’re the best part of my day too. I should’ve just talked to you instead of jumping to conclusions.” 

His face is marred by a wince as he offers you an apologetic look. “No, I understand why you did. I should’ve phrased it better.”

“Well, at least that’s cleared up,” you smile, “but I do… like you too, that is. Professional code be damned, I would’ve said yes if you asked me on a date.”

The smile he gives you is blinding and you vow then and there that you would spend the rest of your life making sure he keeps that expression on his face. 

“Well, since your dinner is… unsalvagable,” Bucky begins, glancing briefly at the mess on your stove, “how about I take you out for dinner? As a date.”

You smile. “I’d love that.”

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