Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
I've loved The Blues since I was a kid, and got to see Buddy Guy perform live. I am SO damn happy he's in this movie.
Legendary Bluesman Buddy Guy on His Buzzy Movie Role in âSinnersâ: âItâs a Dream Come True, to Be Honest⊠I Did It to Help the Bluesâ
Damn right, heâs got the blues⊠and the scars to show for it. A surprise extended cameo at the end of âSinnersâ [spoiler alert!] reveals that Sammie, who is played as a youth in the 1930s by Miles Caton, survived the filmâs long night of terror, thanks in part to how a resonator guitar can be used as a weapon. And he has lived on in the form of someone who looks and plays very much like Buddy Guy. It is Buddy Guy, of course, still around and still arguably â no, inarguably â the most legendary blues guitarist walking the planet.
Variety caught up with Guy, 88, on the phone from his native Chicago, where he still plays at his club, much like the aged Sammie in âSinnersâ still plays at his. Guy says, âIf I could get quite a few more people speaking like you, I might consider myself as a movie actor.â Then, he quickly adds, âNo, thatâs just a joke coming from me.â
But before we get with Buddy, a few words from the filmâs composer and music producer, Ludwig Göransson, who worked with Guy on his performance and on the song the bluesman plays at the end of the film, âTravelinâ.â A month before shooting, Göransson went out to Guyâs Chicago club and got to swap not just musical ideas but tales of old bluesmen like Son House, who was one of writer-director Ryan Cooglerâs inspirations for the part. Then, in New Orleans, they filmed the all-important epilogue with Guy on the very first day of the shoot.
âHe had a long day, on what was actually our productionâs day zero,â says Göransson. âThereâs quite a lot of dialogue he has, actually, and also, there were a lot of technical things that needed to happen with Michael (B. Jordan) and Hailee (Steinfeld) with her eyes and their vampire teeth. And I was just amazed by how Buddy Guy could withstand this 12-hour workday when heâs 88 years old. I was worried when we finished off with the song, because he has been doing dialogue and acting for eight, maybe 10 hours. But once we did the last scene where he is actually playing guitar, it was such a magical moment. We had a whole crew there on set, but itâs like you could hear a feather drop on the ground. It was very much of a goosebump moment.â
That last sequence has poignance for an audience, certainly, if you know who Buddy Guy is. If you donât, it still intuitively translates, believes Göransson. âI was wondering, what are kids, our younger demographic, gonna think? But every time we screened the film, no one even asked, âWhoâs that?â Itâs almost like, even if the people didnât know who he was, thereâs like an instant feeling that this is something else â like, youâre seeing a magician do a magic trick.â
Hereâs our conversation with Guy, who will be out on the road this summer doing his âDamn Right Encoreâ tour, including an L,A.-area date at the Cerritos Center on Aug. 10.
Did you have to sit in the makeup chair for quite a while get those scars applied?
Yeah, and I didnât know they could do that. I was saying, âWhat the hell is this?â when they said, âWeâre gonna make these scars on your face.â
Movies, man⊠As a kid, I loved the Westerns, because I grew up riding horses in Louisiana on the plantation, and seeing those old cowboys like Gene Autry, playing the acoustic guitar while riding a horse⊠I canât imagine thatâs me now. Itâs a dream come true, to be honest with you.
This is a long way from a singing-cowboy movie. How did you feel about being in a horror film?
I saw a little something when they was shooting it. This guy (Michael B. Jordan) comes close to me, and I didnât know he had these vampire teeth, and they got a close-up on him when he smiled. I said, âOh my God!â
How were you approached to do this?
Well, they came into my club here in Chicago, and I was surprised. They say, âLook, we want you to play this little part thatâs called Sammie.â And Iâm saying, âWell, let me seeâ⊠Because I donât have a high school education to be reading long scripts. I did learn how to read and write. Iâm like BB King: Iâm not fast at it, but if you give it to me and give me time, I can memorize it. But the older you get, the less you can memorize. Whatever can help the blues stay alive, Iâm all for it, and I will try anything. I said, I donât know if Iâm good enough to do that. But Iâll give it a try, and if it works, it works, and if it doesnât, at least Iâll say I gave it a try.
You know, I donât know too much about movies. I made one a little bit with Tommy Lee Jones about 15 years ago (2009âs mystery-thriller âIn the Electric Mistâ). And when something like this comes along, I do it to help the blues.
Itâs a mission, not just a profession, for you.
Thereâs very few radio stations other than satellite who play blues now. And the older people I learned from is no longer with us. But when I was coming up, on the AM stations everybodyâs records were being played. There was gospel, jazz and the blues, and everybody knew who the late Lightninâ Hopkins was. But nowadays, man, if you donât tell âem, they donât know it. Theyâre like, âWho is that? Whoâs Muddy Waters?â My grandkids donât know nothing about the blues until they hit 21 and come up in the club while Iâm there, and they say, âGranddad, I didnât know you could do that!â So Iâm 100% trying to support it so the next generation of white or Black kids can hear it and know more about the blues that was created way before the British type of (blues-rock) stuff come along and all the different types of music we have now. Muddy Waters and BB King, I knew âem before they passed away, and they told me, âMan, if you outlive me, just try to keep the blues alive.â
So it just makes me feel good to see something that is letting people know a little more about it. Â So when they told me I had an interview with you, I said, âYeah, Iâll take it.â Because anything we can do to help the blues stay alive, Iâm for it. Iâm in for it.
This movie seems like it is going to go a long way in furthering your mission of bringing the blues alive for new generations. And you certainly do your part in it wellâŠ
Thatâs the part I love to hear coming from somebody else⊠when somebody says, âI think itâs pretty good.â
I remember BB King talked about how he made a record with John Lee Hooker, and he said it took one take, and John Lee just jumped up out of the chair and said, âThatâs it!â Well, I donât say that, because I never know if I did a good job. Even when I play for a live audience now, sometimes I tell âem, âIâm not the best in town, but Iâm trying to be the best till the best come around.â But I watch your face. If you got a frown on your face â if whatever I play donât move you â I say to myself, âI didnât do a good job.â And sometimes I just do little tricky things and I see a smile, and I think, âI mustâve hit the right note.â
You have a humility about what you do, which is surprising, after youâve been a guitar hero for so many decades.
I still know a lot of guitar players, man, that is better than me. Iâm just being honest with you. Because sometimes I see young people come up now playing a lick, and Iâm saying, âIâve had this guitar in my hands for 70 years. How come I couldnât find that lick that this young kid, like Kingfish or Johnny Lang, did?â I got it from the people that invented it, from Son House, Fred McDonald, and all those people played that music for the love of music. They wasnât making a decent living. Some of âem had day jobs, including me. In 1967, I was driving a tow truck and playing the music here in Chicago at night.
You perform a lot at your club in Chicago, but you wrapped up your farewell tour last year, right?
No, no, no. They put that in: âfarewell tour.â Iâm having kind of a delayed farewell tour; maybe after this year I might say that. But Iâm still playing some of the big festivals. Bobby Rush, Willie Nelson and me, they call us the last of the 89- and 90-year-olds thatâs still out there, and thatâs kind of kept me to say, âBuddy, you better go back out there and play a little more, because there ainât nobody left after you of that age thatâs still standing around.â Because BB King was in a wheelchair for maybe four or five years before he died, and Iâm not on crutches yet. So I want to at least go another year.
We hope to see you when youâre out on the road.
Well, if Iâm coming there, I always invite people like you in my dressing room. And I always have a shot of cognac, because Iâm still nervous. Thatâs the only time I take a drink: when I gotta go on the stage. I got whiskey at my house, but you couldnât find my fingerprints on the bottle, because it never crossed my mind (to take a drink) until I gotta go to the stage. Iâm like, I know I canât please nobody, but lemme get a little shot of cognac so I can hope itâll make me feel like youâve given the best that you have.
But with or without that, you have to be confident you can still deliver for an audience.
Age takes effect on your voice, your walk, whatever you do as you get up into your 80s. And damn, Iâm near 90 years old, man. You canât do what you did when you was 25 or 26. But Iâm gonna give you the best I got, and thatâs all I got.
Are you able to accept that youâre a movie star right now?
I donât make that kind of comment, that Iâm a movie star⊠but every time I hear something coming from people like you, it makes the goose pimples come up on me.
I've been resource gathering for YEARS so now I am going to share my dragons hoard
Floorplanner. Design and furnish a house for you to use for having a consistent background in your comic or anything! Free, you need an account, easy to use, and you can save multiple houses.
Comparing Heights. Input the heights of characters to see what the different is between them. Great for keeping consistency. Free.
Magma. Draw online with friends in real time. Great for practice or hanging out. Free, paid plan available, account preferred.
Smithsonian Open Access. Loads of free images. Free.
SketchDaily. Lots of pose references, massive library, is set on a timer so you can practice quick figure drawing. Free.
SculptGL. A sculpting tool which I am yet to master, but you should be able to make whatever 3d object you like with it. free.
Pexels. Free stock images. And the search engine is actually pretty good at pulling up what you want.
Figurosity. Great pose references, diverse body types, lots of "how to draw" videos directly on the site, the models are 3d and you can rotate the angle, but you can't make custom poses or edit body proportions. Free, account option, paid plans available.
Line of Action. More drawing references, this one also has a focus on expressions, hands/feet, animals, landscapes. Free.
Animal Photo. You pose a 3d skull model and select an animal species, and they give you a bunch of photo references for that animal at that angle. Super handy. Free.
Height Weight Chart. You ever see an OC listed as having a certain weight but then they look Wildly different than the number suggests? Well here's a site to avoid that! It shows real people at different weights and heights to give you a better idea of what these abstract numbers all look like. Free to use.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
Chapters: 3/4
Fandom: Top Gun Maverick
Characters: Robert Floyd, You, fem!reader, mentions of Rooster, Hangman, Penny, and other TGM characters.
Warnings: Alcohol, alcohol mention, consumption of alcohol, angst, fluff, Robert Floyd is a warning.
Wordcount: approx. 3.5k (I know this one is much shorter but I had to get this out or else, the story will stall completely and it'll end up being an unfinished WIP like quite a few stories of mine are. I appreciate your patience.)
Banner: by me
đ: On this site, sharing is caring, so please PLEASE reblog and leave a comment. I promise, I don't bite (much)...
Summary: If you had to describe Robert Floyd with a single sentence it would be "Still waters run deep." Too bad that the clock is ticking, time not being on your side when you start pondering what Bob is really like beneath the quiet surface.
Part III
âOh. My. God! Is that a guitar!?â
Your head snaps to Bob whoâs still standing in the same spot as before, eyes now wide like heâs been caught.
He rubs a sheepish hand over the back of his neck. âUhhhmm⊠yep.â
You slowly cross the room towards the instrument, your fingers carefully outlining the words Gibson Les Paul Custom on the headstock before tracing the candy apple red body. Talk about better things in life. âOh, you gotta play something.â You look towards Bob, voice near whiny when you plead. âPretty please? Pretty pretty please? Iâll unpack the bags. Iâll even put everything in neat little rows.â You waggle your brows and Bob chuckles, shakes his head.
He's quiet for a beat, clearly contemplating while he takes inventory of his apartment.
Youâre aware that thereâs still plenty to do. But now that the cat is out of the bag. âPretty please.â You bat your lashes and Bob chuckles again.
âYou know, youâre kinda difficult to say no to.â
âNot sure if thatâs a compliment or not, but thatâs not a definite no.â You smirk when you pass Bob on your way towards the kitchenette, a repeated âpretty pleaseâ in tow, and he accepts his fate, trading places with you.
While you take all the bags off the kitchen island, Bob sets up the amp next to the tall chair in the back corner of the living room. Thereâs a high-pitched noise when he flips the switch to on, followed by a lowly âfuckâ when he rushes to turn the volume all the way down.
âI heard that.â You scold playfully.
Itâs not like Bob doesnât cuss. But usually, he keeps it at heck or darn it. Itâs still amusing when something more elevated slips out. âSorry. I keep forgetting to get the dial fixed.â His face scrunches up with the apology, and you wonder if his parents are the type who would scold him whenever he'd use a naughty word as a child.
Itâs one of the many questions youâve added to the queue since the afternoon. At this point, youâre not even sure when youâll get to ask all of them. After all, the clock is still ticking. So you focus on what youâd promised in exchange for an impromptu jam session, slowly start unpacking and organizing everything from the bags while Bob finishes setting up.
Once heâs satisfied with bass, reverb and whatever other adjustment is needed, he takes a seat, his slate-blue eyes steady on you when he asks âWhat would you like me to play?â
You pause, reflect.
Five minutes ago, you didnât even know that Bob plays guitar. Or that he likes Stargate and Star Trek and Star Wars. Thirty minutes ago, you didnât know that Bob has quite the sweet tooth. On the way here, heâd already torn into a bag of Swedish Fish. A small one that heâd bought extra just so he could snack right then. And sixty-five minutes ago, you didnât know that his parents had met in Scotland. And that they go back there every so often. Usually on their anniversary.
The answer to what he should play is easy, really. Questions arenât the only way to get to know someone. âA combo of your favorite songs or guitar solos, if youâre up for it.â You request, so Bob does.
He warms up with more well known rock classics, easily transitions solos from âAnother Brick in the Wallâ to âWhat if God was one of us?â to âWho wants to live forever?â before he picks up the pace with âSummer of 69â and âSimply the Bestâ. He even plays a medley of ABBAâs greatest hits, amusement lifting his face when he sees you shimmying and twirling along to âGimme Gimme Gimmeâ. And thenâŠ
⊠and then he starts Hozierâs âToo Sweetâ and you stop dead in your tracks, literally feel your jaw drop becauseâŠ
What?
The?
Fuck!?
Bob isnât just playing guitar. Heâs singing along. And heâs good. Like really good. Like Hozier would be proud good!
But what stands out the most isnât the song he picked or that heâs singing along. Itâs the fact that Bob looks content. Beyond that even. He looks at peace, lost in the moment as if nothing else around him exists or matters; eyes near closed, head swaying along when he extends the song midway with an improvised guitar solo, his long slender fingers moving across fretboard and strings as if they have a mind of their own.
Bob is handsome. Anyone with working eyes can see this. But right now, he looks otherworldly. Ethereal. Even with Bob still being in his service khakis he looks ethereal. Thereâs a juxtaposition here that doesnât go past you. Elysian moment versus military formality. And you wonder how often Bob sits here, in his government-assigned quarters, and plays guitar. How often heâs more than routine and military precision. How often he sings to his heartâs content, improvised solo and all. How often heâs anything but the quiet shadow he shares with the worldâŠ
âYou okay over there?â
The question catches you off guard. Especially when you realize that Bob mustâve stopped playing some time ago; his Gibson Les Paul already back in its stand when he unplugs the amp. And as the question hangs in the air and your brain catches up to the here and now, you also realize that one, youâve made it only halfway through organizing the shopping haul, and two, youâre not sure how to answer that.
Why?
Because Robert Floyd is an even bigger enigma now than he was three hours ago. Sure, youâd gotten some answers here and there, but with every bit of new information there seem to be a hundred more questions. At this pace, it would take a lifetime to get to know Bob. Maybe even two. And dammit, your heart would jump at the chance. But your brain reels you back in.
Tick tock.
Tick tock.
Tick tock.
So are you okay? Not really. Not with your heart and brain being at god damn odds.
Honestly, if it was as simple as asking âplease donât goâ, it would be different. Youâre sure of that! Sure that your heart and brain would align with the simple truth that youâre way beyond just liking Robert Floyd. That you have been for a while now. And that you wouldnât mind spending a lifetime getting to know what lies beneath the quiet surface of his whole being.
But itâs not that simple. Not with Bob being in the Navy. And not with Bob leaving in less than twenty-four hours. Really, it wouldnât be fair to him to bring this up now, the evening before a long deployment. Confessions of the heart under pressed time are never a good idea. They become distractions. And in his line of work, distractions like this can have dire consequences.
So you bite your tongue -hard-, quirk a brow and say âYup. Peachy. Just a little disappointed.â
âDisappointed?â Bobâs voice pitches up an octave and your brow quirks higher.
âYes. Disappointed.â You stalk towards Bob, hands on your hips when you stop right in front of him. âAll this time, weâve had another musician amongst our midst, yet weâre stuck with Beatles mashups and Jerry Lewisâ âGreat Balls of Fireâ when we couldâve had something different. Do you have any idea how close Iâve come to throwing that damn bell against Roosterâs head? Or Hangman? Like swear to God, if I hear âSlow Rideâ one more time, Iâm gonna revoke his jukebox privileges for life. For life! Seriously, Bob, explain yourself!â You poke Bobâs chest and study his face while you wait, and he stands wide-eyed like a deer caught in the headlights.
Itâs his meek âsorry?â that nearly breaks your pretended annoyance, lips twisting as you try to hold back the laugh threatening to shake through your body.
âWait. Is this another one of those âIâm teasingâ moments? I canât tell.â Bobâs eyes narrow and yeah, you canât hold back any longer, laugh wholeheartedly. And so does Bob. âDarn it. Got me again.â He says once the moment calms, and yeah, you got him again but there is some truth to what youâd said. All this time, you couldâve watched him play guitar, heard him sing, seen a well hidden part of his beautiful soulâŠ
You lightly trace the letters on the headstock again, contemplating. Bob doesnât like being in the spotlight. That isnât some new found truth. The Daggers know this. The bar staff knows this. You know this. Thereâs a reason he always chooses the most far back barstool once he joins his little group. Heâs a quiet participant. Not just that. Heâs a calming presence. The grounding balance to when egos get too big or too loud. Itâs what caught your attention about Bob in the first place.
But now that youâve seen him play, itâs difficult to ignore the idea brewing in your head. âYou should play at The Hard Deck. Bring your guitar. Or Penny could get one, so itâs always there when the mood strikes.â You suggest softly, but Bob shakes his head.
His jaw sets tight before he quietly tells you that âIâm not⊠Rooster.â
You study Bobâs face again while you consider a rather obvious truth. âYouâre right. Youâre not,â you say and this time Bob raises a brow, so you add âThatâs a good thing. Rooster is an entertainer. Heâs like a thunderstorm. Exciting. Even exhilarating, I guess. And thatâs fine now and then. But most of us like variety, which includes the calm between the storms.â You pause to let the words settle, but Bob still looks hesitant.
Youâre not going to plead like earlier. Playing to an audience of one is different than playing in a room full of people. Even if some of those people are friends. And even some of those friends must know he plays. (Someone must know, right? Phoenix? Fanboy?) Still, you have to try. âIâm sure Penny wouldnât mind a change of pace now and then either.â You encourage and Bob chuckles.
âHmmmm⊠Iâll⊠think about it.â
âYou will? Alright!â
You know that âthinking about itâ isnât a guarantee. Itâs not a promise. It still feels like a win. So you do a little happy dance, and as you slowly circle around your axis, your eyes are back on the picture frames from earlier, from when youâd stood at the threshold into Bobâs life.
It's interesting. Earlier, those picture frames had made you halt. For good reason. Itâs not every day that one goes from casual after-work friend to somethingâŠ
âŠsomethingâŠ
âŠwell, something more real, more true, for lack of a better word.
But right now, those same picture frames seem to draw you in automatically, like an irresistible magnetic pull to see, to learn, to get to know Robert Floyd.
As you step closer, you realize that there are far more frames than what youâd seen from the entry way. Kaleidoscopic collection, it expands over the sliver of wall visible from the door around the corner and into the living room.
The frames are varied in shapes, sizes and styles, but theyâre all the same matte gold. Upon closer inspection, it looks like they were all spraypainted that way. Yvette would probably love this combination. And the effort to make it look interesting.
The photographs are just as varied, and surprisingly out of order. A lot of people tend to display their life A through B through C. Parents, baby pictures, graduations, other accomplishments, travels. With Bobâs affinity for routine and order, one would think heâd do the same.
Yet his collection starts with a couple of photographs from his initial training to become a weapons systems officer. Dressed in full flight gear and helmet in hand, heâs standing next to a small plane in one picture, and sitting in an F-18 two-seater variant in another.
From what you remember Fanboy telling you âWizzos usually donât have pilot licenses. We handle the armament and navigation system so the pilot can focus on flying. But we do have training to fly the jet in case of an emergency. You know, in case the pilot is hurt or passed out. Thankfully, Iâve never had to use the training.â Regardless if Bob has a pilotâs license or not, he looks good in full gear. Confident.
Your gaze shifts higher, this time to a picture of a much younger Bob gently hugging a foal. He doesnât have glasses, yet. And his hair looks a lot wavier and lighter than now, his cheeks cherup-ier, but itâs undeniably and adorably him. Those slate-blue eyes and that angled little smile are dead giveaways. If you had to guess, youâd say heâs about five or six here.
Next to that is a picture that mustâve been taken moments before, or after. The foal looks the same and Bob is wearing the same clothes. Except, thereâs a girl next to him. Sheâs about his age and has the reddest of red curls youâve ever seen on a person. Theyâre smiling and holding hands.
Below that is a picture of him on a front porch of a ranch style house. Heâs maybe eight in that one, with grayish-framed glasses atop his nose and holding on to a toddler whoâs dressed like a pumpkin while Bob is sporting Jedi robes. The girl with the red curls has her hair in buns. She is Leia. âYou have siblings?â
âTwo younger sisters.â Bob is next to you, and you jump. Again!
âYou need a bell.â You grouch out and Bob laughs.
âSorry.â He smirks, then peruses the pictures with you. âThatâs Remy.â He points to the picture you were looking at last, his finger on the toddler. âAnd thatâs Willow.â He says as he steps around the corner, his index moving to a picture central of the collection.
This one mustâve been taken late summer. August maybe, as the sunflowers in the background are in full bloom. There are three children sitting on a wide-board swing hanging from an old maple tree. Actually, two are sitting. Willow is cradled in Bobâs lanky arms. She canât be more than six months old, but Bob looks like heâs grown a lot and Remy looks kindergarten age. Theyâre all wearing T-shirts, jeans, and light brown cowboy hats. Although, Willowâs is sliding off backwards.
âAnd my parents, Martha and Thomas.â Bob points to the very top frame. There are two wedding pictures in a beautifully leaf-carved frame. One was obviously done by a professional photographer. The typical âlook here, say cheeseâ pose done in front of the venue, three bridesmaids and three groomsmen standing at the respective sides.
The other is a candid, the groom squishing the laughing brideâs cheek with a kiss while in an endearing side-embrace. If adorableness was personified, itâd be Martha and Thomas Floyd.
You lean up to get a closer look at his parents, a small gasp slipping out. âHoly smokes! Talk about carbon copy.â You lean closer, standing on your tippytoes now. âYou look just like your dad,â you say. âExcept your nose. Itâs buttony. Like your momâs.â
âSee, now Iâm not sure if thatâs a compliment or not.â Bob throws your words back at you and you snicker.
âJust an observation. One thingâs for sure, your kids are gonna be hella cute.â
It's like a record scratch, moment frozen in time once the words are out there. You can feel Bob staring at you from the side, and you know that your own eyes are round like little moons when you pivot towards him. âI mean, you know⊠uhmmm if you ever have kids⊠or want kidsâŠâ Your voice gets higher with each word and Bobâs gaze intensifies with each millisecond.
You need a distraction!
STAT!
Rescue comes in the form of the deep orange glow of a setting sun andâŠ
âIs that a balcony?â You rush towards the sliding glass door. âMay I?â
Like many times before, Bob smiles his patient and angled little smile. âKnock yourself out.â
You donât have to be told twice; the door already halfway open before Bob even answers.
Fresh air is a good thing. So are the sounds of waves in the distance. You need a moment of clarity. A moment to reset. BecauseâŠ
What the fuck was that, brain?
Seriously!
AhhhhhhhhhhhâŠ..
Delving into the topic of kids right now seems like dangerous territory. Sure, it probably seems like an innocent statement to an outsider but the second you said the words, more questions started dropping like Tetris pieces at level ninety-nine. And they werenât just fact-seeking questions anymore. They were moral code, view on life, personal goal questions. The heavy hitters. The compatibility for life types. Those have to be nipped in the bud right away! Especially today!
Why brain?
Why!?
You pray to whoever or whatever that Bob doesnât question your panic. That he thinks it was an offhand comment. Friends talk about possible futures that include children, right? RIGHT? Best friends do for sure. But what about new friends? What about âbarely entered the true friendship phaseâ friends? DO THEY?
You sigh.
At least, you didnât say âourââŠ
âEnjoying the view?â
God fucking dammit! âHow do you keep doing that?â You ask, a genuine annoyed bite in your tone.
âWhat?â
âSneak up like a cat.â
Bob laughs. âHad plenty of practice when I started sneakinâ out for joyrides in my Paâs pickup truck.â
You eye Bob with disbelief. His face is soft but unreadable. âI canât tell if youâre serious or not.â Really, you canât.
âDead serious.â He says, eyes crinkling at the corners with some pride. âMy Ma said Iâm the reason for at least half her gray hairs. Looking back, I think sheâs right.â
You blink at Bob. No way! âNo way! I donât believe you!â You squint and he laughs ever more.
Without a word he plucks his cellphone from his pocket, sends a message, quietly waits. Not a minute later, he gets a reply, flips the display so you can see. âMy Ma took the picture.â He grins sheepishly.
Youâre sure your eyes must look like theyâre ready to pop out of your head as you take in the image. Bob, maybe fifteen years old, is sitting in the back of a patrol car, face as sheepish as it is now. His dad- hands on hips- is standing next to the car, and next to dad, a senior law officer waits to open the door. âDeputy drove dadâs truck back to the ranch while I sat in the sheriffâs car.â
You blink again. This canât be real. Thereâs no way this quiet, gentle, selfless man next to you ever did that. But then your mind goes to this afternoon. âI wouldâve risked restricted liberty...â Those werenât just empty words. Not to mention, the proof is right there. On his phone. Bob Floyd isnât just a bit of a troublemaker. âI canât believe Iâm standing next to a delinquent punk.â You canât think of another word, because really, who is this man?
Bob doesnât seem to mind, the way heâs laughing. âTo be fair, that was the one and only time I got into real trouble. Like with the law and such.â
Now that, you believe. Naturally, thereâs an itch to know âHow?â
âI usually stayed on the ranch. I mean, Pa taught us all to drive really early on. I could maneuver small livestock trailers by the time I was ten. The bigger ones by the time I was twelve. Itâs ranch life. Going for joyrides wasnât unusual. So long we stayed within bounds. Now, going on joyrides in Paâs pickup on the other hand... Again, used to stay on the ranch.â
âI see, so the one time you decided to hit the road you got caught.â You poke and Bob chuckles, nods.
âMmmmhmmm. Got away with a very stern warning from the sheriff. And a $500 fine. That was nothing compared to home. Lost my internet privileges for a month. Driving privileges for two. That one really hurt. No TV. No phone except for emergencies. Home by 2100 hours. But it was⊠worth it.â Bobâs voice is soft. And so are his his eyes. Memory-stricken soft. No! Secret-holding soft.
Teenagers do crazy things. Thatâs not some revelation. But from what Bob just told you, and all the things you know about him, it doesnât feel like heâd just suddenly break his own rules for the stupider option. And considering the age and the fact that Bob seems to have grown up in the middle of nowhere, thereâs not much left to choose from. So you ask. âWhat was her name?â It's as though youâve hit the bullseye with how quickly Bob averts his gaze. âCome on. The one time you hit the road... I donât believe youâd risk it for a booze run. Or do some stupid shit like cow tipping. Although⊠hmmmm⊠oh my god. Tell me it wasnât cow tipping?â
Bob chuckles. âIt wasnât.â
One beat.
Two.
Then a name. âCharlotte.â He whispers.
Your mind goes back to the wall. Youâd skimmed over the other pictures. Dagger Squad. Bobâs sisters over the years. Graduations. Remyâs wedding. Sastavci Waterfalls. The Acropolis. Mount Fuji. And in between, every so often, there was âThe girl with the red curls.â You say and Bob smiles, repeats.
âThe girl with the red curls.â Then heâs quiet. Again.
---------------------------------------------
End of chapter notes:
The age gap between Remy and Bob is 6 years, and between Willow and Bob is 11 years.
In this story Bob is about 31/32. That would make Remy 25/26 and Willow 20/21.
Some may have noticed. Lewis' dad played President Whitmore in ID4. As you know, he was part of the AF. Hence, Bob's dad being former AF is a nod to that role. I also decided to name Bob's dad Thomas; fictional President Whitmore's first name.
The title and overall idea is based on Feargal Sharkey's song.
âWinter Soldierâs Prosthetic Arm is a cybernetic implant attached to Bucky Barnes body to be used in place of his missing left arm. Extensions of the arm are implanted in the left shoulder, keeping the rest of the body strong enough to support it and giving Barnes a distinctive gait. After the titanium arm initially given to Barnes by HYDRA was destroyed by Iron Man in 2016, he was given a vibranium replacement by TâChalla during the Infinity War of 2018âł
A cooking show where every episode, the chef gets possessed by the ghost of a random person of another era, who then proceeds to cook something that they personally enjoyed as a meal while they were alive.
It remains unclear how, regardless from the historical time and place, every single "guest star" seems to have a full understanding of what a cooking show is, and also how to operate a modern kitchen. While there is no overarching plot, different context clues heavily imply that the host chef is somehow a very easy person to possess, and there are so, so many souls from all eras of human history who would love to hop in to experience the pleasure of getting to cook one more really nice meal.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
summary: Your best friend Kate has always been good at attracting trouble and this time, itâs starting to become your problem, too. Then again, whatâs Christmas in New York City without meet-cutes and gunfire?
pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader
word count: 9.8k
warnings: HAWKEYE SPOILERS, canon typical violence, more or less canon compliant, a holiday fic in january?? itâs more likely than you think, reader buys christmas presents but doesnât explicitly celebrate, slightly deus ex machina in the form of [redacted]
please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.
a/n: happy new year everybody!! đ whether you celebrate the holidays or not, i hope you all had a calm last week of 2021 and a good start of 2022.
three weeks ago i was watching hawkeye and thought âwhy donât i write something christmassyâ and then this sort of happened and got out of hand big time. apparently, i canât write short things. huge thanks to @barnesafterglow for reassuring me when i felt like i was losing my mind, which was constantly. x
masterlist | read on ao3
Needless to say, you hadnât seen your day ending up like this.
Youâre clinging to the edge of the roof, trying desperately to grasp at something, anything, to hold onto and try to haul yourself back up. The wind is tearing into you, numbing your fingers, clawing into you like icy cuts. Your breath comes in hurried hazy clouds in front of your face.
Another shot sounds, and with a gasp, you lose your grip.
And then youâre falling.
***
eleven hours earlier
âAn Avenger.â You snicker as you glance down on your phone screen again while trying not to lose hold of any of your shopping bags. Your friendâs large eyes seem to almost burst with excitement. âYou know, you couldâve just said you donât wanna come shopping with me this year, Kate. You donât have to make stuff up.â
âWhen have I ever made something like that up?â
âFifth grade,â you answer without hesitation, âwhen you said youâd met Captain America on that field trip.â
âAgain, that was not made up, I saw himââ
âThat was a random guy in a baseball capââ
ââhe was looking right at Tylerââ
ââTyler needed glasses and he also had a crush on you, of course heâd agreeââ
ââit was one hundred percent real and even if it werenât, I was eleven, let it go.â
âYou brought it up, Elsa.â You readjust the straps of the overfilled tote bag on your shoulder. âI will find someone else to go to winter wonderland with, by the way.â
âYouâre a menace,â Kate grumbles. âIâm off saving the city and you thank me with threats.â
âPut the dog on screen again and I might reconsider,â you answer as you stop for a red light, holding your phone closer to your face again. âAaaww, did you put him in a bow tie? Well, arenât you a handsome boy!â
âYou already love that dog more than me, donât you?â
âOne hundred percent,â you say, still cooing. âYouâll bring him next week, right?â
âUhm, yeah âŠâ Kate says, trailing off. She flips the screen again and sits down on the floor next to pizza dog, who places his head in her lap. âI donât know if Iâm gonna make it yet. What with all thisâstuff going on. Iâm gonna try, obviously,â she adds hastily, seeing the look of disappointment on your face. âI just donât think these guys are gonna take the weekend off.â
âThey better,â you sigh and join the crowd of people shuffling to cross the street while carrying their several salariesâ worth of Christmas shopping. âI miss you, Bishop.â
Kate smiles. âMiss you too.â
âAnd take a selfie with your new best friend. I have the right to see my supposed replacement.â
âBye.â
You shake your head as Kate and pizza dog disappear from your screen with a chime.
Itâs started snowing during your call, gray clouds covering the sky and turning the crisp winter air into icy gusts of wind that make your eyes water. So much for New York City at Christmas; they only ever tell you about the lights and the window decorations, not about the damn cold.
Thankfully, your apartment is only a couple of blocks away now. The thought of curling up on the couch with your cat and a hot drink is the one thing that keeps your spirits up while you try shoving your phone back into your coat pocket while also not slipping on the sidewalk.
Of course, thatâs the exact moment someone bumps into you, sending both you and your shopping bags flying to the ground.
A surprised yelp escapes you as you attempt to break your fall on anything but your bags of presents. Thereâs a sharp pain coursing through your wrist and knees as you land, unceremoniously, on the curb.
âWell, merry Christmas, asshole!âyou shout after the idiot who doesnât even bother to stop and check on you. Continuing to curse under your breath, you scramble to get back on your feet and gather your bearings. The bags have soaked through, but at least nothing seems badly damaged.
âI think thatâs yours.â
âShit!â You take your phone out of the gloved hand offering it to you. It must have skidded away from you when you fell, and now the screen is cracked. You want to cry. âSorry, I mean, thank you, Iâm justââ
You take a look at the person in front of you and immediately lose your train of thought because, damnâheâs gorgeous.
The first thing you notice is that he hasnât even bothered to close his jacket; itâs as if the searing cold tearing at you is nothing more than a light breeze to him, his gloves the one concession to the temperature.
Slowly, your gaze travels upwards. Thereâs some dark stubble on his perfect jawline. His cheeks and nose are tinted a beautiful shade of pink. A few snowflakes have got caught in his hair, and you would find yourself mesmerized by the way it curls ever so slightly on his forehead if it werenât for his eyes. Wowâhis eyes. Midnight blue with some lighter specs that make you think of the ocean, the color accentuated by his navy sweater. Youâd be quite happy never looking at anything but his eyes ever again.
You realize you might be staring a little.
âSorry,â you continue weakly. âThat guy just barrelled into me.â
âI saw.â He frowns slightly and your eyes flicker to the little dimple between his brows. Your fingers itch to touch it. âYou alright, doll?â
âYeah, Iâm âŠâ You trail off, still nodding like a maniac, wondering for a split second if this is it, if you got sent into a Hallmark movie and you need to just let this happen, before you thankfully catch yourself. Youâre being ridiculous, you think. Reel it back in, fast. âI like your sweater.â
Well done.
He blinks. âThanks. I like yours, too.â
Tradition demands that Kate and you do your shopping together while wearing the ugliest Christmas sweaters you can find, and just because sheâs blown you off this year doesnât mean youâll forgo that. In this moment, though, you wish youâd opted for anything that doesnât depict Santa riding a dinosaur. You pull your coat closed.
Thereâs a slight twinkle of amusement in his beautiful eyes, but not like heâs making fun of you. He doesnât say anything else, though, he just keeps watching you, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket.
He looks strangely familiar that way, as if youâd seen him before somewhere, but you canât quite place him. You can only hope itâs not high school or something equally embarrassing.
Cringing slightly at the thought, you cough and do that awkward smile and nod. âAnyway, thank you, I should getââ
âIs it still working?â
Your head? Not while heâs looking at you, no. âWhat?â
âYour phone.â
âOh!â Your hands shake slightly as you try unlocking it. The display stays black. Of fucking course. âI mean, I was running low on battery earlier, maybe plugging it in at home will help,â you say without much hope in your voice.
âWorth a try.â He glances at your bags. âAre you gonna be okay?â
Real life, not a movie. You still manage a smile. âYes, of course, itâs fine. Iâm not far ahead. Thank you, really. Happy holidays.â
âYou, too.â He gives you another look and a light smirk tugs on his lips. And then heâs gone.
With a sigh, you turn down the street to haul your soggy bags home and mourn the fact that life does not follow the plot of your favorite rom coms after all. If it were, heâd be running after you now, insisting to carry your bags or at least ask for your number. The thought of it is so delicious you almost turn around, but thankfully, you still have an ounce of self-respect left, so you donât.
Youâre still distracted by your not-quite meet cute when you arrive at your doorstep, which is why you donât immediately realize something is amiss. The green moving truck parked next to the entrance doesnât strike you as particularly remarkable as you rummage through your tote bag for your keys.
Not until the guys get out of the car.
Your head turns automatically when you hear someone say your name, but you donât recognize the men in front of you. They must be working for the same company, since theyâre all wearing matching tracksuits. Maybe one of your neighbors is moving, you think, but you get a bad feeling from this. Theyâre not built like movers.
âCan I help you?â you say, grabbing your keys tightly.
âHopefully,â one of them answers. His accent is heavy, Russian maybe, but youâre not sure. âWe are looking for a friend of yours. Kate Bishop.â
Eyes flitting between the three of them, you take another step towards your door. What do they want from Kate? âIâm sorry, but I donât know who you mean.â
Either you're a worse liar than you like to think or they know something you donât but either way, they just chuckle darkly. All the hair at the back of your neck is standing up now. Blindly, you reach for the handle behind you in the wild hope that it will just open on its own and you can put at least a door between those weird men and yourself. It doesnât move an inch.
âOh, but I think you do,â the same man says, and before you even have a second to breathe, youâre blinking down the barrel of a gun. Your blood turns cold.
âCome on, bro,â the guy to his right says, rolling his eyes. âShe said just talk.â
âI am trying, but if she doesnât want to do the talking, I am going to nudge a little. Show her we are not idiots.â
Should you scream? You feel like you should scream, but thereâs no one else around and you donât doubt that he might just shoot you where youâre standing. On the steps to your home, surrounded by a bunch of presents. What do they want from Kate? Youâve always been terrible in a crisis.
âWhat will she do, attack you with presents?â
âFine, fine.â He puts the gun back into his trousers, but your heart is still racing. âSee? No harm done. Just tell us where Kate Bishop is and we leave.â
Yeah, right. âLook,â you say slowly. âI think thereâs been a misunderstanding âŠâ
âI will tell you misunderstanding.â The man on the right takes a step closer to you and you flinch. It makes him grin, a ghastly, self-assured grin that makes you sick to your stomach. âIs when your friend got involved with the Ronin and pretends she knows what sheâs doing.â
Thereâs only a couple of feet between him and you now and your brain short-circuits. So you swing your wet and heavy shopping bags at his face.
He does not expect that. The impact of the bags is enough to make him fall backwards at his companions, who also grunt in surprise. You frantically snatch your keys out of your bag, stabbing them at the hole to get into the building, but youâre not fast enough. You shriek when hands grab you from behind, kicking at whoeverâs dragging you back down the stairs and into the alleyway next to your building. Itâs no use.
For the second time today, youâre shoved to the ground roughly, but this time, you donât get to catch your fall. You wince as your head hits the side of the dumpster, tears immediately springing to your eyes.
âNow can I nudge a little?â you hear one of the men growl. Thereâs the click of a safety catch being released, and you instinctively brace yourself for a shot.
It doesnât come.
Instead thereâs a yelp and a crash, and the dumpster shakes as something heavy falls on top of it. You push yourself upright where you landed in a small heap of snow, ignoring the sting in your wrist, and roll around just in time to see the second tracksuit guy go down with a groan. Someone shouts something in a language you donât understand. A strange cracking sound and a scream. Thenâ
You scramble backwards when a shadow appears in front of you. Thereâs a wave of nausea that hits you at the sudden movement.
âAre you hurt?â You know that voice.
When you look up, you stare directly into those midnight blue eyes again. Once again, they almost take your breath away, even though now theyâre dark with concern.
âI think so, I ⊠I hit my head a little,â you say dumbly.
âHere.â You take his hands and let yourself be put upright, stumbling a little. His grip tightens ever so slightly when you do, holding you steady as the feeling of dizziness eases. There are a few stars swimming across your vision, but apart from that, you feel okay. Well, physically. âWe gotta get you somewhere safe, doll, alright?â
You nod when you notice some movement behind his shoulder. The flash of a gun reflected against the snow.
The gasp falls from your lips the same moment as the shot rings out and the stranger in front of you whirls back around, pulling you behind his back with one swift movement. Thereâs a clanging sound as the bullet hitsâmetal?
Two more shots are fired and the man catches both of them with the palm of his left hand. He doesnât seem to feel either of them. Within seconds, he wrestles the gun out of the assailantâs hand and hits him in the head with the hilt. And you realize why heâs seemed so familiar to you before.
âYouâre Bucky Barnes,â you manage, eyes wide as you take him in properly.
His hair is short now, which is why you didnât recognize him before, with his left arm hidden under his layers. Thereâs a hole in the palm of his glove now, though, and you can see the shiny vibranium underneath for just a moment before he balls it into a fist.
âI know,â he says, jaw set as he drags the unconscious guy further into the alley. Your knees buckle and you have to steady yourself against the dumpster. âIâm not gonna hurt you.â
It seems such a weird thing to say, you almost laugh. If only you didnât still feel like youâre spinning. When did the world stop making sense? âI didnât think you would.â
âGood.â He brushes off his hands and picks something up from the ground. Thereâs something next to his shoe, a discoloration of the snow next to the dumpster. âWe need to leave. More of them might show up.â
A surge of panic courses through you. âMy cat, I canât justâI canât leave her here alone, sheâs only eight months old.â For some reason, the thought of your kitten being left all by herself makes you sob involuntarily. But you canât move. Your head is throbbing.
âDoll, you gotta breathe. Focus on something for me, alright?â You draw a shuddering breath, but your gaze is still flitting between the wall, Buckyâs arm, the snow, the men on the ground, your shoes. âListen to me. Whatâs your apartment number?â
â4D,â you answer tonelessly. Thatâs blood right there on the ground. Thatâs definitely blood being covered by a thin layer of snow right now. It looks almost pink.
You feel another wave of nausea and close your eyes, gulping in huge gasps of cold air. This isnât real, you keep thinking, it canât be, even though every single beat of your heart tells you the difference, hammering the truth into your head until you feel dizzy with it. You tilt your head back until you lean against the wall, steadying yourself.
Rational, you tell yourself, hiding your face in your hands, you need to be rational about all this. One deep breath. In. Out.
âThree Men Injured After Attack On Civilian,â you whisper to yourself, trying to keep the bile down. âRead more on 12.â
Usually, it helps you to take a step back from it all, to see any situation through a more neutral lens, if you pretend youâre already reporting on it. Sadly, your brain doesnât seem to have gotten the memo.
Maybe if you donât open your eyes, youâll just wake up from an ill-advised late afternoon nap and everything will be back to normal.
A loud screeching noise overhead has you flinch.
âItâs okay, itâs just me.â Bucky jumps down the last couple of feet of the fire escape. âI have her, letâs leave.â
Numbly, you follow him through the alleyway back to the street. Youâre almost surprised at the noise of the city that seems to come rushing back all at once. Life has continued despite what just happened only a few feet away, people all around you looking none the wiser.
You steal a glance over your shoulder. If you tilt your head just so, you can make out a boot and some of that rose colored snow.
âDonât look back,â Bucky says quietly.
You turn back to stare at him. Itâs only now that you notice his jacket, which is halfway closed now, appears to be moving. Another tiny gasp escapes you when you realize he has your cat tucked safely inside. Sheâs surprisingly quiet for an unexpected venture into the streets of Manhattan with a man she doesnât know. In fact, she seems to be enjoying herself, curiously sticking her tiny pink nose outside and watching as you move back towards the crowd.
Maybe you should take a few pointers from her. You take another deep breath.
âShouldnât we call the police?â you ask, wincing at how hoarse your voice sounds to your own ears.
âTheyâre already on their way. This isnât the kind of neighborhood where you can fire a few shots without anyone calling the cops immediately. Stop turning around,â Bucky says and your head shoots back forwards immediately. âRule number one of not attracting attention is to act normally.â
âRight.â You canât even remember how normal people walk. Do you usually move your arms this much? Hastily, you stuff your hands into your coat pockets. You feel your useless, dead phone inside, and your fingers clutch around it almost desperately.
âYouâre doing great,â Bucky says and you almost laugh. You can still feel the adrenaline rushing through your veins, but at least youâre starting to be a bit more aware again, the panic slowly subsiding.
âWhat just happened back there?â you say through your teeth as you attempt to rearrange your facial features into something that signals casual stroll and not complete shell-shock.
âI was hoping you could tell me that.â Buckyâs scowl radiates neutral disinterest. You try to pull your eyebrows down slightly. âDo you know who sent those men?â
You give up the grimacing. âOf course not!â
âWhat were they asking for?â
Your heart sinks and you bite your lip to keep your focus in the present. âKate Bishop. She, sheâs my best friend, but I donâtâI canât imagine what theyâd want from her.â
Unless she was telling the truth, something at the back of your head tells you, but it seems so ludicrous. Thereâs something about Kate, your Kate, working with an Avenger thatâs so far away from reality you canât even put it into words.
Just like some men following you to your doorstep and demanding you tell them where she is.
NYU Student Involved With Organized Crime, you try in your head. Kate Bishop, 22, claims to have been recruited byânope. Absolutely not.
If Bucky notices your inner conflict, he doesnât remark on it. âFor now, weâll hide in the crowd in case they kept eyes on your door from a vantage point.â
You accidentally bite down so hard you taste blood. âIs that likely?â
âI donât know these guys. But better safe than sorry.â
You turn another corner onto one of the larger avenues. Your eyes are pulled to the place next to the crossing where youâd dropped your phone. It couldnât have been more than half an hour ago, even though you feel like your world has been turned on its head twice over since.
âYou were going this way,â you say slowly, looking at Bucky. âWhy were you even there when they âŠâ You leave the sentence unfinished.
He coughs slightly. âI noticed one of them following you. Didnât feel right, so I wanted to make sure you were safe.â
âAnd still are, huh?â
He lets his eyes meet yours again, another lazy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. âStill am.â
Youâre pretty positive the flutter in your stomach has nothing to do with the leftover adrenaline. Neither does the heat in your cheeks as you look away. âWell, I appreciate it,â you murmur.
If Bucky hears you, he doesnât answer.
***
âPretty sure your catâs asleep.â
Without your phone, you have no way of knowing how long youâve been walking aimlessly through Midtown and Hellâs Kitchen, changing direction every now and then, seemingly at random. The sun has set completely and the wind has picked up, making the temperatures drop even further. At this point, you can barely feel your toes as you hurry to keep up with Buckyâs long strides.
You peek at his jacket. Your tiny white cat is barely visible anymore, cuddled closely to Buckyâs stomach to keep warm. Once again, you find yourself strangely jealous of her.
âShe must really like you. Sheâs usually very vocal.â Your chuckle comes out in a white cloud of steam. âHer nameâs Alpine, by the way.â
âFitting,â Bucky says, carefully petting her between the ears without waking her. âYou still havenât told me yours.â
âOh.â Youâve been talking on and off during your walk, mostly pointing out dogs or decorated windows, unimportant things that have kept your mind off the men asking for Kate. Somehow, your name seems to not have come up. âItâs Y/N.â
He repeats it with a smirk. âThatâs pretty.â
You canât say if Bucky Barnes is flirting with you or if heâs just taking the distraction very seriously. Either way, youâre not complaining, because thereâs a warmth in the way he says your name that makes your stomach tumble over itself. And your cheeks are on fire. Frozen still and on fire at the same time.
âWhy donât you close your coat?â Bucky asks after you pull it closer around you for what must be the hundredth time.
âZipperâs broken,â you mumble, tucking your chin into the collar. âItâs fine, the wind is just a bit annoying.â
âMhm.â Bucky looks at you from the side and you press your tongue between your teeth to keep them from actually chattering, mouth firmly shut. âHey, letâs go in there for a sec.â
You look up as Buckyâs already marching across the street, heading towards the coffee shop at the corner. Its windows are almost aggressively festive, but the lights inside look cozy and youâre too exhausted from the cold to question much.
Bucky holds the door for you and you sigh as the first gust of warm, sweet air hits your face. It smells like coffee and cinnamon. The cheery Christmas playlist playing on speakers overhead mixes with the sound of the coffee machines and the pleasant chatter of the patrons occupying most of the tables close to the windows. The barista behind the register smiles at you briefly before she busies herself with the drip coffee maker.
âIf anyone was following us, we'd have lost them a couple of blocks back,â Bucky quietly answers your question before you can speak up.
He could have said that a couple of blocks back, you think, but bite it back.
âWhat can I get you guys?â the barista calls over as you follow Bucky to the counter.
âCould I use your restroom?â he asks. You blink in surprise.
âOnly if you buy something, Iâm afraid,â the barista answers apologetically, glancing at who you assume is her manager behind the pastry case. âCompany policy.â
âThatâs alright,â you say, stepping up next to him and pulling the loose change out of your coat pocket. âMy treat.â Itâs the least you can do.
âOh.â For some reason, Buckyâs ears go slightly pink. âThank you. Iâll have whatever youâre having, then.â
The barista nods towards the far end of the store. âUpstairs and to the left, codeâs A-616.â
âThanks.â He turns back to you for just a moment, giving you a reassuring little smile. âBack in a minute.â
You nod and watch him walk to the stairs, keeping one arm in his pocket to make the cat-shaped outline of his jacket at least a little more inconspicuous. You only avert your eyes when the barista quietly clears her throat to get your attention, grinning when she does.
âYour boyfriendâs cute,â she remarks lightly as she rings up your order.
âAh. No, yeah, heâsââ
âWhat name do you want me to put on the cups?â she asks, oblivious to your embarrassment.
Well, shit. You shouldâve thought about this. Do you give her your real name when thereâs people out there possibly still looking for you? Probably not. A fake one, then, but which one? The baristaâs name, according to the writing next to a little red-nosed reindeer on her name tag, is Lucy, so you suddenly find yourself unable to think of any other name on the planet.
Wow, you really arenât cut out for this whole being on the run thing. Terrible Liar: Local Reporter Blanks on Basic Question. More on her move to the moon on page 3.
By the time Bucky returns, youâre tucked into a corner farthest from the window, two red paper cups sat in front of you, almost done with destroying the paper sleeve around one of them. You feel yourself slowly defrosting as you sip your hot coffee.
âHere,â he says, shoving something blue over the table as he sits down. âPut this on.â
It takes you half a second to realize heâs not wearing his navy sweater anymore. Instead, you can make out the outline of maybe the tightest black t-shirt youâve ever seen on anyone, no longer hidden underneath the additional layer. You swallow heavily.
âI can tell youâre freezing, you know,â Bucky says, clearly amused at your flustered reaction. âDonât make me beg.â
Youâre starting to wonder why he even saved you earlier if his intention, evidently, is to kill you. Real life or a movie? The lines are weirdly starting to blur. âIf youâre sick of my beautiful dinosaur sweater, you could just admit it,â you say, voice slightly straining as you slip out of your coat sleeves.
âNever,â he smiles, picking up his drink and looking at Lucyâs pretty cursive with a frown. âWhy does this say Steve?â
âI panicked,â you groan as you pull his sweater over your head inelegantly. Itâs still warm from Bucky wearing it, and it already smells like a mix of him and your cat. You could get used to this scent, you think with another stutter of your heart.
You emerge to an even deeper frown on Buckyâs face.
âWhatâs in this?â he asks, looking down at his cup.
âChristmassy goodness,â you answer, taking another sip from your own drink.
âIt tastes like liquid sugar.â Thereâs the tiniest wrinkle in his nose.
âYou donât like it?â
âI didnât say that,â he says, taking another sip as if to prove his point. âI just expected coffee.â
âIt is coffee. Well, underneath the syrup.â
âIf you say so.â
You shake your head in fake outrage at the blatant disrespect for your favorite holiday drink.
âHowâs your head?â Bucky asks in a low voice, and the feeling of contentment vanishes again. For a few moments you almost forgot why youâre here, living in the fantasy Lucy the barista has provided you with, winking in your direction behind her register.
âItâs fine, really. Iâm just tired.â You sigh. âAnd I wish I could talk to Kate.â
âHave you tried calling her?â
You grin mirthlessly. âPhoneâs dead, remember?â
âYou can use mine,â he offers, hand already reaching into his pocket.
âThatâs sweet,â you say hastily, âbut I donât know her number.â
âYou donât know her number?â
You snort at his slightly incredulous tone. âNo one knows anyoneâs number these days, sarge. Last time I had to remember one I was still in middle school.â
Bucky shakes his head, but doesnât comment further. He keeps the fingers of his left hand tucked into a loose fist on the table, you notice, still not taking off the gloves even though it is blessedly warm in here. Youâre even starting to feel the tip of your nose again.
âDoes your friend get into this sorta trouble a lot, then?â
You laugh. âTrouble? Yes. Trouble that involves Avengers and strange men with guns? Thatâs a first, even for Kate.â Fact or Folly: Fury Hires Young Crack Shot for Avengers Initiative. If true, it would be a fun article to break except for the fact either way, your best friend is in danger. âI just donât get it. I talked to her just a few hours ago and she was fine, I mean she was a bit wound up because of college, but everything was normal and now âŠâ You sigh. âI just wish everything could be normal again.â
Bucky nods slowly. âI canât help with that. But nothingâs gonna happen to you again, alright? Iâll make sure of it.â
âWhy are you doing all this? You donât have to.â
âNo, but I want to.â
You donât know what to say to that so you just stare at your empty cup of coffee and wait for Bucky to finish his.
âWhat about you, then?â he asks instead.
âWhat about me?â
âDo you get into trouble a lot?â His voice is light, clearly trying to get you out of your own head again, and it works like a charm.
âNot apart from pissing people off. I work for the Examiner.â
âAh.â
You stop ripping the paper sleeve into even smaller shreds. âWhat do you mean, ah?â
âNothing. Youâre a journalist.â Technically, youâre an underperforming columnist who gets most of her salary through writing the obituaries on the side, but youâre not about to correct him. âIt just explains a few things.â
âLike what, exactly?â You cross your arms in fake offence.
âThe amount of sugar in your supposed coffee. The newspapers on your dining table.â Right. He was in your apartment. âThe fact that you look at everyone around you like youâre trying to find a story.â
Your heart drops at the same time as your grin. âI wasnât trying toââ
âThat wasnât an insult. Just an observation.â You raise your eyebrows, unconvinced. âIâve met a few crazy reporters in my time, you donât strike me as the type.â
âMaybe my crazyâs just more subtle,â you say.
âYour subtle is throwing your shopping at an armed guyâs face, doll,â he retorts with a lazy grin. âI think Iâll be fine.â
âPoint taken.â You groan. âDo you think people are gonna believe âsorry but your presents were lost at a crime sceneâ or will I have to buy all of that stuff again?â
âTough call.â Bucky finishes the dregs of his coffee and you grin at the way his face twitches at the amount of syrup that has accumulated near the bottom. âSome of it mightâve survived, you should take a look first before you spend more money. I just dropped âem in the hall though.â
You stare at him incredulously. âYou are a hero in every sense of the word, Sergeant Barnes, you know that, right?â
âAnd youâre very dramatic.â It doesnât escape you that despite his dismissive words, his ears flush a deeper shade of pink again. âBuckyâs fine, by the way.â
âWell, thank you, Bucky. Seriously.â He doesnât look away this time, either. Just keeps looking at you until you feel that pleasant warm tingling in your stomach again. You ignore it. âI guess I should head back home again, anyway.â
You grimace slightly at the thought. Maybe the cops are still there. You probably canât escape answering their questions forever even if they arenât. Examiner Pen-Pusher Questioned for Battery. Wonderful.
âYou donât have to go back yet,â Bucky says, once again nonchalantly reading you like a book.
âNo, itâs fine,â you lie. âI canât stay here all night, and Alpine needs food, and, you know âŠâ
âYou can take my couch for the night, if you want.â
âI donât wanna impose.â
âYou ainât. Iâm offering.â He hesitates for a moment before adding, âBesides, Iâd feel more comfortable not leaving you alone quite yet.â
The thought of not having to return to your dark apartment for the time being eases your anxiety somewhat. âOkay,â you whisper.
Bucky smiles at your admission and pulls his chair back, moving gently as to not stir Alpine too much. âShall we?â
You catch a glimpse of your reflection in the fogged up windows of the coffee shop as youâre leaving. With your own sweater underneath, his makes you look like a giant blue potato. Not to mention it clashes horribly with your coat. Another point for the not-a-movie list.
âI look ridiculous,â you snicker as you try and fail to pull your coat at least somewhat closed around you again. âArenât you gonna be freezing?â
âNot at all,â Bucky answers. Thereâs something in his voice that makes a shiver run down your spine, and when you look up, the warmth in his eyes heats up your cheeks until you step back outside into the snow, always one step behind him.
Eyes like that should be illegal, you decide.
***
Youâre not sure what you expected Bucky Barnesâ apartment to look like before you got invited inside one long subway journey later, but even after the day youâve had, he still manages to surprise you. Though, maybe you shouldâve expected his space to be simple, neat, straightforward. It makes sense for the version of him youâve started to get to know.
Thereâs not a lot of furniture. Thereâs not a lot of space. Itâs barely larger than your college dorms were, if youâre really honest, but unlike those, Buckyâs walls are empty and thereâs barely anything to suggest anyone is actually moved in, apart from a small stack of books on a table next to the couch. The kitchen looks a lot nicer, though. A single glass door leads onto a Juliet balcony.
Alpine has woken up again and starts talking loudly until Bucky lets her out of his jacket. She jumps to the floor gracefully and marches off to inspect the singular pillow on the floor.
âIâd offer you a tour, but ⊠what you seeâs what you get,â Bucky says with a shrug.
Youâre not so sure about that. âItâs nice,â you tell him instead. You turn around slowly, taking it all in. âYou donât spend a lot of time here, do you?â
âWhy?â Bucky asks, leaning against the kitchen counter with a raised eyebrow.
âItâs just âŠâ You gesture at the bare counter space. âNot very lived in.â Nothing that seems precious enough to come back for.
âI donât like clutter.â
You feel like thatâs not entirely true either, but decide to drop it. In the meantime, Alpine is eyeing the couch as if contemplating which leg to gnaw at first. You quickly bend to pick her up before that, but she makes a run for it, surprisingly fast for her size, and hides behind Buckyâs legs, meowing dismally.
âAlright, I see how it is,â you say, sitting down on the floor in shock of the open betrayal.
âIâm sure itâs nothing personal,â Bucky says, barely able to hide his grin. Alpine glowers at you. âDâyou mind if I turn on the TV?â
You shake your head. Itâs late enough for the two of you to have missed the 10 p.m. news, so the first thing flickering across the monitor is a weather report about the âunexpected blizzard hitting Manhattan earlier todayâ that quickly cuts to commercials. The volume is set quite low, more background noise than anything else.
âAre you hungry?â Bucky asks after a somewhat awkward pause, clearing his throat.
You feel strangely reassured in the fact that youâre not the only one who doesnât really know what to do now that youâre not actively running from anything. âMaybe a little.â
âThatâs good, because Iâm afraid I only have leftovers.â
Another commercial with an annoying jingle comes on and suddenly, youâre very awake as a memory flashes past your inner eye. You couldnât have been older than ten or twelve, and you and Kate had been begging your parents to let you stay with Kateâs aunt for the holidays because her place was close to the ice rink youâd go to. Your parents finally agreed under the condition that the two of you report back at a certain time each afternoon. And for emergencies, they had you remember her phone number.
Youâve always been shit with numbers, struggling to memorize the stupid thing until you put it to a melody like you saw the car commercials on TV do. Specifically, this very melody that a local convenience store apparently still uses for their holiday sale.
âHey, could I borrow your phone for a second, please?â Bucky doesnât question your mood swing, just hands you a kind of flip phone you havenât seen since 2013. âThanks.â
You lock yourself in the tiny bathroom and sit down on the closed toilet seat, contemplating the number pad. She might have changed her number, and even if she hasnât, she might not be home. In fact, she probably isn't. Youâre pretty certain she usually spends Christmas down in Florida.
So yeah, itâs a slim chance, but itâs your only idea for the time being. And maybe it gets you somewhere.
Continuing to hum the jingle, you enter the number and press the call button. A few seconds pass as you drum your fingers on your leg. Thenâ
âBrandon residence,â a suspiciously cheery voice singsongs on the other end. It almost makes you drop the phone.
âWhy would you pick up the phone?â someone you donât recognize asks in the background.
âKate!â you hiss, releasing the breath you were holding in relief.
âBecause technically, Iâm house sitting, thatâs literally what Iâm supposed to do! Sorry, what?â
âKate, what on earth is going on?!â
Thereâs a pause on the other end. âY/N?â
âYes, itâs me!â You drag your hand across your face. âThere were people at my apartment asking about you. Waving their guns in my face.â
âShit.â Thereâs a bumping sound and a distant crash, followed by a string of curses, and youâre positive Kate just jumped up and into a table. âAre you okay?â
âIâm fine. I got away.â You glance at the mirror. Your temple is a bit swollen from where you hit the Dumpster and your lips are basically bitten raw, but overall, youâve looked worse. âIâm safe. Are you okay?â
âOf course I am, Iâmâdo you mind?â Thereâs some quiet bickering and the sound of a door slamming closed before Kate speaks again, her voice echoing like sheâs sat down in the bathroom as well. âHow did you even know I was at my auntâs place?â
You sigh. âI didnât. My phone broke and her landline was the only number I remembered.â
âYour phone brokeâwhere are you right now? Do you want me to come get you?â
âNo!â You stand up again. Thereâs not enough room to properly pace, so you basically just keep turning around. âDefinitely not, youâre in a lot more danger than I am. And youâre going to tell me why.â
So she does, filling you in properly on the past couple of days while you walk in small circles around Buckyâs bathroom until youâre dizzy. âYour turn,â she finally says when your head is spinning with Hawkeye and the suit and the actual mob. âWhose phone are you calling from, exactly?â
âRight. Uhm.â You close your eyes. âIâm actually at Bucky Barnesâ apartment right now?â
Thereâs a prolonged silence on the other end.
âKate?â
âIâm sorry,â she says slowly. âI was just processing. What?!â
âGeez,â you say at the unexpectedly loud exclamation and quickly summarize your strange afternoon. âIn other words,â you finish, âI think i retain the privilege of processing time.â
Kate ignores you. âWait a second, hold on, you had coffee with him?â
âBecause I was freezing.â
âAnd now youâre gonna spend the night.â
âOn his couch,â you gasp.
âRight, of course. Mhm.â You can almost see her shit-eating grin.
âDonât mhm me! Get your mind out of the gutter, Bishop.â
âMy mindâs fine where it is, thank you.â
âCome on,â you laugh. âI am severely worried about the thing youâre taking away from this whole situation.â
âYou sound like youâre fine. And I really needed something to take my mind off this whole situation, so thank you. From the bottom of my heart.â The background noises at her end are getting louder again.
You bite your lip. âStay safe, okay? Donât do anything stupid.â
âYou know me.â
âThatâs exactly why Iâm telling you,â you say, rolling your eyes.
Kate snorts. âI promise. Iâll see you next week, right?â
âRight.â You smile. âBring the dog!â
âLove you, too.â
You end the call with a fond shake of your head, though not before you hear Kate sing teasingly, âhave fuunâ.
She knows you well, of course, you think, staring at yourself in the mirror again. Sheâs more than long familiar with your horrible tendency of being a hopeless romantic in any situation, let alone the one youâre currently in. Well, it ends now, you tell your reflection.
The look in her eyes doesnât convince you.
When you leave the bathroom, you find Bucky sitting on the floor in front of his couch, entertaining Alpine with a piece of string he produced from somewhere in your absence. Itâs such an unexpectedly domestic sight it almost stops you in your tracks. Your resolve quietly vanishes off the face of the earth.
âIs your friend okay, then?â The surprise must be visible on your face, because he grimaces apologetically and adds, âthin walls.â
Great. Just great.
âSheâs fine.â You lean against the kitchen counter, still twisting his phone around in your hands. âSheâs with Hawkeye, apparently. At her auntâs place.â
Bucky frowns. âI thought Barton retired.â
âMaybe thereâs no retirement for heroes.â
âYeah.â A shadow seems to fall over his eyes, but it passes quickly. âCan Alpine have sushi?â
âSheâs been buttering you up, hasnât she?â Alpine meows loudly, as if protesting such an accusation. You feel yourself relaxing at the change of topic.
Bucky grins boyishly. âOnly a little.â
âAny shrimp or avocadoâs fine, but donât give her raw fish.â
âGotcha.â He picks Alpine up in one hand as he stands, placing her next to you on the counter. Heâs pulled off his gloves, you notice. âSorry, I havenât had a cat in ⊠ninety years?â
He has really nice hands. You wonder if his metal fingers are cool to the touch or if they run hot like the rest of him. No. âYouâre forgiven as long as you donât spoil her.â
âNow who would want that?â
âYou say that now. Sheâs not serenading you at 3 a.m. Little devil,â you add more quietly while Bucky rummages through the fridge. Alpine mews indignantly as you scratch her between the ears. âHeartbreaking: Local Cat Has Never Been Fed in Entire Life, Claims Local Cat. Read full quote on page 10.â
âWhat?â
âNothing!â To Alpineâs dismay, you drop your hand immediately, evading his amused gaze. âDo you need help with that?â
You really need to get a grip on yourself, you think miserably as you eat your dinner on the couch, Alpine stretched out between the two of you, paws basically attached to Buckyâs arm as she keeps begging for food. You literally just met the guy.
Even though it already feels longer, somehow. Thereâs something about Bucky that makes you feel strangely at home, even in an apartment as empty as this one. Something that makes it almost impossible to look away from him.
âWhat are you staring at me like that for, doll?â
Unless you are reminded once again that subtlety is not your strong suit. Quit It, Dumbass: Still Not A Movie. âNo reason.â
But thereâs a certain spark in his eye you find yourself missing as soon as you turn your head.
âAlright,â Bucky says, pulling up one leg on the couch to face you properly. Alpine crawls onto his lap and settles there, purring in content. You bite your tongue. âLetâs have it.â
âHave what?â
âThe story.â
You blink. âWhat story?â
âYou have that look again.â He leans back, still watching you. âHumor me. What are you gettinâ?â
It strikes you, then, that heâs waiting for you to elaborate on your perception of him. Which is a horrible idea for numerous obvious reasons, starting with the fact you havenât had a single clear thought since he handed you your phone back.
Not that youâre complaining.
âWell,â you say to buy time, letting your gaze wander over the empty walls again. âYouâre not keen on letting just anyone see whatâs going on inside your head, which makes sense. And yet you invite me in, after knowing me for less than a day, to eat leftovers on your couch. So thatâs an interesting juxtaposition.â
The TV is still quietly rambling on in the background. You catch a glimpse of the trailer for Itâs A Wonderful Life, âthe classic holiday tale on Christmas Day, 8/7 centralâ. It makes you think of something else.
âItâs also only a couple of days til the holidays and everybody I know is invited to some party a friend of a friend is throwing or buying last-minute presents.â You gesture at yourself. âBut youâre doing neither. Youâre not celebrating at all, are you?â
Bucky shrugs with one shoulder. âNot exactly religious these days.â
âI donât mean that,â you say, swallowing heavily. âI think you might be isolating yourself because all of this Christmas spirit stuff is a bit much, but that also means youâre alone during this time. And lonely.â
Thereâs a heavy pause. Buckyâs jaw is clenched slightly, but he doesnât meet your eye.
âIâm sorry,â you blurt, âI had no right to say any of that, Iâthat was stupid, I donâtââ
âIt wasnât,â he interrupts you. âI asked you, and you were honest. Nothing wrong with that.â He turns his head towards you, and the grin tugging at the corner of his lips is almost genuine. âYou must be a pretty good journalist.â
You laugh. âNot really.â
âWhy not? Youâre observant.â
âBelieve it or not, people donât tend to wanna read that. Or any of the stuff I wanna write.â You tilt your head back until youâre leaning against the back of the couch.
âThey should,â Bucky says.
Your mouth opens to tell him that he doesnât even know your writing, so how could he possibly know that, but the expression on his face makes you lose your point. He looks raw, like youâve stripped him bare of the mask you werenât even sure he was wearing a few minutes ago, and yet heâs composed in a strange way that borders on contentment.
Yeah, you donât want to look at anything but his eyes ever again, his beautiful, heavy, midnight blue eyes that seem lighter than they have before. Almost azure. For a moment, almost imperceptibly short, they flicker to your lips.
The air shifts with it.
âIâm not lonely right now,â he says lowly, and your head is whirring.
âGuess not,â you say. His face is even lovelier up close. You barely notice yourself moving.
Then of course, Alpine decides sheâs had enough of all this and loudly starts commanding the attention be redirected to her again. The buzzing in your ears stops.
Bucky tickles her between the ears with a low chuckle. âIâm starting to see what you mean.â
âMhm.â You hide your face between your hands, your heart still going a mile a minute. âShe usually settles down around now, but she was asleep all evening, so youâre really gonna love having us for the next couple hours.â
âIâll survive.â You can feel him get up, followed by the noise of your plates being cleared away. âWhat about you?â he asks. âTired?â
âExhausted,â you realize. The past few hours are starting to catch up with you.
Thereâs a spare toothbrush in Buckyâs cabinet, and once you return from the bathroom, he has the sofa set up for you, ignoring your weak protests about taking it from him.
âI donât sleep much, anyway,â he says. Finally, you give in.
Your eyes fall shut as soon as you lie down, but you find that your thoughts are still too loud to shut down quite yet. For some reason, you keep going back to your first meeting.
âBucky?â you say, and he hums. âDo you think weâd have met again? You know, without those tracksuits following me?â
Bucky doesnât answer for a whole minute and youâre lying there, quietly panicking. âI hope so,â he finally says, barely audible over the sound of your heartbeat.
You listen to his slow breaths until you fall asleep.
***
A crashing sound wakes you only a few hours later.
For a moment youâre confused about the crick in your neck and the way your back presses against the sofa cushions. Reality comes back with the next crash and Alpineâs paw in your face.
âBucky?â you whisper, clutching the blanket more tightly in your fist.
âIâm here.â The relief his low voice brings you is instant, but your heart still races.
Slowly you raise your head. Bucky is standing next to the window, looking down at the street.
âWhatâs happening?â
âIâm not sure.â His frown is visible even in the pale light of the street lamps outside. âIâll go downstairs and check. You stay here.â
Heâs in his shoes before you can even react, throwing on his leather jacket. You stumble to your feet, clutching Alpine to your chest. For once, she doesnât protest.
âBut Buckyââ
He catches you by the shoulders. âHey. Iâll take care of it, alright? Itâs probably nothing.â You nod slowly, because what else can you do? Bucky gives you a tiny reassuring smile that doesnât make the frown disappear.
You follow him to the door, swallowing down the bad feeling in your stomach. âBe careful,â you whisper as he makes his way to the staircase. Thereâs no way he could have heard you, even though it almost seems like heâs about to turn his head back towards you.
He doesnât, though. You close the door, leaning your forehead against it and taking another deep breath. In. Out. Itâs probably just a stray dog or something.
âGeez, I thought heâd never leave.â
You donât scream. Not a single sound leaves your lips as you turn, slowly, your head throbbing with dread.
A figure steps out of the shadows next to the glass door, which definitely wasnât ajar a minute ago. Her voice had you expect someone taller than the young woman in front of you. In the moonlight, her blonde hair looks almost white.
âWhat a day, ah?â She crosses her arms, sizing you up, smiling. âDonât worry, I will not hurt you. Or your cat. I am just here to talk, okay.â
âAbout what?â Youâre almost surprised your voice doesnât waver. She doesnât seem to be armed, which is something, you suppose.
She smirks. âKate Bishop.â
âIâm notââ
âOh, I know who you are, Y/N Y/L/N. You are a writer, yes?â It seems to be a rhetorical question, because she throws her hands up and keeps talking. âYour column, itâs,â she makes a gesture that indicates her head exploding, âvery good writing. Very funny!â
âThank you?â you say tonelessly. The door is just behind you.
âLook, Iâll be brief,â she sighs. âWhereââ
The sound of a car alarm blaring directly under the window outside interrupts her mid sentence, and sheâs distracted for a short moment, clearly affronted. You donât need more.
Throwing the door open, you start towards the elevator, sliding down the corridor in nothing but your socks. You just have to make it downstairs. Your grip on Alpine tightens. Too much.
âPlease donât make me run!â the woman shouts behind you, exasperated. âDid you hear the part about me not going to hurt you also?â
You yelp as Alpine extends all her claws at the same time, leaving tiny, but surprisingly painful scratches all over your hand. With a wail, she wriggles out of your clutch and starts clambering up the stairs, surprisingly fast for her size.
âCome on!â you cry, running after her. You can hear the woman already following behind you, so you swoop the protesting cat back into your arms and continue rushing upstairs, breathing heavily.
âYou Americans are very distrustful, you know that?â you hear one level down.
The door to the roof is unlocked. You tumble outside and the icy wind starts tearing into you immediately. The snow has stopped, but thereâs a thin layer of white covering the city.
You throw your head around, looking for the fire escape or any other means back to the ground floor. There appears to be none. Panting and shivering, you reach the edge of the roof and confirm what you already feared; youâre trapped up here.
âWhat did you do that for?â You turn back around to see the woman approach you once again, looking slightly annoyed now. âYou had me run in myâitâs my evening off, these are new shoes. They are not comfortable for running.â
âShould have thought that through before you go around threatening people,â you say before you can stop herself. Her nonchalant demeanor unsettles you.
âI did no such thing!â she exclaims in fake offence. At least you think itâs fake. âI know you are not involved in this, those guys down there did some really sloppy work.â She blows a strand of hair out of her face. âAnyway, I took care of it. They should leave you alone now. I just hate it when things get messy for no reason, you know? Donât you hate that?â
Youâre shivering violently now, enough for Alpine to jump out of your arms again and run back towards the still open door. You watch her helplessly.
âSure,â you reply weakly, not really understanding whatâs going on. âBut why would you do that?â
âLike I said, I like your writing,â the young woman says, unexpectedly somber for a moment. You canât quite figure her out. âThat was what I was going to tell you. And, ehh âŠâ Thereâs a pause, as if sheâs trying to think of the other thing. âWhere is Clint Barton?â
âI donât know that,â you say. Itâs not even a lie, Kate had only told you they were continuing their âinvestigationsâ.
The woman only shrugs, not particularly shocked by your answer. âAh, worth a try. I will find him tomorrow. You can tell Kate Bishop youâre fine, yes? I took care of you.â
âI donât even know who you are.â
She smiles again. âGood!â
Thereâs a crashing sound that makes both of you turn.Bucky appears in the doorway, aiming a gun straight at the womanâs head. âGet away from her, now.â
âOh, that is so annoying.â She rolls her eyes and then glances back at you with a little pout as if looking for your sympathy. âAnd we were just starting to get along.â
âI said now!â
She sighs, completely unperturbed be the weapon in her back. âIt really was nice meeting you. This is nothing personal.â
And before you can open your mouth to ask what, she kicks your feet out from under you. You land on your funny bone with a sharp cry at the same time Bucky fires. He misses, the woman sidestepping the shot easily before she kicks him in the arm, trying to get him to let go of the gun.
You struggle back up to your feet as Bucky keeps a deathgrip on the weapon, pointing it at her arm instead. âDonât!â you shout.
His gaze shifts to you for a millisecond, but itâs enough of a distraction. The weapon lands on the ground and you flinch backwards automatically, slipping on the icy ground and losing your balance. You shriek as you fall, hands catching the edge of the roof at the last second. Youâre barely holding on by your fingertips, your eyes watering as you try to get a better grip.
Thereâs another shot, and Bucky shouts your name, but your blood is rushing so loudly in your ears, you barely hear him over the sound of the wind. Maybe if you can just stretch your arm a little more, you can hold onto a differentâ
You lose your grasp.
Time seems to slow down as youâre falling between the whirling flakes of snow you take down with you. What a stupid way to die, you think, with everything else going on.
And then, at the very last second, he catches you. You stumble, your knees weak as Bucky hoists you back over the ledge and you collapse in his arms, shaking. He picks you up with ease, hugging you tightly, all inhibitions lost.
âYouâre okay, doll,â he says into your ear. âItâs over, youâre okay. Iâve got you.â
Over his shoulder, you can see the woman still standing there, her stoic façade not quite wavering. She nods at you shortly before turning her back.
You press closer into Bucky, burying your nose in his warm neck. He smells even nicer than his sweater did, and you inhale the scent in shaky gulps until you feel your breathing slowing again.
âHey Bucky?â you whisper. âI think I just almost died.â
He sighs heavily. âIâm so sorry, doll, I never should have left you alone, Iââ
âI just almost died because my cat ran up the stairs.â It stops him in his apologetic ramblings long enough for you to suppress a hysterical giggle. You just almost died. Suddenly, with the adrenaline still rushing through your system, the next question doesnât seem that big of a deal anymore. âDo you wanna get coffee again sometime?â
Bucky laughs, then, a low, relieved laugh you feel vibrate against your chest. Itâs beautiful. âHow about dinner?â
You hum. âMaybe a really boring movie afterwards.â
His lips move against your ear. âSounds perfect.â
No, you truly didnât see your day going like this. But right now, safely wrapped up in Buckyâs embrace, even after everything else you donât mind it that much.
please leave a comment or a reblog if you enjoyed this, it's the best way to support writers on here đ
i also just had to include this, i'm not even sorry.
Summary : Your father, the God of War, trained you to be his executionerâ his weapon. When he assigns you a mission on Earth, you encounter Bucky, who helps you see yourself as more than a weapon. He offers you refuge and helps you go into hiding. Knowing that his favourite child has gone rogue, your father sends your half-brothers, Phobos and Deimos, to hunt Bucky down for aiding your escape and to bring you home.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x Demigod!reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Trauma, mentions of abuse, Violence, cursing.Â
Word Count : 5.7k
Notes : This is Chapter One of five! This fic is set post-FATWS and canon compliant. Canât remember if weâve ever seen Olympians in the MCU bleed in Love and Thunder, but Iâve made them bleed gold (ichor) here. Taglist is open and please let me know if I've missed anyone! Enjoy!
Read the pitch here
The skies of Olympus turned crimson the day you were born. Â
Not a shade of shy pink or a lively orange that signified celebrationâ it was a deep crimson, the same shade of fresh mortal blood.Â
The gods saw it as a signâ A child of Ares is born. Â
One that inherited his Olympian bloodâ golden ichorâ and to an extent, Olympian power. That day, you were born to be a creature of anger bound by blood to a war god.
A mortal woman, who had carried the child of a god, paid the price. Giving birth to a demigod was one many did not survive, let alone one this powerful.
And so, your first breath was your motherâs last.Â
As your mother bled, your father stood over the bed, his expression devoid of any warmth, any love. Ares, the God of War, a towering figure who radiated power and rage, tilted his head as he watched you grasp the sheets.
You were small. You were fragile, then. But you did not cry.Â
âTake her,â he had ordered his sons.
Phobos and Deimos followed his orders and carried you to Olympus.
â
Ares didnât raise you with love.Â
He never hugged you, never read you bedtime stories. He never kissed your bruised knees when you fell off your chariot.
No, he told you, a five year old child, to get back on the fucking horse and quit whining.
So you did.
You trained for him, you trained with his generals. By the time you were seven, you had mastered dual wielding knives and were on the training ground seven days a week.
âStop crying,â he once barked when you scraped your knees during combat drills. âPain is weakness personified.â Â
Your childhood was a forge, and Ares was the blacksmith. Every day, you sparred with your brothers, Phobos and Deimos. They were sons of war, and they had been born and raised to follow and create chaos, like you had.
You didnât understand your powers at first. Why did people grow angrier around you? Why did their rage seem to fill your veins with fire? Your father explained it bluntly:
âYou feed off rage, girl. It fuels you. It makes you stronger; give you power. Learn to provoke it.â Â
So you did. Not because you wanted to, but because you had to. You baited your brothers in sparring matches, taunting them until they attacked with blind fury. Youâd absorb their strength through their anger and youâd use it against them.Â
You learned to be fucking annoying. You learned to mimic Aresâs cocky smirk, his unbearable overconfidence, and his cruel remarks.Â
You hated every second of it. Â
But what choice did you have?Â
This was what you were born to do.
By the time you reached fifteen years of age, the gods knew of your reputation. How could they not?
A demigod born with the powers matching that of an Olympian only occurred once in a blue moon, after all.
You became your fatherâs enforcer, the one he sent to mortal planets on unfinished business, whether it be Earth, or Xandar, or Hala. Once, when Knowhere still belonged to the Collector, you had even retrieved Aresâ stolen battle axe successfully.
See, no one would assume a sweet girl like you would hurt them. Until you did.Â
Your father pitted you against mortals and monsters alike. You hated it, but you excelled. You could feel the rage of those around youâthe anger of warriors, the fury of the survivorsâand it made you stronger. Faster. Unstoppable. Â
âYouâre just like me,â Ares said one day, after watching you cleave through a line of warriors. His voice was filled with pride, but you felt nothing but disgust. Â
âIâm not,â you snapped, your chest heaving. Â
But he only laughed. âOh, but you are. You think I donât see it? The way you crave the kill?â Â
You wanted to deny it. But deep down, you couldnât ignore the truth. There was a part of youâa small, shameful partâthat found solace in war. Â
And maybe he was the only one who understood what it meant to be consumed by bloodlust, to feel the glory war in your veins. Â
You hated him, but he was the only one who believed in you, the only one who saw worth in your existence. The other gods were scared of youâ they did not care if you wanted to be more than a weapon, more than a daughter of warâ because they knew you didnât know how.
How were you supposed to be more than your fatherâs executioner when your powers were tied to rage? How were people supposed to trust you when your strength was amplified by the anger of those around you? How were you supposed to do any good if you felt weaker during times of peace? How were you supposed to break your mold when wartime made you unstoppable?
Your father claimed it was a gift, but to you, it felt like a curse. Â
You hated the way you fed off anger, the way it twisted you into a monster. You hated the way your father pushed you to embrace it, to enrage others and suck the life out of them. But most of all, you hated the part of yourself that enjoyed it. Â
âStop fighting who you are, Child of War,â Ares said one day after a particularly brutal battle.Â
You clenched your fists, your jaw tight. âMaybe I donât want to be.â Â
âDoesnât matter what you want, fool.â He snorted. âThis is who you are. You can either embrace it or let it destroy you.â Â
You didnât respond, but his words haunted you. Â
To appease your father, you put on a mask. You played the role your father wanted, strutting through Olympus with cocky arrogance. You baited your brothers, goaded your opponents, and pretended not to care that everyone was too scared to get close to you.
But beneath the mask, you wanted to be gentle. You wanted to care about the mortals you fought, but how could you, when you drove a knife through their heart? How could you mourn the lives lost in battle when their anger strengthened you?
You wanted to be more than a weapon, but you didnât know how to break free.Â
Ares would never let you.
If you failed a task⊠if you failed, Ares would hurt you. And Ares was all you had.Â
So, you stayed loyal to your father.Â
Maybe he was right. Maybe you were just like him. Â
â
The mission your father gave you was simple: retrieve Phobos and Deimosâ ichor and kill the mortal who dared to tamper with the blood of gods. Ares didnât give detailsâ but it was something about how your brothers bled the last time they visited Earth, and a human scientist managed to recover it for one of their meaningless experiments.Â
Failure was not an option, and disappointing him would not be taken lightly.
When you arrived on Earth, you followed the faint scent of Olympian blood to a hidden ex-Hydra facility buried beneath a crumbling industrial complex. You slipped past the initial security easilyâ too easilyâ and made your way to the lab. Â
Inside, you could smell the stench of antiseptic chemicals and burnt metal. The scientist did not look like a formidable foeâ he was a wiry man with hollow cheeks and a frantic gleam in his eyes. He stood behind a cluttered table with two vials of golden liquid laying in front of home.
âFascinating, isnât it?â he said, when he noticed you there. He was not scared, he did not panic. He wasn't angry you had slipped past his archaic computer security system. It was almost as if he was⊠waiting for you.Â
He pointed to the ichor as though it were his masterpiece. âThe blood of gods. The key to immortality. Imagine what humanity could achieve ifââ Â
You didnât let him finish. With a single motion, you drew your blade from your belt and lunged.
The scientist stumbled back, but he didnât run. âGood,â he said, reaching for his own knife on his belt, âMore ichor for me to farm.â
He stabbed your shoulder before you could stop him. Â
Pain exploded through your veins as the weapon struck, the blast searing through your armor and biting deep into your flesh. You staggered, clutching your wound as golden ichor spilled down your fingers.
You looked at the knife he wielded and recognised the sting of the material: Uru metalâ the same iron that forged Mjolnir.
âHydra designed it specifically for gods and their spawn back when Thor first appeared in New Mexico,â he flipped the knife arrogantly. âAsgardian, Olympianâ it doesnât matter. You all bleed.â Â
Your vision blurred, but you refused to fall. Gritting your teeth, you forced yourself forward, ignoring the searing pain. He tried to stab again, but you dodged, closing the distance in a desperate leap. Â
His eyes widened in fear as he stumbled back, his confidence crumbling by the second. He tried to strike blindly again, but you blocked his arm aside with ease.Â
You could feel itâ he was getting angry. He was getting frustrated.Â
Ah, that feeling.
That wonderful, addicting feeling.
You could finally feed.
And you hated to admit it, but his anger tasted intoxicating.
All of a sudden, the scientist felt weaker, though the poor mortal didn't know that his rage gave you a window to suck energy out of his frail body. For a moment, you didnât even feel the stab wound as strength surged through you, eclipsing the pain.
You grabbed his fist that held the Uru metal knife and slammed it to the floor. The sound of his wrist bone cracking beneath your grip was satisfying, his scream even more so.
"You're out of your depth, mortal," you growled. His breaths came in panicked gasps, and he tried for anythingâ his trembling hands tried to claw your eyes out in a feeble attempt to escape, but his strength was gone. Youâd taken it all.
You didn't give him a chance to beg. In one quick motion, your blade slid between his ribs, a strike that ended his struggle as quickly as it began. His body jerked and a haunting gasp escaped his lips as life drained from his eyes.
You pushed your blade off him without a second thought, but as he diedâ you had nothing else to feed off of. The pain returnedâ and your body, for all its power, wasnât built to handle this kind of divine punishment.
Sometimes you forgot you werenât invincible, that you were not a true Olympian. Just a demigodâa hybrid caught between two worlds.
You retrieved the remaining vial of ichorâone had shattered during the fight, but at least one had survived. You pried the Uru knife out of the scientistâs cold, dead hands and claimed it as your prizeâ it would definitely be a useful addition to your arsenal.
Your hands trembled as you pressed them against the wound that refused to stop bleeding ichor. You winced, biting back a groan. Â
Even through all this pain, all you could think about was how your father would be furious. Sure, the mission was technically a success, but to Ares, success marred by weakness was no victory at all. A mortalâs blade had wounded you, and you knew heâd punish you for being pathetic.Â
Weakness was intolerable. Unforgivable. Â
Ichor started dripping steadily down your armour. As you stumbled forward, your teeth clenched so tightly you thought they might crack. Â
This was nothing. Youâd survived worse, but survival was the least of your worriesâ your mind raced at the thought of facing your father in this state. Â
Your vision blurred as you staggered against the wall, your legs giving out and slumped to the floor
Fuck, you though as you glance down at your hand, bathed in you golden blood.
You were bleeding far too much. And for a moment, you werenât sure if you could even make it out of here at all.
You didnât have time to curse to yourself before your ears picked up footsteps echoing through the hallway. You gripped the knife, hands curling into fists as you braced for another fight.Â
But the man who stepped into view wasnât ex-Hydraâor at least, you didnât think he was. Â
He stopped dead in his tracks. He wasnât here to kill youâ that much was clear. Instead of raising his gun, he lowered it when he saw you slumped against the wall, clearly in pain. Â
He wore a worn leather jacket that had seen better days, and beneath it, tactical gear that hinted at either a soldierâs past or a mercenaryâs present. But the way he stepped closer wasnât hostile. Â
You sneered, âBack off, mortal.â Â
âEasy,â the man said. He quickly scanned the room, noting the dead Hydra scientist slumped near the overturned equipment. He gestured toward the body with a tilt of his chin. âYou did this?â Â
âWhy do you care?â you snapped, but you were calmer now. If he wanted to kill you, heâd have done so already. Â
âI was supposed to arrest that guy,â he replied, stepping closer.Â
âWell, I saved you the trouble,â you said, your breathing ragged. You were seeing spots now. âYouâre welcome.â Â
His disheveled dark hair framed his face, etched with faint lines of exhaustion and curiosity. A faint scruff peppered his jawline, and his blue eyes finally caught sight of the growing pool of golden blood beneath your feet.Â
âShit,â he muttered in concern, crouching slightly as if seeing it from a different angle would make it less strange. âYouâre bleeding... gold?â Â
âAnd?â you hissed, trying to ignore the pain radiating from the gaping wound.Â
âIâve seen a lot of weird things,â he said cautiously. He moved closer, careful not to startle you. âBut this is new. We need to get you out of here. Wherever you came from, wherever they can healââ Â
âIâm not going home now,â you cut him off without thinking. âIâd rather die.â Â
He tilted his head, and a faint glint of metal underneath his sleeve caught your eyes. A metal arm. Â
âGreat,â he said finally, his voice wry. âA melodramatic one. Look, Iâm not a fan of killing, but since the guyâs ex-Hydra⊠I guess you got that going for you.â Â
The casual remark caught you off guard. He wasnât angry, or frustrated, or any of the things youâd come to expect. Â
âIâll do what I can to patch you up,â he said, glancing around for supplies. âBut youâre gonna have to explain a few things. Starting with why the hell youâre bleeding gold.â Â
âWhy do you care?â you demanded, your voice sharp. Â
âI donât like leaving people to die,â he said simply. Â
You narrowed your eyes, suspicious. âEven people like me?â Â
His lips curved up into a sad smile, one that didnât quite reach his eyes. âDonât know what âpeople like youâ means yet.â Â
You tried to find a crack in his calm, something you could latch onto to push him away. âI donât need your help.â Â
âYeah, you do,â he insisted. He tore a strip of fabric from his shirt and reached for your shoulder. Â
âYouâre wasting your time,â you said, trying to provoke him. You needed an opening to siphon his energyâ you needed his anger. âWhat the hell are you anyway?â You spat weakly, âDid they run out of real soldiers and just piece you together with spare parts?â
He didnât flinch. It wasnât the reaction you needed. âI bet you were someone's failed experiment,â you continued, âYou probably never measured upâ too weak to be a real soldier, too broken to be human.â
He just shrugged. He didnât even flinch..
Dammit.
Why wasnât he angry?
So you pushed harder.
âThey probably sold you off to the highest bidder, didnât they?â
âYou done now?â He only shook his head in disapproval. Nothingâ nothing got under his skin. âOr do you need time to workshop more material?â
You flinched as his fingers brushed against the straps of your armour. âDonât touch me,â you said, but made no real effort to move.
âHold still,â he said.
He took apart your armour so gently that caught you off guard. There wasnât pity in his eyes, and there wasnât any condescensionâhe truly cared for another living being.
Still, you watched him warily as he tried to stop your bleeding, searching for an ulterior motive. But there was none. His hands moved with care, his eyes flickering between your wound and your face as though gauging your pain. Â
âWhy are you doing this?â you muttered, the words slipping out of your lips before you could stop them. Â
âBecause youâre hurt,â he replied without a second thought.Â
You didnât know what to say, didnât know how to process the kindness being offered to you without strings attached. Â
âIâm Bucky,â he introduced himself after a moment, trying to break the tension. Â
âDidnât ask,â you muttered.
Bucky noticed the way you recoiled when his hands got too close to your face, the way your eyes darted away when he pressed a particularly painful spot. He didnât comment, but he didnât miss the signs either, because these signs of abuse werenât new to himâ hell, he'd lived through it himself. The way you didnât want to go home, the battle scars beneath. He didnât need to know you to know you needed help.Â
When he finished, he leaned back, wiping his hands on his trousers. âItâs not perfect, but itâll have to do,â he said, giving you a small nod. Â
You stared at him, unsure of what to say. Part of you wanted to lash out, to try and suck away his energy. But you knew it wouldnât workâ and the other part of you didnât want to.
For the first time in your life, someone wasnât treating you like a weapon. You didnât know what to do with that.
âCome on,â he pulled your arms around his shoulders, âI can take better care of you at mine.â
And for once, you didn't complain.
â
Buckyâs Brooklyn apartment was quiet. At the very least, it was a place that didnât demand anything from you.
Bucky sat you down on his couch, golden blood still slowly seeping through the ripped cloth heâd thrown on in haste. You could almost taste the metallic tang of it in the air, though Bucky didnât seem fazed. He was busy in the kitchen, opening drawers and cabinets.
When he returned, he carried a small first-aid kit, a bowl of water, and a stack of clean cloths. He crouched down in front of you as he peeled back the blood-soaked fabric clinging to your shoulder. Â
"Still bleeding," he muttered under his breath, mostly to himself. You tried to pull away, but he gave you a look that rooted you in place. Â
"This isnât going to heal if you keep moving around," he said as if he were speaking to a wounded animal. In a way, he was, because he was one.
He remembered the first days when he was running away from Hydraâ he was self-destructive, refusing any help strangers would offer him.Â
He could not watch this strange person rot in the same hell he did.
You clenched your teeth and let him work. His hands were steady as he cleaned the wound with the damp cloth. The cool water stung as it met your torn flesh, and you hissed through your teeth. He whispered a quiet âsorryâ but didnât stop.
When the cloth came away streaked in gold, he paused, holding it up to the light. The liquid glittered, his brow furrowed. Â
âThatâsâŠ,â he trailed up, glancing up at you. It was as if he was still trying to process all of this.
You stayed silent, hoping heâd let it go. But of course, he didnât. Â
"Why⊠what are you?" he asked, his tone soft but firm. Â
You hesitated. You wanted to lie, but you knew he wasnât asking to pry, but to help. Â
âOlympian,â you said reluctantly, not wanting to admit you were a demigod, âSort of.âÂ
He blinked, sitting back on his heels as he processed that. "Right," he said. "So⊠Greek gods are real." Â
You nodded, unsure how else to respond. But then he stood and pulled his phone from his pocket, scrolling through his contacts. Â
âWhat are you doing?â You asked warily.
âThe⊠blood isnât stopping. Iâm calling someone who might know how to deal with this.â He didnât even look up as he pressed the phone to his ear. Â
Wait, what?
âHi, Thor,â Bucky said as he paced around the room.
Shit.
Thor. Of course. The once golden prince of Asgard, the one who couldnât keep his mouth shut if his life depended on it. You had less-than-nice run in with them before, and if the Asgardians knew you were here⊠word would spread.
Your father would know you were injured.
âQuick question,â Bucky said, âWhat do you do to stop a godâs bleeding?â Â
There was a pause across the line, then you heard Thorâs muffled voice. âWhat kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into, Barnes?â Â
Bucky glanced at you, his eyes narrowing at your frantic head shake. âDonât,â you mouthed, âplease.â
âResearch,â he lied flatly, though his tone was not quite convincing. Â
âGodly blood should stop on its own. But if it doesnât stop after 15 minutes, it means the wound was pierced by a formidable weapon,â he explained, not questioning Buckyâs request even for a second. âIn that case, earthly antiseptic wonât work. You need something stronger.â
Bucky looked around his house and picked up a bronze bottle. âWill the Asgardian liquor you gave me for Christma work?â
âCertainly!â Thor boomed over the phone.
âGot it,â Bucky said, âThanks.â He hung up before Thor could hound him for details. Â
He turned back to you, kneeling in front of you again as he wondered what the hell could have caused this woundâ he did not know the weapon in question was sheathed in your belt.
You expected him to say something, to demand answers, but he didnât. He just workedâcleaning your shoulder with the high proof Asgardian alcohol he poured into a bowl. He pressed the cloth against it to finally staunch the bleeding, wrapping it tightly with clean gauze.Â
When he was done, he sat back on the floor, his legs folded beneath him, and looked up at you. Â
âYou donât want him to know youâre here,â he said, not a question so much as a quiet observation. Â
You didnât respond.Â
But he didnât push. âIâm not gonna ask why,â he said finally, âBut if you donât want to go home⊠wherever Olympus may be. you donât have to.â Â
You didnât thank him, but you stayed. Because for the first time in years, someone wasnât trying to fix you or use you or break you. He was just letting you be.Â
â
The morning came quietly, the pale light of dawn slipping through the blinds. You stirred on the couch, wincing as the sharp ache in your shoulder shuffled against the cushionsÂ
You sat up slowly, grimacing. Your armour rested on the floor nearby, its once-polished surface dulled with scratches and dried ichor. Your knives, and more importantly the Uru knife you recovered, was still hidden in their sheathes.Â
You hadnât meant to fall asleep, but exhaustion had dragged you under. Â
The undershirt you wore, still stained with ichor, clung to your skin uncomfortably. You were tempted to bolt, to leave before Bucky woke, but when you turned your head, you saw him in the kitchen, already awake and making coffee.Â
âMorning,â he said when he noticed you stirring. His tone was casual, like you were an old friend crashing for the night and not a wounded stranger bleeding an inhuman substance on his couch. Â
âHmm,â you hummed, not looking into his eyes.
Bucky held up a box of cereal and a bowl in the same hand, a casual lift of his brows asking a question without words. âCereal?â Â
You blinked, caught off guard by the normalcy of it.
He offered⊠food⊠like everything was fine. Like you werenât a runaway god suffering Uru-inflicted wounds in the home of a man who probably had a dozen secrets of his own. Â
âHm,â you said after a moment, nodding.
He set the bowl and box on the counter, poured the milk, and slid it across the counter toward you. You made your way to the kitchen, stiff and slow. He noticed your pain, of course.
âYou should change that shirt,â he said, nodding toward the blood-stained fabric. âIâve got a clean one you can borrow.â Â
You hesitated. It was such a small thingâa shirtâbut no one had ever offered anything to you without expecting anything in return.
You nodded, keeping your eyes on the cereal as you picked up the spoon. You ate a biteâ and it confirmed what you thought of mortal foodâ it was sweet and a strange mix of a lot of different textures steeped in an almost flavourless liquidâ it was weird.
Meanwhile, Bucky disappeared into the bedroom and returned a moment later with a plain black t-shirt folded neatly in his hands. He set it on the counter next to you, leaving it there for when you were ready. Â
âYour shoulder still hurt?â he asked after a good fifteen minutes of eating in silence..
You nodded, keeping your eyes on the cereal. âA little.â Â
âThor said⊠godly wounds caused by powerful weapons donât heal easy.â Â
Your grip on the spoon tightened. âItâll heal,â you said, a little too quickly.Â
He didnât respond, but you could feel his eyes on you, searching for a crack of something in your frown. When you finally glanced up, you noticed his eyes were calculatingâ like he knew too much and still didnât have all the answers. Â
âI still donât know your name,â he said, almost like an afterthought. Â
It wasnât a demand so much as a fact he stated. But it still felt like a thread pulling at the seams of your defenses. Â
What did he want from you? You thought to yourself.
âDoes it matter?â you snapped. Â
He tilted his head. âMaybe not,â he admitted. âBut it might make things easier.â Â
You didnât answer, couldnât answer. The idea of giving him that piece of you so soon felt too intimate, too dangerous. Â
He didnât push, just nodded like he understood. âAlright,â he said simply. Â
You wanted to shout at him, to scream at him. To make him mad and heal yourself through his rage. But⊠a part of you didnât want to sabotage the only person who saw you as your own person.
Instead, you found yourself wanting to tell him why you couldnât go home, why the thought of stepping back into your fatherâs shadow made your skin crawl.Â
But you couldnât bring yourself to.
The silence stretched on, and you found yourself watching him as he stood to rinse his bowl in the sink. He glanced at you from the corner of his eyes as your fingers brushed the edge of the clean shirt heâd left for you. Â
He wondered if you saw him the way he saw youâfractured but functional, a puzzle with too many missing pieces. Â
â
By mid-afternoon, you were restless. You sat on the living room floor, frantically cleaning your armour, knives, and the vial of ichorâ your father cannot know that you bled as much as you did. Your fingers fidgeted, trying to piece together a plan for what came next, what you would tell your father. None of it stuck.Â
As you desperately scrubbed the metal, you realised you've been moving way too muchâ though it was too late. The sharp sting in your shoulder let you know youâd overdone it. Â
You felt a warm liquid spread beneath the bandage.Â
Fuck.
You hissed and pressed your hand to it, feeling the ichor beginning to seep through again.
âSeriously?â you muttered under your breath.
âIâll get the bandage,â Bucky, who had been on the other side of the room reading a book, saidâ as if heâd known this was coming. âYou moved too much.â Â
You glanced over your shoulder. He wasnât mad, not even annoyed.
âItâs fine,â you muttered, though it clearly wasnât.Â
He quickly gathered the liquor and his first aid kit and sat next to you.
You glared at him, though your frustration in your eyes wasnât entirely aimed at him. âWhy are you even still doing this?â you snapped, trying to rile him up again, though you didn't really want to. It was just your survival instincts kicking in. âYou donât even know me.â
He didnât flinch at your harsh tone. He just began peeling back the edges of the bandage with practiced care.
âWhy?â you pressed again, desperate to crack his calmness. âYou canât be this selfless. You humans rarely ever are.â Â
He paused, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. âIf you must know,â he began, âIâve spent the last few years helping displaced refugees. The blip was years ago, but there are still people who havenât found a place to call home.â Â
You blinked, your anger receding slightly. Â
He went back to cleaning the wound. âI see the signs,â he continued, âYouâre running from somethingâ or someone, probably. Youâre not a citizen of Earth, and as far as I know, Olympians donât exactly have representation here. So Iâm helping.â He glanced up again, his eyes steady but kind. âBecause Iâve been there. People didnât exactly grant visas to brainwashed super-assassins.â Â
The words hit harder than you expected, the window to his past even more so. You wanted to argue, to deflect, but there was no anger in his voice, and no pity either.Â
His hand pressed gently against your shoulder, holding the fresh bandage in place. âYou donât have to tell me what happened. But as long as you stay, Iâm gonna help.â Â
You stared at him, your chest tight, your breath caught somewhere between anger and relief. âI donât want your help,â you muttered weakly, though you still didn't mean it.
It wouldâve been so much easier if he was angry, if he yelled, if he snapped, if he fought back against your remarks. That, you could work with. You could siphon anger, harness it, turn it into strength to heal. But this?Â
Why did this feel⊠better?
âOkay,â he said simply, taping the bandage. âBut Iâm not letting you dieâ Â
Your shoulder throbbed, but the ichor finally stopped beneath the fresh bandage. He stood, tidying up the supplies without another word, and you sat there, staring at the floor, your walls slowly crumbling brick by brick. Â
âThat should hold for now,â he said as he packed away the first-aid supplies. âTry not to move around too much this time.â Â
You nodded. There was something in the way he looked at youâ like he wasnât in a hurry for answersâ that made you feel like maybe, just maybe, you could trust him. Â
Your name hovered on the edge of your tongue, something you hadnât offered yet. Something you didnât want to offer, if you were honest. But heâd done nothing but help, nothing but treat you like a person when so many others hadnât. He deserved⊠something. Â
You finally said your name.
âHuh?â Bucky paused, not quite sure what he's hearing.Â
âThatâs my name.â
Bucky couldnât hide his smile. He repeated your name, and you flinched.Â
When your father or your brothers said your name, it usually came with an insult, or maybe praise for committing a horrific actâ but on his lips, it could just be.
Bucky tilted his head slightly. âIt suits you,â he said simply.
The words landed hard, warmth blooming in your chest. Was that⊠a compliment? You swallowed the lump in your throat and shrugged, trying to act like it didnât matter. âIf you say so.â Â
âI do,â he said, and there was no teasing in his voice, no judgment, just certainty. Â
He turned away then, giving you space.
It suits you. Â
For the first time in a long time, hearing your name didnât make you want to scream.
â
The halls of Aresâ residence burned red with torches. The God of Warâs booming voice reverberated through the marble columns, a crimson cloak billowing behind him. Servants scurried out of sight, fearing the wrath of their master.
"Where is she?!" Ares roared, his armored fists slamming against the stone table before him. The impact cracked the polished surface, sending shards flying like shrapnel. "Itâs been days, and my daughter has not returned!"Â Â
Phobos and Deimos, his twin sons and loyal lieutenants, stood before him. Though they were gods of fear and panic, even they felt terror before their fatherâs anger.
âShe was sent on a simple task!â Ares continued, his voice only of rage and not concern. âShe was supposed to kill the scientist. It should not take more than a day! And yet, no word, no sign of her return!â
Phobos, the more cautious of the two, dared to speak first. âFather, perhapsââ Â
âSilence!â Ares barked, cutting him off. âDo not insult me with your cowardice, Phobos. She is my finest creation, my most skilled warrior, my favourite child.â He sneered at his son, his words dripping with venom. âUnlike the two of you, she doesnât run from the first sign of a challenge.â
Deimos, always eager to appease, stepped forward. âIf she hasnât returned, itâs because something has delayed her. But we can retrieve her. Just say the word, Father.â
Ares considered Deimosâ suggestion. âI will not have my enemies thinking one of my blood has failed her duty.â Â
Phobos hesitated before speaking again. âFather, what if she⊠does not wish to return?â.Â
Ares froze, his eyes narrowing to slits as he stared down his son. Then, slowly, he leaned forward, his voice low and laced with menace. Â
âShe would never,â he said, though there was a hint of doubt that he refused to acknowledge. âShe knows where she belongs.â
Phobos exchanged a wary glance with Deimos, but neither dared to challenge their fatherâs conviction further. Â
âNow, retrieve your sister,â Ares ordered, his voice rising once more. âDo not return without her.â
As the twins left, Ares stood alone in his hearth, staring into the flames of the brazier before him.Â
You were his pride, his masterpiece. But deep down, he knew you had always had an unshakable humanityâ a weakness you inherited from your mortal mother.Â
You were fire, and that humanity made you untamed and unpredictable. And he was terrified of the day he could no longer contain your flames.
a/n: I hope this technically qualifies, even though it's sort of angsty. But there is fluff! I decided to use a few themes from the list provided and melded them together. Unedited, mistakes to be fixed later lol. ;; wc: 3.3k
Cold sweat and cold weather don't exactly mix.
Neither did the cold, wooden floor of the living room but...he insisted on it ever since he woke up choking you to near unconsciousness, his hands trembling with horror when he realized what he had done. The hardwood became his self-imposed punishment, refusing the comfort of proper bedding.
He couldn't forgive himself for that, his instability taunted him for weeks after that, having to see the bruise around your throat cause by his hand. Every morning he would catch glimpses of the purple-blue marks adorning your precious neck, each glance a reminder of how close he had come to destroying everything he held dear. The guilt ate away at him, manifesting in sleepless nights and countless apologies that could never seem to erase that moment from his memory.
He deserved it; the chill in the air making every bead of perspiration feel like tiny needles against his skin.
Especially his scars.
His shoulder hurt bad during the winter, which wasn't a huge surprise, but he would've appreciated if his body formed a bit of resistance to the cold by now.
Between endless cryofreezing, Siberian training, the prolonged exposure to freezing should have given him some sort of enhanced ability to withstand the cold but...cruelly, almost laughably, he was more vulnerable to the bite of chill now.
It pissed him off, quite frankly.
But right now, he couldn't bring himself to dwell on his annoyance.
Instead, his thoughts drifted to you as he sat there on the cold floor, his body tucked carefully against the chair that stood positioned by the stark wall. He had turned the chair into an improvised shelter of sorts, his upper body deliberately laid close beside it in a way that almost seemed to mimic having another body near him for comfort. The transition had been gradual over the course of several months, he had slowly grown accustomed to sleeping in a proper bed, and more importantly, he had grown used to having you there beside him.
Your warm, protective arms would wrap around his frame each night, and he had found himself free of any hesitation or shame as he tucked himself against your chest, letting the steady rhythm of your heartbeat become his personal lullaby, lulling him into peaceful sleep. Better than any goddamn noise machine he could dream of.
But that peace had been shattered after one particularly visceral nightmare that had resulted in him nearly choking the life from you in his sleep-addled state. He found himself unable to bear the thought of sharing a bed with you again, too terrified of what his unconscious mind might make him do.
He thought he was getting better, he was supposed to be better. The words didn't work anymore...therapy was mediocre at best but it was supposed to help him. Yet, after all of that, he still hurt you.
He's still plagued.
Frustrated with himself and the situation, he kicks the chair slightly, causing it to skid a few inches across the worn wooden floor with a harsh scraping sound. Bucky takes a deep breath, his flesh hand instinctively gripping his dog tags - those small pieces of metal that remind him of who he once was - one his own, one Steveâs.
Damnit, Steve. Why didnât he stay?
The one man who always had his loyalty, his best friend, he felt so abandoned.
Now he had to dump his shit on you. You didnât deserve this.
Dealing with what remained of Bucky. Dealing with his problems.
Burdening you with his issues.
All alone.
His vibranium hand nervously bundled the thin, threadbare blanket he used to sleep under. The television continued to drone on in the background, playing yet another cheesy Christmas movie that felt hollow and distant. He didnât like these ones.
He liked the older ones.
They were simpler, easier to grasp. The fantasy of talking snowmen and flying reindeer seemed far better to lose himself in than these modern romantic tales of a cheerful woman who sings perfect carols and inevitably falls for a handsome shop owner...predictable stories that seemed to play on an endless loop.
The warm glow from the Christmas tree cast a gentle, inviting light across the sparse living room, making the empty space feel more like home. The apartment was still largely unfurnished, your current financial situation wasnât great to say the least. Bucky's couldnât get a job with his âcriminalâ background, nor would anyone hire the Winter Soldier, regardless of how good he worked and how well he was with his hands. That left you as the sole provider. The weight of being the only one working pressed heavily on your shoulders, though you never complained.
You were happy to do it, if it meant Bucky could spend time relaxing and not worrying about anything.
Still, he didnât like it.
The thought of his girl working for the both of you gave him a sour taste in his mouth, his gut tightened as he saw it as just another burden for you. A gentleman deep down, you having to work to support the two of you didnât do anything but give him even more mental crisis.
Even when you were on the run in Romania, he found odd jobs. He brought food home. He took care of the two of you. It wasnât that Bucky didnât think you shouldnât be working because you were a woman, itâs justâŠhe felt horrible. You did so much for him, and all he could do was sit at home and wait for you to come off your shifts. He felt worthless.
And despite the tight budget, you'd worked extra hours so you could afford a Christmas tree for the apartment. While Bucky had initially been indifferent to the idea of holiday decorations, his memories of past Christmases long since faded into a blur. Watching your face light up as you carefully placed each ornament made every penny worth it.
His thoughts were interrupted by the subtle creak of floorboards, and he turned to find you peering around the corner of the short hallway that led to your bedroom. "Buck Buck...what're you doin' up?" you murmured, voice thick with sleep. Your hair was charmingly disheveled, and his old henley hung loosely on your frame, the hem nearly reaching your knees. Your eyes, still heavy with sleep, blinked slowly, "I heard somethin' out here, are you okay?"
"Yeah, yeah, doll I'm...I'm fine." He exhaled slowly, not exactly confident in his words, shoulders slumping forward as the weight of sleepless nights pressed down on him. His hand still held the dog tags, fiddling with them restlessly as his thumb pad gently traced the engraved names and numbers, a nervous habit he'd developed.
"Are you trying to convince me, or yourself that?" You asked softly, sitting down beside him on the cold floor, close enough to offer comfort but far enough to give him space. "Why don't you come back to bed with me? It's cold out here and that small blanket is not enough... I can see you shivering."
"No." He spat firmly, his jaw clenching with tension, "We've been over this. I'm not going to risk hurting you again. I can't...I won't let that happen."
"It was an accident-" you tried to reason, reaching out instinctively.
"NO!" Bucky snapped suddenly, his volume and tone loud enough to echo off the walls, making you flinch as it startled the sleep out of you. The fear in his own eyes matched yours for a split second.
It was silent for a few beats until finally he found the courage to break it with trembling words.
"I can't...I won't hurt you again. Every time I close my eyes, I see your face - the fear in your eyes when I came back to myself. You can downplay it all you want. The doctors told me how close I came to crushing your trachea. How am I supposed to carry on knowing what I almost did? You still have that dark bruise around your throat, oh...god..." His voice cracked and faded, heavy with anguish. The traumatic memory had carved itself deep into his psyche.
The faceless HYDRA torturers had been replaced in his nightmares, instead, visions of his own hands wrapped around your throat, watching helplessly as the life slowly drained from your eyes.
That was more horrifying than any of HYDRA's torture.
He would willingly submit himself to every cruel experiment, every brutal conditioning session, every moment of agony they had ever put him through - if it meant he could erase that one terrible moment when he had almost become your killer.
"Bucky," you interrupted his thoughts, your hand reaching out hesitantly in the dim light of the room, hovering just inches from his tensed shoulder but not yet making contact. You turned your palm slowly upward toward the ceiling, silently willing him to either take your hand or at least allow you the comfort of touching him. "I promise you, I am fine. Yes, it might've been a bit scary in the moment when it happened, and I understand why you're worried...but I know you'd never hurt me on purpose, not in a million years. It was an accident, nothing more than that."
He shifted uncomfortably under your unwavering gaze, his fingers clutching the deep green blanket even tighter to his chest, drawing it close like armor against both the cold and his own guilt. You could see the slight tremor in his frame, whether from the chilly air or his inner turmoil, you weren't sure. You knew he must be freezing out here in the living room, but if there was one thing you'd learned about Bucky, it was that he could be impossibly stubborn.
No matter how much you yearned to lead him back to the warmth of your shared bedroom, you knew he wouldn't budge an inch, wouldn't dare return to your bed, not while the belief that he might unconsciously harm you still gripped his conscience.
Instead of trying the back and forth of arguing, you decided to do something else. Rising from your spot, you made your way back to the bedroom, your bare feet making soft padding sounds against the aged wooden floorboards that creaked ever so slightly with each step. When Bucky heard you walk away, he assumed you had given up and gone back to bed for the night, so he slowly lowered himself down onto his makeshift sleeping spot, trying to find a comfortable position to attempt sleep.
But your absence was only temporary. Within moments, you had returned.
Your arms were laden with an assortment of blankets and a plush pillow, carried from your bedroom.
"No, doll..." he sat up immediately, preparing to launch into reasons why you shouldn't subject yourself to sleeping on the floor, even if it might be hypocritical. But you possessed every bit as much stubbornness as he did, and you had already made up your mind that he wouldn't have to face this night alone.
"Hush. I'm staying with you, and if that means camping out in the living room, then that's exactly what I'm going to do." You insisted firmly but gently, carefully arranging the blankets and pillow beside his spot. "And if sleep doesn't come easily tonight, then we can always put on a movie to pass the time. But I don't want you to be on your own, you've been torturing yourself for weeks now..."
Bucky looked down at his lap, a mix of exasperation and fondness crossing his features. "You are such a brat..." He finally replied, his lips pulling into a small, almost reluctant smile. The warmth in his chest grew steadily as he watched you, touched by how adamantly you insisted on sleeping beside him, even if it meant spending the night on the cold floor.
"That's me," you replied with a playful smirk, your eyes twinkling with mischief. "Now...how about some hot chocolate? If we arenât gonna sleep, then we might as well have a little treat. Plus, it'll warm you up." You offered, already making your way to the kitchen with determined steps, your mind set on the comforting beverage. "Marshmallows or whipped cream?" You called over your shoulder, your voice carrying a hint of amusement as you deliberately didn't give him any opportunity to decline the offer.
He shook his head slowly, running his hand over his face as an affectionate smile spread across his features, unable to hide how endeared he was by your persistence. "Marshmallows...please," he responded softly.
"And that chestnut flavoring?" You added thoughtfully, observing him still comfortably tucked away on the floor, his form relaxed against the wall. Bucky gave a shy nod, a gentle expression crossing his features, and you couldn't help but smile warmly in return. "We should roast some, I hear people do that this time of year. But I'm not sure why exactly? I haven't had the chance to try them prepared that way before."
You carefully made your way back to where he sat, extending the steaming mug of hot chocolate towards him. The ceramic vessel was filled nearly to the brim, with a generous mountain of tiny marshmallows creating a fluffy white peak on top.
Bucky shrugged his shoulders slightly, reaching up to pluck a few of the dry marshmallows from the pile, popping them into his mouth one by one. "You can eat them plain as a snack," he offered simply, savoring the sweet dissolving treats.
"Yeah, but that seems a bit too plain for chestnuts. How aboutâŠa pie? God, I love pecan pie, why not chestnut pie? Or I hear they go good with apples."
"Pie would be really good...you know how much I love your baking," Bucky smiled warmly, his eyes lighting up as he fondly recalled all the delicious sweet treats you had lovingly prepared throughout the seasons. Apple pie was one of Bucky's all time favorite desserts, and he always lit up when you made it for him. You arenât a professional baker by any means, but the homemade pastries and treats that came from your kitchen had become one of his most treasured simple pleasures in the world.
You sat nestled against him, your shoulders touching as you both sipped hot chocolate and talked about everything and nothing. The conversation drifted from the gentle snowfall outside to potential weekend activities, from dessert recipes you wanted to try together to movies you both wanted to watch.
Bucky had changed visibly since you crept out to see him, his tense shoulders had gradually loosened, the worried lines around his eyes had softened, and genuine smiles now came more frequently. You both occasionally made playful commentary about the predictable romantic comedy playing on screen, sharing knowing looks as the plot became increasingly formulaic and harder to tolerate.
"Can't we watch something else?" Bucky asked, turning to meet your gaze with a slight grimace, "I'm getting tired of these kinds of movies...at this point, I could practically recite exactly what's going to happen next, line by line."
âWhat do you mean?â You laughed a little, smiling at him as he rolled his eyes in return.
âLetâs seeâŠitâs either Noel, Carol, or some other Christmas themed name for the main girl, and she always moves back to a hometown or is divorced or lonely or justâŠwandering through life feeling like somethingâs missing. Meets a handsome guy, a handy man, a baker, someone she knew from her childhood, and they eventually fall in love after this big Christmas event happens.â Bucky muttered, âAnd there's always singing! Thatâs been the plot for the last three movies, I swear.â
"Sure," you responded with another laugh, he hit the nail on the head. You reached forward for the remote and scrolled through channels until you stumbled on one specifically for classic holiday films. "Oh my god, this one! It's from, like...1960." You watched, somewhat amused, as the distinctively vintage stop-motion animation showed Rudolph trudging through the snow, the character's movements charmingly stilted by today's standards. Your finger hovered over the remote button, ready to continue searching.
"No, no...don't change it," he interjected softly, a hint of nostalgia creeping into his voice, "I'd like to watch this one..."
"Really? Alright," you set the remote down and got comfy. These classic films held a special place in your heart, each frame bringing back cherished memories of curling up on the couch as a child, lost in the magic of storytelling and still believing in Santa Claus. "This used to be one of my favorites," you murmured softly, snuggling closer against him. Bucky lifted his right arm, eager to feel your heat against his bare chest. He hadn't experienced watching these movies the same as you had, his past denying him even these small comforts.
It wasn't like HYDRA allowed him a tv.
Watching it now, even without the foundation of the right nostalgia, he was drawn into the film's spell. There was something touching about its simplicity, the way it managed to weave enchantment through every scene despite its less sophisticated approach. Even with its fantastical storyline, it carried an authentic magic that resonated deep within him, something pure and genuine he could instinctively recognize. Much better than the movies he had seen all day.
The first movie seemed to float by in a comfortable haze, and before you knew it, another began to play. These old ones didnât have a very long runtime, but you forgot just how quick they fly by. The Charlie Brown Christmas movie filled the screen with its familiar charm. The gentle orchestration of the score and soothing tone of the characterâs voices set a comfortable mood in the room.
While the movie played, you felt a slight shift in weight beside you. You glanced over and noticed Bucky's empty mug resting forgotten in his lap, old white foam from melted marshmallows sticking to the rim, his features softened as his eyelids had finally drooped closed. His weight leaning more against yours, and you carefully adjusted yourself.
"Oh, Bucky..." you whispered tenderly to yourself, watching as the exhausted man finally succumbed to sleep, the warm hot chocolate having done its job exactly as you'd hoped it would. Gently, you removed the empty mug from where it rested precariously on his lap and eased him down into a more comfortable position, making sure his head was properly supported by the plush pillow beneath it. You then took your time meticulously arranging the thick blankets over his body, paying particular attention to his metal arm, ensuring it was completely covered.
The winter months were especially difficult for him, the cold made the connection points of his prosthetic ache terribly, so you made sure that every inch of the metal limb was thoroughly insulated against the chill.
Damn, you should really invest in a heated blanketâŠthey were just so expensive.
You were determined to get one for him though.
After adjusting the television volume just a little to create a soft, ambient background noise, you settled yourself beside his sleeping form. You snuggled in close, your hand moving in slow, soothing strokes up and down the broad expanse of his back.
Even in the depths of sleep, he instinctively sought out your warmth, shifting closer until his face was buried against your chest, his arm wrapping around you in a secure embrace. Though the weight and coolness of the metal arm pressed against you was initially a bit uncomfortable since the henley rode up a bit, but you quickly adjusted. Vibranium was nice, once it warmed it would stay that way for a long time.
But the same vise versa, meaning you really should get a heated blanket soon.
For now, this would do. You'd be the heat he needed, even if it meant staying with him on the floor.
Thanks for reading. -em đż
Dividers by @/strangergraphics | Images found on Pinterest.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
I was thinking if you could write Bucky's version of "Who did this to you" đ„° Also, I love you writing so much! The way you describe things makes it so easy for me to imagine the scenes
a/n: hello my love! thank you for sending this in, I hope you like it<3
this is part of misery loves company but is just a stand alone fic. you don't need to read anything before this
warnings: blood and hurt, implications of violence and killin klg, hurt comfort, swearing
The longer you spend in this business, the more sleep feels like a favor the universe begrudgingly grants. Rest without nightmares is a luxury, and your salary simply did not budget for it.
So when itâs 3 a.m., and someone slips into your room without a word, youâre already awake before the light in your bathroom flickers on.
You hear the faint shuffle of movement, the sound of cabinets opening and closing. His silhouette moves inside, quiet and deliberate.
Thereâs no urgency to it, no noise loud enough to wake anyone else. He knows better than that. He just doesnât know better than to pick your bathroom to raid.
Sighing, you push off the bed and head toward the bathroom.
The door creaks when you nudge it open, and he doesnât even flinch. Heâs still bent over the sink, head in your cabinet, his shoulders slumped like heâs half-asleep himself.
âGo to bed,â he mutters, his voice low and rough, not bothering to look at you.
âSure, right after you get the fuck out of my bathroom," you reply, leaning against the doorframe. âYou know thereâs one in your room, right? Or did you get lost again?â
âCrazy. Here I was, thinking Iâd take the scenic route,â he deadpans, pulling out a bottle and squinting at the label. âMustâve missed my bathroom. Maybe itâs hiding behind a bookshelf or something.â
You roll your eyes and press a hand to his shoulder, shoving him aside as you rifle through the cabinet yourself. âMove. Youâre just making a mess.â
Bucky doesnât protest, just leans back against the wall with a sigh, watching as you shove aside bottles and boxes. When you finally find the first-aid kit, you shove past him with more force than necessary.
âSit down.â
To your surprise, he obeys, perching on the edge of the bathtub. His silence almost irritates you more than his usual backtalk.
You crouch in front of him, ignoring the way his gaze follows your every movement as you pull out antiseptic wipes and gauze. You donât want to look at him yet. You donât need to see his face to know he looks like hell.
But when you finally glance up, itâs still worse than you expected.
If you hadnât trained yourself to stay composed in the worst situations, your breath mightâve hitched. His lip is split, an eye swollen shut, cuts scattered across his face, and a dark trail of dried blood streaks from his nose to his jaw. The faintest smudge of crimson still lingers on his temple.
"What?" his voice comes out sharper, like he's testing you to see your reaction.
He sits too stiffly for it to just be his faceâthere are ribs involved, at the very least.
You don't grace him with a reply.
"I'm fine," he says, as if thatâs enough to wave away the mess of him.
âDidnât ask,â you reply flatly, though your jaw tightens.
âDid someone teach you how to be this kind, or is it a God-given talent?â he mutters dryly.
You donât respond, ripping open a packet of antiseptic wipes and crouching in front of him.
âHowâd your day go?â he drawls, voice flat but testing.
âWe donât have to do this.â
âGod, the hospitality,â he drags, voice dry and cracked. "For a second there, I was worried bleeding out in your bathroom might make you care.â
âSo fuckin' dramatic,â you breathe, swiping a wipe across his busted lip with a gentleness you hate admitting to. âYouâre not bleeding out. And I donât care."
The silence stretches as you clean him up. He doesnât flinchânot at the antiseptic or the sting of your touchâbut you notice his sharp intake of breath when you press a little harder on his ribs.
âWho did this?â you ask lowly, your tone sharp without meaning to be.
He exhales through his nose, something like a grunt. âWhy? You plannin' on punching them for me?â
"If that'll keep you out of my damn bathroom at night."
His gaze flickers to you, sharp and unyielding, but you refuse to meet it, focusing instead on wiping the blood crusted beneath his nose.
Finally, he mumbles, âDoesnât matter. Kids are safe."
âGood,â you say, but the word sticks in your throat like glass.
When you glance up, his good eye is already on you, his gaze sharper than it has any right to be. His breathing is steady, heavier than usual but not alarming. Whatever heâs looking for, you donât know, but itâs enough to make you shift uncomfortably.
âIâm fine,â he repeats, softer this time, almost like heâs trying to convince you.
âDidnât ask,â you mutter, though your hand slows for a fraction of a second before you move on to the next cut.
His lip quirks at that, the ghost of a smile. âSure. Noticed."
When you move to dab at the cut above his brow, something in his hair catches your eye. Your fingers brush against it, and you pull the strand closer for inspection
Thatâs when you notice itâthe small braid in his hair, crooked and messy, like it was done by clumsy hands.
You reach out before you can think better of it, fingers tugging gently at the braid.
"Who did this to you?â you ask again, this time biting back a smile.
âDonât,â he mutters, ducking his head to pull away, but your hand finds his neck, stilling him. His skin grows warm under your hand.
âOne of the kids?â you press, voice softer now.
He clears his throat, his cheeks flushing faintly. âThe jet was too dark. They needed a distraction.â He pauses, as though considering how much to share. âMissed that one, I guess.â
Your thumb brushes his jaw as you inspect the braid, lingering a little too long. âShame. It makes you look less hideous.â
Bucky huffs, more exasperated than offended. âYouâre shit out of luck, then. Gotta put up with this mug as it is.â
You realize youâve been staring too long when his eyes flick to yours. Clearing your throat, you drop your hands and reach for another wipe.
He leans back slightly, his gaze dragging over you. âYou look like youâre about to punch someone.â
âSurprised thereâs anyone left to punch.â
âThere isnât,â he replies breezily, though the weight of his words hangs in the air.
âGood, I don't have to waste my time cleaning up after you.â You swipe the antiseptic across his lip, slower this time, and your fingers linger a fraction longer than they should.
You donât miss the way his gaze drops to your hands as you tear off another wipe, the way his jaw tightens when your fingers brush against his skin again.
âYouâre happy you donât get to punch anyone?â he asks, âCareful, or I might start thinking you care.â
You donât answer, not with words. Instead, you press the antiseptic down just hard enough to make him wince.
Bucky hisses, but his lips twitch, and you hate how much you want to smile back.
Instead, you pack away the first aid kit and push it into his lap.
âGo to sleep,â you mutter, turning away.
âSure thing,â he says, but when you glance back, heâs still sitting there, watching you like heâs not quite ready to leave.
Like maybe you donât want him to.
"C'mon," you say quietly. "It's late."
He finally pushes himself off the tub, and drags himself silently to your bed.