what is going on

It had felt like travelling between seasons rather than states, flying from frosty New York to some military base in the asshole of Arizona. Bucky wasn’t thrilled that you were going to be joining him for the mission, but it was nice to get a break from the cold. And from Walker.

“Remind me why she’s here,” Bucky grumbles to Yelena, gaze fixed on you where you stand scribbling nonsense on a whiteboard across lab. You’re wearing a lab coat which is pretty pretentious considering there are currently no chemicals in the room.

Yelena rolls her eyes like she always does when Bucky dares to say anything remotely negative about you. She and everyone else would much rather he blindly kiss your ass on the daily, just like they do.

“Wah wah, always bitching,” she drawls, accent thickening in her annoyance. “You want to go on mission without quartermaster? Fine. Do that alone. I do not want to get blown up in big fireball with no protection.”

Bucky grunts something about how she’s being dramatic, before he can realise that it’s a mistake.

“Dramatic? You are throwing tantrum like child over quartermaster coming with us on mission, but Bob coming with us for holiday is no problem.”

Bob seems to catch only his name. He looks up from the contraption he had been examining as if coming out of a daze. He waves hesitantly and grins when Yelena waves back, returning to whatever it was he was looking at.

Bucky can’t think of any way to dispute Yelena’s claims, so he just huffs and sits back in his chair. He’s doing nothing to help his case, he realises a little dumbly. 

You are still scribbling on the board, scrawling little graphs and symbols that he doesn’t recognise or understand. Bob pauses for a beat before bringing his contraption over to you, which Bucky can now see is a penknife with various latches and buttons on it. You stop what you’re doing with an infuriatingly pleasant look on your face, so damn pleased to show him what it is and how to use it. Bucky clenches his teeth.

He feels he’s made his feelings pretty clear to you; the way all traces of good humour are wiped from his face the second you walk in the room, the way he mutters under his breath whenever you speak. You shoot him a smile every time you see him, even despite this - as if none of it bothers you in the slightest, as if you’re happy to indulge him. He wonders if that’s your way of trying to make him feel guilty. It makes him distrust you all the more.

“I know what your problem is,” Yelena says eventually. He only now notices how eagerly her eyes are trained on him and he rips his gaze away from you with urgency. 

“And what’s that?”

“You are sexually frustrated. And taking it out on poor quartermaster because she is pretty girl.”

Bucky almost chokes on his spit while he attempts a scoff and he is forced to gasp air back into his lungs; loud and humiliatingly obvious. Yelena smiles coolly to herself, as if his reaction has proven some point.

“I am not… frustrated, not that it’s any of your damn business,” Bucky snaps. “And I’m definitely not- Taking anything out on her, or whatever you said.”

“You need to get laid. Then there will be much relief and you will be happy again and less…” She makes a vague gesture at his frowning face. “Like this.”

He lets out a sarcastic scoff of laughter, but it sounds strangled and uncomfortable even to his own ears. “You’ve lost your damn mind,” he says. 

Yelena just hums absently. It is abundantly clear that the conversation is over.

You’re scrawling again. Bucky wonders if you even notice he’s there with how focused you are on the clear board in front of you. Your neat, boxy handwriting litters the board in black marker; chemical symbols, graphs and clustered charts appearing at every corner, seemingly at random. 

Bucky identifies two figures with blank faces drawn to the right of the board with various lines and notes sprawling from them. One is a large, burly frame with a metal arm as its only defining feature and the other is a shorter, robust female figure. You are designing suits for himself and Yelena. There is another, smaller stick figure scribbled beside them that Bucky can only assume is supposed to be Bob. It puts him in a bad mood to think of him here with you, joking around.

“What’re these for?” Bucky grunts and you jump, your hand jerking up to ruin your little ‘Ti’ symbol. He almost rolls his eyes at your terrible sense of awareness. You should be more careful.

“Hi Bucky,” you chirp, ever-polite. He just blinks back. “I’m coming up with something fireproof for you guys.”

“Why?” Bucky doesn’t mean to be blunt. He just wishes you could get to the point a bit faster.

“I’m not really supposed to say. But you should find out in the next few days, I think- when is that meeting again?” Your expression is apologetic and sheepish. Bucky might actually have thought you were being genuine if that weird, nagging feeling in his gut wasn’t pestering him again as he takes in your smile.

“I’m going to be leading the mission,” he grumbles.

“I know.”

“It’s my mission.”

“Sorry, Bucky.”

He knows that this is just how it works. You need to know the details of the mission earlier than he does so you can prepare the materials, come up with the designs. Letting the agents know the details of the mission too soon can cause confusion if there are any changes. It’s a good process; it works. But he’s rearing for a fight today.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he says, watching your lips purse slightly. You’re finally getting irritated. Good.

“Maybe you should take it up with Mel.” You smile at him briefly, more strained than before, and go back to your scribbles, effectively dismissing him. He just about hits the roof. He stands for a moment longer, trying to find some way to win back control of the conversation, but nothing is coming to him.

“Actually, while you’re here-” you say, hand reaching out to grab his metal arm. You yank it up until it’s outstretched. “I left my diagram of your arm back in New York. You don’t mind if I take some notes while I have you, do you?”

It’s phrased like a question, but you’re already running your finger up his forearm, brows furrowed as you prod at the sheets of metal there. You are seemingly looking for something specific but he doesn’t care to find out what it is. 

It’s just sensory feedback from the arm - he knows you’re not really touching him, skin-on-skin, but it makes him uncomfortable regardless. His stomach tightens at the heat in your touch, breath stuttering a bit.

“Knock yourself out,” he says, sarcasm bleeding through his tone. 

Bucky watches you twist his arm around, feels your fingertips pad along his arms and fingers, clearly logging things in your head. You quietly hum every now and again, as if confirming something to yourself. He doesn’t like to admit that you look… cute, up close like this. You really are pretty - that’s one thing Yelena did get right. He likes towering over you like this, likes seeing your eyes flicker upwards at him like a little doe.

It doesn’t change how he feels about you, nor does it make the rest of Yelena’s hypothesis correct. In fact, Yelena couldn’t know just how wrong she was. Bucky hadn’t felt interest in anyone in that way since he’d escaped HYDRA’s clutches. 

There were many ways in which Bucky’s life had changed after falling from that train in Austria. His whole life and personality had changed so distinctly that he saw his life only in terms of before the fall and after. Before the fall, he had a fierce sense of optimism - after it, he was left a bored, old cynic. Before the fall, he had exhibited a naive carelessness for his own wellbeing - allowed himself to be flocked like a sheep into any situation that was exciting. Now, he is more careful. He doesn’t regret any of the decisions and sacrifices he made back then, being aware that they were ultimately necessary for the greater good. But the speed at which he made those decisions - the knowledge of all the things he hadn’t even considered - sometimes eats away at him.

Sex is just another one of those before and afters. He had it - a lot of it - before falling from that train. He has not had any since.

It isn’t that he’s a prude or that he can’t get it up, or any other reasons that one might imagine. He just isn’t interested anymore.

Maybe his wires were all crossed wrong in the cryostasis chamber, or maybe new priorities had taken precedence. Bucky isn’t sure. All he knows is that he has not felt the impulse to be with anyone in that way for years. He takes care of himself when he wakes up with a hard on he can no longer ignore, but it’s clinical. Functional, even. He experiences the relief without any of the rush. So no, he’s not sexually frustrated. Whatever the opposite of sexual frustration is - that’s what Bucky is experiencing.

You’re pulling away when he sees your eyes stop on his other bicep, the muscle bulging through a t-shirt he has outgrown. You look back and forth between his metal arm and his flesh one. Bucky likes how it feels when your eyes catch there; he’s not sure why, but he does.

“Have you gotten bigger?”

“Maybe,” he shrugs, though he knows he has. You frown and suddenly he doesn’t like the feeling of your eyes on him very much anymore.

“I don’t have your new measurements. Did you get it taken by Sheila before we left?”

“No.”

Bucky can tell you’re suppressing a sigh when you purse your lips again, skin of your mouth stretching tight. “You’re going to have to get your measurements taken. This suit is mostly metal. If it doesn’t fit right, it’s going to hurt.”

Bucky scowls at you, hot irritation spiking through him at your bossiness. And this usually works to intimidate people, but you just watch him right back, not even flinching.

Your gaze eventually flickers over to where his figure is mapped out on the clear board in front of him. There are about a dozen materials labelled onto the suit; he only recognises the vibranium symbol tagged onto the shoulder pads. With an absent expression, you pick up your marker once again and draw a large speech bubble over his blank face. Inside, you scrawl ‘Ouch. Too small.’

It is so incredibly stupid that Bucky can only continue to glare at you in astounded irritation. You glance back at him once and add a basic frowny face to the figure’s previously blank face.

Bucky speaks, only to stop you from adding any further features. “How’m I supposed to get measured? Thought Sheila would be shipping the stuff in from New York.”

“I’ll do it,” you say casually, popping the cap back on your marker. Something inside of Bucky balks at that idea, chest seizing up.

“You’re not a tailor. Or an armourer,” he says, with a tad too much uncertainty for his liking.

“Yes, I know that,” you retort, and this time you don’t even attempt to suppress your sigh. “But I have a PhD in Engineering Physics. How different can it be? You’re just like a big, fleshy machine.”

You don’t wait for him to respond, just walk over to a cabinet and begin rooting through it. Bucky is left standing in the middle of the room, cold dread spilling over his head while a strange heat pools in his gut.

You find what you’re looking for eventually; a tape measure and a notepad. You examine him closely, looking him up and down.

“I think I just need to do your biceps, chest and thighs. The rest should have enough give to be ok.” 

Bucky nods curtly and watches you fumble around clumsily with the measuring tape. For the first time in this interaction, he sees hesitation creep over your features - like you’re finally feeling as unsure as Bucky always feels around you. But you pack it away and pull his flesh arm outwards, wrapping the tape measure around the large swell of skin there. Bucky tenses instinctively, muscles bulging against your fingertips, but one look from you makes him relax his arm.

You start scribbling - why are you always scribbling? - his measurements onto the sheet in front of you while Bucky tries not to feel your warmth. His stomach is tense and tight.

“Relax,” you breathe and Bucky tries. He really does. But then your hands are spreading across his chest, brushing past his nipples over his t-shirt in a way that makes his skin jump. And that nagging feeling is coming back but stronger, the one that makes him regard you with a little bit more caution. Something is off.

The feeling only grows when you drop down to your knees in front of him, damned doe eyes flicking up at him, regarding him carefully. You’re looking back and forth from his slacks to his face and Bucky wonders for one dreadful second whether you’re about to ask him to remove his pants. You seem to decide against it, rolling the fabric at the bottom of his leg between your fingers to test the thickness.

You slowly roll the tape around his right thigh and Bucky wonders if it’s really necessary for your hands to be splayed that close to his crotch. He can feel every inch of your skin on his, even through the slacks, and the heat in his stomach expands uncomfortably. He has to look away, think about some pointless story Bob told him to try to distract himself - to somehow make it better. But your touch keeps dragging him back to the feeling. He can do nothing other than watch. It’s no better when you move to the other leg, hands running up and down his thigh to find the largest part to measure - his breath feels like it’s stuck somewhere in his lungs.

He’s vaguely aware of how bad this would look if anyone were to walk by the glass wall between the lab and the hall. You must be aware of it too, though it’s hard to read you - that’s part of the reason he distrusts you so much. However, he can tell that you appear to be equally as ill at ease as Bucky is. You have no dumb jokes or little quips when you’re sitting pretty on your knees for him-

Shit.

He’s turned on.

He’s completely, utterly, stupidly turned on.

Bucky jerks his leg out of your grasp with an urgency before you can notice his rapidly rising cock, if you hadn’t already. He almost knocks you over in the process, but he doesn’t bother apologising, just turns his back to you. 

“I don’t have a metal leg. They’re both the same fuckin’ size, doll,” he grumbles, doing his best to think of anything at all to help his situation. He tries to picture the least sexy thing he can - that one time Alexei tried on his old suit for the team - but you keep flashing back, imprinting yourself behind his eyes.

“Actually, there is a…” You stand up and scribble a final figure to your notes. “0.85 centimetre difference in girth.”

Bucky wonders whether it was really necessary for you to use the term ‘girth’. His mind goes to foul places as you back away towards your whiteboard.

He’s almost convinced that you did this on purpose. He hasn’t popped a boner in a public setting like this in decades and he feels like a goddamn hormonal tween again. But it’s a fucking reflex. He’s got a girl touching him up like that for the first time in god only knows how long and his body hasn’t completely forgotten how it’s supposed to respond to that. You’re not exactly ugly, either.

He needs to go somewhere to deal with this. In a clinical, functional way. Same as always.

The orgasm Bucky gives himself is anything but clinical and functional. 

When he begins jerking himself, he expects to be solely focused on the sensation the way he usually is. He instead finds himself thinking of you - the feeling of your fingertips brushing across his chest, your gaze catching on his biceps, the image of you on your knees in front of him.

He shoots his cum against the shower wall in less than a minute. Watches it swirl down the drain with a dull sense of shame.

He’s just grateful Yelena didn’t happen to be present when you took his measurements in the lab. She would have used it as ammunition until the end of time.

For the first time, he admits to himself that her theory might have some credit to it. He must be sexually frustrated - it’s the only way you could have gotten to him the way you did. But it doesn’t change anything, because it won’t be happening again.

Bucky still doesn’t trust you. Trusts you even less now, if possible. 

And his instincts are pretty fucking exceptional so he knows there has to be some reason for it, even if he can’t immediately identify it. You might have the rest of the team deceived, but not him. 

He knew it the first time he looked at you. He took one look into your eyes and knew right off the bat; something’s not right. Now that desire has entered the equation, potent and unbidden, he’s even more convinced.

Rather than feeling any semblance of relief after coming with his hand on his dick and his mind on you, it puts Bucky in a bad mood. He carries that bad mood around with him for the rest of the week, until Bob is giving him skeptical sideways glances and Yelena is complaining about the fact that he is ‘grumpy like dog with chopped balls’.

When he sees you, it gets worse. Much worse.

There is a sort of dreadful anxiety now, along with the usual pit in his stomach. He feels like you’re somehow aware of the thoughts he has been having about you and he’s now starting to interpret those stupid casual smiles you shoot him as mocking. The only way he can think to react to this is by biting. 

He can admit that maybe he’s taken it a bit too far. He makes a show of glaring at you now, just to prove he’s not affected by you. Where previously he would grumble under his breath at your points in meetings, he has now started to scoff aloud so the rest of the room can hear. He almost feels bad when you look over at him, surprised but non-confrontational. As if he’s some ill-behaved child who doesn’t know any better.

Yelena, on the other hand, is most definitely confrontational about the whole thing. She scoffs right back whenever Bucky speaks just to prove that he’s being a dick and targets him after the meeting, demanding explanations and apologies that he will never give. Even Bob has become more distant, giving him wary eyes and wandering over to you immediately whenever you’re present. The way you smile at him, soft and sweet, makes Bucky want to throttle him.

So, yes - he can admit that maybe the whole thing has gotten away from him just a little bit. He’s aware he’s being childish, but there’s something about that nagging feeling in his stomach that tells him he’s not wrong. That there most certainly is just something strange about you. 

It’s all he can think of in the meeting he had waited a whole week for. Mel is briefing a room of about thirty people on the details of the mission and it seems dangerous. It seems complicated. It seems like something Bucky should be damn well paying attention to.

But you’re sitting beside him, twirling a pen around through your fingers. Every so often, you scribble something in your notebook - a mangy, dog-eared thing, bulging with pages and sheets and post-it notes. You keep it close to your chest so Bucky can’t see, even though he cranes his neck to try. You’re not even really trying to be subtle about it either, the way you twist it out of his eye-line. 

He’s trying to focus more on what you’re writing than how you look writing it. Because your brows are slightly scrunched together in concentration and you’re biting your lip and it looks soft - looks soft enough for Bucky to want to bite it himself-

He’s running off course.

He just needs to see what you’re writing.

“Weren’t you pestering me for these details last week?” you whisper, and Bucky doesn’t immediately register that you’re speaking to him because your eyes are still trained on Mel. But then your eyes flicker over to him - he had almost forgotten that he isn’t behind a one-sided mirror, that you can see him too - and all he can do is nod dumbly.

“So maybe you might want to listen? Rather than looking over this way?”

It’s not a bad point. He had bitched at you for not telling him these exact details just before you took his measurements. And now that he’s receiving them, he’s not paying attention. He knows how this must look - but he doesn’t particularly care in this moment.

“What are you writing?” he asks, instead of answering you.

You shoot him an unimpressed frown, lips pressing into a thin line. “I’m taking notes. Obviously.”

It looks like you’re getting fed up with his bad attitude towards you. You would have had much more patience for this sort of behaviour before last week. It’s almost a relief to Bucky - he is so sick of you brushing off all his suspicions and purposefully bad conduct towards you as if it’s insignificant. This is what he wanted from you.

“Can I see them?” he asks, knowing what your reaction will be.

“What are you, twelve? Are we in school right now? Come on, Barnes, you can take your own notes. Mine won’t be any help to you.”

He had known you would reject his request, but actually having it happen stokes a fire in him. The guys in the top two or three floors of the building of his brain - the ones that would usually concern themselves with things like the mission details and whether or not a third coffee would give him the jitters - have suddenly gone off to Martha’s Vineyard on vacation. They won’t be back for a while. The guys in the basement are unfortunately still reeling about how warm your body feels next to his, how pretty your eyes look in this light, how your body would look under his own. Bucky doesn’t want anything to do with those guys - nasty perverts.

Every other part of his brain, however, has focused its attention on how to get into the stupid little notebook. He’s aware it’s probably not likely that the key to understanding why he doesn’t trust you is held within it. It’s not like you would carry that around a military base with you in writing, easily accessible to spies and scientists. But it might give him a glimpse into how you think. He might just end up understanding you just a little better and that could help him work out what it is about you that is off.

You look back at Bucky which makes him realise he had been staring for quite a long time. He coughs and moves his gaze, but when he looks back (because he can’t quite help it), you’re smiling. The guys in the basement groan in ecstasy. Bucky tells them to quit jacking off and get back to work. He needs that notebook.

You head where you always do at the end of the day. To the lab.

Bob follows you just to talk and ask questions. It makes Bucky roll his eyes, but at least you’re distracted. You don’t seem to notice that he’s following quietly. He uses the other bodies as shields until they eventually patter off in different directions. He still follows, until you reach the lab and Bob says he will see you in the canteen for dinner.

What, you two are eating dinner together now? Like… like some sort of married couple? 

The thought makes Bucky want to retch, but he shoves it away quickly. Maybe once he’s done figuring you out, he can warn Bob away from you. He just needs to get to that notebook.

Bucky watches you through the glass wall of the lab. Sees you roll your shoulders and take a deep breath, entire body decompressing the same way Bucky’s does when he’s alone. Your hand reaches up to pull your hair out of its style and Bucky’s stomach lurches painfully as your hair falls loose. You put all the hair paraphernalia on your desk as Bucky grapples with an uncomfortable twinge in his stomach and his dick.

You tear through the room like a tornado. At first you go to your whiteboard again and pick up your marker. You twirl it around for a bit while you assess. Then you start scrawling again, wiping out symbols, replacing them with others. You make more adjustments to Yelena’s suit than Bucky’s, but you seem to be working on something else too. Their weapons, maybe.

Bucky is sure he is almost caught when you spin around. You don’t twist around very quickly, but he is distracted and it makes him move a bit slower. Luckily, your eyes are still buried in that ugly brown book, but he can’t shake off the sinking feeling. He is being sloppy.

Eventually, this time with a lot more stealth, he sees you unlock a cabinet in your desk and put the notebook in. You do it carefully, as if it’s something delicate even though it looks to Bucky as if it had been through more wars than him. You lock it again and Bucky is out of eyesight behind a corner by the time he hears your shoes clacking away in the direction of the communal areas.

He’s quick to punch in the code to the lab. You can easily go through the log and see that he entered soon after you left, but he doesn't think you will unless you have a reason to. He will come up with some story anyway. Just in case. 

It occurs to him that he doesn’t think he’s ever seen the lab empty; neither this one nor the one in New York. You’re like a permanent fixture here. It genuinely unnerves him to not see you up at the board scribbling, or fiddling around with sheets of metal and blowtorches.

He’s strangely jumpy, considering he has every right to be in here. He paces the room for just a second with a panicked urgency, forgetting for the briefest of moments why he is in the lab in the first place. He’s even sweating just a little bit, picturing the look on your face if you were to come back and catch him in the act.

He’s walking straight over to your desk then, roughly tugging at the cabinet he saw you put the notebook into. It’s locked. Of course it’s locked - he saw you lock it, for god’s sake. Sloppy.

He could so easily yank it open, but what wouldn’t be so easy is to put it back together the way it was. He’s sure he could fix it, but it seems likely that you would be back down again to do more work before you go on your romantic date to the canteen with Bob.

Bucky hadn’t even brought anything with him, but he’s sure there must be something to pick a lock here. He roots around in your cabinets, digging through pencil cases and drawers stuffed with disorganised stationery. He stops, eyes shooting over to the spot where your hair tie and bobby pins are lying in a neat pile at the corner of your desk. Walking over and scarcely allowing himself to feel any sort of hope, he picks up two of the bobby pins carefully, balances them in his hands. He can still smell your shampoo on them. 

They will do.

Removing the rubber piece from the bobby pins, he shoves one low in the keyhole as his lever. He bends the other and roots around to try and find the seized pin, but whatever this desk is made of is not cheap. He finds it twice, but both times the bobby pin slips off before he can do much with it. He grunts with frustration, fighting to keep his cool, even though he can feel the bobby pin bending, waiting to break. He must have picked a thousand locks in his life - why is his flesh hand shaking?

Once he finds the first seized lever, he doesn’t have much trouble with the others. The bobby pin almost cracks on the final pin, but it doesn’t matter because he’s in.

He had thought that the book was bound in leather, but it’s not. Now that it’s in his hands, he can feel that the leather is fake. You’re probably too much of a bleeding heart to use real leather anything. His fingers pause over the spine of it for just a second, a seedy feeling of guilt nagging at him for just a second, before he opens it to a random page.

It’s… incomprehensible.

Sure, Bucky had known you would have some sciencey stuff in there, but the whole page is littered with random chemical symbols, graphs, charts. He flicks to another and finds only the same.

He turns over to the front of the book and takes it page by page from there. The more he flicks through the pages, the more frustrated he gets. He really stressed himself out about this? About some dumb blueprints? He eventually reaches the meeting notes which dive deep into detail about heat levels on the mission - you were right as it turns out, your notes really are useless to him.

He’s furious with you for making him think that this was such a big secret, but he’s also self-aware enough to know that he’s just using that to mask the dim shame and embarrassment he’s feeling at making such a big deal of this in his head. He thought he had you.

One of the many sheets stuffed in between the pages slips to the ground. Bucky’s not sure what he’s expecting when he leans down to pick it up - some grand moment of serendipity where the key to your secret finds him, maybe - but it’s just a diagram of his arm with all the measurements to boot. He sighs, folding it back up. He can’t remember where it might have slipped from, so he puts it in the back and hopes you won’t notice that it’s displaced.

But there’s Yelena’s name. Upside down, in a bullet point, alongside the names of the rest of the team. With furrowed eyebrows, Bucky turns the book around to look at the notes you had stuffed in the back. They are mostly unimportant notes on the Yelena and her missions. You have a couple notes about minor injuries she has sustained over the past few months, with little asides like ‘Left shoulder needs more protection - injured!’ and messy notes about her preference in weapons. But you also have little notes about Yelena herself, too. ‘Likes pastrami on rye for lunch’, ‘Always down after coming back from missions involving programmed / indoctrinated - especially kids’, ‘Would probably like Ray Bradbury - to loan her one when back in New York’.

Bucky is perplexed - he certainly is not experiencing a gotcha moment the way he thought he might with any of this information, but what the hell are you doing? Taking notes about Yelena like you’re her therapist? He flicks the page over and sees Walker’s name; the usual notes about injuries, strengths and weapon preferences, weaved in amongst things like ‘Wife’s birthday 17th Jan - gets upset around this date,’ and ‘Sees his kid Thursdays and Fridays’. How do you even know this? Bucky doesn’t and he’s the goddamn leader of the team.

Bob’s page is short, barren of any injuries or battle gear information but with a lot of information about his favourite street food in the city and how he prefers the bus over the subway because going underground makes him nervous. You have noted everything there is to know about Sentry (which is not much, admittedly). He is hit with something unfamiliar when he reads, ‘Needs a friend’.

Suddenly desperate to get to his own page and fuelled by a sort of morbid curiosity that he’s sure won’t end well for anyone, he skips past Ava and Alexei. 

Bucky’s notes are lengthy - they need two pages. It’s stacked with countless injury reports, some relevant information about his background as the Winter Soldier, little details about his arm. But it’s completely void of of the personal touch in the other pages. His is straight-to-the-point, strictly factual. Clinical and functional, even. Bucky doesn’t like that at all.

He understands it. He has never really given you anything to work with, and he’s sure you might think that he would consider it an invasion of privacy in any case. But his chest still seizes inexplicably. He turns back to Bob’s page, looks at the note that says; ‘Likes cats - wants to go to a cat café. Trip for birthday?’. Then he flicks back to his own and reads; ‘Tends to favour left side in fight - dominant arm’. 

He’s hit with a tidal wave of childish loneliness all at once and has to blink a few times to try to dampen the feeling clawing up his chest. Of course you’re not taking personal notes on him - he doesn’t even trust you, doesn’t even like you. 

But some part of him - a part that’s growing larger by the second - knows that it wouldn’t feel like this if he truly didn’t like you.

His mind is working a million miles a minute and he is just about ready to put the notebook back in the drawer and forget any of this ever happened when his eyes catch the last note on the page. The one and only personal bullet you had left on Bucky’s lengthy report.

‘Overly aggressive - has a crush?’

Bucky goes very still on reading the words in your notebook for just a second, and then he is clumsily shoving your notebook back into the desk, removing the bobby-pins from the cabinet in your desk with as much caution as he can afford and bucketing it out the door. His heart is racing and he’s climbing stairs three at a time to get to his room.

He’s not sure what he planned to do in his room - regroup, maybe - but all he can do now is pace. The words kee p flashing into his mind. A crush? Who do you think he is? Some sort of teenage girl? He’s a middle-aged man. He’s a war vet who also happens to be a reformed HYDRA assassin - and you think he has a crush? On you?

He’s not even preoccupied with the egoism of the whole affair. It’s a little conceited for you to assume he has a crush on you based on nothing, but what is taking up the most space in his brain is why you could think Bucky, of all people, is the person to have one. Why not Bob, who practically follows you around with his tongue out?

Because he’s ‘overly aggressive’, apparently. 

He stops mid-pace, shoulders sagging.

Okay - Bucky can admit he hasn’t always been the nicest to you. He doesn’t think it’s fair to say he’s been aggressive, but he can see why it’s something you picked up on. But surely, if anything, you should naturally come to the conclusion that he does not have a crush on you, based on his behaviour towards you. You should assume that he has anything but a crush on you.

He doesn’t even know why he’s panicking this much. His breath is gone and there are pangs of… something, prickling at his sides.

It has to be that day in the lab when you took his measurements. That’s what has you mixed up, he’s sure. You must have noticed him getting turned on before he even noticed himself. And he’s admitted to himself by now that you turn him on. It would be pointless to try to pretend otherwise with those creeps in the basement screaming it up at him ceaselessly. But being attracted to you and having a crush on you are two very different things.

What does a crush mean, anyway? You think he wants to go play fucking house with you? Hold your hand like some middle-schooler?

No - you don’t know him well, but you must know him better than that.

He must have missed something. Maybe you meant something else entirely. Maybe he read it wrong. He doesn’t see how he could have, since the image of those words are imprinted in his brain with permanent ink, but it’s possible. 

He’s starting to regret throwing the book back into the desk so hastily, before he had the chance to thoroughly survey it. Maybe he has the chance to go back down now, while everyone is in the canteen.

But no. He feels no urge to chance his luck any further today - that would be stupid. Sloppy. People will be milling about today. He needs to choose some other time.

He collapses down on his bed. The thud of his body hitting the mattress seems very loud to his ears.

It’s a while before Bucky gets the chance to enter the lab alone again, and he avoids you like a contagion every moment in between.

The timing is pretty inconvenient. The few days before a mission is when the team has most contact with you while they test out weapons and try on their suits. Bucky is considerably less confrontational with you during these assemblies which earns him strange looks from Yelena and Bob, but if you notice, you don’t make it obvious. The simple fact of the matter is that he has lost all interest in antagonising you or exposing whatever secret he had thought you might have - he would much rather avoid you altogether.

You’re not making it easy on him, either. You’re as pleasant as ever, as if his recent bout of bad behaviour is water under the bridge - wiped from your memory. You sound like you’re coaxing a kitten out of a corner when you speak to him. Your pretty eyes and pretty lips are making things hard for him too. He can’t get them out of his head. Can’t stop thinking about how you looked on your knees, head tilted upwards towards him.

‘Overly aggressive - has a crush?’

‘Has a crush? Has a crush?’

‘Has a crush?’

The words are still bleating in his brain days later. He hears you saying them, pictures you whispering them in his ear mockingly with that sweet smile playing on your lips. It puts an uncomfortable sensation in his chest.

He can eventually assess the situation with less indignation and more interest. He wonders what you see when you look at him, what thoughts you think about him when you’re alone. Do you think about him at all? He wants to see into your brain for just a few moments, dig up whatever in there relates to him.

Which, he reminds himself numbly, is insane and sounds exactly like the thoughts of somebody with a crush. 

You’re in the lab at every waking hour in the days leading up to the mission. Bucky glances through the glass wall when he walks by, pretending he’s on his way somewhere else even though there isn’t much else in this wing of the base. Most of the time you’re scribbling on the whiteboard, back to him. Sometimes you catch him and give him a friendly wave. Bucky averts his gaze quickly every time.

His mind is running amok and the mission pays dearly for it.

It’s still a success - Yelena guarantees that - but Bucky’s lack of preparation really shows. He’s bruised and bloody but Yelena gets it worse and she makes sure he hears about it. Both of her eyes are beginning to go yellow with the beginnings of a bruise and she has severe burn marks littered over her arms where even the suit was not enough to stave off the flames. She switches between English and Russian as she curses Bucky out to his face. For better or for worse, he understands every word.

Yeah - he was sloppy.

He’s beaten to a pulp and his adrenaline is still singing in his blood from more than one close call when they reach the base. Yelena is still jabbering on about how she will never be picking up the slack for him again, about how he’s supposed to be the team leader, about how bad she’s going to be hurting in the morning. He’s paying attention to her somewhat until they reach the hallway outside lab.

Because for the first time in days, it looks as if it’s empty.

Bucky comes to a halt and Yelena spins around. The total solid blackness of her stare almost scares him into submission.

“I swear I’m listening to you,” he says, before she can utter a word. “I know I fucked up badly and we can have a proper conversation about this soon. Just- give me a few minutes. I forgot to do something.”

He is fully expecting her to fight him on this, but she must be able to read the desperation in his tone at some level, because she simply gives him a bewildered frown. She looks at him like that for a few beats, then raises her eyebrows to communicate that she is severely unimpressed, and continues on her way to the nurse.

Bucky waits until he can no longer hear her steps echoing down the hall before he steals over to the door of the lab, punching in the code with a sense of determination he hasn’t felt in days. He knows exactly where he’s going this time. 

The cabinet is locked again, but this does not present much difficulty. Your bobby pins are in the same pile as before and he is not half-crazed with nerves this time. The adrenaline from the mission is doing its job. He jimmies the lock in a matter of seconds.

He’s scrambling to open the book on the same page as before, knowing he won’t see anything new but desperate to see those words (has a crush? has a crush? has a cru-) again.

Except he’s wrong, because there is definitely something new. It’s a folded page, tucked into the gutter where the two pages meet. Bucky picks it up and slowly, cautiously unfolds it.

‘Stop looking inside my desk’. Sprawled in big, square letters in the centre of the page.

It’s not addressed to him by name, but it’s been folded neatly into the notes that you wrote up about him which he supposes is enough of a message. He double-checks to see if you edited anything as you clearly knew that he would be looking this time but everything is exactly as he had left it, those dreaded words (has a crush? has a crush? has a-) still lingering at the bottom of the second page.

Humiliation and guilt flood him in no small measure. He is an expert assassin who just got caught out for snooping in a colleague’s journal. He must have tucked one of the papers back into your notebook wrong, or left the bobby pins out. The top floors of his brain are back from Martha’s Vineyard. They’re screaming at him that he’s sloppy. They sound just like Yelena, now that he thinks of it.

The guilt is probably the worst of it. Knowing that you carried around the knowledge that he violated your privacy, but said nothing. You could have gone straight to HR (if HR even exists in a place like this - he has never thought to look into it). But instead you didn’t even try to make him feel bad about it. You had just dealt with it the same way you deal with all the shit he throws at you; with patience, with gentleness, but without letting yourself be stood on. You had let him know that you see through him, but hadn’t backed him into a corner, because that’s not who you are. 

You’re sweet. And Bucky knows it, even if he has always pretended he doesn't.

The realisation doesn’t hit him, doesn’t strike him like a lightning bolt or knock him on his ass. It’s more like something he falls into with overwhelming discomfort and more than a little defeat. Because he’s really known it all along, even if he never admitted it to himself.

(has a crush? has a crush? has a cr-?)

He has a crush.

He doesn’t want to look too far into the fact that he knows where your room is. He wasn’t even aware that he did know, until he started walking with the intention of tracking you down and suddenly found himself outside the door of your room. Had he made a mental note of where you were staying? He must have. He’s coming to an awful lot of awkward realisations today. 

His fist lingers over your door for a full minute before he can bring himself to knock. There’s a moment of silence where you are most likely trying to pretend that you’re not in, but Bucky can hear your shallow breaths, your steady, thumping heartbeat. He knocks again and hears you heave a sigh, followed by a rustling of fabric and your footsteps creeping to the door.

You open the door wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt - the logo for some band Bucky doesn’t recognise plastered over the front. It’s crumpled and looks like it badly needs to be ironed, but it looks so damn pretty anyway hanging over your delicate thighs - but then anything probably would. His mouth goes dry.

“Hi Bucky,” you say with a tired exhale and only then can he drag his eyes away from your legs and to your face. Your hair is askew, eyes bleary and dull, the soft imprint of bedsheets on your face.

He woke you up. It can hardly be 8pm yet, but you seem to have been out cold since the mission wrapped. Your eyes grow much more alert when they give him a proper once-over.

“Jesus, are you ok? What hap-” You frown, stop short. “Are you just back from the mission? Bucky, you need to go to the nurse. You look like shit.”

Bucky is new to this whole ‘crush’ thing, but he’s fairly sure that being told that you look like shit isn’t the best sign. He can’t look you in the eyes. “I will, I just- I need to talk to you. Please.”

You frown but step aside so he can walk in. There’s a sinking feeling in his gut and he really has no idea what he even wants to say to you - he just knows he has to say something. 

Your room is the exact same as his, from the white linen sheets to the grey cupboards in the small kitchenette, but something about it being yours makes it look different. Less empty.

He looks around, surveying the area as if there’s anything to survey. You’re standing in front of him with an expectant hand propped onto your hip. He tries not to look at it. It sinks into your t-shirt and he can suddenly see your form - the imprint of your side visible through the fabric. He swallows. “I, uh- I got your note.”

Your hand drops, as does your skeptical frown. Your lips twitch into a small smile instead, lips pursed as if you’re trying to stop it from forming. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

You look at him. Bucky looks back. Blinks. Neither of you say anything for some time. He can hear agents returning to their rooms outside, distant tired voices murmuring. You gesture for him to take a seat on the bed and he does, taking off his shoes and leaning up against the headboard. You join him shortly after, warm thigh almost touching his. He’s glad you don’t have the super-hearing he does, or you would be able to hear his heart thundering under his ribs.

“How did you know?” is all he can manage after a long stretch.

“Know what? That you have a crush on me?” Hearing you say it out loud makes Bucky flinch. You don’t react, just let him settle. He nods. 

“I could tell. From your behaviour towards me.” You’re speaking about this so casually. It’s uncomfortable to hear you talk so upfront about a subject he has dodged, even within his own mind, for so long - but it does help to ease the embarrassment just a bit to hear you speak as if it’s something natural. Not something terrible or embarrassing. 

“But I’m awful to you,” he says. And that’s something that he has had to come to terms with in the last few days too.

“Exactly,” you say, shrugging. You’re not shrinking from his gaze. “You’re not an unreasonable or mean man, Bucky. That behaviour isn’t normal for you. And I have never given you any reason to distrust me - at least, I hope I haven’t - so it was one of my theories.”

“You had theories? Plural?” 

“Well I also thought for a while that it might be possible that you just didn’t like me for no reason in particular. But then your…” you pause, smiling sheepishly, as if you’re giving him an embarrassing diagnosis. “body language convinced me otherwise.”

Bucky’s faces flushes. His entire body flushes. His mind drifts back to when you measured him. He wonders how many other instances like that there were, without him even noticing.

“Why didn’t you-” he stammers, voice strained. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

You raise an eyebrow, lips lifting into a teasing grin. “That would have gone really well.”

He thinks about it. How he would have reacted, even a week ago, if you had brought this discovery to him. It certainly would not have gone down well. He physically grimaces, imagining the scenes that might have taken place.

“Why are you still so nice? If I were you, I would have hated myself.”

“I never hated you for it, Bucky,” you say, smiling kindly at him in a way he is so far from deserving that it sets his stomach alight. “I don’t know much about what was done to you before. I never wanted to know anything beyond what was strictly necessary for my job because I figured you wouldn't want me to. But I guess I figured that not everything would be easy after that. Especially not… relationships. Sex.”

Bucky shifts upon hearing you use the word ‘sex’. His mind is racing. “Wh- I don’t-”

You don’t rush him. He almost wishes you would so he could get something out, but instead you sit patiently, waiting for his response. He doesn’t fully understand what’s happening - how you could see right through him when he himself could not. How you could give him this much grace and patience.

Bucky hasn’t experienced much softness in his life. He’s always on the chopping block for things he did do and for things he didn’t. He’s never really taken too much issue with it. He accepted pretty early on in his life that he was dealt a shitty hand. And now he’s being handed softness on a plate - forgiveness, acceptance, kindness. He’s not sure what to do with it.

“I’m sorry,” he say eventually, because that’s really all there is to say. “I wish I didn’t put you through that.”

You roll your eyes, grin never leaving your lips. “I forgive you, Bucky,” you say, as if it’s just that easy. Maybe it is. Maybe it is with you. “It was kind of cute actually. Like when some kid starts tugging on your pigtails in kindergarten because he likes you.”

Bucky truly can’t think of a worse comparison. He is already humiliated at the fact that he’s a middle-aged man being schooled through a crush by his crush. Comparing him to a kid is only confirming to him how embarrassing the situation really is.

“Oh, come on,” you laugh, taking in his horrified expression. “It is cute.”

You look so pretty when you’re laughing and smiling at him. He’s seen this expression on your face with the rest of the team, but he’s so rarely given you cause to give him more than a tight grin as he passes. Now that he has accepted his feelings for you, the guys in the basement of his brain have broken free. They’re running through all the corridors, whooping and hollering. He hadn’t realised how many of the buggers were down there until now. 

He’s overwhelmed with the intense urge to get close to you, to touch your face, your hair, your lips. He needs to go before he can do any of those things and freak you out any further.

“Whatever you say,” he murmurs, face still red. “Regardless, I really am sorry. I wish I could have directed this towards anyone else. You didn’t deserve it.”

He’s got his feet planted, ready to take his leave.

“I don’t,” you say, casually, just looking at him with a blank expression.

He freezes. “You don’t… what?”

“Don’t wish you felt this for someone else.”

He can’t move. Can hardly even breathe. He looks at you with a sort of astounded confusion and you just roll your eyes again, as if he’s taking a great deal of time to figure out something very obvious.

“It would be a pretty shitty situation for me. Y’know, since I have a crush on you too.”

Are you messing with him? Bucky isn’t sure exactly what expression crosses his face, but it must be whatever you were hoping for, because you’re tittering; a lovely, soft sound. And he can do nothing but watch. 

Something isn’t computing. You eventually stop giggling, but your grin doesn’t drop. You’re just smiling sweetly as if you hadn't just said something to tip his whole world on its axis.

It hadn’t ever occurred to Bucky that you could like him back. He had been so preoccupied with denying that he felt anything for you, he hadn’t even really thought about it. And even if he had, there’s no way he could ever expect you to actually reciprocate. Not with the way he has acted to you.

But, somehow, you do. 

And Bucky has that strange, nagging sensation again - the feeling that something isn’t right - but it’s not the same as before because it’s mingled with hope this time. Like he can’t quite believe that this might be true, he’s suspicious that perhaps it’s not, but god - he hopes it is.

“Why?” he chokes out. You don’t laugh at him when his voice cracks.

“Why what?”

“Why do you have a-” He can’t even say it. You don’t make him.

“Don’t fish for compliments, it’s unbecoming,” you say and you’re teasing him but he finds he doesn’t really mind it. 

“It’s just- It doesn’t make-” Bucky tries to stammer, before you finally take pity on him. You reach a hand over slowly and place it in Bucky’s. It’s small and warm and still soft despite the welts and cuts - tokens from your work. His heart flutters once in his chest, heat stirring in his stomach.

“I can’t explain why I like you, Bucky. I just do. I think you’re a good person and I knew that even when you didn't quite know how to act around me. And I love how much you protect the people you care about and you’re funny without trying to be, but it’s more than just that. I just like you.”

He thinks he gets what you mean. If you were to ask him, he would try to explain why he feels the way he does about you. But language is inadequate to express it. It’s uncomfortable and messy and it was almost impossible to understand, let alone communicate what has been happening inside of him - whether to himself or anyone else. He just likes you too. 

But, critically, he doesn’t deserve you. He didn’t deserve you before he met you, didn’t deserve you when he took out his unresolved trauma on you and certainly doesn’t deserve you now, just because the tide has changed.

He knows you can see the cloud falling over his face, but you’re not perturbed. You lean forward with another one of your sweet smiles until your face is just inches from his, but you don’t move further. You’re letting him make the decision.

Bucky glances once at your lips, delicate and swollen from biting, and he accepts that he never really had a choice anyway. He leans down to kiss you as if in a daydream and feels the way he gives himself over to you in an almost absent way - he is spilling over the side of himself when your lips meet his.

Although you had leaned over for this reason alone, you still gasp against his lips - a high, breathy sound that makes his pulse jump. He’s feeling a bit outside himself.

His metal hand goes to the back of your neck to gentle pull you closer. The other goes to your thigh, just to feel his skin on yours. He rubs circles there and tries to fend off a spell of dizziness at how good it feels just to have you against him like this.

He’s thinking about those moments in the middle of the night when he takes a sip of water and suddenly realises that he’s completely parched. How just one sip of it makes him want to sink the whole glass. It’s been so long since he’s kissed someone like this - since he’s felt the desire to - and it almost physically hurts, how much he wants this. How much he wants you.

You’re squirming against him, moving up slowly to straddle him, perching yourself on his large lap. Your movements are careful and considered - like you’re giving him the time to say he doesn’t want this. He wishes he could tell you just how badly he does, but removing his lips from yours doesn’t seem worth it. He moves his hands to your hips instead. Gives them an encouraging squeeze.

The heat of your body is seeping onto his lap and through his chest. He kisses you just for the selfish pleasure of it; not for any design or purpose - just to feel it. He takes your bottom lip into his mouth, clumsy and desperate and feels you sigh against him.

“Bucky,” you say, parting from him. He doesn’t realise that he is following your lips in a daze until you put a hand up to stop him.

“Hm?” he responds mindlessly. His head is swimming.

“Will you let me touch you?”

Through the confused haze of his scrambled brain, he can only think about the fact that you’re already touching him. You have one hand on his chest, the other behind his neck. This is more touch than he has felt in decades.

But gradually he comes to. He blinks the daze out of his eyes and sees that you are sitting still, looking to him for a response. He almost lets the guilt eat away at him again at the kind patience on your face. He nods instead.

You’re still watching him closely when you grab the ends of his t-shirt and peel it over his head. Bucky has almost forgotten that he’s injured. When he looks down, his chest is littered with purple bruises and deep burns. He suppresses the urge to grab his t-shirt back from you, only because you lean forward to press a gentle kiss to his collarbone.

He watches as your hand on his chest slips slowly downwards. He shivers when you trail past his nipples, when you lighten your touch over his injuries. You trace the end of his stomach, before grazing his cock over his black tac pants. He can’t help the deep puff of breath he releases. His heart is thumping with equal doses of anxiety and exhilaration.

He’s breathing heavy and you look at him, eyes glassy and searching to see if he is okay with this. He doesn’t have the words for how okay he is, so he reaches a hand up to run through your hair and presses another ardent kiss to your lips.

When you part from him, you’re smiling. You unbutton his trousers and slowly pull them down along with his underwear, just far enough so his cock springs up against his bare, sweaty stomach. He’s mildly embarrassed by how clearly worked up he is already. He’s rock hard. Precum is smattered around the head of his cock and strings of it are stretching from his cock to his underwear as you peel it back.

You have a bashful look on your face as you take in his size, eyes falling to his lap and mouth parting. He almost feels shy for a moment. He was by no means small before the serum, but he knows his size is totally abnormal now. He has an irrational worry for just a moment that you’re about to pack the whole thing up and tell him to leave, but he can read excitement in your expression too. 

You trail your fingers lightly over the head and Bucky hisses, hips bucking up into your hand. Your eyes snap to his, astonished.

“You’re very sensitive.”

Bucky flushes. “I haven’t uh-” he stammers. “It’s been a while.”

“What’s a while?”

He wonders if it can get any more embarrassing than this. “Few decades. No big deal.”

He expects you to be astonished again, but you have no reaction at all. “I thought that might be the case.”

He wants to ask how you knew, but you clench your fist over his cock, giving him a soft pulse and he can no longer get any words out. He just grunts, watching you move your hand up and down, slowly massaging his length. His dick looks so much bigger in your small, soft hand than it does in his own rough grip. His hands shake as they move to grip your thighs in a futile attempt to find something with which to anchor himself.

“Does that feel good?” you ask. Your eyes are slightly clouded.

“Yeah,” he answers, voice coming out strained. 

You lean forward slightly and Bucky thinks you are about to kiss him. Just as he moves to meet your lips with his own, you open your mouth to purposely spit downwards. The warm liquid meets the tip of his cock and cascades downwards towards your cupped fist.

He can’t help the desperate moan that falls from his lips, his head falling back against the headboard. He thinks that image of you might possibly live in his brain forever.

You use the new lubrication to stripe across his length with your right hand, the other moving down to play with his balls. You keep your hand gentle but tight and his hips jerk forward unintentionally, even as he tries to still them. He’s groaning different versions of your name but he can hardly hear himself over the pulsing in his ears.

You’re not rushing it. There hardly even seems to be an intention with what you’re doing - the way you’re watching him makes him feel like you’re doing this for the simple pleasure of seeing him like this. It’s a far cry from how he does it when he’s alone - clinical, functional - whatever makes him cum the fastest. You’re taking your time and letting him feel what he had convinced himself he no longer wanted.

He can accept that he has been lying to himself about that too, as he watches you now. You can hardly move your eyes from where you’re stroking him, watching your hand move with an almost detached curiosity - as if you’re not in control of your own motions. He has been starved of this - of all physical touch - for the longest time, but it had never seemed in reach so he denied that he had any interest in it at all. It’s almost overwhelming his senses now.

You squeeze his cock and rub small, affectionate circles at the base. The intimacy of it - the tenderness - almost makes him blow his load early. A brief panic takes hold of him at the thought of it. He grips your wrist quickly and your movements halt. You look up at him with alarm. 

“I can’t-” he stammers. “I’m gonna-”

“Oh.” You smile. He flushes. 

You bring your hands to his bare chest and give him a soft, gentle kiss that makes his eyes flutter closed and his breath stutter.

“I want to make you come, Bucky,” you murmur against his lips. “But in my mouth. Is that okay with you?”

“God- fuck-” he breathes, just at the words alone. His face is pinched up with a barely contained restraint while he tries to bring his heart rate down. You wait patiently for his answer and he feels a rush of affection for you that is so strong it almost bowls him over. How could he have thought that he felt anything for you but deep, intense adoration? You know intuitively just by looking at him that this is a big moment and not something he can rush. He finds that he now trusts you so implicitly with this vulnerability, he can’t even imagine a time when he didn’t.

“Yeah,” he manages eventually. “Please. Wanna feel your mouth on me.”

You kiss him again, deep and slow. He chases your lips even as you manoeuvre yourself away and lower yourself so you are level with his cock. Your hand reaches up again to pump him a few times and his chest heaves.

You press a light kiss to the tip and a groan falls from his lips. His head falls back against the headboard but he fights the instinct to close his eyes. He’s too busy watching you.

A pink tongue lolls out of your mouth and then your lips are closing in on him, just wrapping around the tip. His hand reaches out to card through your hair and he doesn’t push you down any further but he is still fighting for control over his body. His body is trying to make him thrust into your mouth, which he’s sure will send him over the edge if he can’t get a grip on himself soon. 

You begin to bob your head, gradually taking more and more of him in each downswing. He feels a bit loose around the edges. The pleasure is bordering on too much, but he finds that he trusts you enough not to panic about it. He doesn't get caught up in how he looks or sounds or whether he’s about to embarrass himself; he just lets it happen because he knows that it’s what you want from him. He thinks he would do anything in the world if he thought you wanted it of him.

You look so pretty with his cock down your throat. You’re glancing up at him teary and doe-eyed while his tip nudges the back of your throat. He feels the ridges of your tight throat squeeze around him. He’s aware he probably looks desperate and needy, but it’s impossible not to while he’s feeding his cock down your throat.

“S-shit, feels good-” he whines. Actually whines. If he was any more lucid, he would be embarrassed. But he likes the way you look up at him afterwards. 

The way you’re reacting to him is sinful. He worries that you won’t be able to take it every time he nudges deeper, but your eyes just roll back, like you can’t get enough. You even whimper around him, as if he’s the one getting you off.

He can’t remember how this used to feel, but he doesn’t think it was ever this good. You do a sliding motion with your tongue, pressing it up against the veins of his dick. He grunts and grips your hair harder, hips giving jerky thrusts into your mouth every now and again when he can’t stop or control it.

“Fuck, I’m gonna-” he strangles out. “Baby, I’m gonna come.”

Baby. That’s a new one. He’ll examine it later.

His voice - the sort of breathless desperation in it - feels foreign in his own mouth but it makes you moan. Bucky feels the vibration it makes against his cock and comes his brains out.

He lets out a strangled groan, spilling himself down your throat. He feels a certain awe as he watches you try to keep up with swallowing, eventually giving up and pulling off to jerk him. His spend spurts up across your face, soils his chest and his thighs. He wonders briefly if you will be annoyed.

“Fuck, thank you,” he sighs, only distantly aware of what he’s saying while he comes down from his high. Weak streams of cum are still spilling from him as your hand slows its pace. “Sorry.”

You level him with a quirked brow, as if he said something funny. “Sorry for what?”

He looks at you, all of his cum dripping from your cheeks and chin. You look so pretty like this - so his. “It’s everywhere,” he says, even as he can’t avert his gaze.

You smirk and dip your finger into a pool of cum gathered on his abdomen.

“It is everywhere,” you agree. He can do nothing but watch entranced as you bring your finger to your mouth, sucking the pearly liquid off it.

His cock has barely had a second of reprieve - he can feel it twitching to life again. Its way of telling him that it has been severely neglected for the last seventy years.

“Let me touch you.” He intends for it to come out sexy and demanding, but it hits his ears as more of a plea.

“Not today,” you say, picking up a corner of the duvet and wiping your face with the sheet. You pull his pants back up for him without much difficulty and hop off his lap. Bucky’s brows furrow with confusion and a hint of dread. Why don’t you want him touching you? Have you decided that you no longer want him? Has he fucked this all up already? He tries to hide the panic that’s hitting him like a semi-truck with a nod and a wavering smile.

You see it. Of course you do. You curl up next to him, popping one leg over his. His cum is spilling from his chest and onto your t-shirt, but you don’t seem to mind. 

“I don’t want you rushing this,” you say, brushing a gentle hand through his hair. He fights the urge to nuzzle into your hand. “I think what we did today is enough of a step.”

He considers your words. It makes him feel like a fucking child to have you talk to him this way, but… you might not be wrong. His heart is still racing uncomfortably in his chest from the novelty of it all and as much as he would kill to touch you, he’s not sure what he’s doing anymore. It’s one thing for him to sit back and let you take care of him. This would be another thing entirely.

You’re right, of course, and it is becoming blatantly obvious you can read him better than he can read himself. Still, he has to make a genuine effort not to mope at the idea of leaving you and your warmth to go back to his cold, empty room.

“Bucky,” you say firmly, using two fingers to nudge his face over to yours. He meets your eyes and finds it a little more difficult to sulk. “I like you and I want to do this right. I want you to touch me so bad, but only when you’re ready to. Will you trust me?”

His eyes go big and wide and an awkwardly vulnerable feeling passes through him. You like him. You want him to touch you.

You’re still waiting for him to answer. You always are. You never speak over him, never assume. Bucky has spent so much of his life being overpowered, his choices ignored or stifled. It’s unfamiliar and uncomfortable but not unpleasant. He nods.

“I like you too,” he stammers clumsily. “So much.”

You laugh. “I know.”

In a brief lapse of silence - your head on his chest, his hand stroking tentative circles on your thigh - he almost feels like the two of you are melting into one. He matches your breathing unconsciously, heart slowing while he holds you close, bodies melding together. You press a small kiss to his pec and he accepts it easily and gratefully. He is struck by the picture of you snuggling up to him - astounded by just how cute he finds it.

“I think you should go to the nurse.” You poke a bruise and he bites back a hiss. You look up at him with a raised eyebrow, like you know that he’s just pretending not to be hurt.

“Later,” he mumbles. Truthfully, the idea of leaving your room sounds awful to him. All that waits for him outside is cold, empty nothingness. He will delay it for as long as you’ll let him.

He tries not to spiral - tries not to think about the fact that telling him to go to the nurse might just be the least awkward way you can think of to get him to leave. 

You like him, he reminds himself with some conviction. You said so.

“Not later. Go take a quick shower and I’ll meet you in your room after you’ve been to the nurse.”

He gives you a surprised glance out of the corner of his eye.

You giggle. “We could stay here but my sheets might need a wash.”

He rolls his eyes but he is considerably less reluctant to leave your presence with the promise of seeing you later. You detach yourself from him. Smart move - he would never move as long as he has you pressed up against him.

He huffs a sigh in protest, but heaves himself up and makes his way into the ensuite and notches on the shower. To his surprise, you totter in after him and take a seat on the closed toilet lid.

With some of his typical confidence returning to him, he leans downward to kiss you while he yanks off his pants. He feels your cheeks round against his face.

“Y’just gonna sit here and watch?”

The way you smile up at him through your lashes almost makes him fall to his knees and beg for you to reconsider his request. You tilt your head innocently. “Well I need something to think about while you’re gone.”

He groans, pushing his forehead against yours - almost pained. He can feel the breath of your laugh against his lips. 

He knows that soon he will get a lecture soon for not reporting to medical immediately. He also knows that he’s well overdue a verbal beating from Yelena. His body is bruised and broken and tired. His nerves are frayed and his adrenaline is still dangerously high. None of it matters - all Bucky can see and hear is you. It’s not so bad, really, having a crush. 

a/n: fun fact i watched a youtube video about lock picking to write this and i think i can pick a lock now!! (i will definitely not be using this for nefarious purposes…)

bucky taglist: @dolcesaints @marina468 @avgdestitute @tw1sters @dxnsgrl @thegirlwhowaited5everok @pjo4life1939 @otheliesstuff @domitaylorsversion @simplemind-simplematter @love-stucky @queen-acdc @epiphanyrogers @monicasposh @daddysbitchybaby

everything taglist: @buckysbbydoll @donuelle

on the couch (winter)

it’s movie night and everyone is late. 

yelena had texted, telling you the group would be stuck in traffic and to not start until they got back. that was almost an hour ago. bucky had walked into the living room, found you and bob waiting a little too inconspicuously on the couches and turned on his heel, going back the way he came. 

you’d looked to bob then, grinning conspiratorially as you crawled down the length of the curved couch, right into his side. 

it’s innocent enough, at first. muffled by his shirt in your face when you tell him that it’s only because you’re cold, and he warms you up better than anything else could. 

he gives you a look—like he knows what you’re up to but can’t find a good enough reason to refuse himself the feel of you. makes something warm in his chest when he thinks about how you’re always looking for any reason to touch him, that you don’t shy away.

he likes it, because while your relationship isn’t exactly new, he still worries—doesn’t know if he could bring himself to initiate it even if he wanted to (he really, really does). 

but when you come to him, he welcomes it. revels in it, actually.

his arms lift, wrapping around your frame. immediately, you’re enveloped by the smell of his laundry detergent and the 2-in-1 shampoo he’s been trying to use up before opening the real shampoo and conditioner you’d bought him. 

his chin rests atop your head, breathing steady while your fingers aimlessly trace lines down his sleeve. 

“y’know…” you say, trailing off in the way he knows means you’ve got something to say that likely will get him in trouble. he holds his breath. 

“we’re the only ones here,” you continue, pulling your head back to look into his eyes, hoping those pretty blue eyes will take the hint. 

bob laughs softly, eyes flickering across the utterly empty room. the christmas decorations the team had spent an afternoon assembling, ending up a little lopsided and mismatched hanging above the mantel and from the ceiling. the string lights twinkle in your eyes. 

 “yeah,” he breathes, “i- i can see that.”

the look you give him is expectant, and he blinks owlishly in return. 

he watches your nose scrunch when you try to decipher whether he’s being clueless on purpose or if he genuinely can’t fathom what you’d want to do with him in an empty room on a couch much too big for two. 

the noise you let out is a cross between an exasperated groan and a teasing giggle. your cheeks burn a little when you tell him plainly, “i want to kiss you, bob. make out a little.”

his lips fall into a perfect little ‘o’ when he exhales the syllable. you grin up at him when his ears turn red. 

“i- i mean,” he stammers, darting between you, your lips and the elevator doors. you can almost tell when he makes up his mind, gaze catching on your lips and struggling to drag them back up to your eyes. licks his lips before he says, “okay.” 

he only catches a glimpse of the giddy look on your face before you’re pulling him down to you with a gentle hand on his cheek. 

he kisses a little unsure, a little messy—but god, does it send pleasant shivers down your spine when he’s the one to part your lips and glide his tongue against yours. 

you sigh contentedly into his waiting mouth when his grip on you tightens, and his hands start to roam—like the more he kisses you the less restrained he remembers to be. 

“w- we… we should-” he sighs against the side of your face when your head tilts to press your lips to his cheek, chest rising and falling hard. 

“we should probably move,” he manages to get out on the third try, voice raspy and deep. his blue eyes have gone dark, half-lidded as he rests his forehead on yours, catching his breath.

he’s probably right. the chances of you getting walked in on are rising by the minute—you can only imagine the shit you’ll get if the team finds you and bob, equally flustered and dazed. 

but bob makes no move to get up, to peel you off from where you cling to him, just to make that long, cold walk to somewhere more private. you hold your breath, mentally debating if it’s worth it. 

bob licks his kiss-swollen lips, and the choice is made for you. 

your arms tighten around his neck, pressing impossibly closer as you capture his lips between yours. a knee goes between his, and presses dangerously close to where he’s starting to stiffen in his plaid christmas bottoms. 

bob’s head jerks back, curls jostling as he gasps. his  hands flying to your hips to pin you down before you can do any further damage to his already-crumbling restraint. 

you know you shouldn’t tease. you’ve only seen bob at his most vulnerable a handful of times, all in the comfort and safety of your rooms, locked away from the world. 

but he’s just so pretty, and when he makes sounds like that just from your leg, you can’t stop yourself from doing it again, and again, until he’s whimpering and reaching a hand down to hold back your leg. a little pointless, considering how his hips buck in search of more. 

“they- they’re going to come back,” bob chokes, lashes fluttering as he fights to keep his eyes open. white-knuckled fingers twitch against your thigh, “someone could see.”

and you’re about to argue otherwise, that they’re not about to just walk in the next second, but it’s like he’s summoned them with magic, or spoken it into existence. 

the elevator dings twice, announcing their imminent arrival. you have seconds before the team files into the room and finds bob borderline humping your thigh. 

bob yelps in alarm, his hold on you tightening in reflex as the ‘freeze’ part of his fight or flight instinct takes over. slapping at his hands, you climb out of his grip, launching yourself to the opposite end of the couch. 

when the team walks in, you’re on your phone scrolling haphazardly, glancing up in faux-annoyance when they mill about. you chew them out for being late, and bob is grateful for the distraction—nobody asks why his cheeks are so red, or why he’s more jittery than usual. 

by the time the lights are turned off and everyone is placated with snacks and a christmas movie, bob thinks he’s off the hook. but then you’re squeezing into the only seat left with an innocent smile—between him and bucky.

the super soldier side-eyes you when the movie ends and bob still has that damned pillow clutched over his lap. 

in the shower (spring) 

the water beating down against slick tiles does a halfway job of muffling the sounds coming from your bathroom. 

it hadn’t been your intention, when you’d agreed to help yelena train bob, to end up caged under him in the shower. 

you’d lingered in your doorway while yelena disappeared into hers, already wriggling out of her sweaty top. bob had come to a slow stop behind you, waiting for the telltale swoosh of the blonde’s door closing. 

there’s something about that post-exercise high, the rush of endorphins in bob’s system that makes him walk with his shoulders a little less curled and his gait steadier. his limbs are loose, and the slow blink he gives you while he leans against the doorframe makes you pause. 

it reminds you of when the sentry peeks through. makes you swallow, peering curiously at his eyes but no—only crystalline blue already staring back.  

his hair stuck to his forehead and a light sheen of sweat around along his throat—evidence of how much he’d pushed himself. thanks to the serum, it takes a lot for bob to work up a sweat these days. 

“’m gonna shower,” you say simply, and that was that. 

he’d followed you all the way into your room, set his things down next to yours and waited patiently until the water warmed to get his hands on you. 

he descends on you, big hands engulfing your cheeks, kissing you hard. it’s hungry, and your teeth bump a little, but when one hand trails down your slick skin to crook a thigh around his hip, you can’t help the breathless sigh into his mouth at the way he’s already hard and feverish against your inner thigh. 

“bob,” you cry out when he sucks at the spot behind your ear—the same time his hand on your thigh moves to cup your ass. his tongue swipes at your pulse point and your breath hitches on your words, “what’s got you all hot and bothered?”

“i- i don’t know,” he breathes against your skin, wet lips searing more than the hot water raining down on you. he manoeuvres your bodies out of the spray when he feels how hot your skin is getting. “just- just need to…” 

he trails off, mouth falling open on a low groan when your hips twitch, and the ruddy head of his cock brushes the junction of your thigh and pelvis. 

bob’s forehead presses to the cool tile beside you when you do it again, smearing precum against your thigh. 

“shit- need to feel you,” he pleads, hands finding purpose in kneading your tits. 

“how d’you want me?” you murmur, turning your head so the words fall on his parted lips. he watches in a daze as your hand slips between your heated bodies, fingers curling around the length of him. 

bob chokes on a breath, back caving in. he’s on the brink already—on edge from hours of sparring and watching you dance around him in your tight workout gear and a determined glint in your eyes. he sees the same one now, and he knows he won’t last long enough to be inside you. 

you squeeze, flicking a thumb over his slit to get his attention, and bob realises he’s been staring into space. 

bob may as well babble—incoherent as he tries to beg you to do literally anything to make the ache go away—anything you want. “- just want you.”

he seems to swell in your grasp when you coo at him, twisting your fist as you stroke him steadily. “oh, baby,” you give him a kiss he struggles to reciprocate, “wan’ me to take care of you?”

all the bravado from earlier washes down the drain. he’s whimpering low in his throat, nodding feverishly. “y- yes, please, oh- fuck.”

“okay, pretty boy, i’ll take care of you.”

he lets you push him, back to the wall. you’re slinking down his front, straight onto your knees. his cock rests under his belly, flushed all over and leaking like a faucet. 

“you did so well today,” you whisper and it’s almost drowned out by the water, “worked so hard.”

your lips press closed kisses up the side of him. when you take his tip into your warm mouth, bob has a flicker of genuine worry that he’ll pass out. he whimpers as you work more of him into your mouth, withdrawing only to pucker up and dribble down a glob of spit over his tip. 

“oh god,” he whines, head thrown back against the tile. wet hair clinging to his cheeks and neck, lashes clumped with water (or tears)—he looks so good and you make up your mind to make him cum in record time. 

he deserves it, you think. hadn’t protested once while you and yelena had demonstrated the 101 ways to throw a grown man down. (zero complaints when your thighs had clamped around his head and swung him down, legs locked at his throat.)

you can barely fit half of him in your mouth, so your hands come up to stroke in time with your hungry tongue. 

bob thinks he actually sees stars. there might be hearts floating above his head, because if he hadn’t known he was in love with you before, he definitely knows now, when you’re smiling up at him through your lashes. 

the warning heat in his belly ramps up to a boil when he feels your tongue swirling around his head. 

“honey, i’m- i think i’m gonna-” he manages to pant, chest heaving as his stomach tenses. a jolt of satisfaction courses through you, and you’re readying yourself for his end when there’s the world’s loudest knocking at your bathroom door. 

a drawn out call of your name. 

bob fights the desperate, pleading whine when your mouth pulls off of him at the last second. he stares down at you—deer in the headlights, when the urgent knocking continues. his hand flies to your hair, not pressing, but urging. 

his wide, panicked eyes find yours—the surprise is wearing off and now you’re just mildly annoyed. 

yelena’s on the other side, short blonde strands dripping onto the towel she clutches around her. 

“can i borrow some conditioner? i ran out!” she shouts to be heard over the water. 

your hand never leaves bob’s dick, wrapped loosely as you bite your lip in contemplation. “why can’t you use ava’s?” 

“yours smells better!” she reasons, fingernails tapping against the metal. 

your face scrunches, figuring it’ll be easier to just give her the damned thing than try to talk her out of coming in. 

so you look up at bob from between his legs, press your fingers to your lips even as his head shakes, mouthing a pitiful “please”. presses himself further into the wall like it’ll absorb him out of this utterly painful situation. 

“fine, but i’m in the shower,” you call out, hands fumbling for the offending bottle. you both hear it when the doorknob turns and her footsteps enter the steamy room. 

“don’t worry, i won’t look,” yelena mutters jokingly, approaching the shower curtain. to her credit, she does turn away before your hand pulls the curtain aside a little to pass her the conditioner. it’s good she did— would’ve caught a glimpse of dark hair and a muscled shoulder, otherwise. 

the whole time, bob is shaking with tension and throbbing in your palm. you want to put him out of his misery, but you also want to drag it out a little. so you give him a slow, firm stroke and he slaps a hand over his mouth. 

she thanks you for the conditioner, and you think that’s that, but her steps stop right before the door. 

“hey, bob’s been getting better, don’t you think?” yelena hums thoughtfully, “he’s a fast learner.”

you agree, muffling a giggle because she doesn’t know just how right she is. bob’s eyes narrow at your smirk, even worse when it spreads into a devilish grin. 

your fingers curl tighter around his cock, speeding up. his head shakes vehemently, squirming under you as quietly as he can. 

“he’s got good teachers,” you say, winking up at him when he gives up on trying to not thrust into your fist. he looks absolutely debauched like this, back arching off the wall as he chases your strokes. 

yelena cackles, “no kidding. should’ve seen his face when you did that widow move on him. i think he has a crush on you.”

you do laugh then, and you feel a little bad because bob’s breathing is getting faster and his hips more erratic. but you can’t help it when you ask, “really? what makes you say that?”

yelena hums like she knows something you don’t, ironically, and you can almost see her outline through the curtain as she waves a hand, “ah, we’ll open that can of worms another time. thanks again!” 

when the door clicks shut again, bob counts five seconds before he releases the neediest moan he’s ever heard himself make. it makes his cheeks go red because he’s a little embarrassed. 

but he’s peeking down at you and finds your eyes alight with arousal as you frantically tug at his swollen cock. “you did so good, baby. stayed so quiet,” you sigh, thumb gliding over his slit with every pass.

bob cries out, biting his lip at the coil in his tummy returning, sneaking up while he’d been so caught up in being quiet—being good, for you. 

“cum for me, sweet boy,” you tell him, lips brushing his tip as your head lowers, “wan’ it in my mouth.”

that’s it for him. his whimper pitches high, cracking in his throat. your mouth closes around him just as he twitches in your hand and then he’s spurting into your mouth in thick ropes that you swallow down with a soft moan. he can’t help the way his hips jerk, nudging his cock further into your mouth. you welcome it, even as your jaw aches.  

it takes over him, dragged out by your tongue and hollowed cheeks. he cums so much—a few drops leak down your chin from the corner of your lips.

bob watches in awe as you scoop up what you missed with your fingers, suck them clean with your mouth. it feels like a gut punch to watch. 

his hand flails, shutting the water off blindly. bob carries you out with ease, uncaring in the moment that he’s tracking water over your floor. 

he’ll apologise profusely later, but for now bob drops you onto the bed, and him onto his knees. your legs are thrown over his broad shoulders, and he proceeds to give you three more reasons for a real shower. 

when the ac breaks (summer)

it’s ridiculous, really. the notion that a place like the new avengers tower, worth billions, could suffer from the mundane struggle of a busted air conditioning system. 

smack in the middle of summer. 

the entire building had been given the day off, save for the poor souls residing on the residential floors. the seven of you, condemned to braving this heatwave in a bulletproof glass box. 

the one saving grace should have been the olympic sized pool on the training floors, but as luck would have it, it’s closed—scheduled to be cleaned sometime in the day. 

so you resolve to lying splayed out on bob’s floor, against the cool floor with the only mini hand-held fan oscillating between yours and bob’s sweaty bodies. 

you’d stripped down to your underwear, bob in his boxers. laying shoulder to shoulder, skin prickling from the heat. 

“how sure are we that we’re not in hell?” 

your head turns to the man next to you, reaching out to brush damp hair off his forehead. he laughs, and hopes you don’t notice when he makes sure the fan stays pointed at you longer. 

your eyes narrow when you do, nudging at his hand to turn it back to him, scolding him lightly because you don’t want him getting heat stroke. 

the heat makes everything feel hazy and your movements sluggish. 

you groan into the thick air, shifting on the ground in search of a cool spot. eyeing him suspiciously as he stays completely still—how other than the light sheen on his body and the flush in his cheeks, there aren’t any outward signs of suffering. “how are you so calm right now?”

bob shrugs, a lax hand arcs through the air. “i run warm. ‘m pretty used to it.”

you give him a pout that his eyes catch on. he wonders if he’d taste the salt on your skin if he kissed you now.

“no fair,” you mumble, head thrown back. the move exposes the line of your throat, the way it glistens with sweat. he licks his lips, tries so hard to stop himself from following the bead of sweat that tracks down your cleavage. 

bob distantly wonders how he’s still so affected, even after he had you writhing under him last night, just twelve hours ago. remembers how you’d dragged your nails down his back, raising welts between his shoulder blades as he had you pinned between him and the mattress. 

to answer your question, he thinks there is a chance he’s in hell. only because you’re inches away, in nothing but a bra and panties, skin shimmering in the afternoon light and he can’t do anything about it because it’s just so hot.

when you shift again, bob takes the risk and kisses you. makes sure to keep his torso hovering away from yours, only connected by your lips. 

you reciprocate, craning your neck up into him. his mouth is warm, but it’s a nice contrast to the stifling heat surrounding you. 

it’s muscle memory, reaching up to pull him closer. but your fingers slip against tacky skin, chests sticking together uncomfortably. bob retreats when he hears your low whine, squirming beneath him. 

“no no no- i want to keep going,” you say breathlessly, voice catching when the heat stings at the nape of your neck, “but ‘s too hot.”

bob can see when it gets overstimulating, your eyes watering with it. he scoots away, not too far but just enough to let the air flow easier around you. sets the mini fan next to you on the strongest setting and gathers your hair away from your neck. 

“hey, you’re okay,” he murmurs soothingly, “i know, it’s hot. d’you want me to get your water bottle?”

you shake your head, still pouting. you know you’re being a little melodramatic, but you can barely think straight, you’re bloated from drinking enough water to drown a dolphin and all you want is to cuddle with your boyfriend but you can’t. 

“what can i do, honey?” he hums, scooting closer to link your pinkies. he’s surprisingly level-headed about the whole thing, and it makes you wonder if this is really how he feels most of the time. then you feel bad for ever complaining about how cold he keeps his room. you’d much rather be huddling for warmth.

your voice is small, a little petulant—it’s embarrassing to be felled by a broken ac system. “can you… can you kiss me again?”

his heart skips at your shy question. so used to the tables being flipped that he feels a little zip down his spine at the opportunity to take care of you this time.

bob’s mind becomes one-tracked, the need to make all your troubles disappear and have you happy and sated taking over his thoughts. he tells himself he’ll make it all better (maybe even says it out loud.)

“lay back,” he tells you softly, nodding when you go down without a word. he dutifully adjusts the fan again, and then he’s appearing in your vision, blocking out the ceiling. 

bob hovers over you, in a push-up position so none of his body heat reaches you. he looks so big like this, his newfound strength apparent with how he holds himself in place without struggle. 

his hair curtains his face from this angle, and you reach up to tuck it behind his ear again. he has stars in his eyes when he peers down at you, still so pretty. 

“’s this better?” he asks, voice low and gentle.

when you nod, you’re smiling and looking like yourself again. who could’ve known all you needed was bob on top of you. 

he leans down, chest only just brushing yours this time as he kisses you deep. makes it a good one (he always does), but especially since you’d asked so sweetly. 

you forget why you were upset in the first place when his tongue slips over yours. it gets a little heated, ironically, but even then bob holds himself above you, never letting his hot skin touch you. 

you start to whimper for it, especially when you feel bob sporting a semi through his thin boxers, even from where he hovers. he’s about to bring himself to do something about it—ears burning a little when he thinks about maybe asking if you’d want him to take you from behind this time, reasoning that you’ll overheat less like that.

but then through the thick door, bob’s enhanced hearing picks up on heavy, thudding footsteps approaching. you don’t need crazy senses to hear walker calling bob’s name from down the hall. 

the pair of you freeze, your glassy eyes stuck on him. the breath catches in your chests when his voice grows louder. “bob! pool’s open—let’s go!”

he rolls off of you, barely sparing a second to adjust himself in his boxers before ushering you to the en-suite bathroom. 

“stay here,” he says, even when both of you know there’s nowhere else to go. “i’ll be right back.” 

bob steals one more kiss before he ducks out of the bathroom, shutting the door right behind him just as walker barrels into the bedroom. 

“wha- maybe knock next time?” bob runs a hand through his hair, standing on the opposite side of the room from the blonde super soldier who’s already got his trunks on. 

“what’s the point? not like you’re doing anything in here, anyway.” john reasons, shrugging with a hand on his hip. 

“right… pool’s open, you said?” bob tries changing the subject. 

“a few of us are heading down now. get changed, buddy, you look like you’re about to pass out.” 

bob purses his lips, and wonders briefly if you’re listening through the door. he hopes walker doesn’t ask why he’s standing so weird. 

“s-sure thing,” bob agrees, already turning around to look for the new pair of trunks he’d picked out with you the last time you’d gone out.

a high whistle rings out behind him, and the way it pierces the air makes bob freeze in his tracks. 

“damn, bob. you get in a fight?” 

bob’s confused, grasping for any idea of what john could mean when it hits him, and he whirls around before john gets more fuel for the teasing that awaits him now. 

his face is burning up, trunks clutched in his hands. he blinks rapidly, floundering as john watches with a smug grin. 

“good for you, man,” john says simply, and bob just knows he’s holding back for later, when he has everyone’s attention. 

“o- on second thought, i don’t- i don’t feel too good,” bob struggles, eyes frantically searching for a shirt, but the last time he had one on was hours ago. he can’t remember where he’d tossed it, because his brain turned to mush the second yours came off.

“oh, come on, there’s nothing to be ashamed of!” john waves, cracking a little as a laugh bubbles in his chest. “wear it with pride! means you did a good job.”

bob wishes the ground would open up and swallow him whole. he’s sure he’s in hell, when his door slides open and both yelena and ava step in, clad in swimsuits and towels slung over their shoulders. 

“guys, what is the holdup?” yelena demands, gesturing exasperatedly with her hands. 

“it’s like you want to get heat stroke.” ava snips, glaring at john, whose face is crimson from how hard he’s holding himself back. 

“bob’s been busy.”

the girls look at him questioningly, irate at being made to wait even longer as john waits for them to figure it out. 

bob squeaks, shaking his head when john declares to the room, “bob fucks!”

he is in hell, because the room falls silent as ava and yelena stare between the two men. bob scoots a little too far to the left and they catch a glimpse of his scratched up back in the full-body mirror behind him. 

their gasps fill the room, and yelena, at least, tries to cover it with a hand over her mouth. 

“go on, bob!” ava nods approvingly, breaking into a cackle as yelena nods her agreement, speechless. 

it makes bob cringe, mind darting through all the ideas of how to squirm out of this situation, because they’re all probably picturing him in their minds right now and it makes him want to curl up in a hall. 

“oh my god, who do you think it is?” ava gasps, slapping excitedly at john. he swats her hands away, but he’s wearing a shit-eating grin when he says your name, drawling, “obviously.”

ava’s jaw drops just as yelena elbows him hard enough to make walker wince. 

bob swallows back the protest in his throat, because he doesn’t trust his ability to lie right now. decides it might be easier to just let them think what they want. 

“whoever it is-“ yelena cuts off ava and john’s gabbing, “-is a very lucky person. clearly!”

they leave bob to change in peace, snickering the whole way to the elevator. when the bathroom door opens, you find his face in his hands, sighing in resignation. 

when his hands fall, there you are, trying to muffle a laugh, half-guilty but very amused. 

“i’m sorry, baby,” you coo, running your hands up his arms to his shoulders, “should’a told you to put on a shirt first.”

you enjoy yourself plenty, watching him stammer through the group’s interrogation by the pool while you act none-the-wiser. even sprinkling in a question or two. 

it’s not as funny later that night, when the ac is fixed and bob has you on your back before it can even kick in properly. 

it’s decidedly unfunny when you have to watch tutorials the next morning on how to cover up the purple-red splotches mapped down your throat, save for the one at your collar—bob asks you to leave that one bare. 

in the middle of it (autumn)

the team is onto you. 

it’s hard to miss the pointed looks exchanged over dinner when you and bob chat intently, in your own world, totally unbothered by their squabbling. 

or when the two of you coincidentally walk into the kitchen for breakfast together. sure, you bumped into him on your way down. 

it’s been almost a year with bob, and you’re still buried under the weight of pure love when he comes to you first about what’s bothering him, or when he wants you to cut his hair, or when he doesn’t even have to ask for your order when he gets takeout for just the two of you. 

sneaking around was fun at first, a harmless secret that protected the peace that only existed when you were together. every stolen kiss and lingering brush under the table sent shocks through your system. 

the longer it goes, the harder it is to leave him in the morning, slipping into your own room quietly on the off chance that someone might catch you tiptoeing out of his. 

when bob shuffles into the kitchen, eyes bleary and hair mussed from sleep, and you have to hold yourself back from peppering kisses all over his sleepy face—it makes you wonder why exactly you’re keeping it a secret. it’s not like the team would really give a shit, hell, they probably know. 

so you stop being careful. the mask starts to slip, and bob finds that he quite likes getting to hold your hand outside the confines of your rooms. 

the day it finally happens is one of those days, where you wake up in his arms, clutched to his chest like his personal teddy bear. his lips part on a soft snore, face smushed into the pillow.

you’re a little sweaty, trapped under the covers with the heat radiating off of your dead-asleep boyfriend, but you can’t bring yourself to peel away from him. 

it’s still early. the tower is silent—on the cusp of consciousness. 

as you try to recall what exactly woke you up, bob shifts behind you and—oh. bob moves again, still asleep, and this time there’s no mistaking what nudges at the back of your thigh. 

a hitch of a breath. you wait a beat, in time with your pulse, until you decide to push back experimentally. he’s still asleep, and you’re debating whether it’s worth waking him early. 

he’s thick in his pyjamas, insistent as he grinds into you again, notching between your ass cheeks. this time he lets out a low moan, the arm banded around your middle clamping down.

you’re entirely locked against him now, unable to move as bob’s hips continue their lazy rocking. you want so bad to let him sleep, but it’s getting uncomfortably hot and sticky between your legs. 

you think you could slip a hand down and take care of yourself quietly, but then your entire body jolts up the bed on one hard thrust. the mewl you’ve been biting back finally slips out. 

that’s what wakes him, in the end. when your hand flies to his forearm against your stomach, baby blue eyes flutter open and blink slowly in confusion. 

it hits him all at once—cock throbbing in his pants and your overheating body squirming in front of him and the little sounds escaping your mouth. his name. 

bob makes a puzzled sound, halfway to a moan when the fog clears. his arms loosen enough for you to turn around, facing him as his cock now pokes at your belly. 

“i’m sorry i woke you” you whisper through the clench in your core. bob shakes his head, still sleepy, dragging you into a slow kiss, the first of the day. 

“are you-” his hand slips between your bodies, resting at your navel until you nod. “fuck, you’re so wet already.”

he runs his long fingers through your folds, spreading the arousal he finds waiting for him there. brushes against your clit, and then you’re whining, tugging at his shoulders. 

“bob bob bob, please, i need you inside,” is all it takes for him to nod against your lips, wriggling out of his pants and lifting your thigh over his. 

he guides himself to your entrance, sliding in slow, like always. lets you adjust as he groans low at the feeling of your walls fluttering around him. 

when you tell him to move, he wastes no time in drawing his hips back, pushing in steadily. each time he does, a breathless moan is punched out of you, gripping him like a vice and sucking him back in. 

“s- shit, honey, you’re squeezing me so tight,” he stutters, a soft laugh turning breathless when you seem to clench down on purpose. “s’that feel good, honey? t- talk to me.”

he needs it. with this angle, he reaches so much deeper, his coarse hairs rubbing at your clit with each push forwards. it sets your insides alight, but there’s nowhere to run in this position. his fingers clamp down on your hip, dragging you along his cock. 

“f- fuck, you feel so good,” you cry, burying your face in his firm chest, “so- so deep like this. can feel all of you.”

your praise goes straight to his cock, twitching inside you on a whimper. he moves with purpose, aims for that spot he knows is there—the one that makes you cry his name. 

he knows when he’s found it, because you’re keening, high and sharp into the room. the stillness of the morning is shattered, taken over by the steady slapping of skin on skin, the squelching where bob pushes his thick cock into your leaking hole. 

“you’re so- so fucking wet, sweetheart. ‘s all for me?” he pants, voice raspy and thick with sleep. it scratches at your brain just right, makes you arch into his touch. 

his tip batters at that spongey spot just right, and he thinks he might need to cover your mouth or something. while he’s sure the team wouldn’t be opposed to your relationship, he’s not too sure about how they’d feel waking up to your repeated chants of his name.  

he shushes you with this mouth on yours, swallowing down all your wanton moans. “you’re gonna wake everyone,” he says against your lips, a little teasing. just this side of cocky, now that he has you falling apart on his dick first thing in the morning. 

your head shakes vehemently as you cling to him. “don’t care,” you say, breath catching when he rolls your clit in slow circles. “want ‘em to know-” your hips buck with a yelp when his touch grows firm, “-want them to hear how good you fuck me.” 

bob’s eyes roll back into his head, a shiver running down his spine. “cum for me then, baby, c’mon.”

his thrusts grow harsh, and you know he’s almost there when he bites down on your shoulder to stop the pathetic moan at how your wet walls choke him. 

he keeps working at your clit, pumping in and out of you in a way that’s fucking devastating. the heat simmering in your belly bubbles over, and you’re creaming all over his cock with a wrecked whine, bucking your hips to meet his. 

“loveyouloveyouloveyou,” he hears you mumble as you wade through your high, and it does him in to hear that word. it’s not the first time, but it always feels like it. 

his fingers squeeze your hips so hard they’ll bruise for sure, marring your skin shades of blue and purple that he’ll kiss better later.

when he cums, it’s with a drawn out moan, barely muffled by your skin as he presses his face to your neck. you can feel him pulsing as he paints your insides, squeezing just to draw out his pleasure. you don’t want the feeling of him filling you up to stop. 

“i love you, oh, god- love you, baby.”

too bad the moment is fucking stomped on all over, becoming bob’s most ruined orgasm when his bedroom door flies open, revealing a blond super soldier, suited up at 7 in the morning. 

“hey, have you seen-” 

it takes a second to register but when it does, bob is tugging the covers up and shielding your body with his. 

“holy shit.” john freezes in his tracks like he’s been slapped, piecing together the flash of your mortified face and the curve of bob’s bare ass. 

“get the fuck out!” you shout from under bob, whose mind has gone completely blank. not only because he’s been walked in on, butt naked by the most annoying of all super soldiers, but also because he can feel where his cum is leaking out of you onto the sheets. he pulls the covers tighter around your bodies, blushing bright red. 

“i knew it. i fucking knew it!” 

“gold star to you, walker! now can you leave, please? the briefing doesn’t start for another hour, you psycho.”

“god forbid we get breakfast before a day-long mission! it’s only the most important meal of the day!”

your eyes roll hard, staring up at bob, both of you doused in annoyance at how john is still in the room when bob is still in you. 

“bob, i’d offer you to join but i assume you’ve already eaten-” he’s cut off by your indignant yell, easily dodging the metal water bottle hurled at him. 

“alright, alright,” john huffs, turning heel with a shudder. 

when the door slides shut, bob meets your eyes with a sigh. you look up at him, helpless to stop the unhinged giggle when you process what just happened. 

“cat’s out of the bag?” you offer, whimpering a little when bob pulls out slowly. he shakes his head, huffing a laugh with his head in the crook of your neck. 

bob cleans you up diligently, and so, so softly. within the hour, he’s zipping up your tactical suit and waiting at the door so he can walk you out to the elevator. 

“are you gonna be okay fending for yourself while i’m gone? they’re going to have questions,” you tease, raising on your tiptoes loop your arms around bob’s neck. 

he smile is small but it’s real and stays even after you kiss him goodbye. 

“Uh, y-yeah sure,” Adam stumbles over his words, his brain completely short-circuiting as his voice cracks with need. He lifts his hips up off the driver’s seat and his large hands come down to help you tug both his jeans and his boxers down to his thighs. He lets out a shaky breath as he’s freed into the cool air of the car, completely exposed to you.

Before he can even process the view, you pool a bit of saliva into your palm, coating your hand before wrapping your fingers firmly around his cock. After giving it a few languid pumps, you eagerly take him into your mouth.

Adam lets out a shaky breath, his eyes blown wide as he watches you work at his cock in absolute awe.

His hands hover awkwardly in the air, twitching with the urge to touch you but unsure where to land in the tight space.

As he finally relaxes into it, he settles a hand on the back of your head, his thick fingers tangling in your hair just to ground himself.

Adam’s head hits the headrest with a heavy thud, a wrecked groan ripping from his throat the second you hollow your cheeks and sink down to the base.

“That’s- that’s really good,” he sighs. You let out a small laugh, sending a sudden vibration straight through him. His hips involuntarily buck up into your mouth and you gag on the sudden intrusion, the sharp sound instantly snapping him out of his daze.

“Oops, s-sorry,” he blurts out immediately, his eyes flying open as he tries to pull back a bit, completely flustered and worried he hurt you.

You can tell he’s getting closer by the way his thighs tense and his fingers tighten in your hair. You release his cock with a wet pop! and quickly replace your lips with your hand to bring him closer. Before he can even register the change, you press your lips to his, catching him in a sloppy kiss.

As he finally boils over, his hand slides down to cover yours, pressing your fingers tight against his skin to help you pump his cock. Adam completely melts into it, his body shuddering under you.

He spills all over your hand, a muffled, needy whine catching in the back of his throat as he pumps helplessly against your fingers, pouring himself out against your palm while you swallow down every last sound he makes.

“Hey, can you pay attention to me? M’asking you a question!” Your voice is chiding in the same  bratty way it always is, insistent and only a tiny bit whiny. Usually it makes Adam’s heart (and  cock) swell, but right now he just thinks it’s unfair; he knows you don’t actually expect him to  answer, just wanting to see how much you undo him.  

“I’m trying, princess, I am, you’re just — ah — “ He has to break his words off into a deep  groan, hips bucking up through your hand in response to you beginning to stroke. “ — you’re  too good, baby, I dunno if I can — fuck — handle it. “  

All this does is elicit a giggle of evil and malice from you, and any thought that his pleads would  make you go easier on him disappear in a resigned haze of pleasure. So he nods, though he  still can’t make himself look at you.  

“ ‘Course you can handle it, you’re my big strong boyfriend — it feels good, yeah? You’re  throbbing. ” Your sweet voice saying such vulgar things pulls another groan from him, sweat  beading his skin with how hard it is to keep from using your hand (and you) however he  pleases. It’s like every muscle is straining under you and it’s becoming addicting. He finds his  rhythm like this, enjoying the push and pull and your little coos of affirmation through it all. 

You stay like this for a while, hand pumping up and down in time with his thrusts. Your panties  are ruined by this point, the sight of him above you like this making you leak. He’s so beautiful,  thin sheen of sweat glistening on rippling muscles, thick cock shiny and heavy in your grasp,  veins throbbing so deliciously you have to stop yourself from licking up the length of them.  He’s perfect, you think, face flushed the same deep pink as his cock, lips open in what seems  like a constant groan. His noises spur you on, every “Fuck” and “My perfect girl” that fall from  his lips only making you need more.  

You’ve always thought he was perfect — You’ve never met a guy who fucks like Adam, so  focused on making you feel good with the blessing he’s given, eagerly vocal to show you how  you make him feel on top of that. It’s addicting, much in the same way you are to him. It feels  filthy, sometimes, how much you need each other, and the way he’s thrusting up into you —  slow, insistent, deep — makes you so horny you could cry. How on earth is it gonna feel when  he’s inside? You’re not sure you could handle it, if your bark could match your bite. You wonder  if he’d be as gentle as he always try to be, if he’d fight against what he really needs in an effort  to hold back for you. You hope he won’t; you might just keep pushing until he stops.  

Adam’s just mustered up the courage to lift his head and open glazed brown eyes to look down  at you, but he’s surprised to see you already eyeing him, drinking in every reaction he gives.  His cock twitches in your hand and you giggle again, but this time it feels less … mean. You’re  all starry-eyed, cockdrunk just from touching him. He feels both objectified and deified, and it  makes him ache. 

And then your eyes lock onto his as you lean forward to give a soft kitten lick to his tip, and he  loses his grip.  

Warmth floods your sensations, thick ropes shooting across your face and your chest and your  hand accompanied by an almost guttural groan. You stroke him through it, intent on milking  everything out, little wondrous whimpers of “Oh wow” and “There’s so much…” prolonging it  more than he even thought was possible.  

By the time he’s done Adam’s hips are twitching, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath  — you’re still eyeing him like you want to eat him, but when he feels your hands leave his cock  he thinks he might be safe.  

Will he ever learn? 

“S-sweet girl, thank you, that was so — fuuuuuck. “ He watches you lean forward to lick off some of his cum that had pooled across his abdomen, tongue sliding into the divots of his abs.  He’s shaking again, and the sweet, smiley, almost dopey look you give him as you do makes  something snap in his brain.  

You don’t process that you’re moving until you’re already in the air, legs dangling as he picks  you up; you let out a loud squeal as he throws you onto the bed, the high-pitched “Adam!”  doing little more than make his still-hard cock jump again. You forget that your boyfriend Adam,  also known as the boundlessly powerful He-Man, has very little refractory period. Dangerously  little.  

His eyes are just a bit darker when he throws you down onto the bed, and you’re sure you’re  going to hear about this later ( ‘Did I hurt you?’ ‘Are you okay?’ ‘Was I being too rough?’ ), but  you don’t care. Right now, you feel like how you imagine some of the unluckier Eternia villains  do, basking in the light of the Power of Grayskull.  

“What are you going to do to me?” It would sound awful if you weren’t so obviously turned on,  watching him come to hover over you with a practically giddy smile.  

He can’t help the matching grin he sports while looming over you, hips thrusting softly to come  under your skirt and run his thick cock through your folds, head catching your clit and making  you gasp. No underwear. Dirty.  

“Whatever I fucking want to.” He breathes it into you, lips brushing yours at the same time his  cock breaches your cunt and every muscle in your body contracts to arch your back up.  Maybe it won’t fit.  

But it was a good kind of tired. The kind that came from working for someone who actually wanted to make a change, someone who definitely made the long hours feel worthwhile… someone who made your heart do ridiculous little flips every time he smiled at you.

You shook your head, trying to banish the image of Bucky's soft blue eyes and the way his voice dropped to that low, warm register when he spoke to you after everyone else had gone home. It was hopeless, really. You'd had a crush on him for months now, ever since you started working for him. You convinced yourself it was just professional admiration, but late nights alone in the office had a way of making feelings impossible to ignore.

You padded into your small kitchen, filling the kettle for tea. Your apartment was cozy, filled with mismatched furniture and stacks of books, but your favorite thing was the vintage radio sitting on the windowsill. It had been your grandfather's and you've grown up listening to it with him, learning to love the crackle and hiss, the way the music seemed to surprise you with every new song.

You reached over and turned the dial, letting the familiar static fill your quiet apartment. It was your nightly ritual, a small comfort after long days. You hummed along as a commercial for a local diner played, then another for a car dealership.

You were about to head to the bathroom to change when the smooth voice of the DJ, Frankie, cut through the air.

"Alright, folks, we've got a very special dedication coming up tonight. I'm telling you, this one's a real old-school romance, the kind that will make you believe in love letters and slow dances."

You paused, a smile tugging at your lips. You loved dedications. There was something so wonderfully old-fashioned about them, so personal in an increasingly impersonal world.

The crackle of a record filled the air, and then the voice of Louis Armstrong began to sing. You recognized it immediately, your breath catching in your throat.

"I'm confessing that I love you, babe.

Tell me, do you love me too?"

It was your favorite song. The one your grandfather used to play on Sunday mornings, the one you'd secretly always imagined a future love might dedicate to you someday.

You leaned against the kitchen counter, closing your eyes and letting the music wash over you. The saxophone, the gentle piano, Louis' velvet voice wrapping around every word like a warm embrace.

"Am I guessing that you love me? Mm Dreaming dreams of you in vain? Oh I'm confessing that I love you over again."

The song faded out, and you sighed ready to head to the bathroom. But then Frankie's voice returned.

"That was the one and only Louis Armstrong, a classic for a classic request. And that request came from a gentleman who wanted to send a little message to a very special lady."

Your heart skipped. You didn't know why, it was just a dedication, probably for someone else entirely.

"He says," Frankie continued, clearing his throat. "To my favorite person, who stays late, works hard and has a smile that makes the long nights a little shorter. This one's for you. Hope you like it as much as I do. And signs as J.B."

Your knees felt weak, and you had to grab the counter to steady yourself.

No. It couldn't be.

Your favorite song? A message signed with "J.B."?

Your mind raced, flashing through every late night in the office, every time Bucky had brought you coffee, every lingering glance, every soft smile. The way he always asked about your day, the way he remembered little details you've mentioned weeks ago. The way he told you to call him Bucky when it was just the two of you, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room.

Your phone buzzed on the counter, the screen lighting up. The name on your screen made your heart stutter.

Congressman Barnes.

You answered on the second ring, your voice was barely a whisper. "Hello?"

"Hey." His voice was that same low, warm rumble you heard every day, but there was something different now. "By any chance, were you listening to the radio?"

You could hear the nervousness in his voice and it made your chest ache in the most wonderful way.

"I… yes," you breathed, sinking onto your small couch. "Bucky, that was… did you really…"

"Did I really dedicate a song to you on the radio?" he finished, a soft laugh escaping him. "Yeah, yeah, I did."

"But how did you… how did you know it was my favorite song? How did you even know I listen to that station?"

"I pay attention," he said simply. "I pay attention to you, I notice the little things, like the way you hum along when you think no one's listening, or how you always turn on your radio when you think I'm not watching. I notice everything about you."

You felt tears prick at your eyes, hot and unexpected. "Bucky…"

"Look, I know it's old-fashioned," he continued, and you could picture him running his hand through his hair, a nervous habit you've noticed a hundred times. "I know I should've just said something in person, but… I wanted to do it right, and make it special. You deserve special."

"It is special," you whispered. "It's the most special thing anyone's ever done for me."

"Really?"

"Really." You laughed, a wet happy sound. "You dedicated my favorite song to me on the radio. That's… that's like something out of a movie."

"Good." You could hear the smile in his voice now. "Because I meant every word of it, you know. Every single word."

There was a pause, and you could hear him take a breath.

"So," he said softly, "did you like the song?"

You smiled, curling up on your couch, the radio still playing softly in the background. "I loved it," you admitted. "But I think I loved the message even more."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

There was another pause. Then, "Can I see you? I mean, not right now, it's late, but… tomorrow? Maybe for coffee? Or dinner? Whatever you want, I just…"

"I'd love that," you interrupted, your heart soaring. "I'd love to see you. I'd love to do anything with you."

You heard him exhale, a breath of pure relief. "Good. That's… real good."

You talked for another hour, the conversation flowing easily, filled with soft laughter. When you finally hung up, your cheeks hurt from smiling, and your heart felt so full it might burst.

You lay back on your couch, listening to the radio, and let yourself daydream about the next day. About Bucky and the beautiful thing that was finally beginning… and somewhere across the city, Bucky was doing the exact same thing, a smile on his face that hadn't been there in years.

Your family doesn't mean to hurt you. They just do.

It's the same every reunion, somebody's hand landing warm on your shoulder. When are you going to bring someone for us to meet? Are you ever gonna get married? That boat's sailed, hon. You missed your shot.

And their newest addition, just now: So, when's your turn? We really thought you'd be the next one walking down the aisle.

You're in your thirties now. Two cats, an apartment that's exactly how you want it, and you learned a long time ago to deflect, to laugh, to change the subject before anyone got too invested in your answer.

But those words stung.

Because god knows you've tried dating. You wanted the thing everyone kept asking you about, but you couldn't seem to hold onto it. Somewhere along the way you accepted that maybe you weren't meant to, just like the cards said once.

When the answer your cards gave you wasn't good enough, you tried something else: the oracle, rune-casting, pendulum, palmistry. You even ran the extra mile and paid someone to read your matrix destiny, but the answer remained the same: Not for you.

Apparently, the person meant for you was born over a hundred years ago, it wasn't meant to be in this life. Or at least, that's what the woman interpreted for you, it wasn't your line of work, but that night you pulled the cards alone and they confirmed it.

Your mom leans over, snapping you out of your thoughts. "They want you to say something."

You already knew this, you prepared days ago sitting in your apartment with your cats. You wrote and rewrote on your phone, trying to keep your words light and genuine.

"I've known Sarah since we were kids," you say. "She was always the one who knew exactly what she wanted. Not confused like the rest of us, not second-guessing. She just knew."

You can see her smiling, David's hand rest on her shoulder. You take a breath, your eyes are swelling with tears, but that's fine. That's normal at weddings.

"Sarah, David… you deserve each other, and you deserve the whole beautiful future you're about to have together. I hope you know how lucky you are, how blessed you are." Your voice wavers just slightly on that word. "Not everyone gets this, not everyone finds someone who loves them the way you love each other."

You're looking at Sarah and you mean every single word, even though it's cutting into you.

You raise your glass, trying to keep your hand steady despite the awful feeling sitting on your stomach. "To Sarah and David, and the future you deserve."

Later, when you're home at the outskirts of the city, with your cats curled on either side of you, you let yourself cry. Not angry tears, just the deep kind that come from watching someone else get the thing you've accepted you never will.

You think about the cards, about the woman who read your destiny and the words that have chased you since you were seventeen: The person meant for you was born out of time.

And your cousin's husband was born exactly at the right moment, in the right place, in the right life.

You're happy for her, you really are.

You're just so tired of helping everyone else find the life the cards promised would never belong to you.

The fair comes to the edge of your small town every spring, and you've been here for three years now. Your shop is small—just enough room for a folding table, two chairs, and the cards that you've been reading since you've been a teenager and decided to expand the gift you've inherited from your great grandmother.

The bell above the shop door chimes on a slow afternoon, and you look up from the velvet cloth you're arranging to find a couple standing in the doorway. The woman sees your altar in the corner, the crystals and the candles and her face lights up.

"Oh, this is perfect," she says, turning to him. "See? I told you we'd find someone authentic."

The man—dark hair, broad-shouldered, pierced-blue eyes and a very defined jawline— gives you a polite, slightly uncomfortable smile.

"Hey," he says. "She's been talking about you for weeks."

"Come in," you say, standing. You wipe your hands on your skirt. "Welcome to The Velvet Oracle, do you have an appointment?"

"I called yesterday," the woman says, stepping forward, hand extended. "I'm Hazel, this is Bucky. I want a couple's reading, we've been dating for four months and I just thought, you know, let's see what the future holds for us."

You gesture to the chairs across from you. "Sit, let's see what the cards have to say."

Hazel settles in, leans forward eagerly. Bucky sits back with his arms crossed. You don't let yourself look at him too long, because every time you do it you feel your stomach dropping, like when you miss a step in the dark.

You shuffle the deck, the familiar worn edges of the cards grounding you against your palms.

"Alright," you start. "For a couple's reading, I usually pull a few cards for each person individually, and then we'll look at the relationship as a whole. Sound good?"

Hazel nods enthusiastically, but Bucky's expression is somewhere between polite discomfort and outright skepticism.

"I gotta be honest," he says, glancing around the tent at the crystals and candles, "this isn't really my thing."

"I know, baby, but it'll be fun." Hazel tugs at his sleeve until he relents, uncrossing his arms. "Just let her do the reading, okay? For me."

He doesn't look convinced, but he nods and his expression softens for her. You don't know why, but that somehow makes you wanna cry.

You focus on Hazel, spreading the deck in a smooth arc across the velvet. "Go ahead and pull three cards when you're ready."

She leans forward, her fingers hovering dramatically before selecting. The first card makes you nod slowly—the Ace of Pentacles. A seed planted in rich soil. The second is the Empress, all abundance and growth. The third one is the World.

"Completion, fulfillment, a cycle coming to a close in the best possible way."

Hazel beams. "That's good, right?"

"Very good," you gesture at the Ace of Pentacles. "Pentacles are earth energy—practical, grounded, built to last. This is a new beginning with a solid foundation. The Empress suggests growth and nurturing, maybe even family, and the World is a major arcana card of fulfillment. Whatever you're building toward, the universe is supporting it."

"I'm a Taurus!" Hazel claps her hand together. "That's an earth sign. This is so accurate, oh my god! Earth energy for an earth sign, that has to mean something."

"It suggests alignment," you say carefully, because you've learned not to over-promise."The path you're on has stability written into it."

Hazel turns to Bucky with bright eyes. "See? I told you she was the real deal."

Bucky shifts in his chair, unmoved. "Great, so what about the rest of it?"

"Your turn," you say, trying to keep your voice light. "Three cards, same as before."

He looks at the deck like it might bite him. "I don't really believe in this stuff."

"It's just cards," you say. "They only have the power you give them."

Something shifts in his expression—not quite interest, but maybe a grudging willingness. Hazel nudges him with her elbow. "Just do it, Bucky. For me."

He sighs, leans forward and taps three cards with a soldier's precision. One, two, three. No hesitation, like he wants it over with.

You turn the first card: The Lovers.

Your breath catches. You force yourself to keep your expression neutral, but your fingers have gone cold against the velvet.

"The Lovers," you say, and your voice comes out steady, despite the static in your ears. "This card is about significant choices. A crossroad in a relationship or a deep connection that requires a decision."

Hazel practically squeals with excitement. "That's us! A deep connection!"

Bucky doesn't react. His eyes are on the card, but his face gives nothing away.

You turn the second card. The High Priestess.

The card you've pulled for yourself more times than you can count since you were seventeen. Intuition. The veil between worlds. The woman in the card stares at you from the table, and for a disorienting second you swear the woman on the card has your eyes.

"The High Priestess represents hidden knowledge," you manage. "Things beneath the surface, secrets, intuition… the parts of ourselves we don't fully understand yet."

"What does that have to do with Bucky?" Hazel asks, frowning slightly.

"I'm not sure yet," you lie, because you're suddenly horribly sure of exactly what's happening, and you want to sweep the cards off the table and pretend you never touched them.

You flip the third card with a trembling hand. The Ace of Cups.

The card of new love, emotional awakening. The beginning of something that fills the heart. It's the same card that you've always pulled up reversed for yourself every single time you ask the universe if there's anyone out there for you.

Now here it is, on his spread… along with your arcana.

"A new emotional beginning," you say after a moment of silence. "The Ace of Cups is the start of something in matters of the heart. It's a very powerful, personal card."

Hazel turns to Bucky, her earlier enthusiasm dimming. "Is that about us? Wait— water and earth complement each other, right? Bucky's a Pisces, that's a water sign, I'm earth. That's good isn't it? They balance."

"Water and earth can be very nurturing together," you say, because it's true, even if the cards aren't saying that. "But these cards feel more like a personal message for Bucky, something individual, not necessarily about the relationship."

You don't remember what you say after that. Something about water signs and intuition, something about the cards reflecting individual journeys within partnerships. You're very good at small talk, at telling people something they might want to hear while the cards tell you something else entirely.

Hazel pays you in cash, and she leaves with her hand tucked into Bucky's elbow, already chattering about dinner reservations. He lingers in the doorway for half a second, looking back at you with an expression you can't read. Then the bell chimes, and they're gone.

You sit in silence for a long time, staring at the three cards, still laid out on the velvet. You gather them up with shaking hands and slip them back into the deck, but you can feel them there, warm against the others, like embers buried in ash.

That night, you pull your own cards for the first time in months. You stopped asking about love a year ago, because the answer never changed—the reversed Ace of Cups, Ten of Swords, the Tower. But tonight, you need to know if you imagined it, if the shop was too warm, if you simply wanted something so badly your mind bent the cards to fit.

You shuffle the deck until your fingers ache and cut the deck three times before pulling: The Lovers. The High Priestess. The Ace of Cups.

Exactly the same spread from earlier.

You throw the deck across your kitchen table and watch the cards scatter like birds. You don't read them, you don't need to.

The dreams start three nights later.

You're in the shop, but once you pay enough attention you realize it's not your shop—it's larger, older, with windows that look out onto a street you've never seen, snow falling in thick, silent curtains. Bucky is there, sitting across from you, but he's different. Younger, somehow, though you can't explain how you know that. He's smiling at you, and he reaches across the table to take your hand.

You wake up gasping, your sheets are twisted around your legs, your heart hammering against your ribs.

The second time you dream of him, you're dancing. You're not able to see if it's anywhere specific. It's a dark room, there is music playing from somewhere distant, his hand on your waist, his cheek pressed against your temple. He smells like cedar and leather. You can feel the calluses on his fingers through the fabric of your dress. When you wake up, you can still feel them.

You start drinking chamomile tea before bed. You burn sage. You place an amethyst under your pillow and a black tourmaline at your door, but nothing works. The dreams continue, threading themselves through your sleep like a second life you're living in parallel, and in every single one, he seems like the answer to a question you've been asking for a very long time.

You don't tell anyone. Who would believe you? What would you even tell them? I had a tarot reading go wrong and now I'm psychically stalking my client's boyfriend in my dreams. You'd sound insane. Worse, you'd sound desperate.

You don't hear from Hazel or him again. You tell yourself it's a good thing. You tell yourself the dreams will fade, that the thread between you dissolves with distance and time… except they don't fade, they get worse.

In your dreams you're now in Brooklyn, walking down streets lined with brownstones, and he's beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. He's telling you about his day, about his past, and you listen until his words start to fade. When you wake up, you can smell his cologne in the air.

You start taking walks in the afternoon, though you don't know why. You pull your cards again, desperate for something—anything—to change.

The Tower. The Star. The World.

Disaster, then hope, then completion. The cycle you've been trapped in for years, except this time the Tower doesn't feel like another heartbreak waiting to happen. It feels like change—the kind you can't stop even if you wanted to.

You don't sleep that night. You sit on your kitchen floor with your cats weaving between your legs, and you rearrange the cards in every configuration you know: Celtic cross, three card spread, relationship spread, past-present-future. Every single time, the same arc emerges: something is ending, something is beginning. And whatever comes next will leave you irrevocably changed.

Your aunt Margaret—Maggie, as you've called her since you were little—tells the family that she has broken her hip on the cellar stairs, that the surgery went fine, but she doesn't want a nurse or a help aide. She wants someone from the family who can come stay with her or she'll manage alone.

The call gets passed down through the entire family, but nobody offers to go take care of her. Your cousins have husbands, kids, mortgages, school pickups… Meanwhile, you have two cats and a tarot shop you can shutter for a season, and nobody says it out loud, but everybody means it: you're the one with nothing to leave behind.

You arrive on a Tuesday with your two cat carriers, three suitcases and the deck wrapped in a scarf at the bottom of your tote. Maggie is waiting in the front room of the brownstone, sat in a wingback chair with a cane across her knees.

"There she is, I knew you would come," she says. "Come kiss me."

You oblige before setting the carriers on the floor and opening them to let your cats wander around and recognize the place you'd be staying for a few weeks.

"I got two rules," Maggie starts, taking off her reading glasses. "The thermostat stays where I put it, and no cards in my house."

"Maggie—"

"I know what you carry around, I have enough ghosts in this old apartment, so there's no way I'm letting you welcome more through…that."

"They're just cards."

"Then it won't kill you to leave them in the bag," she settles back into the chair and picks her crossword up off the side table, and that is the end of it. "The kettle's on, you can take the room at the top of the stairs."

You know arguing with her would be useless, so you go and install yourself in that cramped old room and decide you'll read when she's asleep.

It becomes a ritual within the first week: you wait for the apartment to go quiet, wait for her snoring to even out and you sit at the kitchen table with the deck and a single candle as if you were a teenager sneaking cigarettes. Your cats take turns supervising from the counter, but you keep one ear on the ceiling the whole time, just in case.

Every single time, the same cards you pull at your shop with Bucky keep coming.

The Lovers. The High Priestess. The Ace of Cups.

The dreams don't fade with the distance from home, they sharpen. Now the businesses have names, because you've walked past it every time you go run errands for your aunt Maggie. The stoop where he sat beside you, close enough that your shoulders touched, you know it. You've seen the exact iron railing, three blocks east. In one dream he laughs at something, and you wake up missing something you haven't even seen in real life.

You try to build a reasonable conclusion: You've been here previously, you know this neighborhood. You just did one reading to a ridiculous handsome man eight months ago and your lonely, overworked brain latched on, and now it's trying to dress a crush in destiny because it's something you've been trying to change your whole life. That's all this is. A simple crush and a reader's block. It happens sometimes to some people, right?

At least that's what Reddit said last time you checked.

You've almost convinced yourself by the third Saturday in October, which is when you see him at the green market, standing at a fruit stall with a paper bag in one gloved hand. You stop so fast a woman with a stroller clips your heel.

Eight months and four hundred miles, and he's right here, wearing a canvas jacket with his hair shorter than you remember, frowning at the fruit, and your first coherent thought is run, but your feet are refusing to move.

He must've felt your eyes on him, because he looks up.

"You," he says it flat.

"Hi," your voice comes out steadier than you expect, and you silently thank god, the universe and every existent deity. "Bucky, right?"

He crosses the few feet between you, and up close you notice a tension in him that you don't remember from the shop. "What are you doing here?"

"Buying some groceries." You lift the bag as evidence. "I'm here taking care of my aunt and—"

"Right, so now your aunt happens to live here. Funny."

"You can come with me and check if you don't believe me," the bite gets into your voice before you can stop it. "Is there a problem?"

He laughs once, but there's no humor in it. "Is there a problem, you ask? Why don't you pull your cards and figure it out?"

"Okay—"

"Hazel broke up with me," he watches your face while he says it. "Three weeks after that reading, you want to know why?"

The market noise keeps going around you, crates and gulls and a vendor calling out prices, but everything is reducing to background noise while you feel the cold coming up from through your boots.

"She couldn't let it go," he continues. "You said something about a new beginning, some big personal message and she turned it over until there was nothing left. Every conversation we had circled back to it, who is she? When did it start? The cards don't lie. Four months, gone, because you laid out three stupid pieces of laminated paper and made it sound like some stupid prophecy."

"That isn't what I said— "

"Well, it's what she heard."

"I told her those cards were about you, individually. I was careful—"

"You were vague," he says, "which is the whole trick, isn't it? Say something soft enough to fit any shape, take the cash, let people destroy themselves filling in the blanks… there's a word for that." He shifts the bag of groceries to his other hand. "You're a fraud. The polite version is intuitive, a fraud with esoteric words."

You should let it go. He's a stranger, he's grieving a relationship, the market is crowded and you have other things to do, but you don't let it go.

"I didn't make those cards come up." You step in instead of back, and something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, that you didn't fold. "I shuffled, you pulled three cards, it was your own hands, no hesitation. I read what was on the table and I softened it more than I should have, for her sake. What she did with it afterward isn't mine to carry, and neither is what you do with it."

A muscle moves in his jaw. For a second neither of you says anything, and you notice—stupidly, uselessly—that his eyes are exactly the color they are in your dreams.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry about Hazel."

"Yeah, you sure do." He steps around you. "Enjoy Brooklyn and stay the hell away from me."

You stand there with your own groceries until your hands stop shaking.

That night you don't pull cards. You lie awake instead, replaying it, building better arguments hours too late, and when you finally sleep, he's there—sitting across a kitchen table that doesn't exist, pushing a cup of coffee toward you, smiling at you the way he has never smiled once in real life.

You wake up furious at your own mind.

The radiator in the front room dies the last week of October, the same week the temperature does.

You find Maggie in her wingback with a blanket over her knees and the phone already against her ear. "It's the front one again," she's saying. "It clanks like the devil and gives nothing… No, don't be silly, after lunch is fine. You'll eat here anyway." She hangs up before whoever it is can argue.

"I could've called someone," you say. "There's a service the pharmacy recommends—"

"A service?" She huffs a laugh, like you've said something completely irrational. "I have James, he does the whole block—the Russo's gutters, Mrs. Ferreira's stairs… he won't take a dime, but I tuck it in his jacket when he isn't looking."

"James," you repeat.

"You'll like him," she says, returning to her crossword. "He's a serious boy, it's good with hands, single…"

The doorbell rings at one. You open the door and there he is, on your aunt's stoop, a tool bag over his shoulder, and you watch the exact moment his face goes through the market all over again.

"You gotta be shitting me," he mutters.

"Yeah, well, I'm not excited either, but I told you I was taking care of my aunt."

From the front room, your aunt's voice: "James! Don't let the heat out, it's the one radiator still working in here!"

You look at each other and there's a long moment where you genuinely cannot tell whether he's going to turn around and walk back down the steps, and then he exhales through his nose and crosses the threshold, being painfully obvious at avoiding brushing your shoulder in the narrow hall.

What follows is the strangest two hours of your autumn. Because the man at the market and the shop doesn't appear. With your aunt, he's somebody else entirely—patient, dry, gentle in an odd way for the way he's treated you. He kneels on the floor and bleeds the radiator and lets her direct him with her cane without complaining. Asks about her hip, and actually listens to the answer.

You stay in the kitchen, mostly. You make the coffee she orders you to make and when you bring it in, Nova—the bolder of your two cats—has installed herself on the tool bag, paws tucked underneath him, supervising, and for your surprise, Bucky is working around her rather than moving her.

He glances up when you set the cup down near him, just out of his way.

"Thanks," it's dry, but it's not nothing.

"You take your coffee black, right?" you say, and then bite your own tongue off, because you don't know that. You've been dreaming of that.

He pauses with the wrench mid-turn. "Lucky guess."

"Well, you look like a man who likes to keep it simple." You say it lightly and walk away before your face can do anything stupid, and behind you, Maggie says something about you reading people, and then you hear the small clank of metal as something in his hands slips.

He doesn't stay to eat, despite your aunt's best efforts. At the door, shrugging the tool bag back up, he stops with his hand on the frame. He doesn't quite look at you.

"Her hip," he murmurs. "If she needs anything lifted, or any errands to run, whatever… Maggie has my number."

"Okay."

"For her," he clarifies.

"I understood you the first time," you say sweetly and shut the door on whatever his face does next.

In the front room, Maggie has watched this entire exchange over her glasses.

"You didn't tell me you know James."

"Barely."

"Mm." She picks up her pen. "It seemed like more than barely to me. But if that's how you treat men no wonder why you're still single."

You gasped audibly and she winked an eye at you before going back to her crossword.

You start running into him in an almost daily basis. The neighborhood is small—twenty thousand people and somehow the same six faces every single day— and now that you know he's in it, he's everywhere. Outside the hardware store with a length of pipe over his shoulder. At the pharmacy counter, when you go pick up Maggie's medications and he's talking to an Asian man. Across the green market, where you both pretend with great commitment that the other one is invisible.

But there's no real conversation until now.

You've misjudged the sky and the distance, so you're hauling two grocery bags and a sack of cat litter up Pierrepont when the cold drizzle turns serious. You stop under sycamore to redistribute everything you're carrying, water running off the end of your nose, and a shadow falls over you. You lift your gaze and he's there, hood up, his hand already out reaching for you.

"What? Your cards didn't tell you there would be a storm?"

"Ha-ha. Very funny."

"Give me the litter."

"I've got it."

"You're going to put your shoulder out being stubborn. I said give me the damn litter."

You could protest, but you know it's pointless to fight with him, so you give him the litter and walk the last two blocks side by side without speaking, rain hissing on the pavement, his boots and your boots out of step.

He sets the sack on the second stair of your aunt's gate, but he doesn't leave immediately.

"At the market," he murmurs, to the gate rather than to you. "When I— when I said those things to you… I was out of line."

"You were rude."

"I was out of line," he repeats.

"You called me a fraud, and you said my intuition was exactly that, a fraud with esoteric words."

"Well, if you were so intuitive, wouldn't you have known about the rain?" It takes you a second to hear it, the dry shift under the flat delivery, and you laugh before you decide to. He looks surprised, like he wasn't expecting the sound either.

"Go home, Bucky," you say. "You'll catch a cold."

"Is that a prediction?"

You rolled your eyes. "There's no need for that, it's logical."

"Tell Maggie I left the wrench in the bin by the door… for the sink." He's already turning. "Don't let her do the sink herself, she'll try."

"I know my aunt."

"Then you know she'll try." And he's gone into the rain, shoulders up, and you stand at the gate watching him go for longer than you should.

That night you dream of him again, except the dream is just this: the two of you under a sycamore, rain coming down, but this time he's laughing—really laughing, head tipped, the whole architecture of his face rearranged by it— at something you can't hear yourself say.

You wake before dawn with your heart going hard and the echo of his laugh still in your ears.

It's a crush, you remind yourself staring at the ceiling.

Then why does your heart feel so heavy?

By November, your aunt has invented a maintenance schedule that no brownstone in history has ever required. The storm windows, the cellar light, a cabinet hinge you're fairly sure she loosened herself, because you watched her test it with her cane the day before she called him.

"You're matchmaking," you accuse, setting her tea down.

"I'm maintaining my property." She doesn't look up from the crossword. "Seven across, six letters. Foreseen by the stars."

"Fated."

"That's five."

"Destined is eight. Fated is five." You count it on your fingers. "What's six?"

Maggie hums thoughtfully and writes something down where you can't see it.

Bucky comes back on Thursday to check the storm windows. It's the fourth time, not that you're counting, and something has shifted in the dynamic between you—the hostility has burned down to a kind of wariness, and that wariness keep springing leaks.

He lets you hold the frame steady while he drives the screws, close enough that you can smell the cedar on his jacket. He answers your aunt's interrogation about his week in actual sentences. When Nova bolts for the open window, Bucky catches her one-handed without looking, absorbs the betrayed yowl and deposits her on the sofa with a flat "No". You expect retaliation, but Nova—who has never once obeyed you—stays.

"Traitor," you tell the cat.

"She respects the chain of command."

Maggie goes up for her nap at three with a theatrical yawning that should embarrass her. Bucky's packing up the drill in the kitchen and you're making coffee because it's cold and the radio on the counter—her ancient radio, permanently tuned to an AM station that plays classics—is murmuring under everything.

And you go still.

It takes you a moment to realize, and another to find why: he's humming. Barely, under his breath, and the song sounds pretty familiar.

The mug slips, you catch it against the counter, there's coffee slopping over your knuckles, and the burn makes you realize that song was playing in the dream where he danced with you in a dark room. You've never heard it awake in your life until right now. You don't know its name either, you only knew the next three notes after he hummed them.

"You okay?" He's looking at you now.

"It's nothing," you run your hand under the tap. "Just… wanted to heat my hands a little bit."

It's just an old song, it's an old radio station. Men hum old songs; it's logical. You repeat it in your head twice but your hands don't believe any of it. And god forbid you, you neither.

When you turn around, he's leaning against the counter, watching you with an expression you can't quite read.

"I've been meaning to ask you," he starts. "About the cards. Why do you do it? And I don't want the speech, I want the real answer."

You dry your hands slowly, deciding how much truth he's earned.

"My great grandmother read cards," you start, leaning against the counter across from him. "She read for people in her village back in the old country. My mom said she could look at someone and see the shape of their life, like… like they were made of glass. She tried to teach my mother, but the gift skipped her and landed on me instead."

You take a pause, watching the radio, the floor, anything but him.

"I was seven the first time I saw something I couldn't explain. I touched my grandmother's deck and I knew things about her neighbor who was sitting at the kitchen table. That she'd lost a baby the year before, that her husband was sleeping with her sister, that she was going to leave him by spring." You swallow. "I said all of it out loud, like an idiot child, because I didn't know you weren't supposed to just say those things."

Bucky's quiet. You can feel him listening, like he's cataloguing every word.

"My mother was horrified. My grandmother on the other hand wasn't. She said the cards chose me, and that I should learn to read them properly so I'd stop blurting out unfiltered truth at dinner parties." A small, humorless laugh leaves you. "So I learned. By the time I was a teenager, I was pulling cards for friends, for strangers, for anyone who asked. And most of the time, it's just… pattern recognition and intuition working together. The cards are a tool, not a magic trick, but sometimes—"

"Sometimes what?"

"Sometimes they show you something that doesn't fit any pattern you know. And you have to decide whether to believe what you're seeing or pretend you didn't see it."

The radio changes songs.

"Is that what happened with my reading?" he asks quietly.

No, you think. It's worse than that.

"I read what was on the table," you say instead, because it's the truth, even if it's not all of it. "I didn't make it up, Bucky. I've never fabricated a reading in my life. The cards that came up for you were clear… unusually clear. And I softened them because Hazel was sitting right there and I didn't want to hurt her, but I didn't lie."

He studies you for a long moment, and you can see the war happening behind his eyes—the part of him that wants to believe you fighting the part that needs to think you're a con artist, because the alternative is harder.

"Okay," he says finally.

"O—Okay?"

"I'm not saying I believe in it. I'm saying I believe you believe it, and that's… different."

It's the most generous thing he's said to you since the market, and it lands somewhere under your ribs.

It's a Tuesday in late November, and Maggie has sent him to fix a leak under the kitchen sink that you both suspect she caused by hitting the pipe with her cane. He's on his back under the counter and you're handling him tools, trying not to notice the way his shirt rides up when he reaches for the wrench.

When he slides out, wiping his hands on a rag, he looks at you for a while.

"There's a place two blocks over. They make decent coffee, if you're done pretending you don't need a break."

"That's the worst invitation I've ever heard. You're just observing that I look tired."

"You do look tired."

"Wow, thank you. A true gentleman."

His mouth twitches. "Do you want coffee or not?"

You want to say no, because saying yes feels too much like stepping off a cliff, but the word comes out before you can stop it. "Fine, but only because you're paying."

Maggie, from the front room calls out: "Take your time! I'm perfectly fine!"

You both know she's been listening to every word.

The walk to the café is silent.

The place looks cozy—it's small, warm and smells like cinnamon and cardamom. He orders black coffee and you order a latte and a slice of walnut cake. You sit t a table by the window where the afternoon light comes in, and for a few minutes neither of you says anything.

It should be awkward, being here without Maggie or your cats between you, but it isn't.

"Would you mind if I ask you something?"

"You're going to ask whether I say yes or not."

"Smart man." You turn the cup slowly. "Why do you do this? The handyman thing… Maggie says you work for the whole block. But you don't charge, you won't take money—"

"I take money, I just don't like to ask for it, besides, Maggie always invites me to eat."

"She tucks money in your jacket while you're not seeing."

"She's not as subtle as she thinks." He takes a sip of his coffee and ten looks at you. "I like fixing things, always have. When something's broken, there's a right way to fix it, and when it's done, it's done, it's done. You can see the result, it's not…"

"Ambiguous?"

"Yeah, exactly. It's not ambiguous."

You understand suddenly why he hated the reading and everything related to it. You gave him a puzzle with no solution, a fix with no steps… you made him sit with something unfixable.

The conversation moves easier after that. He tells you about the neighborhood, about Mrs. Ferreira, about Yori—the Asian man you saw the other day who feeds pigeons from his window, about the old man on the fourth who swears at everyone in Italian. You tell him about your shop, about your cats—Nova and Salem, about the time you accidentally read cards for a man who turned out to be an undercover cop investigating a psychic scam two towns over, and how you spent forty-five minutes proving your cards weren't marked.

You see him laughing, not the polite sound from always, but a real one. You drink your coffee and eat your cake and try to not think about the dreams.

It becomes a thing. He finishes a repair at Maggie's or passes by to eat and you end up at the café, or walking the two blocks to the park where the benches face the water, or simply sitting on her stoop in the last cold light of the afternoon while you both drink coffee.

You learn things about him in pieces. He's from Brooklyn—born and raised, he says, but the tone on his voice tells you it's partly a lie. He has a best friend named Sam who's a pain in the ass. He doesn't talk about his family, but you don't push. He served in the military, a long time ago.

He learns things about you too, like the fact you talk with your hands when you're passionate about something, or that you hum when you're thinking and that hum is always off-key. He learns about your habit of reading strangers on the street and narrating your observations under your breath.

The first week of December arrives with an ugly wind that rattles Maggie's windows and makes your cats burrow under the blankets. Maggie has graduated from the cane to limping short distances without it, which means she's mobile enough to meddle full-time.

Bucky comes by Wednesday to check a draft Maggie swears she can feel coming from the baseboards. You both know there's no draft, but he comes by anyway.

You open the door and he's standing on the stoop with his hands in his jacket pockets, his tool bag over one shoulder, and there's snow in his hair—not much, just dust, but it's there, melting against the dark of it—and your heart does something complicated because of how good he looks.

"Maggie's napping," you say.

His hand comes out of his pocket. He's holding a folded napkin, and he holds it out to you like it's a wrench.

"I made reservations," he murmurs. "At Valentino's, this Friday, seven o'clock."

You stare at the napkin. "Did you just… write it on a napkin?"

"I didn't have a paper." He shifts his weight. "Sam says you're supposed to give the person a specific time and place, so… there it is."

"You asked your friend how to ask someone on a date?"

"Well, he tells me a lot of things, more of it is useless." He's looking at the doorframe while he speaks, then he glances at you. "This part seemed right."

You unfold the napkin. His handwriting is surprisingly neat—small, precise letters. Friday, 7 pm- Valentino's on Henry St. —B

"Is this because Maggie put you up to it?" you ask, because if this is charity or pity or Maggie's matchmaking you'd rather know now and bleed later.

"No. She might take credit for it, but no. I was going to ask you at the café last week, but then you started reading people and I lost my nerve."

Bucky lost his nerve.

"So, Friday… at seven."

"Is that a yes?"

"That's a yes."

He nods once, and you can see his shoulders drop half an inch. You want to laugh, or cry, or both, so you just fold the napkin carefully and put it in your pocket.

"Are you going to come in and check the nonexistent draft, or…?"

"Might as well, just to keep the appearances."

He brushes past you in the doorway, and unlike the first time, he doesn't avoid your shoulder.

When Friday night comes, you don't understand why you're so damn nervous, but here you are, changing your outfit twice before settling with a blue dress and a pair of boots that Maggie claims make your legs look like they go on forever. You're halfway down the stairs when the doorbell rings.

He cleans up well. That's the first thought you have when you open the door. He's wearing a dark jacket over a sweater, and his hair is pulled back in a way that shows the sharp lines of his face, and he smells so good you have to resist the urge to lean closer and breathe him in again.

"You look nice," he says when you open the door.

"You too." You grab your coat from the hook. "Don't wait up, Maggie."

"Go. Don't come back before ten, I have a television program."

"We're going to dinner, Maggie, not—"

"Door will be locked before ten o'clock," she insists, and shuts the door on your face before you can answer, letting you at the bottom of the stairs.

You turn to face Bucky and the way he looks at you makes you forget every argument you've ever had with yourself about why this is a bad idea.

"Ready?" he asks.

"It depends. Are you going to accuse me of fraud tonight?"

"Not tonight."

"Then I'm ready."

Valentino's is tucked between a laundromat and a bookshop. The hostess greets Bucky by name and leads you to a corner booth where the candlelight flickers against the red-checkered tablecloth.

"Fancy," you tease.

"I said it wasn't fancy."

"Exactly," you unfold your napkin and look around—warm brick walls, fairy lights strung along the ceiling, and and old man at the bar arguing with the bartender about baseball. "I like it."

He orders wine for the table without asking, but it's the good kind, the kind that tastes likes blackberries, and when he catches you watching him over the rim of your glass, he doesn't look away.

You're talking about the shop—what you'll do when you go back, whether you'll reopen at all—when he leans back in his chair and takes a deep breath. "I want to ask you something, but I don't want to fight."

"That's a promising start."

"Why do you believe in it? The cards, destiny, all of it. You're smart. You read people like they're open books. How do you also believe that pieces of cardboard can tell the future?"

It's not hostile. It's genuine curiosity, and that's worse, because you owe him a real answer. You down the rest of your wine for a bit of liquid courage.

"When I was seventeen," you start, and your voice is careful, like you're walking on ice, " my great grandmother died. She'd been sick for a while, and when I went to see her in the hospital she… she told me she'd been reading my cards since I was born. That she'd asked about my future every year on my birthday, the way she did for everyone in the family. And every year, the same cards came up."

The restaurant noise fills the silence—the clink of glasses, a murmur of conversation from the next table—but you're hyper aware of him.

"She said love wasn't meant for me." You trace the rim of your glass with your finger. "I didn't believe her, I was seventeen, I thought she was a dramatic old woman who loved tragedy, or that maybe she was way too high on her meds. So I started reading for myself, I pulled my own cards every week, every month, every time I met someone I thought could be something. And every single time, the same answer. Reversed Ace of Cups. Ten of Swords. The Tower. Not for you, not in this life."

You laugh, but it comes out humorless.

"I even paid a woman to read my destiny matrix, I tried runes, I tried everything because I wanted so badly for the answer to be different; but it never was. I tried dating, I did. I wanted so bad to be loved. Apparently, the person meant for me was born over a hundred years ago, and I was born now, so the timing was wrong, and that's it."

Bucky is very still across the table. He hasn't moved, hasn't reached for his glass, hasn't done anything except listen with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. The silence between you stretches. He's looking at you with an expression you can't decode.

"Bucky?"

He exhales slowly, and his jaw works twice. Then he leans forward, resting both forearms on the table. "You don't have any idea of who I am?"

"Should I?" you ask, confused.

He stares at you for a long moment like he's looking for some sign that you're joking. "You really don't."

"Bucky, you're freaking me out a little. Are you in the mob? A famous musician? Because I have to be honest, I don't really follow the news, and history was never my strong subject. I know the major stuff, but—"

He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet, sliding something across the table toward you.

It's his driver's license. You pick it up, squinting at the tiny photo—he looks exactly the same, of course he does, that hot bastard—and then your eyes drop to the birth date.

March 10, 1917.

You read it three times, but the numbers don't change. You look up at him, and he's watching at you with an expression you can't read.

"I was born in 1917," he says quietly. "Here in Brooklyn. I went to war in '43 and… I didn't come back the way I left. They did things to me, changed me. I don't age the way normal people do, and there's a lot of years in between that I'd rather not talk about in a restaurant."

Your hands are shaking. You set the license down on the table between you like it might burn you.

"The matrix destiny," you whisper. "It said a hundred years ago. You were born a hundred years ago."

"Yeah." He leans forward. "And here's the thing. I don't believe in fate. I don't believe in stars writing our stories for us, because if I did—" His voice breaks, just slightly, and he catches it. "If I did, then I'd have to believe that what happened to me was determined. That the things that I did, the things that were done to me, they were written in stone before I was even born. And that's too cruel, that's a crueler god than I'm willing to worship."

He's breathing harder now, and you realize with a start that he's scared. Bucky Barnes, who caught your cat mid-air and argued with you in the rain, is scared of what you might say next.

"But you," he continues, softer now. "You showed up in my neighborhood reading cards and talking about things you shouldn't know. And I kept seeing you everywhere, and I kept telling myself it was a coincidence, that Brooklyn is small and you were just… there. But there's something here. I feel it every time I'm in the same room as you, and I don't know if that's fate or if it's just—" He stops, running a hand over his face. "I don't know what it is. But I know I haven't wanted to spend time with someone like this in a long time. And if that means the stars finally decided to do something kind for once, then maybe… maybe I'm not as angry at them as I thought."

You don't know what to say. The pasta arrives and sits cooling between you, forgotten. You think about every card you've ever pulled, every spread that ended in the same lonely answer, every time you accepted that love wasn't meant for you. And now, he's sitting across from you, born in 1917, a hundred-year-old soul in a young man's body, and the math is so simple it makes you want to laugh and cry at the same time.

"You're quiet," he says.

"I'm not quiet," you manage, but your voice sounds like it's coming from very far away. "I'm just… I don't know what to say. You don't— you don't just drop 'I was born in 1917' into a conversation and expect someone to have a response ready."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Fair."

"You fought in World War II."

"Yeah."

"And you're telling me you don't believe in fate, but you just handed me proof that the answer I've been getting my whole life wasn't wrong."

"I'm telling you that I don't care what the cards said," he reaches across the table, his hand hovering over yours for a moment before he covers your fingers with his palm. His skin is warm, calloused, and you feel it everywhere. "I care that you're here, right now. And I'm here. That's enough for me."

You look down at your hand under his, at the candlelight pooling in the hollow of his palm, and you think about the High Priestess card, the one you've pulled for yourself a hundred times. Hidden knowledge, the veil between worlds, secrets.

Maybe the secret was that you weren't waiting for a ghost after all.

You eat eventually, though you barely taste it. He tells you about Sam, about the boat they worked on together, about the neighborhood changing and staying the same all at once. You tell him about your cats, about the way Maggie pretends to be asleep every time he comes over so you'll have to answer the door alone.

But mostly, you sit in the candlelight and let yourself have this. Whatever this is.

He insists on walking you home. It's not far—five blocks, maybe six—and the December air is sharp enough to make you tuck your hands into your coat pockets. He walks on the outside of the sidewalk, closest to the street, the way men used to do when he was young, and something about that makes your chest ache.

"You okay?" he asks as you turn onto Maggie's block.

"Yeah." But you're not, not really. You're overwhelmed, full of things you don't know how to say. You want to tell him that you've dreamed about him, that you've known the shape of his laugh before you ever heard it, that you pulled his cards in your kitchen and you threw the deck across the room because it was too much to believe. You want to ask him if he feels it too, this gravity, this sense of falling into something you never expected to find.

But you don't say any of that. You just walk beside him in the dark, and when you reach Maggie's stoop, you turn to face him.

The streetlamp behind him casts a halo around his shoulders. You think about all the years he's lived, all the winters he's seen, and you can't believe any of them led him here. To you. To this moment in your aunt's cracked concrete steps.

"I had a good time," he says.

"Me too."

He steps closer. You can smell the wine on his breath, the cedar of his jacket, the cold night air clinging to his air. He's close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him, and his eyes are darker in the shadows.

“Are you going to pull your cards tonight?”

"I don't think I need to." Your voice is barely above a whisper. "I think I already know how this goes."

"Yeah?" His hand finds your waist, tentative, asking permission. "How's it go?"

And then he kisses you.

It's soft at first, careful, like he's giving you time to pull away. But you don't pull away. You reach up and curl your fingers into the front of his jacket, and he makes a sound against your mouth before deepening the kiss. His hand slides to the small of your back, pulling you closer, and you can feel the warmth of him through every layer between you that suddenly feels like too many.

He tastes like red wine, and his jaw is rough under your palm, and when you break apart you're both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.

"Okay," you whisper. "Okay."

"Okay," he repeats, and he sounds almost drunk with it. He kisses you again, lighter this time, on the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your temple. His lips brush your ear as he murmurs, "I don't care about fate. But if you want to tell me what the stars said, I'll listen."

You laugh, a little watery, and push at his chest. "Go home, Bucky. It's cold."

"I know." But he doesn't move. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your jaw. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow."

He finally steps back, down one step, then two. He's smiling, the kind that reaches his eyes and rearranges his whole face into something boyish and new. "Night, then."

"Night."

You watch him walk down the block, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders relaxed in a way you haven't seen before. You watch until he turns the corner and disappears, and you stand there for a long moment with your fingers pressed to your mouth, trying to remember how to breathe.

The front door opens behind you.

"You're welcome," Maggie says.

You jump so hard you nearly fall off the stoop. "Jesus, Maggie!"

She's standing in the doorway in her robe and slippers, her crossword in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. She looks entirely too pleased with herself.

"You were watching!" You accuse.

"I was observing, there's a difference." She steps back to let you in. "I told you he was a good boy, serious, good with his hands." She winks. "And now you know for sure."

"Maggie!"

"Don't 'Maggie' me. I didn't raise you to be ungrateful." She shuffles toward the stairs. "You can thank me properly at breakfast. And don't think I didn't notice you sneaking cards at my kitchen table for three months straight. I may be old, but I'm not blind."

You stand in the hallway, coat still on, cheeks burning, and listen to her cackle all the way up the stairs.

Your cats appear from the front room, twining around your ankles, and you bend down to scoop Nova up, burying your face in her fur. She purrs, loud and indignant, and you laugh against her soft orange head.

"Okay," you whisper to him, to the empty hallway, to no one in particular. "Okay."

You don't know what happens next. You don't know how any of this works, a tarot reader and a century-old soldier, two people the universe apparently decided to throw together just to see what would happen.

But as you climb the stairs to your cramped little room, you think about the spread you pulled the night before you left for Brooklyn. The Tower. The Star. The World.

Disaster, then hope, then completion.

Maybe The Tower wasn't heartbreak after all. Maybe it was just the world rearranging itself to make room for something you never dared to ask for.

You fall asleep that night without pulling any cards, without any dreams at all, and when you wake up in the morning, the first thing you hear is Bucky's voice downstairs, asking Maggie if she takes one sugar or two, and the sound it's better than any spread you've ever read.

June.

The summer breeze at Coney Island smells like salt and fried dough, and you were wearing the jacket Bucky lent you because you misjudged the wind off the water. It's still too big, the sleeves past your knuckles, and he keeps reaching over to roll them back up for you, his thumb brushing your wrist every time.

You can't remember whose idea it was to come here. Maybe yours, maybe his. Maybe it doesn't matter, because Bucky's hand is wrapped around yours. You've been official since January, though the line between before and after has blurred into something that feels like it started long before either of you were brave enough to name it.

The boardwalk is crowded with families and couples and teenagers laughing too loud, but Bucky moves through them like he was made for this—for cotton candy and carnival lights, for the easy joy of a Brooklyn summer night. He fits here, you realize. He fits now. A hundred-year-old soul learning how to be young again.

"Step right up! Test your luck!" A barker's voice cuts through the noise, and you follow it to a row of old arcade machines tucked beneath a stripped awning. Skee-ball, claw machines, a racing game with a faded steering wheel—and then you see it.

A fortune teller machine.

It sits in the corner like something out of another era, which, you suppose, it is. Madam Zola's Mystical Fortune Cards, the peeling gold paint reads. Insert coin. Receive Your Destiny. The mechanical woman inside has painted glass eyes and a silk scarf draped over her plastic hair, and her hand rests on a deck of cards that probably haven't been mystical a day in their life.

Bucky follows your gaze and laughs. "You're kidding me."

"I'm absolutely not kidding you." You're already digging in your pocket for a quarter. "Madam Zola and I are colleagues, I need to know if she's legitimate."

"She's made of plywood."

"So judgmental." You find two quarters and press one into his palm, your fingers lingering against his. "For you, professional courtesy."

He looks down at the quarter, then back at you, and something softens in his expression. "Alright," he says. "But if this thing tells me I'm gonna die alone, I'm blaming you."

"Fair."

You drop your quarter in first. The machine whirs to life with a dramatic creak. Madam Zola's hand moves across the cards in jerky, mechanical motions, and after a moment, a small white card drops into the brass tray below.

You pick it up. It's not a real tarot card—just cardstock, cheap, the edges already soft from humidity—but the image printed on it makes your breath catch. Two hands clasped, reaching across a starfield. Beneath it, in gold script: The Lovers.

And underneath that, smaller: You've found the one. Don't waste time doubting it.

You stare at it. Bucky leans over your shoulder to read it, and you feel him go still.

"Huh."

"Your turn!"

"I don't need a card to tell me—"

"Your turn, Barnes."

He huffs, but he drops in the quarter you gave him. The machine grinds and another card falls. He picks it up. You don't see it at first, but you see his face—the way his jaw loosens, the way his eyes soften at the corners.

It's the same image, but the text beneath reads: What was written in the stars has come to pass. Trust the path, trust your heart.

The noise of the fair fades to a distant hum. You look up at him, and he's already looking at you.

"Bucky—"

"I don't care if it's rigged. I don't care if every card in that thing says the same thing. You're—" He stops, swallowing thickly. "You're it for me. You know that, right?"

Your heart is doing that complicated thing again, the thing it does every time he looks at you like you're the only person in the world.

"I know," you whisper. "Me too."

He kisses you then, right there in front of Madam Zola and half of Brooklyn, his hand cradling your jaw like you're something precious. When you pull apart, you're both breathless, and someone's wolf-whistled from the skee-ball line, but none of you seem to care at all.

"Come on," he says, lacing his fingers through yours. "I saw a ring toss on the way in, I need to win you something."

It takes him four tries and an embarrassing amount of money, and by the end he's swearing at the rigged bottles while you laugh so hard you have to lean against the counter for support. But on the fifth throw, the last ring catches, and the barker hands over the prize with a grudging nod.

It's a ridiculous bear, oversized and caramel-colored, wearing a tiny red bow tie. Bucky presents it to you as if he was handing you over the Holy Grail.

"For you. I was gonna go for the giant panda, but this one looked like it needed you more."

You crush it against your chest, burying your face in its soft synthetic fur. "I love him. I'm naming him James."

"You're not naming him after me."

"I'm absolutely naming him after you. Look at him, he has your expression."

Bucky stares at the bear's blank button eyes and then at you, and then he laughs, tilting his head back and you want to take a picture of him like this—careless, happy.

"Let's go to the photobooth," you demand, grabbing his hand. "Before the light changes."

"Bossy."

"You love when I'm bossy."

He doesn't agree, but he doesn't deny it either.

The photobooth is tucked behind the funhouse, a vintage four-strip model with a faded red curtain and a sign that flashes OUT OF ORDER every third flicker. But when you slide your money in, it whirs to life, and the first bulb flashes before you're ready.

"Wait—" you laugh, still adjusting the bear on your lap.

Too late. The first picture capture you mid-laugh, Bucky leaning in with his mouth open, probably saying something sarcastic.

"Okay, okay, be serious," you say, turning toward him.

"Serious," he repeats, but his eyes are dancing.

The second flash catches you pressing a kiss to his cheek, his hand coming up to rest on your waist. The third finds him turning his head at the last second so your lips meet his instead, his fingers threading into your hair. The fourth flash finds you both laughing into each other's mouths, your foreheads touching, the bear crushed between you. You don't remember who kissed who, but you don't care.

When the strip slides out of the machine, you hold it up to the light, watching the images develop in slow motion. Four tiny windows into a perfect moment. You look at them, and you think about al the cards you've ever pulled, all the lonely spreads and reversed cups, all the years you believed love wasn't meant for you.

And here you are. Here he is. A love out of time.

"I'm putting these on the fridge," you say. "When we get back to the apartment."

"Our apartment," he corrects and your heart flips.

You're moving in together next month. You found a place in Brooklyn with a windowsill wide enough for two cats and a fire escape that gets morning sun. He's already planning on building a spare room for your appointments, and built a shelf for your cards. You told him he didn't have to, that you'd find another place to do your readings and keep the cards in the closet if he wanted, and he looked at you like you'd suggested drowning a kitten.

"It's your gift," he said. "Why would I want you to hide it?"

Later, when the moon is high and the fair lights are starting to dim, you sit together on the boardwalk with your shoes off, toes buried in cool sand, sharing a funnel cake.

"We should get home," you say, but you don't move. "Salem and Nova are probably destroying something."

"They're fine, Nova's probably sleeping on my tool bag, and Salem's judging her from the windowsill."

"How do you know that?"

"Because that's what they do every time I'm there." He licks powdered sugar off his thumb. "Those cats have a very established routine. Nova loves me, Salem tolerates me… it's a good system."

You smile, leaning your head on his shoulder. "Salem tolerates everyone, that's just his personality. Nova loves anyone who gives her attention. They're not a good benchmark."

"Okay." He pauses. "Then you love me. And you're a much better benchmark."

You go still. The word hangs in the air between you, but he doesn't take it back. He just turns his head and looks at you, waiting, his eyes reflecting the last of the carnival lights.

"I do," you whisper. "I love you."

His smile is small and yet so full of hope it makes your chest ache. "I love you too. I think I started loving you the day you shut the door on my face."

"You have terrible taste."

"Must be the century I was born in, we liked 'em feisty."

You laugh, pushing at his chest, and he catches your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles. You sit like that for a long time, watching the tide come in, his thumb tracing slow circles in your palm. Eventually, he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the fortune card from Madam Zola's machine.

"Do you think it's true?" he asks quietly. "The whole destiny thing. Do you really believe we were supposed to find each other?"

You look at the card, then at him—the man who was born over a hundred years ago, who fought a war and survived things you can't imagine, that sometimes admit not knowing how to do any of this, but that tries anyway for you.

"I believe," you start, "that the cards pointed me in a direction. They told me to wait, to not settle for something that wasn't right." You turn his hand over, tracing the lines of his palm—his life line, long and unbroken; the heart line, deep and sure. "But I don't think they made this happen, Bucky. I think we did. I think you showed up at my shop and you were rude and impossible and I couldn't stop thinking about you anyway. I think we let Maggie manipulate us into falling in love. The cards didn't do that, we did."

"Okay," he says. "I like that better anyway."

"Me too."

He folds the car again and tucks it back into his pocket, over his heart. "I'm keeping this, though. As evidence."

"Evidence of what?"

"That sometimes the universe gets it right."

You don't pull cards that night, haven't done it for a while, because you don't need to. You fall asleep with Bucky's heartbeat against your back, Salem purring at your feet, Nova curled on the pillow between you like a furry chaperone, and you dream of nothing at all—just the deep, peaceful dark of a life that's finally exactly where it's meant to be.

“Was never too good with cars myself. Harold did all the fixin’ when he was still around. You got somewhere to be?”

“Job interview,” you mumble, the leather digging into your brow; you’re trying not to focus on the sweat soaking through your best shirt, or your growing anxiety over your fast-approaching interview time. Donna shifts the basket to her other hip.

“Could try callin’ on Bucky. He works at Rogers’ garage down on Miner Street. It’s Sunday, so he should be home.”

Your forehead peels away from the sticky wheel. “Who’s Bucky?”

Donna nods toward the other side of the park. “Bucky Barnes. White trailer with the boots lined up all neat outside the door.”

“Have I met him?”

“Doubt it,” she replies. “He works mean hours, leaves before sun up, comes back when it’s dark. But he’s always ready to help a neighbor out when he’s here. Real sweet guy.”

You blow a stray hair out of your eyes. “You think he can fix whatever’s wrong with my car?” you ask, your doubt as strong as your hope.

Donna smiles like she knows something you don’t. “Bucky can fix anythin’ he gets his hands on.”

You turn in your seat, spotting the white trailer with the boots out front. It looks devoid of life, like it was plopped onto that spot of land by a strong gust of wind rather than by human design. The curtains are drawn, vines creep up the paneling, the gate on the far side of the yard swings in the breeze, but there’s a rusting brown pickup parked in front of it. Promising enough.

“Okay,” you say. “Bucky Barnes. Mechanic. Got it.”

“Good luck,” Donna says with a grin, tapping your arm before walking away.

You step out into the scorching heat of the late July afternoon and make your way across the park, stepping over discarded children’s toys and overgrown flower beds. As you near the trailer, you see the pairs of boots your neighbor spoke about lined up with military precision, all well worn but still taken care of, not a speck of dust or dirt on them, which is rare in a place like this.

You knock three times on the plain brown door before taking a step back, holding your breath. Grasshoppers hum, the wind whips; you don’t hear anything inside the home for an agonizing amount of time, enough time to double the sweat pooling on your lower back. You’re about to try knocking again when the door finally creaks open.

Out steps a mountain of a man.

Big arms and bigger shoulders, broad chest and long, thick legs. He wears boots identical to the ones outside, blue jeans that are in desperate need of a wash, and a black henley that offers an intimidating glimpse into what those arms are capable of. His dark hair is a mess on top of his head, sticking up in all different directions, and underneath it is a face so unexpectedly handsome, you’re not sure how it ended up in a rundown park like this instead of somewhere on a billboard advertising cologne. Sun-kissed, weathered, and deadly serious, but striking in a way you could never forget, triggering a blush on your already flushed cheeks. And then you meet his eyes: electric blue and narrowed at you under furrowed brows, raising the hairs on the back of your sweaty neck.

“Can I help you?” he grunts, voice low and gravely. It scrapes against your spine.

“Hey,” you say quickly with a 1000-watt smile, showing off your nerves. “Hi. Uh, Bucky, right? I’m your neighbor. I live—“ You hook your thumb over your shoulder. “—back that way. The one with the pink door. Um…I was hopin’ you could help me out. My car, it’s — well, it won’t start. Makes a clickin’ noise every time I try turnin’ it over. Donna said you’re a mechanic and might be able to help.”

His expression doesn’t change. He stares unblinkingly at you.

“I, um—,” you can feel yourself faltering, your heart rate rising as the seconds tick by, “I don’t mean to barge in on your Sunday, but I’m pretty desperate. I have an interview in, like, twenty minutes, and I really need this job. Do you think you could take a quick look?”

He eyes you up and down, assessing. You try not to smile wider in case it leans too close to deranged. “You live here?” he demands. You nod.

“Moved in about a month ago. Sorry we’re only meetin’ now, I should’ve introduced myself sooner.”

You offer your name and stick out a hand. Bucky ignores this, staring past you in the direction of your trailer. You watch as his eyes narrow, like he’s weighing the honesty of your words.

“Look, I can pay you, if that hel—“

“Is it the little silver thing?” he cuts you off.

Your lips part. “Uh, yes. Yeah.”

Bucky grunts and turns back inside, shutting the door behind him. The shock of it leaves you frozen in place, reeling, until he reemerges as fast as he left, carrying a toolbox half the size of you; he holds it easily in one hand like it weighs nothing, but you can hear the stock of heavy tools clanking around inside.

“Let’s go,” he mutters, stepping past you. You struggle to keep up with him as he stalks toward your car, like a man on a mission that he’s already running late for. You sneak glances at him while trying not to trip on the cracked walking path, noting the faded scars on the back of his hands, the ticking jaw underneath his beard, and the very tip of a dark tattoo peaking out from beneath his collar. A feeling churns in your gut.

Everything about him screams rough. Rude. Even potentially dangerous — from his imposing figure, to his curt words, he seems like the furthest thing from what you would call ‘sweet.’

But regardless of Donna overselling his altruism, beggars can’t be choosers, and you’ll call him sweet all day long if it gets you to your interview on time.

Bucky lets out a heavy breath when he sets the toolbox down next to your car. He nods at you.

“Try it again,” an order, not a request.

Your limbs twitch into action like a bee flew under your skirt. Sliding into the hot leather seat, you turn the key in the ignition and are met with the same low ticking noise from before. The lights flicker on your dashboard in protest.

“Terminal clamp.”

You jump, finding Bucky almost cheek-to-cheek with you while he leans through the open door. He’s close enough for you to smell dirt, sweat and something heavier on him.

“Shit,” you hiss in surprise, but he’s already pulling away and moving toward the front of the car.

“Pop it,” he calls out.

You exhale slowly and do as you’re told. Sweet, your ass. Bucky lifts the hood and locks it in place before bending over the hot engine, pushing up the sleeves of his shirt.

You step out of the car, hovering near the door but craning your neck to watch. “Terminal clamp?” you repeat.

Bucky takes a moment to respond, long fingers moving deftly through the cables and wires and plugs and bolts. He unscrews something, and steam leaks out.

“On your battery,” he grunts. “The part that connects it to the wires. It’s rusted down. Look.”

He beckons with two oily fingers crooked in your direction. It’s borderline crass, and you find yourself hurrying over without argument. Bucky’s mouth is set into a hard line as he watches you gaze down at the engine, looking without really seeing.

“There,” he points impatiently to a black box near the front. Your eyes catch on the rust growing over the top of it.

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Yeah,” he imitates you, high-pitched and sharp; your eyes snap back to him. He’s clearly not amused by your answer. “When was the last time you had your battery checked?”

“Haven’t had the time lately,” you answer, crossing your arms indignantly over your chest.

“Your daddy don’t check it for ya?” he prods, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans before opening his tool box. Irritation rears up inside fo you. Something about his tone, bitter and mocking, makes you think about hitting him over the head with one of his wrenches.

“My daddy hasn’t been sober enough to tell a battery from a brick since 2009,” you snap.

Bucky pauses while rifling through his tools, but only for a moment. “Batteries need replacin’ every four years. How old’s this one?”

You chew your lip, still thinking about the wrench. Bucky pulls out a small metal plate and a brand new cord, along with a screwdriver that looks like it’s seen better days. When he turns to you, his eyebrows lift expectantly.

“It’s…old,” you relent. Bucky snorts and leans over the car again.

“Define ‘old’ to me, princess.”

A zip of electricity runs down your spine at the pet name, angry and hot. “I don’t know,” you grumble. “It came with the car and I bought it five years ago. And don’t call me princess.”

A ghost of a smirk crosses his face. “Whatever you say, kid.”

You glare at him while he unscrews the rusted plate from the battery. Despite your growing frustration, and the nearing interview time, and the heat pressing down on you from all sides, you quickly become entranced with the way his hands move expertly with the replacement parts. It’s obvious he’s well-versed with the inside of a car.

“This will hold for a few days,” Bucky says, attaching the new cord to the engine. “But you need a new battery. Forget it, and you’ll be needin’ a new car. Am I makin’ myself clear?”

Something about the sternness in his voice creates a pressure on your chest that feels foreign and strange. “Yeah, new battery, got it,” you mumble.

He glances at you but says nothing, screwing in the clean plate. As he finishes up his work, you look back at your trailer, the paint on the front door peeling, the screens torn in most of the windows. You clear your throat. “Donna says you fix a lot of stuff for the folks around here,” you begin. Bucky makes a noise of acknowledgement. “You ever, uh…fix any showers?”

He pauses to look back at you, blue eyes sharp. “That a line?”

“What? No!” you sputter, cheeks on fire. “No, it’s — my shower pressure. It’s shit, it’s…not a pick up line. I’m askin’ if you can fix that, too.”

He grunts, satisfied with his finished product, and closes the hood with a snap. You step back, watching as he tosses the screw driver back into the box and wipes his hands on his jeans again. When he turns to you, his face is closed off, stoic.

“I’m busy,” he says, blunt and to the point. The rejection stings like a child daring to touch the point of a needle for the first time — sharp and surprising and oddly shameful. The embarrassment pulls your eyes away.

“But if I find some time, I’ll let you know.”

His gaze is steady and unreadable when you meet it again. You nod quickly.

“That’d be amazing,” you gush, hands clasped together, “thank you—“

“I haven’t even fixed it yet, save your thanks,” he cuts you off.

“Still,” you reply, taking a step toward him, “I’d owe ya big time. Oh, you’d be doin’ me a huge favor ‘cause I need all the help I can get on this place—“

“What’d I just say, kid?” He glares are you, hands on his hips. “Now go on before you start wastin’ any more of my time,” he snaps, jerking his chin toward the car. You hesitate with your hand on the door, the smile on your face flickering doubtfully.

“Is it…safe?” you ask slowly.

Bucky scowls, mean and dark. “Don’t insult me.”

That gets you scampering into the seat. You twist the key, and after a breathless moment, the engine roars to life, the vents blasting you with hot air, but air nonetheless. You let out a whoop and pat the steering wheel proudly, the hope creeping back in. When you look out the windshield, you see Bucky’s already packed up his tool box and is making his way back to his trailer.

“Hey!” You scramble out of the car. “Hey, wait!”

He doesn’t turn around, just lifts his free hand over his head.

“Thank you!” you call out. He doesn’t respond. You watch him as he rounds his truck and disappears into his home. Then your phone buzzes.

“Shit—“

You’re peeling out of the park in seconds, leaving behind a cloud of dust and two blue eyes that watch you go from the safety of his trailer.

You take the keys out of the ignition and lean back in your seat, the smile on your face still as big as it was when the owner announced you got the job. In that moment, it was like the sun had broken through the clouds after years of rain.

It isn’t anything special, just a serving job at one of the many roadside diners in this small town, but what it stands for is more than you’ve had most of your life. Independence, stability, roots — everything you’ve been chasing after for the last few years now finally within your reach. No longer are you relying on the kindness of so-called friends that kick you out when it becomes inconvenient for them, or the generosity of low-life boyfriends that expect indentured servitude for a bed to sleep in; no longer are you couch surfing your way down highway 70, wondering what your next meal is going to cost you, or if your mother will pick up the phone when you’re too low on cash for gas. Just by getting the job, by finding your own little place to call home, you’ve broken free of the chains that have held your pitiful family lineage captive for years.

That’s worth celebrating.

You grab the six pack off the passenger seat before climbing out of the car. Thankfully, the evening air is much cooler now, and settles gently on your skin. Crickets chirp their congratulations, the breeze pats your back, and the light left on inside your trailer welcomes you home.

You sigh as you take it in, a soft smile on your face. Just this morning, you found the peeling front door, weedy garden and crooked paneling daunting; now it looks like a project you want to dive headfirst into, an opportunity to create something beautiful out of nothing, much like your own life.

You’ve got one foot on the steps when the wind grabs your attention. The large oak tree in the middle of the trailer park groans as it shifts, and you glance back to watch the leaves sway in the dusk, shadowed and haunting in a strangely beautiful way, until your gaze catches on a patch of light just beyond it. The white trailer with the boots out front has its curtains open now, and you watch as a shadow passes across a window.

Bucky.

The pressure returns to your chest tenfold, the same as before. Because of him, you get to cheers to a new life with a cold beer on your ratty little couch, and he walked away without so much as a thank you…

You adjust your grip on the six pack when you make your decision, sudden but resolute, and you’re crossing the park before you can think twice about it. A reward is reaped better with others.

As you approach, the shadows in the windows become clearer; wide shoulders, strong arms, big hands that set a mug on a shelf. Your breath goes a little shallow remembering how he towered over you. Stepping up the path, you watch as he pauses in front of the window, as still as a deer in headlights. Your knuckles just meet the door when the light inside flicks off.

You blink, eyes darting back to the window. The trailer is now dark. You can’t see inside, can’t spot movement — it’s pitch black where his figure was, where he stopped in front of the window right as you walked up…

You knock anyway. The beer bottles are cold against the skin of your leg as you wait, condensation dripping down your ankle. But the light doesn’t turn back on and you don’t hear weight shifting over cheap flooring. The crickets that sounded so nice before start to mock you the longer you stand there. You count to ten before trying again, a light rap on the wood.

Nothing.

Your heart sinks before you can stop it, the feeling painful and confusing. You bite down on your lip hard enough to draw blood, cheeks blazing in the soft light of the moon, then set the six pack in front of his door.

Bucky’s lights do not turn on when you make it back to your trailer, and they’re still not on when you spare one last glance out the window. The beers sit untouched on his front step.

Embarrassment courses through you like a summer fever, hot and alive and consuming. It eats away at all of the previous joy from your new job, and that bothers you more than you care to admit.

With a shake of your head, as if to clear the feeling out, you toss the keys on the counter and move to your tiny bathroom to turn on the shower. The nozzle sputters twice before the bare minimum drizzles out. You’re reminded of how you asked Bucky to fix it, the cryptic response he gave you, and how you nearly melted in response — the heat floods back to your face.

You really wish you kept those beers.

When the dried sweat has been scrubbed from your skin, and you’ve pulled on the softest sleep clothes you own, your mind has officially moved from denial to bargaining.

Donna said Bucky works brutal hours — maybe he has a strict sleep schedule. Like he can’t function unless he gets a full eight hours. Maybe it’s a ‘no visitors, lights off by nine on weeknights’ kind of thing. That makes sense for a fully grown man to have…right?

The reasonings filter through your head long after you’ve crawled into bed, some more believable than others. Eventually you decide that you just caught him at a bad time, and that it had nothing to do with him possibly seeing you through the window.

You’ll run into Bucky and explain the beers left on his door step; he’ll explain that he was tired, or he was busy, or something else completely normal and valid, and whatever lingering feelings you have over the whole thing will dissolve into nothing. Maybe you’ll crack a joke, maybe he’ll actually smile. Maybe the ice breaks and you’ll have another neighbor to call a friend in this new home.

You tell yourself this over and over until your restless mind finally fades to black.

You rise with the sun the next morning for your first shift. Your head is pleasantly empty of last night’s internal discourse, and you take it as a good sign.

Breakfast is pitiful — coffee and toast — but you’re too nervous to fill your uneasy stomach with more. When you pull on your uniform and spin every which way in the cracked bathroom mirror, though, the nervousness begins to fade. The dress is threadbare and half a size too big, but the color compliments your skin and emphasizes how bright and giddy your eyes are, bringing a light to your face that you haven’t seen in years. That tattered hand-me-down is a beautiful gateway opening up to a better future, a real future. You already love it.

When it’s time to go, you step out into a quiet, windless morning that promises to be a scorcher later. As you toss your purse into the passenger seat, you hear the rumbling of an old engine approaching, growing louder by the second. A familiar brown truck with the windows rolled down pulls up to the exit, just a few yards from where you stand.

Bucky sits in the driver’s seat, sporting an off-white t-shirt and dark sunglasses. He adjusts the radio, touches the rearview mirror, and pushes his shades up his nose before glancing up. Even behind the tinted lenses, you know that he sees you, and your heart nearly jumps out of your chest. But you still manage a smile, lifting your hand in a small wave.

He stares at you, an immovable statue except for his fingers white-knuckling over the wheel. A moment passes that feels like both a millisecond and a lifetime. You wonder if you should say something. But before you can, he looks away, the truck roaring once more as he eases out of the lot and into the street like he never saw you.

You watch his taillights drop beyond the horizon, your stomach dropping with them. The blatant dismissal sinks in, heavy and cutting, and it brings back all of the embarrassment from the night before. You fight desperately against a few angry tears stinging your eyes, but the hum of your fully-functioning engine does nothing to drown out the ringing in your ears.

You’re not sure which is worse: him ignoring you, or your reaction to him ignoring you.

You’ve dealt with disregard your entire life. Your childhood is a treasure trove of disappointment and neglect, carelessness and chaos, all of it later contributing to your steel-thick skin and low expectations of others. So you’re not sure why a stranger is affecting you like this — and a surly, intimidating stranger at that.

But something about him actively choosing to pretend you don’t exist presses on a bruise you’ve had covered for years. It rattles you more than anything.

Hands shaking, you put the car into drive.

The journey to the diner passes in a blur as you kick yourself mentally for the weakness. Your biggest mistake is that you went to him when you were too vulnerable — you were practically cracked wide open with need, and all it took was a helping hand for him to slip past your usual defenses. Were the sharp edges and sharper tongue not obvious red flags? What is it about Bucky that made you assume so quickly that he would be your friend? You taught yourself much better than that.

Despite the evidence, at the root of you, you refuse to accept it. Bucky’s lack of reaction was completely out of sorts; you know he’s far from friendly, but to completely ignore you is crazy work. So crazy that it just doesn’t make sense. There has to be some explanation for it, other than the obvious.

But unlike last night, your brain draws a blank on reasons for his behavior.

By the time you make it to the diner, you’re determined to figure this out. You need to see him again, to create an opportunity for an olive branch, and to learn if he’ll take it.

You get your first chance less than a week later, when you’re headed toward the mailboxes before the sun’s fully risen. You see a hulking figure already in front of them that you recognize right away. Bucky’s distracted while rifling through his mail, looking disheveled but still undeniably handsome in the pink light; he even looks relaxed, for once, instead of his usual guarded attitude.

“Good morning,” you say, smiling as you open your mailbox.

He tenses as he turns your way, shoulders taut and face creased. His jaw works as he stares you down, like he’s considering words and biting back the harsher ones. But instead of saying what’s on his mind, he grunts, short and crude, before turning on his heel and walking away. Your eyes follow him as he returns to his trailer and slams the door shut. It scares a flock of birds out of a nearby tree.

You stand there with a hand on the mailbox, jaw agape. The message couldn’t be any clearer. But for some reason, you shut your mouth with a snap and stand straighter, determined. His petulant, teenage antics are not enough to get you to throw in the towel yet.

So you try harder. You learn that you both leave the park around the same time, and when his truck rumbles past you, you wave, even if he isn’t looking at you (in a very obvious way.) You don’t care. You still try. He never waves back or throws you any acknowledgment, although you would bet your life on him seeing you each time, and eventually he starts leaving earlier, truck already missing from its spot when you’re headed to your car.

On the few days you’re both not working, you often see him mowing his lawn, mending his fence or washing his truck, domestic things that may trick passerby into thinking he’s a normal, pleasant guy. You fall victim to it as well, even knowing what you know, and head over with the intention of trapping him in a conversation. But as soon as you get remotely close to Bucky’s property, he mysteriously disappears, leaving you to feel like you just saw a ghost rather than your very alive neighbor.

You still don’t give in, but he continues to make it harder. When your car pulls up next to his at a red light, he’s theoretically interested in the SUV in front of him. When you’re passing out day-old pies from the diner to the neighbors, he doesn’t answer the door even though you can hear the TV on inside. When you’re taking a stroll around the park and he’s headed your way, he turns around and walks in the opposite direction.

Frustrating is the politest way you can describe him, but your mind can’t seem to take the hint.

Until the delusion crumbles when you least expect it. You’re bone-tired after your shift, and even your purse full of tips can’t ease the pain from your back. Pulled up to your trailer, you notice a group of three people slowly making their way across the park. One quick look tells you it’s the Markhams, stooped and gray-haired, shuffling down the pathway, and in between them is none other than Bucky, carrying a dozen grocery bags on each arm that you know aren’t his.

You watch as he leans down toward Mrs. Markham, listening to something she says, and your eyes go wide when he throws his head back in a laugh, pure joy lighting up his face. The sound creeps into your car, oozing warmth and light that is at odds with the Bucky you know. Mr. Markham adds a comment that gets him laughing harder, lines crinkling around his eyes, nose scrunching up in delight. You greedily take in this new side of him while your stomach roils with something bitter and nauseating.

So the sweet side of Bucky does exist. You’re watching it in real time as he helps his elderly neighbors with their groceries, chuckling in amusement as they banter back and forth. He holds the door open for them, too, even with his arms full, making sure they cross the threshold safely before letting the door fall shut behind him.

This must be the Bucky that Donna spoke about. The Bucky that everyone but you, apparently, gets to see.

The realization settles inside of you like an anvil dropping from the sky. So it’s just you that he doesn’t like. It’s just you that he can’t bear to be a neighbor to.

Occam’s Razor strikes again.

You move mechanically out of your car and into your home, your body carrying you through the motions while your brain twists itself up into a painful knot. You comb through everything you did and said that Sunday afternoon when he fixed your car; did you offend him? Did you push an unknown boundary? Did you ask for too much? Did you say too little? Were you too loud or too quiet? Too slow to thank him for his help?

Yes, you snapped a few times, but you only ever matched his energy, and everything about him implied that he can take as good as he gives. So what happened? What did you do? Why is your neighbor so unconcerned with whether you live or die?

Whatever the reason, it’s done its damage. Bucky wants nothing to do with you, and that seems to be the way it is.

Later that night, when sleep evades you, and you’ve tossed and turned for hours on end, a terrible loneliness creeps in for the first time since you arrived at the trailer park. It’s familiar in the worst way, reminding you of all the horrible people you met and all the shitty pit stops you made on your journey here. You thought you left that feeling behind — you thought wrong.

It follows you around for the next few days, leaving you hollow and numb. You’re on autopilot most of the time: you smile at customers and make conversation with the neighbors, you gossip with your coworkers and play with the children next door. But it’s constantly there in the back of your mind, like a memory you can’t erase, and when you’re alone in your little home, you feel it wrap around you like a straight jacket.

You’re lonely. And Bucky’s indifference toward you brought it front and center. For you, companionship had always been fleeting and one-sided, transactional at best. You’d had enough of it to the point that companionship was something you began to avoid, even when it promised a warm bed and a free meal. You thought a place to call your own and a means to support yourself were enough to keep the grass greener on your side. Now a stranger who sees nothing to gain by being your friend has reminded you that you’ve never had anyone in your life that wanted to be there just because.

The grass slowly withers away to a dry, lifeless brown.

You think you’re hiding it well, but Donna asks about it when July has rolled into a rainy August.

“How’ve you been, hun?” she says around her cigarette, pushing back one of the many hairs falling out of her clip. “Feels like I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I’ve been pickin’ up more shifts,” you reply automatically, pulling roughly on the broken piece of siding. Donna watches as you struggle with it, leaning against the far side of the trailer.

“You’re gonna work yourself into an early grave if you keep that up. You leave at dawn and don’t come back ‘til dusk seven days a week. Young thing like you needs time to herself.”

“I’m tryin’ to save up,” you grunt, snapping the siding in half. The part connected to your trailer swings down dejectedly. You look her way. “In case you haven’t noticed, this place is fallin’ apart, and it takes money to put it back together.”

She hums, tapping the ashes from her cigarette. “Why don’t you just ask Bucky for help?”

You pause from picking up the broken pieces of siding in the grass. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t wanna bother him,” you grumble, avoiding her eyes.

“Oh, please — Bucky would be happy to help.”

“Are you sure about that?” A sudden hint of irritation in your tone. Donna stands up straighter.

“Whaddya mean?” she asks, eyebrows raised. “Something happen?”

You shake your head quickly. “No, there’s not — no. He just seems really busy, that’s all. No use askin’ for his time when he doesn’t have any.”

There’s a brief silence as Donna considers your words. “Something happened,” she repeats. You toss your head, eyes narrowing in her direction, but she keeps going. “Did he say no to fixin’ your car? Or was he mean? Like he’d rather be talkin’ to anybody but you?”

You let out an exhale, long and ragged, and debate answering truthfully.

“Well, yeah,” you admit, “but that ain’t nothin’ I’m not used to. He was actually—“ Your jaw clenches. “He was helpful. Ruder than hell — and bossy, but he got it fixed and told me to get a new battery and stuff. But ever since then…” You trail off, Donna waits. “It’s like he regrets doin’ it. I’ll see him walk by and his eyes pass over me like I’m not even there. I try startin’ a conversation and suddenly he’s got somewhere to be. He’s avoidin’ me, and I don’t know why. I’d be fine with it if I knew what it was, but I got no clue.” Knees in the grass, you watch as a caterpillar crawls over a leaf and onto a piece of siding; you pick it up carefully, watching as the insect runs circles over the plastic, nowhere to go, just as confused as you. “Why’s he like that?”

“Oh, hun,” Donna soothes quietly, stepping closer to your crouched position. “Is that what’s been botherin’ ya? Bucky not bein’ welcomin’?”

“Yes — I mean, no. That’s not what’s botherin’ me, it’s just — it’s hard to explain.” You set the caterpillar down and stand, brushing the dirt and grass from your knees. “And it’s a lot more than just not bein’ welcomin’. I could get hit by a semi right here on Pueblo Street and I don’t think he’d even blink.”

“Now I know that’s not true. What’s goin’ on in that head of yours, sugar?” Donna asks patiently, putting her cigarette out on the broken siding.

You watch the ashes drop to the ground, fragile, crumbling, and still smoking. Your eyes scan the park, naturally pausing over the white trailer with the curtains drawn and boots out front; there’s no truck outside, so he must be working. Yet the empty house still stings a little to look at.

“I thought that the job and movin’ here meant I figured everything out,” you mutter. “Instead an old man decidin’ he doesn’t like me for no reason reminded me that I’m still on my own. I’ve dealt with it my whole life, so I get along just fine by myself, but I’m only human. I still want someone to — to care about me.” You fight through the sudden lump in your throat.

“And Bucky doin’ you a favor brought that up,” Donna confirms. You nod reluctantly.

“Guess so. It was just nice to have someone care, even if he was grumpy as hell about it. Now he pretends I don’t exist and I keep rememberin’ all the times I thought I found someone who cared, only for them to just—“ You flick your hand like you’re waving off a bug, inconsequential yet inconvenient.

“Honey, we care.” Donna wraps an arm around your shoulders, warm and tight, holding you to her. “You got all of us now, and we watch out for each other.”

You open your mouth to point out that one of them does not, but she beats you to it.

“Bucky is a special case,” she sighs. You watch as she gazes at the white trailer, too. “It took him a while to come around to us. He was quiet, kept to himself, coming and going at odd hours…but eventually we wore him down. Kept inviting him in even when we knew he wouldn’t come. Kept offering our help even when we knew he wouldn’t take it. But then he did. I think Bucky was gone for a few days when a big storm came through — a tree fell and knocked out the left side of his trailer, crushed the roof. We got together and started patching it up just as he pulled in. Told us he could handle it but we wouldn’t take no for answer and did it with him anyway. He was real grateful, awfully sweet and apologetic, extra kind to everyone that helped out, but we told him it’s what we do for each other. After that, it was like living next door to a whole new person. I think he just needed to see that we cared for him no matter what, and that we’d be there for him even when things were tough.”

You huff, kicking the dirt at your feet. “Doesn’t explain why he’s got a problem with me. What’s his deal?”

Donna’s hesitant to answer, pulling out another cigarette and lighting it thoughtfully. When there’s a cloud of smoke in the air between you, she says slowly, “He did some time at the state pen.”

Your eyes snap to her, but she shakes her head a little.

“He hasn’t said much, but from what I gathered, Bucky lost more than just his freedom when they handed him his sentence. Family don’t bother with him anymore, told him as much when he was paroled, and he had no choice but to make do alone somewhere else. That can mess a person up, make them suspicious of others, make them think bein’ alone’s the only way to go about this life.” She looks at you then, a soft smile on her lips. “Sounds like someone else I know.” Her words feel like a sucker punch to your gut, but she waves a hand at you. “That’s all I’ve got, though, so if you’re curious about it, you’ll need to ask him.”

You chew the inside of your cheek, replaying the story, picturing Bucky in an orange jumpsuit behind bars. For some reason, the image seems wrong, but your curiosity begins to burn.

“I doubt I’ll get the chance,” you mumble.

“Give it some time,” Donna chirps. “He’ll come around. But you—“ She wraps a thin hand around your wrist, squeezing with intention. “—next time you’re feelin’ a little too sorry for yourself, you come find me. By the time I’m done with you, you’re gonna be beggin’ for some alone time.”

A smile reluctantly breaks across your face, the first genuine one in weeks. “Sure, Donna. Thanks.”

You’d think your talk with Donna would help ease Bucky Barnes from your head, but it seems to have the opposite affect.

While your cocktail of emotions towards him has been watered down by Donna’s story, the urge to understand him is stronger than ever.

You still see him occasionally, driving past in his truck, stalking toward the mailbox, trudging around his yard; you pick up where you left off with your routine, waving and smiling and wishing him a good morning even when he’s already halfway across the park. Nothing changes in his attitude toward you, but it only makes you more curious.

Between grueling ten-hour shifts at the diner, you capitalize on a specific tidbit you learned from Donna, how the neighbors’ generosity got Bucky to crack. You know you have better things to do than trying to win over someone who doesn’t want to be won over, but your stubbornness has always gotten the best of you in your weaker moments.

You choose to act when he isn’t home, aiming to lessen the pressure instead of amping it up. You spend an entire day baking ten dozen cookies for the neighbors and make sure to leave a few at his door with a note to come by if he wants more (he doesn’t). You suffer through sunburn and dehydration while sweeping the entire walking path around the park, paying special attention to Bucky’s portion so that the dust doesn’t settle over his boots. You sprint through a downpour to pull his clothes off the line, covering your trailer in his shirts and jeans and — gulp — underwear to air dry before folding them up carefully and delivering them to his front step in your laundry basket once the sky’s cleared up.

It’s waiting for you outside your door the next morning as you’re leaving for work. No note, no sign of a thanks. You blink when you see it, wondering how he knew it was your laundry basket in the first place.

Still, nothing changes. You try really hard not to obsess over it. And life moves on as usual.

One Friday afternoon, you find yourself sitting in a cheap folding chair next to a handful of your neighbors; they caught you after a slow shift when your social battery hadn’t dropped below empty yet, calling you over with wide smiles like they’ve been waiting hours for you to show. The group is converged in a circle next to the oak tree, passing around beer and flasks of whiskey and shooting the shit. You’ve made quick friends with the girl two trailers down, Wanda, who isn’t much older than you but has a lightness to her that feels like a breath of fresh air. Her husband, who she calls Viz, sits with his arm draped around her shoulders and a look on his face like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. They ask you how you’re liking the park, how the repairs to your trailer are coming along, how your job is going. You feel a deep sense of gratitude forming the more you speak with them.

Neighbors filter in and out of the group like clockwork as the afternoon sun fades into the evening sunset. If they can’t stop for a drink, they still join in on the conversation, gossiping and commenting on the goings-on in town, or stirring up good-natured trouble before resuming their chores — Donna comes by to threaten you all with the hose if you don’t pick up after yourselves. You’re convinced you’ve met everyone in the park by this point, and you’ll need to make a list to get their names straight, but they all have one thing in common: they’re all pleased that you’re here.

The beer eventually begins to dwindle, but spirits are still high in the circle. Wanda’s in the middle of telling a story about a squirrel that got into the Markhams’ trailer when you hear the deep rumbling of an engine in the distance. Wanda doesn’t seem to notice it, but you know that sound anywhere. Sure enough, Bucky’s brown truck comes up the hill and pulls into the park as Wanda’s imitating Mrs. Markham’s screams from her standoff with the intruder. While the rest of the group roars with laughter, you watch as Bucky parks the truck in front of his trailer and steps out. That’s when Wanda spots him, too.

“Hey, Buck!” she calls out, hands cupped around her mouth.

Bucky turns toward the group, his eyes sweeping across the faces. You swear they pause on you for a half a heartbeat.

“Come join us! We’ve got beer!” Wanda shouts, waving a hand over her head. A few others in the circle add their agreement, ushering him over and shaking their flasks. Bucky stares for another moment, as still as the trees behind him, before turning around without a word and heading for his trailer. The door shuts with a slam. A few grumbles go up around you, but Wanda just shrugs, smiling lopsidedly. “Eh, if I got off work early, I’d probably want some peace and quiet, too.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, a sense of unease tainting the picturesque scene around you. “Does he…do that often?” you ask as casually as you can.

“Get off work early? Never. He works more than anyone I know—“

“No, I mean…” your finger points vaguely in the direction of the white trailer, “does he usually just ignore you when you ask him to hang out?”

She tilts her head, lips curving. “No, he’s usually at these things when he isn’t workin’. But if he’s home already, it probably means he threw out his back or somethin’. I know Steve threatens to fire him if he doesn’t go home and rest when that happens. Leave it to Bucky to take an order that seriously.” She laughs. “I swear those two were soldiers in a past life.”

You nod, your mind already dissecting the new information. He didn’t look like he was hurt…but you remember his eyes resting on you for a beat too long. The beer and whiskey combo in your stomach churns.

You fidget with your drink for the next half hour, barely hearing the conversations around you. An uncomfortable feeling has settled in your chest, tight and anxious, and your racing thoughts do nothing to help it. Finally, you can’t take it anymore, feeling restless and in pursuit of answers. You excuse yourself and head for your trailer, but when you’re far enough from the group, you take the long way around the park to Bucky’s, your heartbeat growing louder with each step.

You knock on the door before you can convince yourself otherwise, listening to the laughter of the circle as you wait. There’s a shuffling on the other side, then a soft grunt, and the door swings open.

Your lips part.

Bucky stands before you in nothing but his blue jeans. Your eyes jump to the wide expanse of his chest, the hard muscles of his abs. A smattering of dark chest hair tapers off down his stomach and disappears into his pants, right below his belt buckle. You forget how to breathe.

He stares down at you while bringing a beer bottle to his mouth and taking a hard swig. A drop of condensation lands on the dip between his collarbones, and your tongue subconsciously darts out to wet your lips. He shifts his weight to lean against the door frame, expression neutral. “What do you want?”

You realize you look like a fish out of water and shut your mouth with a snap, swallowing thickly as you feel an unwarranted heat bloom in your gut.

“Um,” you start, silently cursing the way your voice shakes. “Not sure if you heard Wanda, but we — uh, we were wonderin’ if you wanted to join us. Patrick’s doin’ a run to the liquor store so there’ll be plenty of beer soon. Or we still have some whiskey. Unless you’ve got plans…” you trail off, eyes flicking to his shirtless chest.

Bucky’s face doesn’t change. “Don’t have plans.”

“Then you should drink with us.”

“Not interested.” You blink.

“…why not?”

He shrugs.

“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company.” He takes another quick sip from his bottle. Your eyes catch on the label and recognize it immediately from your own preferences; when you look back at Bucky, you find him watching you closely, blue eyes hard and unapologetic. You suck in a breath through your teeth, a strange feeling buzzing beneath your skin. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the undeniable thrill of seeing him shirtless, but you feel close to exploding.

“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company, or don’t feel like drinkin’ with me?” you say quietly, eyes ghosting over his frame.

A look crosses his face, something close to bewildered, before he hides it behind his usual expressionless mask. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

You flash him a tight-lipped smile though far from amused. “Sure, like you don’t know.”

“Kid, I don’t have a clue,” he grumbles, though the hand holding the beer bottle twitches.

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” you snap before you can stop yourself, a dangerous flush running through your body, “you know exactly what you’re doin’. What you’ve been doin’ for the last month. Avoidin’ me like I’m the tax man and you’ve got a debt to pay. You don’t like me? Fine. No problem. I don’t need you to be my friend. But I won’t put up with you actin’ like I don’t exist in front of everyone else anymore, and if you keep doin’ it, I’ll make your sad, lonely, little life hell. So just stay away from me and I’ll stay away from you. Got it?”

Your words hang between you for a sour moment, and not even the cheerful sounds of the group can cut through the tension. Your chest heaves as you scowl at Bucky; he scowls right back, though you notice that the tips of his ears have gone a rosy shade of red and his grip on the beer bottle looks close to destructive. Your eyes scan his hardened face one last time before you turn on your heel and kick up a cloud of dust behind you as you march back to your trailer. This time, you slam the door.

Inside the trailer, the urge to throw something, anything, is too strong to ignore. Your vision zeroes in on the laundry basket Bucky returned a few days ago, and you lunge. Taking the cheap plastic in your hands, you hurl it against the floor with all of your strength, gritting your teeth while biting back a scream, watching as it breaks into a hundred different pieces with concerning ease on your linoleum floors. What follows is a silence so bitter, you can taste it in your mouth.

Your temper slowly fizzles out as you absorb the mess you made. You shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t have let him get to you again. Now you’ve got a room full of shame and no laundry basket.

Exhaling heavily, you run a hand through your hair while peeking out the window to see if the circle of neighbors heard your crash out. Nobody’s looking your way, thankfully — instead, they’re cheering on Patrick as he emerges from his car with two new cases of beer. A pang of longing hits your chest, but you know you can’t go back out there now, not after this. So you resign yourself to picking up the remains of your laundry basket, piece by piece on your hands and knees until they ache from the pressure and you’ve cut your fingers on the jagged edges.

Later, when you’re nursing a small hangover with a cup of tea and an ice pack on your head, you wait for the regret to sink in over the heated words you threw at Bucky. But, strangely, it doesn’t. Now that the buzz from the alcohol and the leftover anger have vacated your body, you’re left with an odd sense of calm about it.

Sure, you got something off your chest that’s been weighing you down for weeks, but you had truly convinced yourself that you were optimistic over the Bucky situation. You had been foolishly hopeful that you could get through to him. Your outburst said differently. You should feel embarrassed, defeated, tired, but instead you feel…good. You handled it, just like you’ve handled every other hurdle in your life. Maybe not gracefully, but grace has never been your forte, and you don’t really mind.

You only wish that Bucky had shown some sort of reaction to being called out, a protest, a sigh, anything — but the man is as expressive as a bucket of cement. Knowing him, you wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t listen to half the things you said. He probably thought the whole thing was a waste of time, something to forget about as soon as he shut the door…

Doesn’t matter. You’re not going to lose sleep over your emotionally repressed neighbor anymore. You’re not going to spend another second thinking about him.

This turns out to be easier said than done.

You get to enjoy a peaceful week without seeing or thinking about Bucky, until Sunday rolls around. You’re doing laundry, which proves to be harder than usual without a laundry basket, leaving you to juggle armfuls of clothes while trekking back and forth between the park’s shared washing machines and your trailer. While the last of your wardrobe dries on the line outside, you’re moving around your little home in a faded pink tank top and an old pair of some ex’s boxers. The radio plays rock classics while you prep dinner, and you hum along as you man the stove and chop vegetables.

Then a knock interrupts.

You set down the knife and glance out the window, but whoever’s outside is hovering next to the door out of sight. You think it’s Donna, coming by with eggs after she borrowed some from you the other day, but when you open the door, you’re downright shocked to find who’s on the other side.

Bucky stands with one hand against your door frame, the other holding his toolbox, dressed in dirty jeans and a plain black t-shirt that hugs his body in an ungodly attractive way. You take a step back in surprise when his eyes find yours. They’re bright, but guarded. He nods at you.

“You said your shower’s broken,” he says in greeting, voice low like he doesn’t want to be overheard.

Your mouth falls open. “Huh?”

His lips press together in an impatient line. “Your shower. You asked me to take a look at it the other day.”

Your mind feels like an old computer you had to reboot to get working again. You blink at him as it comes back to you.

“Yeah,” you answer slowly, “but that was before.”

He huffs, looking over his shoulder at the park behind him. “You want your shower fixed or not? I got things to do today.”

“Then go do ‘em.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying your best to look down your nose at him while being completely submerged in his shadow.

“Don’t be stupid,” is his retort, “I’m offerin’ you help.”

“Don’t need it. And don’t call me stupid,” you snap.

“You gonna fix the shower yourself?” Bucky challenges, tilting his head at you. You feel heat rush to your cheeks as his eyes sweep up and down your figure, taking in your thin tank top and rolled up boxers.

“Maybe,” you throw at him, though it lacks the previous bite. The corner of Bucky’s mouth curls up.

“Then at least let me watch.”

Your spine locks as a jolt of something new and strange spreads through your body. Your brain decides now is a good time to remember just how attractive he is beneath the oil and dirt and rough demeanor — especially when shirtless.

“That’s — I don’t — you—“ stammers out of your mouth. Bucky responds by pushing past you into your trailer. You stumble into your couch, still struggling for words as he fills your little kitchen with his wide shoulders and long legs, his hair nearly brushing the ceiling. He sets the toolbox down on your table, briefly glancing at your half-made dinner.

“Smells good.”

His gruff tone is a sharp contrast to his casual words. You shake your head, though you feel like you could use a solid smack to the face. “Do you normally go around bargin’ into your neighbors homes?” you ask, slightly breathless. He looks at you, amused.

“When the neighbors are bein’ dumb, yeah. This the bathroom?” He points to the pocket door on his left.

“I told you not to call me—“

“Stupid, I know. I didn’t call you stupid, though.”

Your jaw clenches hard enough to hurt, watching as Bucky pulls open the bathroom door and squeezes into the tiny room like it’s his house. The sound of the shower turning on comes a second later.

“I thought I told you to stay away from me,” you grit through your teeth. “You got a hearing problem, old man?”

From the bathroom, Bucky chuckles, soft and deep. “Old man,” he mutters to himself before shutting the water off and reappearing, eyes pinning you in place. “I can hear just fine. Heard all of your cute little temper tantrum the other day.“

Your entire body flushes against its will. ”Then why are you here?” you demand. Bucky begins rifling through his toolbox.

“You asked me to fix your shower.”

“Yeah, a month ago,” you scoff. “And before I knew how big of an ass you are.” Bucky’s mouth does that half-smile again as he picks up a wrench. It might be the same one you imagined hitting him over the head with.

“That ain’t very nice,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to you. “You hardly know me.”

Your lip curls. “And you don’t know me, but you already decided I wasn’t worth your time.”

He exhales heavily, swapping the wrench for another one and weighing it in his hands. “This again?” But before you can let out the blood-curdling scream that’s been building up inside of you, he sets down the tool and turns your way, shoulders set and face stony. “Look, if I hurt your feelins by not takin’ your invite, then that’s on you. It ain’t personal, neighborhood bondin’s not really my thing as you could probably tell—“

“Unbelievable,” you mutter bitterly, shaking your head. “First of all, I know you’re lyin’ — Wanda said you’re always around when somethin’ is goin’ on. Second, you’re completely missin’ my point.”

“I was gettin’ to it,” he says louder, pointing a sharp finger at you. “But it seems you have a habit of jumpin’ to conclusions before hearin’ a person out.”

“Hearin’ a person out!” you cry, throwing your hands up; the sarcasm drips thick into your tone. “When would I ever be able to hear you out when you walk the other way when you see me comin’?”

He levels you with a hard look, blue eyes burning into yours. Butterflies erupt in your stomach, unwelcome and distracting, but you hold your ground.

“I don’t do friends,” he grunts, “I’m not good at bein’ one and I’m too busy for ‘em anyway. Fixin’ your car that day, I could tell that’s what you were lookin’ for, and I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea in your head.”

You laugh, dry and harsh. “Well, you certainly got your point across, Bucky.” His hand twitches, a quick clench and unclench of fingers; you observe it coolly, eyebrow cocked. “You know, for a guy who “doesn’t do friends,” there are a lot of people in this park who think you do.”

“That’s different,” he’s quick to say, brushing it off, “I’ve known ‘em for years. Thin line between familiar and friends, not my fault if they pick one and I pick the other.”

You scoff.

“Sure, okay. So what happens in, say, five years — when I’m still livin’ across the park from ya?” you ask, taking a bold step forward. “Will I get grandfathered in to your half-assed friendship, or will we still be goin’ at it like this? ‘cause I’m startin’ to think it’s less about you bein’ anti-friends, and more about you not likin’ me.”

“You won’t be here in five years,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “This place ain’t anythin’ more than a pit stop on your way to somethin’ else. You’re young — real young — still got most of your life ahead of you, some great, big future out there somewhere, but it ain’t here. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends.”

With an inaudible crack, something shifts inside your chest, something heavy and painful as memories of your past flood your thoughts, ruthless and relentless in their intention to hurt. You pull your arms in close to your body, feeling goosebumps on your skin.

“You don’t know anythin’ about me and my future,” you tell him quietly. He shrugs.

“Maybe not, but I know restless when I see it. And I know grit. You’ll want something better eventually, and you’ll go after it.”

The silence that follows is deafening. You look everywhere but him, unwilling to show him just how much his words got to you, but he keeps his eyes steadily on you, unblinking, unwavering, like he’s finally noticed you for the first time and needs to learn everything he can about you in this very moment. Finally, he sighs, running a hand through his thick hair and frowning at the floor.

“But…I think maybe I was…doin’ too much. I didn’t see it that way before, but I do now,” he says, still gruff, but softer now. “Lemme fix your shower. To say sorry for bein’…for bein’ an ass. I know what it’s like to be ignored…and I should’ve realized how things might’ve come across to ya.”

You exhale shakily. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends. You look away, struggling to separate the sting of his words from the peace offering in front of you.

“Alright,” you relent, packing up the pain and setting it aside. He nods before picking through his toolbox again. You shift your weight, feeling awkward and out of place in your own home. Clearing your throat, you bravely add, “Does this mean I can expect a wave in the mornings?”

Bucky makes a noise in the back of his throat that could pass for a laugh. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself now. Just because I’m sayin’ sorry doesn’t mean I take back what I said about bein’ friends.”

“Yeah. You’re a grumpy old man who likes to be alone. Got it.”

He tosses you a look over his shoulder, equal parts irritated and amused, while you bite your lip to stop yourself from acting on the hurt simmering inside of you. As the fight in you deflates, you take a few careful steps into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as Bucky sorts through a handful of knuts and screws. “So…” you start, searching for a stop to the thoughts inside your head, “what’d you end up doin’ that night?”

“What night?” Bucky grunts.

“The night we were drinkin’.”

He hums, pocketing the screws and picking up a screwdriver. “Finished up a couple projects,” he says slowly. “Got some chores done.”

“Really,” you state, brows furrowed. “Didn’t look like you were up to anythin’.”

He looks at you then and his eyes are unreadable. “Why do you say that?”

“Because you answered the door without a shirt. And you were drinkin’ a beer. The beer I left at your door when you were too scared to answer it, by the way.”

Bucky snorts. “You askin’ for a thanks? I had my head under car hoods all day. I think I deserved a cold drink.”

He turns for the bathroom again; this time, you follow, hovering in the doorway as he starts loosening the shower head from the pipe. “Do you always answer your door halfway to nude, or did I just get lucky that day?”

Bucky laughs, really, truly laughs. Whatever burdened expression you were wearing is wiped clean off your face as you bask in the sound of it.

“It’s called laundry, sweetheart. I smelled like a wet dog on an oil rig after workin’ twelve hours in the heat, and I didn’t care to sit in it any longer.”

“Still,” you mutter, watching as he catches the unattached shower head before it drops to the ground, “you could’ve put on a shirt before greetin’ me like that.”

“Like you’re much better,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at you; again, his eyes rake up and down shamelessly, but this time it feels more concentrated, observant. The blue looks a shade darker than before. You gape at him.

“It’s — well, I’m just—“

“Doin’ laundry?” Bucky supplies quietly. You snap out of it when he turns back to the shower, pulling out his screwdriver.

“Whatever,” you grumble, feeling hot, “just let me know when you’re done.”

You leave him in the bathroom to pick up where you left off chopping vegetables. You should probably have a clearer head when handling a knife, but you’re too riled up to sit still and wait for him to finish. What was that look about? He says he doesn’t want to be your friend, then he stares at you like you’ve got something he wants. Is he waiting for you to snap at him again, or is it something else?

You’re silent while you work, just the radio and the sounds of Bucky working on your shower filling the trailer. Every now and then you’ll hear the water run, or a hushed curse under his breath. You’re just turning off the heat on the stove when he steps out of your bathroom and puts his tools away.

“Pressure’s fine now,” he tells you, snapping the toolbox shut. You turn to him, hands on your hips.

“Mind if I check?” Another half-smile from him as he gestures for you to go ahead. You shuffle past him, brushing his shoulder as you go. You’re shocked to feel how warm he runs, almost hot to the touch; your cool skin begs you to step closer. In the bathroom, you turn the handle and are pleasantly surprised to see water shoot out at a mostly normal rate.

“Nice work,” you call out before turning it off. Bucky’s waiting for you in the kitchen, leaning against the table with his arms crossed and a curious look on his face. “What?” you can’t help but ask, stopping in your tracks.

For the first time since meeting him, Bucky looks slightly put off, like a thought’s crossed his mind that he’s wondering if he should voice aloud. “Are you—“ He clears his throat. “Where were you before this?”

You blink. You haven’t heard that question in a while. “La Junta. But I grew up in Dodge City.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Got family there?”

“Maybe,” you shrug. “Couldn’t tell you where my daddy is. Mom’s got a new boyfriend, don’t know if they moved.”

“What about you? You got a boyfriend?” he murmurs, examining his dirty hands.

“I wouldn’t be askin’ you for help if I did,” you answer, blinking, and you turn back to your food to hide the heat crawling up your face. Bucky hums. Then, to your immense surprise, you hear him ease himself into the tiny chair at your table.

“So you’re on your own,” he comments, as if what he did wasn’t completely at odds with your earlier conversation.

Your shoulders tense instinctively. Well, isn’t this just ironic? The man who made you feel lonely wants to know how lonely you are.

“Could say that,” you respond slowly, “but Donna and the others have been real welcoming. They say the door’s always open.”

You hope he catches the barb in your words, the subtle call out, but Bucky just sighs. “Yeah, they’re like that. Would give you the clothes off their back in the middle of a snowstorm if you needed it. Good people — too good, sometimes.”

“Nobody can be too good,” you say, eyeing him over your shoulder. “I think the world could use a few more people like them.” He meets your gaze before dragging it down your figure again, but it’s softer this time, less analytical and not necessarily uncomfortable. You quickly turn back to the stove. “Didn’t take you as the type to chit chat,” you quip.

“Oh, am I bein’ too friendly now?”

“I thought you got things to do today.”

“I do,” he grunts. “I’ll get to them.”

It hits you suddenly that you’re not sure if you want Bucky to leave yet. When you chance another glance at him, you’re struck with how comfortable he looks sitting there. His broad frame takes up a whole side of the table, and he’s slouched down just enough in the chair with his legs spread wide, like he owns the place, like he knows the inside of your trailer well, like he’s familiar with the way you move around the kitchen.

A teasing smile makes its way onto your face. “If I didn’t know better, it sounds like you’re lookin’ for a friend to pass time with—“

“Don’t be difficult,” he mutters, head tilted as he crosses his arms; his biceps bulge, the golden skin stretching like an invitation for you to touch, taste, bite—

“You sure like givin’ orders, huh?” you remark, matching his stance. Those blue eyes find yours and don’t let go.

“Only when it’s needed,” he says, voice lowering to a pitch that could rumble the floors beneath your bare feet. To your chagrin, it goes straight to your gut, settling there with a deep heat that awakens something inside of you. You scramble to push it down, afraid of the truth showing plainly on your face.

“Bossy,” you mutter under your breath, looking away. Bucky chuckles, somehow making it worse.

“Somethin’ tells me you don’t do well listenin’ to others.”

Your hand tightens over the plate you’re pulling from the cupboard. “Yeah, well. Most people tell you to do things ‘cause it’s better for them, not for you.”

He hums. “You listened pretty well to me.”

Your cheeks flush. “Judgment error,” you mumble.

“Did you get the new battery like I told you to?”

“Uh…” You have the grace to look sheepish because, truthfully, you forgot. You close your mouth before telling him that if he hadn’t completely derailed all of your rational thinking with his avoidant behavior, you’d have remembered.

“I stand corrected,” he mutters, pushing out his chair. Bucky only needs to take two steps until he’s looming over you, pulling out a card from his back pocket. He takes your hand in his and places the card there before his fingers slide to your wrist, gripping tight. “Rogers’ garage on Miner Street. I want you in there this week for a battery change. Unless you’re tryin’ to blow that hunk of junk up.”

You gulp, looking down at where he’s holding you. “I have work,” you whisper.

“After work, then. I’ll be there.” He searches your face, waiting for your confirmation. You nod, but he doesn’t let go. A moment passes where it’s just the two of you breathing along to the soft melody of the radio.

“You’re helping me again,” you blurt. His fingers dig a little deeper into your flesh.

“And?”

You take a steadying breath, your brain picking through your words carefully. “Awfully friend-like, if you ask me—“

Bucky groans, pulling away and leaving sparks along your skin. He picks up his toolbox, giving you a quick glance. He looks like he’s about to say something, and you find yourself desperately wanting to know what it is. But he seems to think better of it and makes for the door, opening it up to the heat of the August evening. His eyes meet yours one last time. “Enjoy your dinner.”

He’s a step out of your trailer when you call his name. He stops immediately, looking over his shoulder. “Thank you,” you say in a rush. “For fixin’ the shower.”

A pause, then, “No problem, kid.” The door swings shut. Through the window you see him traipse across the park and to his truck where he tosses the toolbox into the back, then he disappears into his home. Whatever things he had to do seem to be forgotten. Or nonexistent. A smile curls across your face before you can stop it.

The following weeks feel like a fever dream compared to the last month. You find yourself face-to-face with Bucky a number of times, some by coincidence, some by design.

A quick nod as he drives past you in the morning turns into a quick conversation at the mailbox the next day. It’s mostly you talking, but he stands there nonetheless, listening quietly to your unprovoked story of a difficult customer from the other week. Following that, you bump into him on a walk around the park with Wanda, where he manages to crack a smile when you recount how the little kid next door ran you over with his bike earlier that morning. He makes you promise to treat the patch of road rash on your thigh with rubbing alcohol, warning against infection and causing you to blush like a school girl being told off.

A storm rips through the town later that week, ripping off shingles and felling trees, making the lights flicker uncertainly from time to time as the wind batters the side of your trailer. After the worst of it’s passed, you step outside to assess the damage; you think it’s superficial, nothing that threatens the structural integrity of the outbuilding, but you don’t know the first thing about evaluating storm damage.

Luckily, Bucky materializes out of nowhere like he could read your mind from across the park, offering to check for leaks and punctures that could lead to greater troubles down the road. He claims he does it for all of the neighbors, waving off your word vomit of gratitude with a huff and a scowl, but once again, he either forgets about the others, or those intentions never existed, because when he’s finished fortifying your trailer, he sends you a small salute before crossing the park and disappearing back into his home.

A few days later, you find yourself at the mailboxes with Bucky after he came up behind you with a muttered, “mornin’”, and now he’s listening to you talk about your boss’ erratic revamp of the menu. You manage to pull from him that he’s partial to the danish pastries your diner sells, so you knock on his door later that night with a bag full of them and a smile on your face, watching as the tips of his ears glow bright red when you hand them over. He thanks you in that gruff way of his that doesn’t sound grateful at all, but it’s enough for you.

But to your shock, he repays the favor the next evening.

You’re curled up on the couch with a book, listening to the weak clicks of the AC unit in your window, when you feel your trailer give a sudden lurch. Your glass of water topples off the side table, your basil plant spills into the sink. You’re questioning the probability of earthquakes when it happens again — this time more powerful than the last.

When you open your door, the last thing you’re expecting is Bucky — shirtless again — using a hammer to extract the rotting pieces from the walls of your trailer. You call him crazy — it’s ten o’clock at night and he’s just finished a fourteen-hour shift, after all — but he just grunts and tells you that they were an eyesore, that he was getting too impatient not to do something about them. You’d be offended if your body wasn’t humming with a pleased rush of adrenaline from his attention, however workaround it may be.

You spend the remainder of the evening watching from your open door as he fixes up your little home. Despite the cooler night air, he still gleams with sweat from the effort, and you learn to appreciate this quickly; he looks like trouble and heaven wrapped up in the likeness of God’s surliest angel. By no means are you religious, but all other explanations for how a man that looks like that winds up in your yard seem to defy natural laws. Watching the muscles in his arms ripple as he tears the siding off its hinges, you’re convinced a higher power had to have intervened for this moment to happen.

You’re all too eager to offer him a beer when he finally finishes. He takes it before sitting down wordlessly next to you on your stoop. Then it’s silent except for the crickets and the bullfrogs, but you find it peaceful rather than charged like it usually is between you.

Up close, the tattoo that once teased you that fateful day that you met is on full display. It’s an intricate piece that extends across his back from shoulder to shoulder; black ink curls around three names written in elegant calligraphy: James, Winnifred, and Rebecca. The longer you stare at it, the more your fingers itch with the need to touch it, to trace the whorls from point to point.

You take a large sip of beer for courage.

“What’s this?” you murmur, the tip of your pinky barely grazing the ‘a’ at the end of Rebecca. You feel Bucky tense up beneath your touch, and you know right away that you’ve crossed a line, possibly tearing down what little you’ve built since he fixed your shower. You wait for the blow to come, for the other shoe to drop, for him to stand and leave you all alone in the dark.

But he doesn’t. Instead, Bucky slowly relaxes, muscle by muscle. “My family. I don’t…see them much anymore.”

You let that sink in for a moment. “So you’re on your own,” you comment, using his words.

Bucky hears this and turns, unleashing the full force of those big blue eyes on you. Something flashes across them, and it could be anything: pain, recognition, anger, validation. All real emotions for a situation you’re only too familiar with.

“Yeah,” he finally mutters, looking down. Your gut twists.

Just from that one little word, you could glean all of the history behind him, the past that’s riddled with regret and hurt, and you push against the sudden urge to wrap him in a hug. Too much too soon for begrudging acquaintances. You settle instead for soft words in the form of a distraction.

“Well, except for Donna. She doesn’t know how to leave anyone alone.”

Bucky gives a half shrug, sipping on his beer. “You’re not wrong.”

“Y’know, everyone here kind of adores you.”

“I doubt that.”

“You should hear Donna talk about ya.”

The corner of his mouth ticks up as he glances at you. “That bad, huh?”

“She says you’re the sweetest guy,” you share with him conspiratorially. “That you help out a lot, actually. And that you’re quiet, but you’re really kind when you wanna be—“

“Alright, I get it,” he mutters, eyes scanning the park. “Easy to believe the lie when she says it like that.”

There isn’t any venom to his words, just a simple statement around a beer bottle. You tear your eyes away from watching his neck extend on a swallow, dazedly finding the oak tree. “I know it’s not a lie,” you say, picking at the peeling label of your drink. “I saw you the other day, helpin’ out the Markhams. All of you were laughin’, too. It was…sweet.”

Bucky’s quiet for a moment. He leans back until his forearms rest against the step behind him, stretching out his long torso like he’s asking you to count all six abdominals. “Don’t get used to it,” he mutters darkly, and it sounds like a threat more than anything, but the little pout on his face negates whatever abrasiveness he was hoping for. It makes you giggle.

“Uh-huh, sure. I know a big softie when I see one.”

He rolls his eyes before taking a sip of his drink. “Believe what you want, kid, but I’m not the type to give flowers or sweet nothins.”

Your attention sharpens at his words, a spike of curiosity jetting through your bloodstream. “How else do you woo your woman then?” you tease, just enough to hide the neediness in your voice, the urge to know the answer.

Bucky turns to you, brows furrowed. Then — so quick, you almost miss it — his eyes dart to your mouth and back. The wind shifts, your fingers tingle, Bucky pushes up so that he’s brushing shoulders with you again; you feel like they’re fused together by some invisible, magical weld. He stares straight ahead, elbows on his knees, thumb running circles around the rim of the beer bottle. “Don’t have one,” he mutters.

You blink.

“Really?” His face twists into a scowl. “Huh. Guess it’s hard to believe a good lookin’ guy like you doesn’t have a few crawlin’ all over him. Unless it’s by choice.”

Bucky frowns impossibly deeper, it’s almost laughable. “Why would it be by choice?”

“Because apparently you can barely handle havin’ a friend, or so you say,” you point out.

“Doesn’t mean I’m a fuckin’ loner,” he grumbles. “I just don’t…get out that much.”

“I bet you’d do pretty well for yourself if you did, sittin’ all alone on a barstool with the sad guy look you got goin’ on.”

“I got what?”

“Y’know,” you start with a grin, “the sad guy look. When you’re all mysterious and unavailable. Add in broody, quiet and stares a lot, women will think it’s hot.”

Bucky goes so still, even his thumb pauses.

“Oh, yeah?” he asks quietly, looking very thoughtfully at the oak tree. “Is it doin’ somethin’ for you, kid?”

The smile flickers off your face. Oh. Oh no.

“Uh…”

He eyes you sideways, and you know you’re as red as a stop sign. You gave yourself away before you could even go on the defense. You take a big sip to buy you time, but he’s there and leaning into the spot where you skin touches, and all the sudden your thoughts explode in a hundred different directions, because why is he still staring at you, and why is he actively getting closer, and why, for the love of all that’s good and holy, does he still not have a shirt on?

You think he’s never paid closer attention to you before now, and he’s destined to see through your lie when your face is there to direct him to the truth. So you gamble on a half truth.

“I think it’s a pretty universal thing to be attracted to,” you say with a shrug, giving a mediocre performance on playing it cool. He hums.

“But do you like it?” Bucky presses softly, and your stomach drops into a flip. The wind shifts again, and this time, you can feel something mysteriously close to electricity buzzing back and forth between your skin and his. Why does he care? you ask yourself, as if you know the answer.

“I…” your voice wobbles traitorously, but you know there’s no way out of it now, so you’ll go down swinging. You turn to him, and your eyes connect like a head on car crash: dangerous, devastating, impossible to look away from. “Yes,” you whisper.

He smiles faintly. “Thought so.”

“Please don’t,” you groan.

He chuckles but doesn’t look away, and you’ve already developed Stockholm Syndrome from being held hostage by his gaze. His reaches out to brush a hair from your face, natural, instinctive, and you’re holding your breath without even realizing, feeling the zip of chemistry from the tips of his fingers as they touch your cheek. You’re so close, you could lean in and brush noses with him if you had the nerve to. Or more, which you’re starting to think about—

“You might be the prettiest thing this town’s ever seen,” he murmurs, low and rough, and oh, does your heart try to leap out of your chest and drop into his hands.

You feel your cheeks flush, your sense of reality growing hazy, because is this really Bucky Barnes sitting in front of you saying that?

But he pulls back before you can even think of a response, chancing one last glance at your mouth before silently falling back into position next to you.

For a while, he doesn’t say anything. You don’t push him to. And when your finger brushes the ‘a’ again, he leans your way. Your mind is oddly free of thought as you trace the names gently — you’ve probably gone into shock over him letting you touch him like this. You’re not sure what compelled you to do it, nor what convinced Bucky to allow it, but for a few quiet moments, you feel yourself breaking through one of the walls he had up between you. You wonder if he feels it too.

Later, after he calls it a night and you’re lying in bed, watching as the patch of moonlight crawls across your ceiling, you feel like maybe he was right — maybe you weren’t going to be friends. Because maybe you were always meant to be something more.

Saturday arrives with a bang as thunderstorms roll through the county and soak everything in its reach, but by the time your shift ends, the sky has opened up to an endless portrait of oranges and pinks and purples. You take the scenic route home, windows down to let in the smell of earth and rain, and a smile on your face that hurts your cheeks and feels dangerously close to permanent. A stack of pastries sits in your passenger seat, boxed carefully and tied with a string to keep them from sliding.

When you pull up to your little trailer, Donna’s waiting for you outside your door. She descends on you immediately, taking the pastries from your hands and whisking them away to the middle of the park where the neighbors are setting up for a barbecue.

“Thanks, hun!” she calls out. “Now get outta that rag and put on somethin’ cute — we’re dancin’ later!”

By the time you emerge from your trailer, uniform swapped for something lighter that sways in the wind, the park party is in full swing. Donna’s taken up the mantle as the Chief of Staff of the buffet line, Viz is unloading cases of sodas and waters from the back of his truck, little Mrs. Markham tenderly sets up a s’mores station for the children, and Wanda’s tossing strings of lights through the limbs of the oak tree.

You rush forward when she gets tangled up in a line, stopping the threat of a hard tumble by unwinding it from her ankles. Wanda grimaces. “Thanks. Guess I can forget that career in the rodeo.”

Viz perks up from filling a cooler with drinks. “I wouldn’t say that, honey. You’re a hell of a cowgirl to me.”

Wanda blushes as red as her hair while you fight back a laugh. “Viz,” she mumbles, but her husband just sends her a wink before turning back to the cooler. “Sorry,” she says to you, the color slowly fading from her cheeks. “He can be…pretty affectionate when he’s home.”

You shake your head, smiling. “No, don’t be sorry. I think it’s sweet.” Your fingers work with hers to straighten out a knot in the lights. “Is he gone pretty often?”

She nods. “Three weeks of the month, usually. Long-haul truckin’ definitely wasn’t our first choice. It’s dangerous, and the time apart can feel painful. But the pay’s decent and…well…” She looks around cautiously before leaning in. “We’re tryin’ to start a family.”

“Wanda,” you breathe, eyes wide. She hushes you gently, but she’s smiling now.

“I know. But you can’t tell anyone — especially Donna. She’ll make it a whole thing.” She scrunches her nose adorably.

“My lips are sealed,” you vow, miming a zipper closing across your mouth.

“Thank you,” she says, squeezing your hand. “Now let’s get the rest of these figured out.“

After several more attempts at lassoing lights onto branches, the two of you end up abandoning that plan and decide to treat the trunk like a maypole; each of you take hold of a string and run circles around the tree until not an inch of bark is visible. Your side splits from laughter as you try not to trip over the exposed roots, chasing after your newfound friend. You collapse onto the grass after, knocking shoulders and gulping down air as the rest of the neighbors start to mingle around you. The smell of grilled meat and oil lanterns fills the air. Conversation is a constant hum that provides a comforting white noise. Children race across the grass, dragging bubble wands behind them and leaving a whimsical trail for the lightning bugs to follow. You take a look around the park, at your friends and neighbors sending you easy smiles and carefree waves. They don’t know the quiet impact it has on you, what it means to be on the receiving end of their kindness. It’s like they’re standing at the open door, waving you in and welcoming you home.

Viz comes over and hands you both a water. You take it with a muttered thanks, grateful to have something to distract you from the swell of emotions rearing up inside of you.

That’s when you hear it: the sound of an old engine revving up the hill. Your breath hitches as you watch the brown truck pull into the lot, Bucky’s figure shadowed by the setting sun behind him. Your lips part when you notice he isn’t alone.

The truck comes to a stop next to Viz’s. “Ah,” he says, pushing himself up from the ground. “Finally. Bucky’s here with the good stuff.”

Bucky jumps out of the truck with the ease of a seasoned cowboy dismounting from his horse. Dark shades cover his eyes, but he flips them up as Viz approaches; they shake hands, Bucky clapping Viz on the back. “Good to have you back,” you hear him say, a crooked grin on his face. In the back of your mind you know you’re blatantly staring, but this is new material that your curious brain is desperate to consume. His passenger comes around the other side of the truck, a tall, broad man with sandy blonde hair and oily jeans that give Bucky’s a run for their money. His face is weathered and chiseled like the driver’s, but there’s a softness to it that begs you to trust him, like all of your problems could be solved with just a look.

“Steve,” Viz greets, extending a hand. The newcomer shakes it, grinning.

“Good to see you again, Viz.”

You’re drawn back to Bucky as the other two catch up. His blue eyes sweep across the park, intentional and analyzing. When they fall on you and Wanda, he goes still for a moment. A part of you shrinks in fear, your heart racing in your chest when you remember the last time he picked you out of the crowd.

But Bucky’s hand comes up in a simple two-fingered wave. Wanda waves back. “Hey, Buck!”

“Wanda,” he says in that low tone of his, but his eyes never leave you. “Hey, kid.”

“Hi,” you answer, the faintest trace of a squeak in your voice. Bucky nods, an indefinable look on his face, before turning back to the truck and opening the back. Viz gives a whoop of delight when he sees the kegs waiting to be tapped.

“Right on time, Barnes. You did good.” Bucky shakes his head.

“This was all Steve. That red-headed bartender at Bruce’s is sweet on him.” Bucky’s companion chuckles, bashfully ducking his head.

“Nat’s just a friend.”

“Yeah, pal. Be sure to thank her extra nice for us when you’re at her place tonight.”

The party really takes off once the three men drop the kegs near the coolers. The rest of the group crowds around it like bees on honey. Wanda recruits you to set up a table of solo cups and sharpie markers, but you’re not much help for the urgency she needs. You’re finding Bucky lifting 160 pounds of beer like it’s a sack of feathers to be very distracting while trying to un-stack cups.

Viz christens the first keg with a spray of foam that everyone groans at, but his effacing smile tells you there’s very little that could dampen his spirits, including a botched keg. He quickly fills two cups (of mostly foam) for you and Wanda, and you laugh when she cheers you to “the rodeo life.”

You toss it back like medicine, hoping the alcohol clears your mind of the mysterious haze of self-awareness and poor attention span that Bucky brought with his arrival. The beer dribbles down your chin, and as you move to wipe it off, you glance up.

As predicted, your eyes find Bucky standing a few feet away; by all accounts, he’s locked into a conversation with Steve and Patrick that requires all of their heads to be pulled close together. But while Steve and Patrick exchange enthusiastic words, Bucky’s tight-lipped while staring at you.

You blush, an embarrassed smile flashing across your face while you use the back of your hand like a napkin. You expect him to look away, like a normal person does when they accidentally catch eyes with someone, but he doesn’t. He coolly takes a sip of his own drink, a muscle ticking in his jaw while he watches you. A ripple of heat runs down your spine that has nothing to do with the weather; it’s reminiscent of the feeling you had when his hand held tight to your wrist in your trailer, but it’s like it’s been cranked up to level 1000. When he swallows, you can see the tip of his tattoo curling at the base of his neck, and your fingers give an involuntary twitch as they remember the feel of it beneath them. Bucky shifts a half-step in your direction, and for one delusional second, you think he’s going to come over. But Donna wanders into your line of sight before the heat of his gaze can fully brand itself into your skin.

“Can I get your help with the salad? Mary went to get more plates.”

You’re dragged away before you can say a word.

Throughout the rest of the night, Bucky always seems to be on your periphery. Wherever you turn, he’s there, just a few feet away. Not close enough to warrant a conversation, but not far enough to be coincidence. You know the park isn’t big, but the proximity seems constructed, considered, careful, especially when you can feel his eyes on you at all times. When you refill your drink, he’s finishing his. When the line for the food forms, he’s three people behind you. When you pass by with a tray of desserts, he steps out of the way wordlessly, pulling Steve with him before you can excuse yourself. And he watches you go.

As the sunset melts into twilight, and Wanda’s lights begin to steal the show, you find a chair next to the speaker softly playing Fleetwood Mac. Across from you, Viz is coaxing Wanda into being the first ones to dance; she shakes her head, adamantly against it, but allows him to pull her from the chair anyway. Donna has a content look on her face as she oversees cleanup, which she shooed you away from almost immediately. Bucky’s coworker is doubled-over with laughter listening to Mr. Gonzalez’s tale of a fishing trip gone wrong. But Bucky is missing.

Your eyes scan the park instinctively, even delving into the dark corners between trailers or the full parking lot on the other side. You’re halfway out of your chair — to do what, you’re not sure — when you hear something drag across the dirt.

Bucky pulls up a chair and takes a seat beside you before you can blink. He has a fresh beer in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other, which he tucks into the front pocket of his red flannel.

“Enjoyin’ yourself?” he murmurs in greeting, observing the party in front of him. You can smell traces of smoke on him, layered beneath the scent of oil and something that reminds you of the woods behind his trailer.

Your gaze drops to the drink in your hand. “Yeah, this is great. Never been to something like this before.” Bucky settles into the chair, his knees spreading wide until one just barely grazes yours. “Did you guys close up the shop for this?” you ask, nodding toward Steve.

“Have to. Otherwise Donna would have our asses.”

You laugh softly. “Yeah, I got the impression this is pretty important to her when she made me RSVP.”

A ghost of a smirk flits across his face. “Her and Harold used to host this every year. After he died, she dug her heels into keepin’ it a tradition since it meant so much to him. Hard to say no to her when she’s got her mind set on somethin’.”

“I didn’t know that,” you admit. “I just thought she really likes barbecues.” Bucky laughs into his drink, and you nearly preen at the sound. “That’s really sweet, though. I wish I could’ve met him.”

“He was a good man,” Bucky agrees. “Had a lot of strong opinions about things I had no idea about. Most of it sounded crazy to me, but I ended up learnin’ my fair share from him.” He looks sideways at you. “Taught me how to use a lawnmower.”

“Really?” you laugh in disbelief. “When was this?”

“Maybe four years ago,” he says.

“Oh, shut up, you’re just lyin’ now. You build cars from scrap metal for a livin’ — there’s no way you didn’t know how to run a lawnmower.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t have a reason to until I moved here,” he says simply, like that explains the issue.

“Whaddya mean?”

He shifts in his seat before taking a sip of beer, looking past the party at the woods beyond. “There’s no grass where I come from.“

Your head tilts, eyes assessing his profile. The lined planes of his face remain as impassive as ever, but his shoulders don’t meet his ears like you expect. He seems relaxed — or at the very least, prepared — for your inevitable follow up question about his past.

“Where you from, Bucky?” you ask. He opens his mouth, but you quickly point a finger at him with a sudden burst of inspiration. “No, wait. Lemme guess…El Paso.”

The corner of his mouth curls up. “No.”

“Hmm,” you take a sip of your drink, pretending to take your time considering his accent like you don’t already have it memorized and catalogued neatly into a quiet corner of your brain. “Amarillo?”

“Nope — not Texas.”

You pout. “Gimme a hint.”

“East coast.”

You stare.

“Give up already?” he teases, but you wave him off.

“East coast, no grass, bad manners—“ Bucky snorts. “You from Jersey or somethin’?”

“Worse. Brooklyn.”

Your jaw drops. You weren’t expecting that answer. “You’re kidding, right? You’re not from Brooklyn.”

“Born and raised,” he mutters with a grin, amused by your response.

“But how do — where did you — you don’t sound like — what?”

“A story for another time.”

He’s still smiling, but there’s a shuttered look in his eye that doesn’t come from sitting next to you; it comes from revisiting ghosts in your mind while the world moves forward without you. You sit back, occupying yourself with another sip of beer while he comes back to the present.

“For what it’s worth, you can push a lawnmower like a sonofabitch now,” you venture.

He laughs, and your heart swells as you listen to it. It’s surprisingly high-pitched and breathless for a man as big as he is, but it contains something childlike that sounds tragically beautiful to someone who never laughed much as a kid. You count the lines around his eyes, you commit the scrunch of his nose to memory, you hold your breath as his knee knocks into yours and stays there.

“You watchin’ me mow my lawn, kid?” he hums into his drink, eyes flashing.

You balk. “I never said that—“

“You’re implyin’ it.” His husky voice encourages the color in your cheeks to saturate.

“It’s just somethin’ I noticed in passin’,” you plead. He takes mercy on you, for once.

Shaking his head, he mutters, “How’s the diner? It’s Tony’s place, right?”

“Yeah — do you know him?”

He purses his lips in thought, watching as the Markhams begin a slow sway on the makeshift dance floor while Wanda and Viz twirl around them. Several other pairings have joined in on the fun, spinning and dipping and waltzing along to Dire Straits.

“I know him…not very well, though. Friend of a friend, more like,” he adds, nodding at Steve. Then he clears his throat, offering you his drink when he sees that yours is now empty. “He a — he a good boss? He’s not doin’ anything he shouldn’t, right?”

“He’s fine,” you share, accepting his cup with a blink. You’re hyper aware of your lips hugging the rim exactly where his did as you take a sip. “Likes hearin’ the sound of his own voice, but that’s the worst of it.”

Bucky nods. “Good…good.”

Donna marches past then with a firm hand on the shoulder of a young teenage boy. The face beneath the crew cut is fifty shades of red, and his hands are covered in — what you hope is — melted marshmallows. Bucky snickers as Donna hauls the boy up to a group of middle-aged women chatting by the tree; one of them, who you can only assume is his mother, erupts into angry chastising as soon as she spots the teenager.

“Uh oh,” you mumble, watching the scene unfold. You can see how the boy takes after his mother as her face transitions to cherry red the longer she berates him. Bucky‘s still chuckling.

“Nate’s always been a trouble-maker, but he don’t mean much harm by it,” he murmurs in your ear. Donna watches with a sharp eye as the mother points a shaky hand in the direction of their trailer, and Nate slinks away, head bowed. “Oh, he’s gettin’ off easy,” Bucky says. “That’s a lot better than facin’ Donna’s justice.”

You grin. “No kiddin’. She runs this thing like the Navy Seals. I almost dropped the potatoes earlier, thought she was gonna spank me,” you giggle.

Bucky’s head whips around faster than humanly possible, the movement so quick it stops the laughter right in your throat.

“Can’t say stuff like that to me, kid,” he says, voice like silk over gravel.

You stare at him. In the low light of the lanterns, you can just see that the blue irises have changed shades into something darker, heavier; they’re locked on you with an intensity that doesn’t match the lightheartedness of the party. You gulp, he notices.

“Why not?” you whisper. And then his eyes drop to your lips, indisputable and poignant. Your breath hitches as the shape of him changes in front of you, as the delicate foundation of a relationship based on tolerance gets crushed to pieces by just one quick look.

“A man could get ideas,” he rumbles softly.

Your heart begins to pound in your chest, echoing faintly inside of your head. The noise of the barbecue fades. “What kind of ideas?” you push recklessly, and your eyes sink to his own mouth. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as if in answer.

“Ideas he shouldn’t be havin’ about his neighbor…who thinks he’s an ass.”

“I don’t think you’re an ass,” you breathe. He smiles faintly.

“No? All it took was a few weeks of bein’ your friend to change your mind?”

“Thought you didn’t wanna be friends,” you reply quietly. Something makes him pause, taking the time for a slow inhale and exhale to ground him. But underneath it is pure and unadulterated restraint — you can see it clear as day in the lines of his face, a sailor fighting valiantly against the storm.

“No, I don’t wanna be your friend,” he murmurs. But the words are not a rejection, they’re an invitation.

“Then what do you wanna be, Bucky?”

You bite your lip, and his eyes zero in on the tug of your teeth against the flesh. He leans in ever so slightly, like a magnet’s suddenly activated between your mouth and his, and your body hums with a desperate need to know what he tastes like—

“There you are!” Donna’s voice cuts in. She steps in front of you with her hands on her hips, and you jump in your seat like you touched an open wire. “Well, what are you doin’ sittin’? I told ya we’d be dancin’ later, and that dress looks too good on ya not to swing it around.” She looks at Bucky. “And whaddya know, you’ve got a partner right here!”

Your heart stutters in your chest as she points at him, anticipation already squeezing your lungs at the thought of Bucky’s hands holding you close while you sway gently to the music—

“Come on, Donna, you know I can’t dance. I’m not gonna make the poor girl suffer through me steppin’ on her feet,” Bucky answers gruffly.

The dismissal snuffs out the growing heat in your veins like a bucket of ice water on a candle. Your face drops, your eyes finding the dirt beneath your feet.

“That excuse is gettin’ real old, Bucky,” Donna counters, looking suspicious.

“Because it’s true,” he grumbles. “Not my fault you insist on there bein’ dancin’ every time you put somethin’ together.”

Exhaling shakily, you plaster an apologetic smile on your face as you meet Donna’s eye. “Yeah, actually Donna, I think I might turn in. I picked up a shift tomorrow mornin’ and I should at least try to show up sober.”

You see Bucky turn to you out of the corner of your eye. Donna frowns. “The party’s just gettin’ started, sugar, this ain’t the time for sleepin’.”

Chuckling dryly, you push yourself to your feet, the beer catching up to you momentarily as you take an extra step to steady yourself. You feel Bucky’s hand hover near your waist before you see it. You do your best to ignore it.

“I know, and I’m sorry. I should’ve told you sooner. But you know how it is. I got bills to pay and supplies to buy.” You roll your eyes like it’s not physically hurting you to be pulling away from her and the rest of the group, but you can’t be near Bucky right now. Not until you’ve reconciled all of the feelings you’ve felt tonight with the reality of your situation with him. You’ve learned the hard way how logic wins out over emotions, and you’re just sober enough to recognize you need a moment to align yourself with this self-inflicted mentality. You place a quick peck to Donna’s cheek, squeezing her arm. “The party’s beautiful, Donna. Truly, I’m honored to be a part of it. Thank you for hosting.”

She gives you a sad look, one meant to keep you in place, but your feet are carrying you away before you can let it pull you back in. You throw a wave over your shoulder at Wanda, but she’s too busy wrapped up in Viz’s arms to notice. You think some distance between you and Bucky will help to elevate your heart rate, but footsteps behind you put an end to your theory before it can be tested.

“Can I help you?” you ask, struggling to keep your voice light. Bucky’s stride matches yours easily, and he takes a glance at you.

“Thought I’d walk you back.”

You make a face. “It’s thirty feet away, Bucky.”

“Yeah, well, it’s dark out.”

“You can see my door from here.”

“Don’t be difficult,” he rasps like the back and forth is exhausting him. He takes half a step closer to you.

Your jaw clenches, but you say nothing as he walks you to your trailer, just out of reach of the lanterns and music and chatter. You step up to the door but turn sharply toward him when you feel his foot on the little stoop. “Alright, I’m home.”

“What happened back there?” he asks, eyes scrutinizing your face, probably reading right through you. “You were fine and then you weren’t.”

You gulp before bravely sticking your chin in the air. “Nothin’ happened. Just remembered I got work, that’s all.”

“You don’t work Sundays,” he says, shaking his head. Your back meets the door when he leans in. “Why’d you lie to Donna?”

“I didn’t lie, I picked up a shift to help a friend out. And how do you know I don’t work Sundays?” you ask, voice sharper than you intended for it to come out. At least it’s better than cracking on the tsunami of emotions you’re barely holding back.

Bucky blinks at you, going still. You’re not a mind reader, but you can hear the gears turning as his expression evens out into something you can only describe as inescapable resolution. Slowly, so slow you’re wondering if he even knows what he’s doing, he places his hand on the door next to your head; with his arm so close, you can smell how the sun’s baked into his skin, how metal seems to be an undertone all over him. And now his nose is an inch from yours.

“‘cause I watch you,” he murmurs, as soft as the evening breeze. His eyes fall to your mouth, and you can physically feel it, the pressure there, the charge of the unknown next step. Your hands flatten on the door behind you in an effort to hold yourself back.

Your mind plays over the different paths laid before you. Should you lean in? Change the course of this poor excuse of a friendship forever? Should you wait for him to make the move? Let him deal with the consequences of potential bad decisions in the morning? Should you pull away? Give yourself the time to cool off and clean up this mess of emotions following you like a shadow all night?

“You’re thinkin’ too much,” Bucky says. Your eyes refocus on his — his pupils are so wide, you’re afraid you’ll fall into them.

“I’m just tryin’ to figure you out,” you whisper, your breath mingling with his.

“Probably better if you don’t,” he answers, a hint of sadness in his tone. You search his face, but it reveals nothing; only his eyes offer any indication that he’s in control of what’s happening.

“You think that’s enough to stop me?”

Bucky’s mouth curves, but it quickly fades away. “You’re somethin’ else, kid.”

Then, as quick as it was cast, the spell is broken. Bucky leans back, his fingers lingering on the door. “Have a good shift tomorrow,” he says, voice solemn as he steps down from your stoop. And then he’s walking away.

It takes you a minute to gather yourself. The night presses in around you, cool air replacing the heat of Bucky’s closeness from moments before. With a shuddering breath, you slip into your trailer, closing the door on the party, on your friends, on Bucky behind you.

Endless rain floods the countryside the following week. Roads close, streams overflow, leaks and cracks in the trailers are exposed. You unwillingly enter into a war with a certain corner of your roof, and an empty ice cream bucket takes up permanent residence underneath it as your counterattack.

But every time you have the urge to knock on Bucky’s door to ask for help, something stops you. Flashes of the night of the barbecue, of the suggestive pitch of his voice, of his face a breath away from yours, consume your thoughts until you’re frozen in place with indecision paralysis. The ‘almost’ of it all has you twisted up in ways far more complex than when he tormented you with his indifference.

You go over every interaction in your head like a DVD menu on repeat at three in the morning. You think your signals to Bucky couldn’t have been clearer, yet he pulled away, even after giving you every indication that he wanted it, too. Confusion is too simple of a word to sum up how you feel, and you’re still too riled up from Saturday night to dissect it all head on.

Work offers a necessary distraction — at first. The weather brings in a rush of people seeking shelter from the downpour, which means less time for you to think about where you left things with Bucky, and the hours leave you exhausted to the point of collapsing onto your bed and tumbling into sleep as soon as you make it home. Then you wake up and do it all over again.

Eventually your coworkers begin to notice the toll it’s taking on you. You’re still a novice while they’re veterans, fully acclimated to the ebbs and flows of roadside diner foot traffic, so they urge you to take the first cut of the day after already battling through four grueling shifts that week. You don’t have the energy to fight them. You’re ushered out the door with orders to take a hot shower and a nap as soon as you get home. The rain soaks your uniform instantly as you rush to your car, but it’s still warm enough outside to keep your lips from turning blue as you start the journey home.

While the diner had been bustling with activity, the roads are eerily devoid of other people and vehicles. Most likely due to the flood warnings, but unlike them, you don’t have much of a choice.

You haven’t seen another car in ten minutes when the lights on your dashboard flicker. Your eyes snap to it immediately, recognizing the warning signs that nearly derailed you almost two months ago. A soft whine escapes from your chest as you feel the car begin to shake.

“Come on,” you breathe, pressing on the accelerator. The engine whines back. The radio cuts out, your lights turn off, and the car slows to a crawl. It’s with tears in your eyes that you step on the brakes and put the car into park. “No. No, no, no, no, no.”

Your forehead meets the steering wheel. You get a sick sense of dejavú.

Sniffling, you turn off the car and wait before trying it again. You hear a familiar ticking sound over the patter of rain on your roof.

“Fuck,” you whisper as the first tear falls.

Your mind is too sleep-deprived to come up with solutions. Your cell phone died hours ago because you forgot to charge it overnight. Your body aches everywhere from being on your feet all day, and you think if you tried to walk home, you’d pass out in a ditch after fifty yards. You’re stranded — literally stranded on the side of the road.

So you let yourself cry, great heaving sobs that sound warped and hollow in your little car. While the release feels compulsory, it offers no relief, and that makes you cry even more. Outside, the rain persists its assault on the empty county road.

When your cries have turned into hiccups, you’re left shivering in your wet uniform. A chill has crept through the vents as darker clouds roll in. You hug your arms to your chest, breathing deeply to calm yourself down, but your body continues to vibrate past normal human function. You glance at the back seat, where an old sweatshirt lays crumpled and wedged next to the door. You crawl into the back, extracting the fabric with shaking hands and curling up underneath it. It provides some warmth, but not much.

You don’t know how long you lay there, fighting off exhaustion and self-loathing. You have no sense of time since the clock on your dash powered off with the car. The only things you register are the rhythm of raindrops and your slowed breathing.

And then you hear it.

It’s faint, almost like you’re imagining it. But it grows louder and louder the longer your ears strain to catch it. Your head lifts off the seat, and through the side mirror you spot headlights.

A brown truck with an old, rumbling engine drives past your car before slamming on the brakes. The red tail lights blind you momentarily. It quickly backs up a few meters until it’s parked right in front of yours. The driver’s door opens, and out steps Bucky.

You let out a whimper, your eyes squeezing shut. This isn’t real. It can’t be.

But he’s there pounding on your window, calling your name. You shoot up, shaking again, and lock eyes with him through the glass. Bucky’s dark hair is plastered to his forehead, beads of water dripping down his nose and off his beard. You watch as he takes in your wet uniform, your flimsy blanket, your trembling chin.

“Sweetheart,” he says softly, voice muffled through the window. Slowly, you crawl across the seat to open the door. He swoops in before you can say a word; large hands grasp your arms and pull you out of the car. He practically carries you to his, a hand shielding your face from the rain, before setting you down gently on the bench seat of his truck. His touch moves to your shoulders, your throat, then your face, thumbs brushing wet strands of hair from your eyes. “Are you okay?” he demands to know. “Are you hurt?”

You shake your head. “N-no, just c-c-cold. My c-car, it — it d-d-died.”

Bucky’s lips press into a dangerously thin line before he reaches across you to crank up the heat in the truck. “Stay here,” he mutters, then closes the door on you. You whimper again, your eyes following him as he runs to the back of the truck and grabs his toolbox. He reaches inside your car to pop the hood, and then he rolls up the soaked sleeves of his red henley before getting to work.

Burning hot shame floods your body. You don’t need to be a mechanic to know what’s wrong with your car.

Your gaze slides to the empty road past the windshield. The headlights reflect off the puddles of water accumulating on the gravel, creating distorted spots of light in your vision further warped by the sheets of rain. The heat from the vents touches your skin, but does little to permeate the cold that’s seeped into your bones. You slide into the center of the bench, sticking your numb fingers into the slats to warm them up faster. A quick glance in the rearview mirror shows Bucky’s already closed the hood of your car; he stands in the downpour rubbing his face with both hands. You scurry over to the far end of the bench when the door opens a moment later, and he drops into the seat, drenched and silent.

You don’t look at him, he doesn’t look at you. The rain continues to fall.

Bucky inhales. “It won’t start.”

You clench your jaw to keep your teeth from chattering, inching closer to the heat. Your mind is a mess of fragmented responses.

His hand flexes on his thigh, the scars turning white against his skin. He exhales. “I told you to get the damn thing replaced,” he says, voice so low you can barely hear him. He turns to you, burning a hole into the side of your face with his stare. “I told you to come in to the garage.”

Your eyes sting with fresh tears, but whatever resilience is left within you refuses to let them fall. Not in front of him. “I kn-know.”

“But you didn’t.”

The barely suppressed anger in his voice triggers something in you like a fight or flight response. You meet his eyes and see the storm inside of them that rivals the one outside. Passion not so different from the kind you saw Saturday night.

“I didn’t have t-time,” you say, as calmly as you can. Bucky’s hand flexes again.

“Bullshit,” he counters.

“It’s the truth—“

“No, it’s not. I said to come in after your shift. I said I’d be there. And you still didn’t come.”

You shake your head. “I just — I forgot, okay? I was g-grateful for the help, I still am—”

“Kid, you got an odd way of showin’ your appreciation. Do you actually want the help, or did your deadbeat daddy fuck you up so bad that you don’t know how to accept it?”

There’s never been a louder silence than the one that follows his words. He recoils from it before you can, shoulders slumping like the weight of the world’s been dropped on them, a pained look slashing across his face. Your chin wobbles harder than before as the remark echoes in your head.

“Fuck, kid, I didn’t…” Bucky huffs. His hand crosses the distance of the bench, fingers grazing the skin of your thigh. You smack it away on instinct, but it doesn’t go far, dropping to the leather bench inches from you. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I shouldn’t have said that. I went too far.”

A single tear rolls down your cheek. You brush it away quickly like it’s an open wound you need to cover.

“Please look at me,” he whispers. The fight in you balances on a razor-thin wire, one side begging you to explode on him, the other offering peace. You find your car in the side mirror, a lone figure of used and abused metal, struggling desperately to just stay alive.

Bucky lets out a heavy breath when your eyes meet his.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. You see the relief on his face mixed with the regret; it radiates off of him in waves. Slowly, you nod, your body trembling from the cold and something deeper. Bucky notices and draws back, his gaze tracing your figure.

“Come here,” he says gently, opening his palm to you.

You hesitate, the fire still burning in your eyes, and he waits.

But not for long. You slide into his arms with a soft grunt, too willingly, too easily. He catches you and holds you tight against him, hands rubbing along your arms to bring heat back to them while yours land on his chest. Your head fits perfectly into the crook of his neck, your nose skimming the wet skin. He smells like he always does, of oil and metal and pine. You inhale greedily, and it’s like a tonic to your frayed mind, clearing it of the scattered memories of a broken home.

“I didn’t mean it,” he whispers into your hair. Your eyes close.

“I know,” you whisper back.

This silence is softer, easier. You fall into it gratefully as your body slowly begins to relax against him. Bucky’s pure muscle beneath you, but it’s not uncomfortable; you mold to him like you were made to.

He shares his warmth by leaning into you, his nose dragging along your hair; the rhythm of his breaths is stable, even, and yours falls into sync with it naturally. He shifts closer, a hand curling around your waist. Because your history of push and pull dictates an eventual separation, you take the time to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the scratch of his beard on your temple, the wet fabric of his jeans brushing against your legs, and you memorize it all, something to hold you over late at night when the loneliness howls at your window and begs to come in like a stray cat. You sigh as your fingers curl into his shirt with every intention of never letting go. Bucky responds with a deep, measured inhale, stabilizing, grounding, human. You soak in every ticking second of this temporary peace. And then his lips, impossibly warm, find the shell of your ear, and your eyes shoot open.

You wait for him to move, to pull away, to gruffly say he’ll handle your car and take you home. He’s done his job, you’re practically burning up by now, and you know he can feel it, too. But he doesn’t let go of you. If anything, he holds you closer. Your heart begins to race — not from his actions, but from what you’re about to do.

You pull back slowly, just far enough for him to see the silent permission in your eyes, the wordless request for him to close the minimal distance between your lips and his. Bucky’s breath hitches in his chest, that steady rhythm halted.

And then he kisses you.

Softly, tenderly, delicately. Words that have never been tied to Bucky before. This hardened, uncompromising man moves his mouth over yours like it’s a gift from the heavens that could be ripped away from him at any moment. A low sound escapes from deep inside his chest, a strained variation of a sigh of relief.

You echo your relief back to him, a barely there whimper against his lips that reverberates down your spine. His fingers tighten around your waist, dragging you closer, while his tongue swipes across the seam of your lips. You open for him, physically, mentally, emotionally. He tastes faintly of metal, of smoke, of coffee, of days spent eagerly waiting for him to return home, of long nights tangled up in old sheets, of oversized sweatshirts and stolen bites of food and messy toothpaste kisses. Of a gentleness you’ve craved your whole life. You’re instantly addicted to the brief taste of this improbable future.

His tongue caresses yours and he groans, his hands and lips quickly turning rougher, needier; you welcome it eagerly. A fire’s been lit inside of you, and grows with every stroke of his mouth. You pull at his shirt, he tugs at your waist. You follow his hands as they move you across his lap, your legs bending to straddle him in the tight space of the bench seat, your chest pressed to his. Bucky breaks away from your lips to gulp down air, but one look at you hanging breathless over him eradicates his need to breathe. He wraps a large hand around your neck and pulls you back down. Your hips roll on top of his instinctively as he ravages your mouth, earning you a soft grunt when your center meets the stiff bulge beneath his zipper. He greedily presses down on the small of your back, encouraging you to do it again. And again. And again.

The hand around your throat tightens imperceptibly when you drag your heat across his erection, whining as the jeans provide a delicious friction to your core. He thrusts up into it, as if he can feel it through the layers of fabric. He groans like a starving beast that’s just found the only thing that can satiate him.

“Bucky,” you pant against his lips, an implied request for more.

His eyes flutter open. He looks at you. You think he’s about to completely make you his.

And then he gently pushes you off his lap.

Your body goes cold immediately. From the loss of his warmth and from the sudden change in tension. He unhooks your fingers from his shirt and presses himself carefully against the car door, running a hand down his face. “Fuck,” he breathes.

“W-what did I do?” you whisper. He shakes his head, unable to meet your eyes.

“You didn’t—“ He swallows. “You didn’t do anythin’.”

“Then why did you stop?”

He exhales through his nose, lips pressed into a tight white line. He’s mad. Or disappointed. Or something between the two. “Kid, I…I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

You swear you can hear the sound of your heart cracking in two. “But I wanted you to,” you tell him, a tremble in your voice.

“I know. You shouldn’t.”

Your throat tightens. “What do you mean?”

He finally looks at you then, and you see his blue eyes are filled with agony, his face lined with regret.

“I’m no good for you,” he murmurs. Your mouth opens, but he cuts you off before you can say a word. “I’m old, and I’m poor, and I’m goin’ nowhere in this life. I can’t — I can’t be what you need.”

“You don’t know what I need—“ you start, but he shakes his head.

“Yes, I do. You need a man that can give you the kind of future you deserve for pullin’ yourself out of the shit. Gettin’ tangled up with someone like me will only hold you back.”

You have to bite down on the sob threatening to burst from your chest. Through gritted teeth, you say, “That’s not your decision, though. You don’t know the kind of future I want for myself.”

“Kid, I’m an ex-con with one too many skeletons in the closet. I live on the fringes because that’s the only place that’ll take me, and I’ve got no way out of it. There is no future with me.”

“Bucky, you’re not—“ your voice shatters and splits. “I don’t care about any of that, ‘cause that’s not how I see you. You’re more than your past. What you’ve done doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to want more—“

He barks out a humorless laugh.

“Fuck, I know a lot about wantin’ more. It’s all I do these days, and it’ll all your fuckin’ fault.” His eyes flash as they find yours, vicious with pain. “I’ve wanted you ever since you stood at my door yellin’ ‘bout makin’ my sad, lonely, little life hell. Couldn’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout how I wanted you to do it, ‘cause hearin’ you throw a fit at me was the first time I felt excited about somethin’ in years. And when I’m not thinkin’ about it, I’m dreamin’ about it. About comin’ home to your sweet smile waitin’ for me, and I wake up emptier than I ever felt sittin’ in a jail cell because I know it ain’t real. You got your claws in me so deep that I can’t go a minute without thinkin’ ‘bout you. And I can’t do nothin’ about it.”

All the air has left your lungs, and Bucky’s chest heaves like he stole it from you. He looks like he’s on the brink of imploding, or breaking apart, or jumping out of the car and sprinting into the woods. You reach for him, the only thing you can think of to do—

He flinches back, turning to the window. “Don’t,” he mutters. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“But it doesn’t have to be hard, Bucky!” you cry. “I want to be waitin’ for you, I want—“

“You don’t know what you want, but I promise it ain’t me.”

Tears prick your eyes, hot and painful. “Stop,” you whimper. “Stop tellin’ me what I want and don’t want. You’re not bein’ fair — you’re not even givin’ this a chance—“ He shakes his head quickly, meeting your gaze to deliver the death blow.

“You can argue all you want, but I won’t see it any different. I won’t trap you here with me. This can’t…this can’t happen.”

His words sting like a slap to the face; you reel back, pushing distance between you and him. Bucky lowers his eyes, as if he can’t bear to watch the fallout he caused. Another silence settles in the cab of the truck, this one heavier than the others, and thick enough to strangle you. You lean back in your seat, one hand on the door handle, the other pressing down on your chest, keeping you held together.

“I wanna go home now,” you whisper, blindly staring out the windshield.

He obeys instantly. Bucky’s silent as he shifts the car into drive, From the corner of your eye, you see his face is set in stone, a familiar look from the days he wasn’t speaking to you. You know what it means — he’s already shutting down, already pushing you out of his life again.

The drive to the trailer park seems to stretch endlessly; seconds feel like hours, minutes feel like months, ruthlessly challenging your inherent idea of time. When you crest the hill and pull up to your trailer, your body has gone numb from willing time to move faster.

Bucky avoids your eyes once the truck’s in park. “I’ll have your car brought into the shop,” he mutters, voice monotone and clipped. “I’ll drop it off tomorrow.”

Your lips press together to steady the tremble in your chin.

He fidgets in his seat, knuckles going white around the steering wheel. “I’m sorry.”

Your jaw clenches, your heart aches, rejection is a slow-moving poison in your veins. And you’re angry.

“Maybe it’s best if you actually stay away from me this time,” you say, ice embedded in every word. He flinches, but you don’t care. You’re sliding out of the truck and shutting the door on him before he can respond, not daring to look back as you trek through the downpour to your home. When you’re safely inside, you stand very, very still, listening to his car idle listlessly before he slowly drives away, taking your heart with you.

The worst part of it all is that Bucky is right.

Never mind the confusion over how a man that shunned you for your kindness could look at you like you were his last hope. Never mind the embarrassment of making the neediest sounds for someone that refuses to hear them again. Never mind the terrible grief you feel for something that almost existed.

What hurts the most is that he’s right. You’ve felt it in your bones since the day you signed the lease to the trailer — your future wouldn’t stop here. The miles you’ve put behind you don’t exist because you were meant to settle.

Make no mistake, you love the trailer, you love the diner, you love everything they’ve given you and everything they stand for. They bought you freedom from a life condemned to shitty boyfriends and stacked pennies and a lingering taste of resentment at the bottom of every numbing bottle.

But there’s more out there that you ache for; still undefined, still obscure, yet it calls to you in the quiet moments between work and sleep.

And Bucky…

You’ve had enough time to reflect on his words that you can read between the lines of them. His life outside of prison started and ends where he is now, whether he wants it to or not. His future has concrete guardrails that won’t budge for a whim or an opportunity, and most certainly not for a girl lacking direction with a history of going where the wind takes her.

You understand what he saw when you hovered over him in the cab of his truck, that look in your eyes that dared him to follow you into the unknown.

His life is figured out. Your very presence urges him to challenge it.

He’s the rock to your balloon. Better to cut the string now than let you wear yourself thin trying to take him with you.

Your realization makes it easier to avoid Bucky, not that you see much of him anyway. Your car appears in front of your home before your shift the next day. No note, no knock on the door, no indication that it was even Bucky who brought it back. You don’t consider tracking him down to thank him, and you’re not sure how you would: he starts leaving for work before you wake up, returning home only when you’re tucked into bed, like he knows your schedule intimately enough to avoid you completely. Remembering what he once said about watching you, maybe he does.

On Sundays, he’s tucked inside his trailer with the curtains drawn tight, his once-pristine yard slowly becoming overgrown with weeds and disrepair that is so unlike him, it would cause you worry if you didn’t know better. When the probability gods smite you both and you’re walking towards the mailbox at the same time, you stop in your tracks, eyes meeting across the park like magnets drawn together. You turn around and walk the other way before you can do anything stupid — like beg him to reconsider. You’d think it would feel good to turn the tables on him, but it feels like ripping out the stitches on a wound that’s far from healed.

Following the mailbox incident, you both become hermits, which is a hard role to take on in a community as active as this one. Donna’s already forced her way into your home multiple times, demanding your participation in some neighborhood event or another. You think if she asks one more time, it might just kill you to see the look on her face when you tell her no.

You escape to work when you can, picking up enough doubles that Tony pulls you aside and asks in his signature beat-around way if you need a loan. For a moment, you consider taking it and getting the hell out of dodge, setting off in pursuit of whatever it is that you’re chasing. But you wouldn’t know the first place to go — it’s hard to find treasure without a map — and abandoning your boss after taking his money seems like a quick way to put the journey to an end before it even starts.

So you tell him about the repairs to the trailer, and he shrugs to hide his relief before approving your fifth double of the week.

The days roll into nights roll into days. Your brain works through a constant stream of food orders and the future and instant coffee and Bucky. Only in the silence of your room in between wake and sleep do you let yourself remember his charged admission to wanting you, or the fantasized future he dangled in front of your face before snatching it away. Sometimes you can barely breathe for the weight of it all pressing down on you, curling in on yourself like he took a tire iron to your gut instead of telling you it isn’t meant to be.

But you’re a resilient girl. So you carry on, always aware of the option of a next step but never knowing what it is.

You’re coming off a seven day bender of double shifts when the next step becomes clear.

The drive home from the diner is silent — you don’t bother turning on the radio these days, and the views of the mountains and forests that once made you feel alive hardly catch your attention anymore. You’re too tired, too preoccupied, caught between your car and an imagined life where you go home to a trailer that isn’t empty.

But an empty trailer is what you’re expecting when you pull into the trailer park. You tumble out of your car, exhaustion sitting heavy on your eyes.

“Where’ve you been?”

You jump a foot in the air, a tight breath tumbling from your lips as you look around for the source of the voice. Bucky’s sitting on your stoop with his knees bent and a half-empty beer bottle hanging from his hand; illuminated by the moonlight, you can see that his hair is a mess, like he’s been running his fingers through it all night, and his face is severe with apprehension. You breathe deeply to settle your racing heart, but the sight of him has skyrocketed the beat all over again.

“Bucky,” you sigh — you’re surprised you could find your voice so quickly. “What are you doin’ here?”

His gaze rakes over you, from your beat up shoes to your hair falling out of its clip, before he takes a large gulp of his drink. “You’ve been comin’ home late. Later than me.”

You stare back at him, wondering where this is going, and not oblivious to the fact that you’d have to crawl over him to get into your trailer. Casual intention at its finest — he’s making sure you talk to him.

“I’ve been workin’ doubles,” you tell him, glancing at the door.

“What for?”

“Because truck drivers make great conversationalists.”

He rolls his eyes and sets the beer down, unfinished. “Don’t be difficult. Just tell me.”

A rush of anger surges through you at the familiar words. “I think I earned the right to be as difficult as I want.”

Bucky stands, taking a step toward you that feels like more than just him closing the physical distance between you. Your breath gets caught in your chest when you see the storm brewing behind his eyes.

“I know you’re mad at me,” he murmurs. “I get it. You can be as mad as you want. But I’m just tryin’ to make sure you’re okay.”

Your chin lifts. “I’m fine.”

He scans your face, searching for the lie under the surface. “You in some kind of trouble?”

A breathless scoff escapes you. “No, I’m not in trou—”

“You need money?”

“What?” Your expression goes sour. “Bucky, no, what the fuck? I don’t need money, I’m just workin’ more, that’s all—“

“Why?” he presses. You growl at him.

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“It’s none of your business, Barnes.”

“Kid, just tell me why and I’ll leave you be—“

“Because it helps me to not think about you!”

The outburst catches him off guard; he leans back like he’s avoiding the blast radius, a frown creasing his face. He runs a hand through his already-mussed hair, and it sticks up at odd angles that a part of you desperately wants to smooth down.

“I didn’t…” He sighs, hands on his hips. “Okay.” You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly finding interest in the dried coffee stain on your shoes. Bucky shifts his feet in the dirt next to them. Neither of you move, but you can feel his gaze on you again. “You look tired,” he says.

“Gee, thanks.”

“I just meant…maybe a break from the doubles wouldn’t hurt. You look dead on your feet. You gotta take care of yourself.”

“Right, because no one else is gonna,” you shoot at him. “I think I got it handled.”

“Kid…”

“I can take care of myself, Bucky, you don’t need to check on me just ‘cause you feel bad.”

“That’s not why I’m here—“

“Oh, yeah?” you cut him off with a surge of venom in your voice, watching as he fails to meet your eyes. “Why are you here then? ‘cause I thought I made it pretty clear that I want you to stay away this time.”

Bucky stares past you at the oak tree, his jaw clenching and unclenching in time with his breaths. “Yeah,” he mutters quietly, “you did.”

“Obviously not, since you’re here.” You finally have the courage to step around him, taking care not to brush his shoulder as you pass him on your way to the door. “Maybe third time’s the charm—“

Bucky says your name, painful yet reverent, and it cuts through the calm of the evening like a knife.

You turn slowly to face him, the keys forgotten in your hand. You didn’t hear him come up behind you, but suddenly, he’s right there, a foot away and looking like the remaining distance is torturing him.

“It doesn’t matter,” he murmurs. “You could tell me a million times over and it still won’t work.”

You inhale sharply. “What are you sayin’?”

He shakes his head, testing a cautious step forward, and the little gap between you shrinks. “I’m sayin’ I can’t stay away from you.”

Your heart jumps to your throat. “Bucky…”

“I can’t stay away from you,” he repeats, firmer, more certain now. “I hate myself for it, for not bein’ able to do the one thing you asked of me, but I feel like I’m dyin’ every day I don’t see you. And that makes me hate myself even more ‘cause I know I don’t deserve you — and you deserve more than anythin’ I could give you — but I lose all my fuckin’ willpower when it comes to you.”

His words land like a blow to your chest and a kiss to your cheek. Sharp yet sweet, violent yet comforting. You stare at him, lips parted with a hundred questions and a million emotions.

Bucky’s eyes meet yours as he closes the last few inches between you, calloused hands reaching for your face hesitantly, afraid to overstep, afraid to spook you, afraid to worsen the devastation he’s done. You think about the last time he held you, what it cost you to be haunted with that feeling of forever thinking you’d never get it again, and for a moment, every cell within you screams to push him away. Danger, danger, danger, your instincts tell you, reducing him to nothing better than the boys that have come before him, the ones that let your heart go carelessly only to yank it back when it was beneficial for them.

But this is Bucky. Not the pathetic excuses for men that potholed your journey here. Even when he broke your heart, he did it for you.

His fingers are gentle as you let him cradle your face, a passing look of relief turning his eyes a softer blue.

“I know I told you this can’t happen, and you told me to stay away, but I don’t have it in me to see either of those through,” he whispers, thumbs sweeping across your cheeks. “I’ve had enough of my own restraint holdin’ me back. I spent the last seven years convincin’ myself that I don’t deserve a good life because I threw half of it away for people that don’t give a shit about me anymore.”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and his eyes flutter shut at whatever memories haunt him. When he opens them again, his gaze is clearer, steadier, like he quietly made a deal with his demons to leave him be for the night. His eyes drop to your lips, just a brief glance that could easily be missed, but it isn’t, because you can’t take your eyes off him. Not when you can practically hear his heart beat in his chest, can feel the heat of him beneath his top, the rough skin of his hands reminding you that this is very, very real and not some imagined scenario you’re still stuck in on your drive home. His fingers tighten around your jaw and Bucky leans in to press his forehead gently to yours.

“When you said you wanted me,” he begins, voice rough and hushed, “it was like comin’ up for air after bein’ under for too long. You’re a livin’, breathin’ example of going through shit and still comin’ out the other side of it, and for the first time in years I thought maybe that could be me, too. But I panicked — I pushed you away like I already knew you were gonna leave because everyone else did. I’m more sorry than you’ll ever know for hurtin’ you like that. I’m a fuckin’ idiot. I’m a stupid old man.” He holds you closer, his grip on the verge of leaving marks. “But kid, I’ll give you everything I got, all the time I have left on this earth, whatever you want…if you’ll have me.”

The world tilts a little. You might have stumbled if Bucky wasn’t holding you like you’re the last light left before the armageddon. He’s so close that you can taste the beer on his breath, and you inhale deeply, drinking it in like it’s straight from the bottle. But a small voice is there in your head, providing clarity on the point of contention that drove him away in the first place…

“Bucky,” you whisper, pulling back. His eyes frantically dance over your face, brows furrowed. Your heart pounds painfully against your chest. “I think…I think you were right. What you said in your truck.” Your eyes fall shut. “About me wantin’ more than what I have now. There’s something else out there that’s meant for me and I…I realized I can’t leave it be. That I’ll do whatever it takes to have it.”

He inhales sharply, his large frame stilling against yours. You look at him then, and he’s stricken, balancing on a fragile fence between panic and hope. Your heart aches more for him now than it ever did while you kept your distance, for this rough, immovable, larger-than-life man. Despite the tears, despite the wicked words, despite it all, he calls to you. He calls…

You blink. “But it isn’t what you think.”

As you say the words, something aligns inside of you, a shifting of your soul. It settles comfortably, like it was waiting patiently for you to figure it out. What you’ve been chasing after all this time is no longer abstract or vague. It’s clear as day, as bright as a beacon, and it’s right in front of you.

Reaching up to cover his hands with yours, you thread your fingers through Bucky’s, appreciating the warmth and sturdiness of his grasp. He’s still looking at you frantically, like you might pull away at any second and tell him to get lost. You squeeze gently.

“This whole time I thought a better life meant gettin’ out of the cycle of hell back home. Leavin’ it all behind so I wouldn’t have the chance to become another sad statistic in that shit town, and makin’ my own way so I’d never have to rely on others who only saw me for what I could give ‘em.”

You shift closer to him, until your noses brush, until your lips are ghosting each other.

“And then I met you,” you breathe. “And I realized how lonely it is. I don’t know what it’s like to be loved or taken care of or given kindness just because. I wasn’t searchin’ for it when I ran, because I didn’t think it mattered — as long as I could dig myself out of where they tried to bury me. But somewhere along the way with you, it all changed.”

Your hands slide up his arms, slowly, carefully, leaving goosebumps on his skin in their wake. The tension leaks from Bucky as your arms wrap around his neck, a soft sigh escaping from his parted lips.

“The trailer and the job — you’re right, they’re not enough. They aren’t gonna give me the future I want. Because the future I want is a place to call home with someone who can give me what’s been missin’ from my life. And I want it to be you.”

A pause. Heartbeats racing in sync. Your eyes meet.

Bucky’s mouth is on yours before you can register him leaning in, and there’s an urgency to his kiss that you sends a thrill down your spine. One hand tangles in your hair, the other maps your body until it finds your waist and drags you closer as he pushes your lips open with his tongue. He moves differently than before, fueled by an emotion that doesn’t fall under a single name, but his determination is as tangible as ever. He’s taking what he wants now.

You pull away with a gasp, forehead resting against his. “Baby,” he murmurs, soft and husky, “it’s already yours.”

Your fingers find his lips and press lightly into wet skin. “You mean it?” you ask with wide eyes.

“I meant every word,” he promises. His hand tugs lightly at your hair, tilting your chin up just how he wants it. “No more stayin’ away. Couldn’t get me to if you tried.”

He seals it with a kiss, demanding and brutal, yet burning with his adoration. Your body’s pulled flush against his and it feels like coming home. Those hard planes fit against your soft curves like puzzle pieces that pledge a lifetime of coming together like this again and again.

You’re panting by the time you pull apart. Bucky’s eyes are half-lidded and full of dark intentions, but you can feel him holding back, testing his restraint, handing you the controls now.

It’s the easiest decision to make.

You pull at his shirt while slowly backing up the stoop. He follows, scooping up the keys you dropped before placing a gentle kiss to your cheek, your temple, your jaw, and unlocking your door. He pulls you into his arms once you’ve crossed the threshold, mouthing at the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder. Your breath hitches on little gasps and moans as his hands find your ass and massage it with interest.

Bucky walks you deeper into your little trailer like he owns the place, feasting on your skin and stopping only at the bedroom door. He pulls away to meet your gaze, and you see his pupils are blown.

“Kid, I’m not here just for this,” he murmurs, mouth hovering over yours. “I need you to know that.”

“I do,” you whisper while your heart swells from his words. “But I want this. I want you.”

He groans, backing you against the wall as his brow meets your temple, sighing against your ear as his thigh slides between yours. “I’ll be so good to you, baby, I promise. Lemme take care of you…”

Hands guide your hips down onto the rough fabric of his jeans, easing you across his thigh with a drag that sets off fireworks in your stomach. You breathe heavily as each pass of your clit over his muscled leg fuels the building heat within you. Bucky kisses the hinge of your jaw, the shell of your ear, whispering, “Fuck, I can feel you. Soaked already…drivin’ me crazy.”

“B-Buck— more,” you whimper as you roll your hips, searching for more friction. He grabs your jaw, something just short of gentle, and makes you meet his eyes as he presses you further into the wall. The arousal slides hot and sticky out of you, soaking your panties and sure to leave a mark on his jeans, making you glide faster on top of him. He groans when your mouth falls open in a choked gasp.

“You look too good like this, baby, gettin’ yourself off on me,” he breathes. “So goddamn pretty.”

Heat rises to your cheeks. You reach for him as you hit a new angle that makes your body sing, fingers curling in his hair to bring him in for a savage kiss, a lustful mark of new territory in your relationship; his thumbs dig into the crease where your legs meet your hips, and you can just feel the hard outline of his length straining against his jeans as it presses into your stomach, making your head spin. Bucky’s teeth nip at your bottom lip, pulling a whine from you that he swallows whole.

It’s almost too much. Like jumping off the deep end and not knowing how far down it goes. It’s terrifying, it’s disorienting, it’s perilous. But you still want to touch the bottom. You still want to know where this goes. You want more.

“Bucky,” you exhale against his lips. He holds you tighter. “Make me yours.”

His eyes flash with possession, with desire, with an enduring need that is rooted in something deeper than the lust you share for each other. It’s trust in its purest form. An exchange of souls, an agreement of devotion. Bucky gathers you up in his arms until you’re pressed against him.

“All mine,” he swears, rough and low, and carries you into the bedroom.

Bucky tosses you on the bed quickly before kicking the door closed and leaving the moonlight as the only witness to what comes next. When he looks at you, something’s shifted — something that makes the heat in your core rise to dangerous temperatures.

“Off,” he demands, dark eyes falling to your uniform. You push up to a sitting position, fingers trembling in anticipation as you slide the dress down your body until it crumples on the floor in front of him. Bucky kicks it aside, unable to look away from the sight of you in nothing but your thin bra and panties.

“Jesus,” he breathes, voice rough, licking his lips while he gets his uninhibited fill of your body. “Look at you.”

Your self-consciousness is short-lived when he leans over to press a tender kiss to your mouth, cradling your jaw like it’s a priceless treasure.

“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispers.

Your skin is set on fire when a large hand skims your bare thigh, pushing your legs apart until you can feel a cool breeze against the mark your arousal left on your panties. The vulnerability makes you gasp, but his touch is there to keep your legs where he wants them.

Bucky pulls back to watch as his knuckle drags across your center, teasing the ache just on the other side of the fabric that grows more insistent by the second. You’re throbbing for him, failing to hide your wanton moans as your pussy clenches around nothing but air. He moves his fingers gently over the fabric, finding your entrance and circling it expertly.

“This mine now?” he asks you, lips hovering over yours. You nod desperately. You’ve never been so turned on it your entire life. “Say it.”

You gulp. “It’s yours, Bucky. All yours.”

“All mine,” he echoes, “been wantin’ her for too long.” He traces your folds until he finds your clit. You cry out, legs spreading wider for him like he pressed the magic button. He swears under his breath before capturing your lips in another bruising kiss.

“Perfect girl,” he rasps into your mouth. You melt beneath him as he plays with your clit through your panties, a pattern of soft circles and hard presses that makes your toes curl.

But just as the pleasure begins to crest, his hand is gone. A sound rips from your chest, half-growl, half-whine, as you’re edged for a second time with no relief. Bucky just smirks and slowly pulls his shirt over his head, muscles rippling as he reveals his broad chest and tight abdominals, like a curtain being dropped for the grand finale. Immediately, your hands reach out to touch him, the sharp edges of his body, your lips pressing to the center of his stomach before you can help it, and you look at him as your mouth moves lower.

But Bucky cuts the trail off by sinking to his knees in front of you. “You can suck my cock like a good girl another time. Let your man eat first.”

His thumb sweeps across your jaw gently, then pulls at your bottom lip until you suck it into your mouth. He groans as you bite down lightly, tongue swirling its promises for another night. Bucky’s other hand finds the clasp of your bra, popping it open with practiced ease that should frustrate you but instead elevates your heart rate. Your bare chest is eye level with him, and he wastes no time admiring the way your body is illuminated by the moonlight.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and his thumb is tugged from your mouth so that he can cradle both breasts in his hands, the pads of his fingers stroking the delicate skin until goosebumps erupt under his touch and you’re arching into his hold. “Been hidin’ these from me,” he grumbles, thumb flicking your nipple. You whine when his teeth graze the other, soft and gentle, the bark before the bite.

“Bucky,” you whine, “touch me.”

“I am touchin’ you,” he says around your nipple, a smile in his voice as he sucks heavily at the skin. Your hips jerk up, seeking out some sort of friction that he’s not giving yet.

“More, Bucky, please.”

He mouths at your breast, confident, intentional, and mind-blowingly skilled, while his other hand squeezes tightly around the unkissed one.

“You beg so sweet, baby, but be patient f’me,” he mutters, switching sides. You’re inching closer to the edge of the bed, to grind against what, you’re not sure, but your core is dripping with arousal that snakes a heady trail down your thigh while your pussy throbs from the lack of attention. As he laves at your chest, you bury your hands in his hair, and he makes a small noise of satisfaction before moving his kisses lower, down your naval. He pushes you back slowly until your spine brushes the bed, a thin squeak leaving your lips as his hands find the juncture of your thighs and pulls them open wider to settle between them.

His teeth catch on the waistband of your panties. He looks up at you, and you’re outrageously close to coming just from the sight of it alone.

You realize he’s waiting for your permission, so you offer a frantic nod.

“Good girl,” he says through his teeth, pulling the fabric down your legs with swift efficiency until you’re completely naked before him. He sits back on his heels to stare.

“Don’t,” you whimper, eyes squeezing shut as his thumbs rub tiny circles that get closer and closer to your leaking center with each swipe.

“What?” he answers. “Just lookin’ at what’s mine.”

You can feel his gaze like a physical caress on your folds. It makes your back arch, your hips jerk, and he hasn’t even fucking touched you yet. A man who wouldn’t even meet your eye two months ago can’t look away from the most intimate part of you, and it’s making you come apart in ways that should require psychic evaluation.

“Hold still, sugar,” he orders, voice stern and hold unforgiving as he pins you in place.

“But—“

“No.”

You bite your lip, daring to lift your head and meet his eyes. They’re still focused on your aching cunt, watching as it drools so easily for him. And then he leans in.

Bucky presses a kiss to your clit, just a whisper of a touch that has you twitching yet again. But before the first noise of frustration can slip out, his mouth moves an inch lower, then another inch lower, a line of gentle pecks until he reaches your entrance and curls his tongue into you.

Your mind blanks out while your body reacts, thighs clenching around his shoulders, fingers twisting into his hair, every muscle in your body locking up. Oh.

He eats like it’s his livelihood, tongue circling your entrance before digging inside with a precision so intense, it’s like he already knows exactly what you need. His mouth dances there before his tongue revisits your clit, small flicks before heavy strokes of his tongue to get you writhing until the cycle repeats itself. The tell-tale coil in your gut tightens, your orgasm on the horizon.

“Taste so sweet,” Bucky rumbles, his eyes shooting up to find you already watching him. A dark look crosses his face, something you’ll remember for the rest of your life, before he buries himself back into your center. You whine, head falling back against the bed.

“How does it feel, baby?” His beard tickles the skin of your thighs. You pant and grip his hair tighter.

“S-so— so good—“

“Yeah? Can my girl take more?”

“…m-more?”

Bucky’s mouth is teasing your clit when you feel the blunt ends of two fingers circle your entrance. Your eyes pop open, and you manage to pull yourself onto your elbows in time to watch as his long fingers sink inside you, making your jaw fall open on a whimper. The feeling of them sliding against your walls immediately unlocks a new level of pleasure that is different from anything you’ve felt before, a level that you know only Bucky could have reached.

He curls his fingers, moving them in and out at a deviously slow pace while his tongue flicks faster and faster against your clit. A cry rips from your throat. The coil in your stomach grows tighter, hotter.

“Bucky,” you warn.

“Yeah, baby,” he mumbles between licks, meeting your eyes again. “Give it to me.”

A soft moan tumbles out of you. Pressure that is as cruel as it is generous snaps like a thread, and you come apart on his mouth like it’s the first time your body’s allowed you to feel alive.

“That’s it,” Bucky mutters into your core, easing you through it, “just like that, sweet girl.”

The pleasure strips you raw until you’re nothing but a live wire, twitching and moaning at every swipe of his tongue, every curl of his fingers. He sighs deeply into your cunt, contentedly, like your release was his release, too.

“Fuckin’ hell, woman,” he rumbles, forehead dropping to your thigh as his fingers slowly pull out of you. “Those sounds...Could make a man addicted.”

He pushes up from the floor while you struggle to catch your breath, watching you like a bird of prey that just found its next meal.

The golden skin of Bucky’s torso draws the gaze of your sluggish, post-orgasm brain. It grows closer and closer as he crawls over you, and your tongue darts out to wet your lips. Or to lick every inch of him. Either could apply here.

He settles between your legs easily, naturally, and your hands find his arms as they brace himself on either side of you.

“Be a doll and get my belt, yeah?” he murmurs against your ear, brushing a kiss to the shell of it. You shiver, your hazy brain finally registering the feel of his jeans on your thighs, and reach down with trembling fingers to unclasp it slowly, the zipper following with a sound that splits through the tension of the hot night air.

He kisses you deeply then, a strong hand around your jaw, your name whispered against your lips.

Your hands drift up to his shoulders, fingers curling into the ends of his hair as he pushes his jeans down, his boxers with them. Your eyes gravitate toward the hardness now tucked against your leg, and all it takes is a quick glance to realize that Bucky is truly a big man in every way. A whimper slips from you as you catch the shiny red tip twitch with need.

“What is it, sweet girl?” he murmurs, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes. There’s a light in them that suggests he already knows the answer to his own question.

You swallow thickly. “What if it doesn’t…”

He chuckles softly, brushing his lips to your cheek. “It will. You wanna be a good girl for your old man, don’t you?”

“Bucky,” you mumble shyly, cheeks tinted pink as something warm spreads through your stomach.

“I said I’d be good to you, and that’s what I plan on doin’.”

His hands move you effortlessly until you’re flush with him, just enough space for Bucky’s hips to rock with slow, shallow movements, his cock sliding through your folds and coating himself in your dripping arousal. You bite down hard on your lip when it rolls over your clit, and his eyes snap to your face, watching intensely as the mounting pleasure begins to show.

You let out a shaky exhale when he notches his cock at your entrance, lashes fluttering.

“Eyes on me, baby.”

And in an inevitable moment of tenderness, Bucky’s hand finds yours, fingers intertwining as he brings it up over your head. Then he pushes in.

You gasp, Bucky curses softly, a tension leaking from both of your bodies as he finds his sweet relief in your warmth. You’re stretched out right away, and he’s only halfway in, but it’s a fullness that makes you feel complete, rather than feeling intrusive. You tug at his hair, pulling him closer until he eases through your tightness and slides in to the hilt. Your consequential moan harmonizes with his.

With all the restraint left in him, Bucky holds still, feeling the walls of your pussy spasm around his cock. The pattern of pressure could make him blow his load right now if he eased up even an inch on his self-control, so he grits his teeth and focuses instead on the look on your face as you adjust to him. You’re so beautiful, even with tiny tears slipping down your cheeks, that little crease between your brow. And you’re such a good girl for keeping your eyes on him.

His good girl.

“You okay?” he whispers, kissing away the tear streak on your jaw.

“Yes,” you breathe, blinking. “It feels…you feel so good, Bucky. I didn’t…”

A sound rumbles in his chest as he tests out a soft grind. You squirm instantly, hips rolling to meet his for double the pressure. His cock touches something deep within you that makes the room blur, makes you cry out.

Bucky’s free hand pushes down on your hip. “Sweet girl, if you do that one more time, this is gonna be over before it even starts.”

The pout comes automatically. Bucky kisses it off your face with the eagerness of a teenage boy, sucking your lip and folding your tongue with his as he begins a snail’s pace of little thrusts. Your cunt still pulses around him like it did when he first slid in; it makes him shake as he tries pulling out, only to be sucked back in at the first chance. His hand tightens around yours.

“Oh, God,” you whimper when he gives you a harder thrust.

“Jesus Christ, baby,” he sighs, “so fuckin’ tight, tryin’ to kill me.”

“Keep goin’, Bucky. Harder.”

“Fuuuuuck…” He picks up speed, cock dragging heavily against your walls, hips snapping. You can hear it, the wet slick of your bodies meeting, and it makes your eyes roll back as you picture his cock drenched in you.

“Perfect pussy,” he grunts. “Fuckin’ made for me. Can feel it.”

Bucky’s cock throbs while he pounds into your cunt, and the rhythm transitions into something deep and desperate and almost out of control. All the while, you can’t look away from him; even as your body jolts and moves with every thrust, your eyes are glued to the broken expression on his face, the raw vulnerability of him seeking out his pleasure in you while on a mission to give you yours.

“Fuck, Bucky,” you moan, back arching as he hits your sweet spot suddenly. His mouth descends on your throat, beard scratching at your skin.

The weight on your hip disappears when Bucky grabs your other hand, pulling it up beside the first. His thrusts get impossibly faster as he holds you down, determined to find the sweet spot again, and again, and again, until stars burst in front of your eyes, drool spilling from your lips while you mouth half-formed words that don’t exist.

Bucky pulls back enough to take it in, eyes roving from your face to where your bodies connect to the hands he holds down, and back. “You look so pretty like this, baby,” he pants between thrusts. “All dumbed out on my cock, like you should be. Takin’ me so well.”

You whimper when you feel your stomach tighten, your muscles beginning to lock up in that way only an earth-shattering amount of pleasure can create.

“Gonna cum,” you whisper, the first coherent sentence you can think of. Bucky groans, placing a bruising kiss on your lips as his hips pummel into yours.

“Do it,” he growls into your mouth. “Wanna feel you.”

Your body trembles as it explodes and puts itself back together just to explode again. The corners of your vision go blurry. Your orgasm crashes into you with a ferocity stronger than the last, your pussy fluttering around Bucky’s cock.

His pace slows as you come back down to earth, but you’re barely given enough time to catch your breath before he’s slipping out of you and turning you over onto your stomach. You whine softly when he pulls your hips up, settling behind you on his knees.

“Goddamn, you’re a dream,” he mutters huskily, and you feel his warm breath fan over your lower back. A soft kiss is pressed to the swell of your ass before he palms roughly at it with a strong hand. “Should’ve taken you sooner.”

His hand slides lower until it cups your folds, fingers exploring and rubbing and circling freely, making you bury your face into the sheets when he brushes your sensitive clit. He learns what touch triggers the neediest sounds from you and capitalizes on it until you’re all but wriggling away from him. He catches your waist and pulls you back.

“No no no,” he soothes. “Lemme take care of you.”

Bucky slides a finger into your hole, then a second, just because he can, curling them up as if to hook you in closer. You cry out and he hums in response before his thumb brushes over your other hole, the one that’s tight and quivering from the pressure of his fingers working your cunt.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, pushing on the muscle enough to get you careening back into him. “You’d let me take you here, too, wouldn’t you? You’d be so sweet to me, so fuckin’ tight around me where no one else has been…ain’t that right, sweet girl?”

All you can do is jerk your head in a nod. He plays with both holes like he owns them, and at this point, he does. The pleasure that hadn’t really died down from your last orgasm is already on the rise again, spiking and cresting in ways you’ve never experienced before the more he circles that second hole.

“Bucky,” you gasp as he presses down on it; not going in, but just enough to break through the rim.

“Next time,” he says wistfully, pulling his fingers out of you. His cock is there to replace them in a heartbeat, and then he’s pushing back into your pussy like he never left.

“Shit—“ you exhale.

Bucky’s length feels different in this position. Longer, bigger, heavier. You don’t have to look to know he’s making your stomach bulge. He lets you adjust for a moment before taking on a pace that’s steady yet intentional. He finds his grip on you, one hand on the back of your neck, the other on your hip, pushing you when he pulls back, pulling you when he pushes in. Smack-smack-smack.

“J-J-Jesus, Bucky, it f-f-feels— t-t-too much—“

“You’re doing so good for me,” he murmurs, grabbing your neck tighter. “Such a good girl.”

He grinds into you, reaching a new depth that has you sputtering on a dry sob, pussy clenching down on him. Bucky groans.

“I know, baby, she’s been waitin’ so long for it. Gonna fill her up…make sure you’re mine for good…keep doin’ it ‘til everyone knows whose bed you’re in…”

His hips jerk suddenly, sporadically, a powerful thrust that bullies the deepest part of you and pushes you up the mattress. A breath expels out of him that could almost be categorized as a whine.

“Fuck,” he pants, “I’ll keep goin’ ‘til it takes. ‘Til you’re mine in every way. Never lettin’ go of ya—“

Your heartbeat thuds in your chest, in your veins, in your ears. You barely hear his words, let alone process them, but they still send a jolt of pleasure straight to your gut. You can’t think of anything but the drag of his cock on your walls, the stretch of your entrance at this new angle, the hold of his hand on your neck that suggests he doesn’t plan no letting you go anytime soon. And why would you want him to?

“Fill me, Buck…please. I want it…” you whisper into the pillows.

Bucky comes almost as soon as the words leave your lips, with a couple of quick, stuttered thrusts before burying himself so deep inside you, you feel him in your chest. His groan is long and ragged as the sticky release leaves his body and enters yours, settling with a finality that leaves more than just a mark on your insides. You sigh deeply as you feel him slowly relax behind you, the last of the shockwaves making his cock twitch as he pulls out. His spend leaks from your entrance and down your thigh, but a quick swipe of Bucky’s thumb returns it to where it belongs.

“Ahh—“ you hiss, but Bucky moves with purpose, gently hauling you up by the neck until you’re cradled against his chest, arms wrapped around your middle. His breathing is heavy in your ear.

“You good?” he mumbles. You only have the capacity to nod, sinking into the sweaty warmth of his skin while he places chaste kisses on your neck. “C’mon, then.”

He picks you up off the bed and carries you to the bathroom, letting you be for a moment to clean yourself up, and you know the image of his bare ass walking away is burned into your retinas for good. He returns with a set of panties and the wifebeater he was wearing before, now dressed in his boxers. He helps the shirt over your head, holds the panties for you to step into, and the act is considerate and intensely intimate, something you weren’t expecting even after the endless devotion you just received from him. His blue eyes watch you closely, softly, still dark from the throes of passion, but free from any haziness and uncertainty. He is where he wants to be, doing what he wants to be doing; there’s no room for doubt, not when you see him look at you like that.

A slow kiss is pressed to your shoulder once you’re dressed. He tugs you back into the bedroom, a possessive hand on the small of your back that guides you beneath the sheets. Bucky slips in behind you, enveloping you in his familiar scent of sweat and metal and evergreen, pulling you to him after so many days of pushing you away.

“Bucky?”

“Yeah?”

You bite your lip. “Was it really me yellin’ at you that did it for ya?”

There’s a small pause before you hear a soft chuckle, just a puff of breath on your skin.

“I’d be lyin’ if I said it wasn’t. But…it was also the before, and the after, too. Still bein’ able to have a smile that big and pretty after all the hell life’s put you through. After all the hell I put you through…it’s hard not to fall for that. You’re a…good person to be around.”

Your stomach erupts with butterflies, your skin zings with electricity wherever he touches you. His words are exactly what your soul craves, so much so that it hurts.

“Careful,” you whisper, “this is startin’ to sound like the sweet nothins you say you don’t give.”

You can feel his smile against your spine. He tugs you closer. “Don’t be difficult.”

“Me? Never.”

A few beats of silence pass, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to lie next to him without saying a word.

“I meant what I said,” he eventually murmurs, absentmindedly stroking your collarbone.

“What part?” you whisper, lips brushing his hand.

His voice is gruff in your ear, low and tentative. “‘bout not lettin’ you go.”

A smile cracks across your face. “Oh, yeah?…what about the other parts?”

He makes a quiet noise in his throat. “Y’heard that?”

You crane your neck to look back at him. He’s focused on a spot on your shoulder, smoldering intensity written across his face dulled only by a touch of sheepishness.

“I heard all of it,” you tell him softly. His eyes meet yours, dark blue storms drowning you in their path.

“Couldn’t help myself,” he says, licking his lips before placing a hot, open-mouthed kiss on the back of your neck. You bend toward him like a flower to the sun. “I want you waitin’ for me when I get home. I want you givin’ me hell for being late for dinner. I want you doin’ laundry in my underwear.” His lips brush your skin again, hands wandering beneath his shirt. “I want you keepin’ me up all night, lovin’ on me ‘til I know nothin’ but you. I wanna show you in every way I know how that I can be what you need.”

Your hand curls in his hair, forcing him to look at you. “You already are,” you whisper.

Bucky slots his mouth over yours with a groan, promising tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, with his kiss.

sammy speaks again: if I told you this took me two months to write would you believe me? 30k words too like I could have shortened it sammy let’s be real, but I think my body physically rejects the idea of not providing an encyclopedia of a build up. which this seriously is, holy introspection and emotions like can I write normally for once? anyway idk what happened to me but I’m just grateful I’ve finally broken through the funk!

good news is I feel way more open and inspired to write my other wips after signing the dotted line on this one. let me get through a couple shorties and then I’ll be back with one of those!

When he got home, he didn’t sleep.

Dex sat at his kitchen table until five in the morning with a notebook open in front of him, trying to work out how to earn you like it was a mission and a mathematical problem all at once.

He had never had this before, at least not romantically or properly.

He had wanted people before, sure. He had fixated and watched and needed. But he had never met someone he wanted to impress. This was different because it was you.

So Dex pulled up a notebook and started to brainstorm.

At the top of the page, in painfully neat handwriting, he wrote:

What can I do to earn it?

He stared at the sentence for a long time.

Then, because he had no idea what normal people did, he wrote the first thing that came to mind.

Jewellery?

He paused, but it seemed right. Women liked jewellery. He had seen his colleagues back at the FBI buy silver and gold for anniversaries, engagements, and apologies. He had seen men do it in restaurants, in movies, and in department-store advertisements with stupidly saccharine music every February.

Still, Dex knew you wouldn’t want something bought. That felt too ordinary, too impersonal. Anyone with money could buy a necklace, anyone could stand at a glass counter and let a bored sales assistant choose whatever they thought  looked pretty.

That was not earning. To Dex, that was outsourcing.

Dex tapped the pen against the paper, before modifying it.

Stolen jewellery?

Better.

He underlined it once.

You liked flair, and a heist had flair. A heist required planning, timing, and risk assessment. It had alarms to silence, guards to drop, and glass to break.

Then he wrote:Necklace with red stones.

He paused, then kept brainstorming.

Clean first. Get a box.

He underlined clean first twice.

You would probably appreciate that he had been forced to kill his way through a collection of financiers, traffickers, and Task Force donors to get it. But you would appreciate the necklace even more if he cleaned every trace of their blood from it before he gave it to you.

See? He was learning.

—

A week later, you woke up to the report of a jewellery heist.

The story was already playing on the television in the kitchen by the time you wandered in, rubbing sleep from your eyes while the kettle hissed behind you. Blue police lights flashed across the screen, staining the marble frontage of some private gallery in a gray-ish intermittent colour. The windows had been shattered inward, glass glittered across the pavement like ice, and several black body bags were being wheeled past a row of reporters pressing microphones toward anyone wearing a badge.

Mia sat at the table with a bowl of cereal and the front page spread open beside her. She had placed an unloaded handgun across the article to keep it flat, which felt disrespectful to both journalism and breakfast but was hardly the strangest thing she had ever done in your kitchen.

You poured hot water over your coffee and leaned against the counter, only half listening as the reporter explained that the gallery had been used as a private showroom for a collection owned by three wealthy financiers. Between them, they had laundered money for traffickers, moved illegal weapons through shell companies, and funnelled anonymous donations into several Task Force operations.

Now they were dead.

The security team was dead too, although the report was careful to describe them as “private contractors,” which sounded much better than armed men paid to protect criminals and their stolen wealth. 

Apparently, only one item had been taken.

The reporter’s image changed to an old catalogue photograph of a necklace laid against black silk. It was beautifully dramatic, set in dark metal with deep red stones that looked almost black before the studio light flashed.

You paused with the mug halfway to your mouth. “Huh.”

Mia glanced up from her cereal, spoon hovering near her lips. “What?”

“It’s pretty.” You looked at the necklace again.”

And that was the full extent of your interest.

That morning, it didn’t occur to you that Dex had done it.

Dex was many things, but he was not a thief. He took weapons when he needed them, and sometimes files, keys, evidence, ammunition. Those were practical things with a means to an end. You couldn’t imagine him breaking into private galleries for jewels. He had never shown any interest in luxury, money, or expensive objects for their own sake.

You finished your coffee, watched another body bag disappear into an ambulance, and thought no more about it.

—

Dex tapped on your apartment window shortly after midnight.

The sound was small enough that Mia didn’t hear it from her bedroom, but it pulled you out of the book balanced across your knees. You stayed still for a moment, listening. 

Your hand went instinctively toward the knife tucked between the sofa cushions as you walked across the apartment. There was no shadow from the other side of the curtain, but when you saw Dex through the gap between the blinds you sighed.

Of course.

Dex stood on the other side, jacket zipped, his hair pushed back, and there was no visible blood on him anywhere. He held a small black velvet box between both hands with such care that, for a second, you wondered whether it might contain an explosive.

“Shhh,” you pulled a finger to your lips, and Dex only tilted his head.

You pulled back the window, his eyes found your face immediately, then flicked down toward your mouth before returning upward. 

“What are you doing here?” You tried not to smile as you stepped into the fire escape and pulled the window back down behind you before Mia could wake up and discover Bullseye standing outside with what looked alarmingly like a romantic gift. 

The metal steps were cold beneath your bare feet, and the night air smelled of rain, rust, and old brick. Traffic moved several storeys below, tyres whispering across wet roads while the glow from nearby windows softened the edges of Dex’s face.

For all you knew about him, he looked almost nervous.

The box remained cupped in his palms. When he finally offered it to you, his fingers lingered against the velvet for half a second before releasing it.

You looked at him, then down at the box, Dex watching your face like he was waiting for a verdict.

You opened it.

For several seconds, you didn’t understand what you were looking at. The stones were darker in person, a deep garnet red that seemed to hold light inside them. The metal had been polished until every curve gleamed. It was old, heavy, and far too beautiful to have belonged to any of the men who had kept it locked inside that gallery.

Then the television footage came back to you.

You lifted your eyes slowly.Dex didn’t look away.

“You did the heist,” you whispered, eyes wide now.

It was not really a question, but he nodded anyway, enough so that  the cold air touched the back of your teeth while your thoughts rearranged themselves around the fact that Benjamin Poindexter had robbed a jewellery vault.

He had never been a thief before. Apparently, you had turned him into one.

The realisation hit you, so unexpectedly absurd that a tiny bit of laughter escaped before you could stop it. You lowered your head, one hand tightening around the box as the sound spilled into the alley below.

Dex’s face changed immediately. His shoulders drew in slightly, and for one second, he looked as if he thought you were laughing at him rather than the situation he had created. He had killed his way through a private gallery, stolen one necklace from an entire collection, cleaned it until it reflected fucking lasers, found a box, and knocked politely on your window.

All because you had told him to earn a kiss.

You pressed your lips together, trying to stop giggling long enough to speak.

“Dex,” you whispered, grabbing his arm, “I genuinely didn’t know this was you.”

His brow furrowed. “You didn’t?”

“You don’t steal jewellery.”

“I do now.”

That nearly started you laughing again.

You looked back down at the necklace instead. Up close, you could see the tiny details in the metalwork, dark vines curling around the stones like thorns. There was not a smear, fingerprint, or trace of blood anywhere on it. Dex must have cleaned it meticulously, working over every setting until nothing remained of the people who had guarded it.

You lifted the necklace carefully from the box. The chain slid over your fingers with a cool, satisfying weight. “It’s beautiful."

He was relieved all at once, you could tell when his jaw loosened and his shoulders dropped. 

You turned the necklace over in your hands.

Of course he chose this one out of everything in the gallery.

His gaze drifted toward your throat, lingering there just long enough to answer the question you hadn’t asked: he had chosen it because he had imagined it on you in more ways than one, you were willing to bet.

You gathered your hair away from your neck and fastened the clasp yourself. The stones settled against your skin with a cold shock before gradually warming to your body. They rested directly over your collarbone, against your throat.

Dex’s eyes followed the necklace downward, tracing the chain and the red stones before returning to your face. His hands stayed still at his sides, but there was tension in every finger, as though not touching you required the same concentration as hitting an impossible target.

You had thought the gift was simply a gift, but then you saw the way he kept looking at your mouth.

Oh. 

Oh.

How sweet.

You bit your lip. “This… was about the kiss.”

Dex’s face went still, and you could almost see him deciding whether denying it would help. He didn't bother.

“Did I earn it?”

There was something so painfully sincere in the question that your chest tightened. Dex hadn’t treated your teasing like flirtation. He had treated it like a task, or a standard he could meet.

You stepped closer.

The fire escape shifted faintly beneath your weight, metal creaking as you tried your hardest to still not make noise. You simply couldn’t bear to hear Mia fucking talk your ear off about manners anymore. 

You touched the front of his jacket. His body went rigid beneath your palm.

For a second, you let him believe it.

You tilted your face toward his, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath. His eyes dropped to your mouth, his lips parted slightly, and every single part of his consciousness seemed to narrow onto the tiny distance remaining between you.

Then you turned your head and kissed his cheek.

Again.

This time, you let it linger as your mouth rested against the scar on his cheekbone while the red stones he had stolen for you pressed coldly against your throat. Dex closed his eyes, his breath leaving him in a wounded exhale.

When you drew back, he looked dazed.

You smiled and touched the necklace lightly. “It’s incredibly sweet.”

His gaze moved from the stones to your mouth. “But?”

“But not quite.”

The disappointment flashed across his face before he could hide it. It lasted only a second, and he quickly replaced it with a familiar, frightening focus. Then, very quietly, he said, “I’ll do better next time.”

You probably should have been worried. Instead, you smiled.

“I can’t wait.”

—

The second attempt involved your cutting off your ex-boyfriend’s pinky finger.

Dex hadn't gone looking for him. At least, that was what he told himself. He had simply seen the man leaving a bar one evening while he was on his way back home. Unfortunately for your ex, he'd made the mistake of bragging about his ex being a dangerous and wanted vigilante, loudly enough for Dex to hear.

"I used to have her wrapped around my little finger,” He laughed loudly, as if that would impress the girl he was currently talking to. 

Ugh.

The package appeared on your fire escape the following morning, wrapped in brown paper and tied neatly with butcher’s string, with anote that said : Though he shouldn’t have this anymore.

It was small enough to fit in your palm, though the dark stain beginning to spread through one corner gave away that it was definitely not jewellery this time. 

You found Dex that evening on the opposite rooftop, watching your apartment with anticipation, waiting to hear whether a gift had been received. You should have been horrified. Instead, you kept thinking about the specificity of it. He had not killed the man, because apparently Dex had decided death would be too impersonal. He had taken the exact part of him that he had mentioned and removed it with surgical attention, leaving your ex alive to understand why.

When you met him on the roof, Dex straightened. Hope appeared on his face almost immediately, fragile beneath all that lethal stillness. You stepped into his space, rested your hand against his chest, and kissed his cheek in the same place as before.

Dex watched you leave with his fingers pressed against the place you had kissed, already reconsidering the scale of the gesture.

The third attempt happened during one of your outings together.

Calling it an outing was generous. You had spent most of the evening following a Task Force accountant through Hell’s Kitchen while Dex moved along the rooftops above you, appearing occasionally in dark windows and reflective surfaces like an omen. The job ended early, leaving the two of you walking without urgency through streets still wet from rain. You stopped for food from a cart, shared greasy hotdogs beneath the awning of a closed shop, and let yourself pretend for several minutes that this was what normal situationships did.

The man who ruined it came out of a bar angry. His shoulder struck yours hard enough to spill the drink in your hand, and instead of apologising, he grabbed your wrist when you turned toward him. His fingers tightened. He called you a bitch.

Dex knew you could more than take care of yourself, but instead of letting you deal with it, his head thought ding, ding, ding! This is your chance to earn it!

Without waiting to see what you would do, Dex killed him with his hands because the offence had been physical, and a primitive part of him apparently believed the answer should be too. By the time you reacted to them, the man’s face had already gone slack beneath the dirty wash of the streetlights. Dex remained crouched over him, breathing evenly, blood along his knuckles and the cuff of his sleeve.

He looked up at you without remorse, as if the man’s hand created a simple problem and Dex had solved it in the most direct way available.

You… looked disappointed, almost sad that you weren’t given the choice to end him yourself.

You should have scolded him. Instead, you crouched and wiped a thin streak of blood from beneath his eye. 

His eyes dropped to your mouth before you had even begun leaning closer, and for a brief second, the hope on his face made you consider giving him what he wanted.

You kissed his cheek again.

This time, your mouth landed nearer the corner of his lips, close enough that Dex inhaled and turned his face by instinct, chasing an act you had already withdrawn. You smiled, tracing your thumb once over his bloodied cheekbone before leaving him kneeling beside the body with his restraint hanging by a thread.

His fourth attempt was less impulsive and considerably more elaborate.

Someone had begun watching your building. You noticed the same dark sedan twice in one week, though it always disappeared before you could approach it. Mia found a listening device beneath the kitchen windowsill, hidden so badly it was frankly insulting. T

Three nights later, an entire surveillance crew disappeared.

Their operation had been housed in a rented office two streets from your apartment. Dex dismantled it room by room. The people inside had worked for a private intelligence firm funded by Task Force donors, and Dex killed the ones who had apparently fucking photographed your bedroom, even if he had done the same himself. He left the technician who had installed the device alive with both hands broken and every hard drive stacked beside him.

Then Dex brought you the files.

He arranged them across your kitchen table while you slept, pages separated into neat categories: From the names of the donors, their addresses, their routines, and the amounts they had paid to look into your life.

You found him later that night when you stepped onto the fire escape, crouched between his knees, and held his face in both hands. This time, your kiss landed at the edge of his cheek, close enough to his mouth that the corner of your lips brushed his for less than a second.

He went rigid.

The contact on his lips had been so slight it might have been accidental, but both of you knew it wasn't. Dex followed when you pulled away, stopping himself only after his mouth had moved an inch toward yours. His eyes had gone unfocused, his breathing suddenly uneven as he stared at the tiny distance you had created.

You thanked him for the files, and told him not quite.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

—-

Dex ran out of ideas three days later.

The almost-kiss had destroyed what remained of his ability to think rationally. He could still feel the exact place you had pressed your lips to his skin, which he thought about often enough to become embarrassing.

You had been so close. Closer than ever before.

That would have meant he was improving, right?

Instead, he sat at his kitchen table until nearly dawn, staring at the same notebook he had used after your first date.

The original page looked almost childish now. Jewellery? was written in black ink, followed by notes about red stones, boxes, and cleaning off the blood. That had seemed like such a strong idea at the time. He had been proud of it. He had planned the heist meticulously, selected the necklace from an entire private collection, and polished every link of the chain himself.

You had loved it.

Still. It was not enough.

Everything he had tried afterwards filled the next several pages. Names, addresses, little reminders of things that bothered you and people who no longer had the opportunity to do so. Some of the ideas had been crossed out because they were too excessive, although Dex’s definition of excessive remained alarmingly generous. Others had been completed and marked with neat dates in the margin.

Beside each attempt, he had recorded the result.

Cheek.

Cheek again. Slightly longer.

Corner of mouth. Almost.

Pathetic. It really was fucking pathetic.

Dex stared at that final entry until the words began to blur.

He could do more, obviously. There were always more people to kill, more enemies to drag to your feet like a sad cat. 

But Dex had begun to suspect that scale was not the problem.

He picked up his pen and wrote: bigger jewellery heist?

Then he crossed it out.

He wrote: kill Task Force Leader?

That one remained on the page for several minutes before he reluctantly crossed it out too. Powell definitely deserved it, but you had never mentioned him specifically. Killing someone you hadn’t complained about felt like guessing, and Dex was starting to understand that guessing wrong could push him farther away instead of bringing him closer.

He considered returning your ex’s other pinky finger.

No, he thought, too repetitive.

He considered finding every man who had ever frightened you and arranging them alphabetically in a warehouse.

Impractical, he thought. That idea had flair, but he could not work out what you would do with one.

By six in the morning, the notebook contained several increasingly desperate fragments and one entire page where Dex had written WHAT DOES SHE WANT? hard enough to leave the words embossed through the paper beneath it.

The answer didn’t appear.

For the first time since you had told him to earn the kiss, Benjamin Poindexter had no plan.

—

Mia discovered him outside your kitchen window at two in the morning.

She had come in for water wearing an oversized pyjama set, her hair twisted into a loose knot that had mostly collapsed. The apartment was dark except for the light above the stove, and she nearly walked past him before she noticed the shape crouched on the fire escape.

Dex tapped once against the glass.

Mia flinched hard enough to spill water over her hand. “What the…”

Within seconds, she had a pistol aimed directly between his eyes.

Dex had expected that.

Mia stared at him through the window, exhausted because she had repeatedly asked you to stop contributing to her life becoming stranger and had been consistently ignored. Her eyes moved from his face to his empty hands, checking for blood, weapons, packages, or severed pieces of anyone she recognised.

There was nothing, and that seemed to concern her more.

She unlocked the window but only raised it several inches, leaving enough space to talk without giving him room to climb through. 

“She’s asleep,” Mia said quietly.

“I know.”

Her eyes narrowed. Of course he did.

Dex looked past her toward your bedroom door on the side, which was closed. He could picture you behind it, curled beneath the blankets, breathing into your pillow. He forced his attention back to Mia before the thought became distracting. “I need help.”

Mia’s grip shifted on the pistol.

For several seconds, she seemed unsure whether she had heard him correctly. Dex understood that he didn’t ask people for help. Help created debt and uncertainty, and it was usually more efficient to solve the problem himself.

Unfortunately, he had tried that.

Mia raised the window another few inches, though the gun remained.

Dex took the notebook from inside his jacket and passed it through the gap.

Mia didn;t lower the pistol as she took it. She placed the notebook on the counter, flipped it open with one hand, and began reading. Her expression changed as she moved through the pages: Confusion, followed by disbelief, then amusement.

Dex watched her read the record of his attempts, and when Mia reached the page headed POSSIBLE NEXT ATTEMPTS, she stopped.

The list beneath it included stealing a deed to a building, acquiring a tiger, and locating the person responsible for cancelling the brand of hot chocolate you liked three years ago.

Mia looked up. “A tiger?”

“She likes cats,” Dex shrugged.

Mia sighed. “That doesn't mean she wants a tiger.”

“I crossed it out.”

She looked at the notes again. “It says here you researched three private zoos.”

“I needed to know whether it was feasible.”

Mia shut the notebook and pressed her fingertips against her forehead. The gun was still in her other hand, but it had lowered toward the floor, apparently because exasperation had temporarily overtaken self-preservation.

Dex waited for her to provide an answer.

Instead, she looked at him through the narrow opening and began to laugh, and it was not the same laughter you gave him. Yours eventually made his chest warm. Mia’s laughter made him feel as though he had failed the test at every hurdle.

He thought about hurting Mia for making him feel humiliated, but then decided against it because you’d probably hate him for it.

“I’m serious.”

“That’s the problem,” Mia managed, keeping her voice down so she wouldn’t wake you. “You are thinking about this like you’re trying to overthrow a government.”

Dex didn’t see how that was relevant. Overthrowing a government required less guesswork.

Mia opened the notebook again and flicked through the pages, staring at each carefully planned act of violence. The laughter eventually faded, leaving behind a reluctant sympathy that Dex disliked even more.

“You’re thinking too much,” she told him.

The statement felt insulting. Thinking was how he avoided mistakes. “She told me to earn it.”

“I know. She told me everything.”

Dex’s attention sharpened. “Everything?”

Mia ignored the question. “You keep acting like there’s a secret combination of murder and theft that unlocks her mouth.”

He reached under the window for the notebook, but Mia pulled it back before he could take it. “She’s just a girl, Dex.”

He stared at her, because she wasn’t making sense.

You were not just anything. How fucking dare she insinuate that?

Mia seemed to read the objection on his face.

“I know she’s a fucking lunatic,” she continued. “I live with her. I’ve helped her sink bodies. Just… stop trying to earn the kiss by making her owe you.”

Eventually, she released the notebook back to his custody.

That had never been his intention. He didn’t want you indebted to him. He wanted you to be impressed, delighted. But perhaps those things were not as different as he had believed.

Perhaps the gesture had the undertone of the same question:

Was that enough? Do I get it now?

Mia had seen it. You probably had too.

Dex looked down at the notebook in his hands and the pages felt heavier than before.

Mia started lowering the window, apparently done with his bullshit for the night. She paused with only a narrow gap remaining. “Again,” She started, “She’s just a girl. Don’t overthink it.”

Easier said than done. 

—

For once, Dex listened.

The next time he came to see you, nobody had died.

There was no breaking-news report waiting for you that morning, no stolen artefact displayed across the front page, no mysteriously vanished Task Force officials, and no parcel on the fire escape leaking through its paper wrapping. The day passed so uneventfully that by evening, you had started to suspect Dex was planning something truly catastrophic.

You checked the news twice. Nothing.

You glanced toward the window whenever a shadow shifted outside, but the fire escape remained empty. It was nearly eight when someone knocked on the apartment door.

You looked up from the sofa.

Mia looked up from the weapon catalogue spread across her lap. She was in her bedroom with the door ajar. “You expecting someone?”

“No.”

Mia turned another page. “Weird.”

There was no urgency in the knock, no coded pattern, and no scraping sound suggesting someone was trying to slide a body across the hallway carpet.

When you opened the door, Dex was standing beneath the weak yellow light with a bunch of flowers in his hands.

For a moment, you only stared.

They were not arranged professionally. The paper around them had been folded precisely in some places and crushed in others, as though Dex had spent far too long trying to hold them without damaging anything. There were no red stones, no bloodstains, and no expensive velvet box. Just a slightly unruly collection of pale flowers and greenery, fresh enough that tiny droplets of water still clung to the petals.

Dex looked almost painfully uncertain.

He had faced rooms full of armed men with less visible tension. His shoulders were held too squarely, his fingers carefully positioned around the stems, and his eyes kept moving between your face and the flowers as though he expected one of them to tell him what to do next.

Oh. this was new.

“You… brought me flowers.”

“I uh…” Dex nodded, “yeah.”

Your eyes narrowed with suspicion as you accepted them. The paper rustled beneath your fingers, damp where the stems had been wrapped. “Did you steal them?”

“No.”

“Threaten the florist?”

He had another pause, just long enough to become concerning. “No.”

“Dex.”

“I paid.”

You looked up properly at that.

His eyes looked… defensive, as if buying flowers had required more courage than stealing a priceless necklace from a fortified vault. Maybe it had. Violence gave him a shield to hide behind. This was only Dex standing outside your door with a simple gift and no proof of obsession beyond the fact that he had remembered you might like flowers in your favourite colours.

You looked down at the flowers again.

They smelled green somehow, faintly sweet but not overwhelming. A little piece of leaf had caught against the paper near your thumb. One stem was slightly bent, probably from Dex gripping the bouquet too tightly on the journey over and then attempting to straighten it before knocking.

The imperfection made it strangely charming.

There was no note demanding that you understand what he had done for you, though you had at least expected it. There was no list of names or severed pieces of someone who had wronged you. He hadn’t even brought them as evidence that he could protect you, avenge you, or remove inconvenience from your life.

He had brought you flowers because Mia had told him you were just a girl.

And sometimes girls liked flowers their will-they-won’t-they situationship brought for them.

Finally, after all his increasingly elaborate attempts, he had tried doing something… simple.

“They’re beautiful,” you smiled,watching relief pass over his face so openly you nearly melted.

Dex’s eyes flickered toward your mouth out of habit, but he stopped himself almost immediately. He didn’t ask whether he had earned it, he didn’t even step closer or look expectant. He only stood there in the hallway, hands empty now, waiting to see whether you wanted to invite him inside.

Oh, Dex.

You stepped into the hallway and placed the flowers carefully on the console table beside the door. Dex watched you do it, cautiously hopeful, but he still didn’t move.

Without any warning, you grabbed the front of his jacket and pulled him down, pressing your lips to his.

His mouth was warm beneath yours, parted slightly with surprise, and for one suspended moment he did absolutely nothing. 

Apparently, he had failed to consider that flowers might work.

Eventually, though, he kissed you back carefully at first, as if the kiss might disappear if he wanted it too much. His hand lifted toward your waist but stopped just short of touching, every part of him still suspended between hope and disbelief.

You pulled away.

Dex followed without meaning to, his mouth chasing yours by an inch before he caught himself. His eyes opened completely dazed, and the devastation on his face made your stomach twist.

At that moment, he seemed to think that was all he was getting.

Then you smiled, tightened your fist in his jacket, and pulled him back.

The second kiss was deeper, and Dex made a soft, wrecked sound against your mouth as his hands finally settled around your waist. The restraint he had been pushed down for weeks cracked beneath your fingers. He kissed you like he had memorised every near miss: every cheek, every corner, every cruel fraction of an inch you had left between you.

Behind you, Mia peeked out her bedroom door.

Mia took one look at Dex leaning down on you in the doorway, your hands gripping his jacket and the flowers abandoned beside the door, then silently reached around the frame and pulled the door shut again.

You laughed into the kiss, breathless against his mouth.

Dex felt it in his bones, not quite believing the  fact that you were finally kissing him back without a tally to settle or another task waiting. When you eventually pulled back, he followed helplessly until his forehead rested against yours. His breathing had gone uneven, and his eyes kept dropping to your lips as if he still expected you to change your mind and put unbearable distance between you again.

“D’you wanna come in?” you asked.

Dex nodded far too quickly. “Mhm.”

It came out so pathetic and eager that you smiled, caught his hand, and pulled him through the doorway. The flowers stayed forgotten on the little table while you dragged him toward your bedroom, kissing him again before you had even made it down the hall.

Mia’s door was still shut, and Dex briefly considered knocking to offer her headphones.

Then your hands found his belt loops in his waist, your mouth moving hungrily against his, and he decided she could survive one noisy night after advising him on how to win your physical affection.

After all, she had been right.

You were just a girl, and all Dex had ever needed to do was bring you flowers.

—end.

NOTE : I genuinely love seeing all your requests in my asks, but I do get a lot and I physically can’t write every single one. I usually write the ones that catch my eye, and it’s probably every 1 in 5. 

That’s why I have Ko-fi! If you request there, it’s pretty much guaranteed I’ll write it within a month of responding as a token of appreciation (keep this post in mind for July and August 2026). If I’m uncomfortable with the request or don’t think I can do it justice, I’ll let you know and we can brainstorm something else.

Please remember I run this blog for free, so any support means a lot, only if you’re able to give it! Love y’all and thank you for reading!!! <3

buy me a ko-fi here!

Dex taglist part 1:

As a child, you didn’t understand why people said “Sweet Dreams”. Mostly because the dreams you had seen weren’t so sweet at all. 

You could remember it like it was yesterday. Despite the vague, blurry memories from your childhood. You remember being in a room with other kids who looked terrified, who were shaking in their sleep and all you had to do was hold their hand and suddenly, you were in their mind, their dreams. You saw their fears, their deepest desires, even fragments of their memories.

To a naive girl, it was overwhelming. There was so much hurt, so much noise, you would always wake up crying. 

Despite being your first memories, you could barely recognize the room you were in nor the people that you were with. One memory that you recalled clearly was with your parents. They looked at you with such despair, such heartbreak. All you could remember was them saying they’ll do better, they’ll be more vigilant and that they were so sorry.

You didn’t know why. You just hated seeing your parents so distraught. 

They quickly learned about your powers. When they found out, they were even more upset, almost as if they knew your life would change forever. 

It didn’t too much. It was easy to control which was a miracle for you. As you grew up, you tried to convince yourself you were born with it with how well you were adapting. Your parents quickly shut that down by saying that you were missing for days, they didn’t even know who got you. You couldn’t help but feel angry. The people who altered you permanently were still out there. 

You couldn’t change the past and you were stuck with these abilities for the rest of your life, therefore, you had to use it to your advantage. 

You had a small service, enough to get paid and to have a roof over your head. You went inside people’s dreams and informed their family members or friends about what you saw and thanks to your power, you could interact with the person having the dream as well. It wasn’t the best profession but it worked surprisingly well. It mostly worked on people who were superstitious or those overly worried about their loved ones. That made sense. No logical person would believe in your abilities. Even in a world of superheroes, yours were too nonsensical, too convenient to be real. It felt like a scam even you didn’t believe. 

Some dreams were sweet, some were nightmares, some made you tear up, even in the end, you couldn’t forget about most of them. 

After the snap, people were more focused on their own financial situation and personal problems and you barely got any customers left. People were more inclined not to believe your ability, some even feared you would use it against them. You never knew why and you didn’t have the time to find out either.

That’s why when a member of the New Avengers showed up at your doorstep, who was also an ex-congressman (which did little to calm your nerves), you were surprised. You leaned against the doorframe, your mouth practically agape. “I- Wait… Congressman Barnes?! What are you doing here? How did you get my address?!”

Shit, was I getting arrested? I didn’t even do anything. 

“Our team- The New Avengers would like your services,” he explained, his smile strained. It reminded you of his interviews. He clearly didn’t want to be there. It almost made you laugh if you weren’t so intimidated. “A friend of mine said you could go into dreams, right?” 

You nod your head slowly. “Yeah, I can. I’m surprised you even believe me. Most people think I’m a hack.”

“Well, the team needs someone like you.” He pinches the bridge of his nose before sighing. “Don’t know why Valentina sent me to come after you but some of our members struggle with nightmares. One more than others and those nightmares could lead into… bad situations.” He places his hand on your shoulder. “You get to live in the watchtower for free. No need to pay rent or anything. And you can work on your own terms. You need a break? You got it. We don’t want to overwhelm you and you’re not here to be our therapist. Just here to drag us back to reality.”

“So I’m like team morale?”

“Kind of,” Bucky shrugs. “You fine with that?”

You let out a breath. “It’s either there or I get evicted  so I’m in.” 

You’re used to the nightmares, the dreams of other people. This shouldn’t be that bad.

At least you’ll be good for something. 

Because setting aside the money, the stability, you were truly lacking a purpose. This might just fix that.

———

Your first task was actually none of the New Avengers. It was that weird guy who followed them around. Bob Reynolds. You can’t deny you were feeling kind of bummed about not seeing the minds of the other team members but you weren’t one to complain. 

You laid down next to the bed, a blanket shielding you from the hard surface of the ground. “You sure he’s okay with this?” 

“Should be,” Ava informed you. “We told Yelena to tell him and she told us he was fine with it.”

“She also told us that he wasn’t too thrilled about it either.” John butted in next to her. He turns to look at you. “Look, we just need him to… not have these nightmares. Things have already been hectic enough around here.”

“Why do you need to worry about Bob? He’s just some guy,” you say, grabbing a pillow from his bed and setting it below your head. 

The two looked at each other then looked at you. The uncomfortable look on their faces didn’t pass by you. Seriously, what was so crazy about this Bob guy? 

“Well, I’ll see you guys later.” You close your eyes, holding Bob’s hand as you heard footsteps getting softer and softer. 

Then the door closed. You fell into a slumber. 

Surely Bob couldn’t have any crazy dreams. You’d stake your life on it.

———

The dream wasn’t crazy actually. No, the problem is it was so normal. You were in an attic, Bob was on the floor, solving with a rubix cube. You blink confused. “What? Why are you here? Is this the dream?”

“I think I somehow knew you were going to come here,” Bob supplied, managing to solve one side of the cube. It was baffling how he could treat someone entering his mind as a regular occurrence. No one on the team had powers like that. 

“No, That’s impossible!” Every single person whose mind you entered were always surprised when they saw you. And here Bob was, saying that he knew you would come. 

“Yeah, I didn’t think I could do that.” He rests his hand on his palm. 

“Seriously, who are you?!”

“I’m Bob?” He smiled awkwardly. “I guess I didn’t introduce myself when you first came here. My name’s Bob-“

“Yeah, I know that! I mean why can your mind sense that I’m here?” Is he able to hide his thoughts and dreams from me? There’s no way. It has to be a coincidence.

“Not sure. I still don’t know what I can do… even if it’s been months. The dream paused when you came in,” he elaborates, avoiding your eyes and focusing on the cube. “So I went upstairs to this place. It’s where I feel the most safe until I wake up.” 

You sit next to him. “You always like this? Knowing when you’re in a dream.”

Bob shakes his head. “Not really. It’s only today. Probably cause you’re here.” His grip tightens on the cube as he solves another side. You had to admit he was good at it. “You know, I- I don’t understand why they think I need your help. My nightmares aren’t that bad compared to before. It’s like they’re treating me like I can’t stand on my own. Like I can’t handle myself.”

You don’t say anything. It’s not like you had context to what he was saying either. You were just nodding along. What could you even say? It’d feel fake coming from you. It isn’t what he needed to hear. 

“You solve those a lot?”

His eyes widen a bit. “What?” 

“You solved two sides already. You must be good.” 

His cheeks flush red, embarrassment on his face. “I’ve been practicing since I was a kid so I learned to get good at it. I haven’t touched one in a while so I’m a bit slower than usual.”

“Can I try?” 

“Uh, sure?” He hands it over to you. You randomly solve it. You didn’t like thinking too hard, often adopting the mindset of doing random things to get results. At the corner of your eye, you see how appalled he was that you managed to practically redo his progress in record time. “No offense but do you know how to solve this?”

“Nope!” You grin. “But it got you thinking less about your team, didn’t it?”

He opens his mouth to speak but he quickly closes it afterward. A smile graces his lips as he laughs. “Huh, guess it did.”

You didn’t know what Bob’s deal was. But you were glad he was finally smiling and relaxed. 

The smile stuck to you even when you woke up.

———

As you continued to live in the New Avengers tower, you got a good grasp about the issues that were plaguing the team. It was a theme of being haunted by your past mistakes. You were there to try and reel them back to reality, interacting with their dreams even if you weren’t talking to them, convincing them that it wasn’t real.

Strangely enough, going inside the mind of Bob didn’t make you learn more about the guy. It just turns into a more complicated way to talk to him alone which you appreciated. You liked talking to Bob. He was more interesting than you gave him credit for. 

Sometimes he’d just ask you to enter his dreams for no reason at all. 

“Thought you said you didn’t have many nightmares anymore?” You squint at him, shifting under his blankets. He quickly felt bad about you sleeping on the floor and he grew comfortable to share a bed with you. Perhaps he was touch starved. You didn’t want to judge. 

“I don’t. Just wanna talk to you.”

“You could do that normally though.” 

He doesn’t respond, just closes his eyes and opens his hand. You roll your eyes and intertwine your fingers together.

You only fall asleep once you knew the other was dreaming.

It didn’t take long before you followed.

——

“Do you ever dream?” Bob questioned as you both sat on the couch of the Avengers Tower. Instead of the usual attic, it was a more mundane and domestic environment. 

The attic and now the tower. What was I? The ghost of Christmas Past and Present? 

You were silent long enough before you answered the inquiry. “Nope. I haven’t had one since I got this.” Which basically means I never had one I remember.

He sets aside the book he was reading. Even in dreams, he still liked doing that. “Do you know why?” 

“No. I don’t care. I just got used to it. That’s all.” You turn your attention back to him. “Enough about me. What was your dream about this time?“

He leans his head against yours, bumping your shoulders together as if seeking your warmth. “I sometimes worry that they won’t come back. Yelena and the others… I’m scared that they’ll be gone and I won’t be there to help. But if I do… what if I just make things worse?” He chuckles bitterly. “I’m a hypocrite, aren’t I? I don’t like it when I’m being looked down on yet I can’t trust them to make it out alive.”

You drifted your eyes towards him. They were filled with not pity but understanding. “It isn’t a crime to worry about your friends. It isn’t the same as coddling them or not trusting them. Sometimes… things happen even when it’s with the strongest people in the world.”

Like with the Avengers and Thanos.

“You can’t guarantee anything. It’s only natural.” You smile. “But I think your friends can handle it. The team definitely can. They’re more than capable.”

“Just wish I could do something. Better than staying in the tower all day.”

You nudge him with your arm. “Better than me, Bob,” you chuckle. “I’m just here to go into people’s dreams. That’s practically useless.”

“I don’t think so. At least I have you with me.”

“Is that enough to be useful? To be important?” You couldn’t help but wonder aloud.

He holds on tightly to your hand. 

“It’s more than enough.”

———

Weeks go by, then they turn into months, you notice that the team has grown more serious as of lately. You couldn’t help that you’d intrude once they start conversing with themselves about a multidimensional threat. You didn’t want to pry but it was worrying how their dreams were nightmares. 

So much blood, so much death, all in the hands of some metal masked villain. It was like you were in that familiar yet blurry room from your childhood, surrounded by scared kids. 

And yet, despite the tension in the tower, they still acted relatively the same and treated you the same.

All except Bob. 

You didn’t know what you did but he had been avoiding you. It was like you were a ghost, a stranger. 

But apparently, his nightmares were the worst of the bunch. You took matters into your own hands. You hated seeing your closest friend suffer. You laid down next to his bed and interlocked your fingers together.

You were just reminding him that you were there. 

Hopefully that would be enough.

——

The nightmare was bleak. It was a battlefield of bodies that you could vaguely recognize. Some heroes you’ve seen on TV, others unfamiliar to you. You spot the ruins of the watchtower in the distance and you rushed towards it.

You see the bruised and bloodied bodies of people you slowly started to consider as friends. 

Yelena looked like she fell from great heights, Ava’s mask had a bullet wound, John was under a pile of rubble and you could only see his hand above a broken shield.

You see Bob, cradling your body like it was your last hope. It wasn’t like before. Bob didn’t know you were there. Or maybe, he knew you were there but was too caught up in his grief.

You couldn’t say anything. You were frozen. You could only hear his sobs. Then he turns around and looks at you.

He meets your eyes.

You jolted awake.

———

You walk back to your room. You were lying down on your bed, staring up at the ceiling in the dark. 

The expression Bob had. It reminded you of your parents, of those kids from a past that you didn’t understand. It looked terrified, remorseful, sad, every negative emotion under the sun. One so close to tears, one that has lost everything.

You saw it when you closed your eyes. 

And for once, you had a dream. 

Tired of his own mind beating him down, again and again. Maybe it's right. That voice that slithers around him. Gentle at first, always so gentle. Luring him in, allowing him respite.

It's only a matter of time before it starts to tighten its grip. Pull him closer. Squeeze the air from his lungs. Leave him gasping and screaming. Begging.

He'd give anything to make it go away. He's sick of the pain it brings. But it doesn't matter how far he runs or where he hides. It's all the same. Because he can't outrun himself. Can't outrun what he is. This darkness that festers in him. Like a sickness. Rotting him from the inside out. Infecting everyone around him.

He wants to be alone. But he is alone. That voice…It's his own. Thoughts and words picked up from other people — people who should have been kinder, better — but the voice is his. No matter what he does, he's destined to lose.

Soon they'll see. Wouldn't it be better if you left before they realise? You've been feeding them so many lies. They don't know you like I do. I see you for what you really are.

He tried to leave. He really did. But there's always an excuse to stay. A late night talk with Yelena, a training session with Ava, a silly inside joke that Alexei loves to make with him.

Always an excuse. He's so weak. He's going to hurt them. How long can he keep lying to himself? How long can he keep pretending that he isn't dangerous?

And then there's you. God, if he hurt you, he'd never forgive himself. The rest of them are like a family to him, but you…

He can't say what you are. If he lost that…

But you will. You always hurt the ones you love.

So he does what he knows best. He retreats. Locks himself away in the furthest room of the Watchtower, away from concerned questions and worried eyes.

If you really cared for any of them, you'd leave. Disappear. Let them forget all about you. But you're a coward. You always have been.

He just wants it to stop.

Bob's been disappearing more and more lately, and it's becoming hard to ignore. You try to give him his space - he's quieter than the others and needs more time to himself - but it's becoming too much, even for him.

The Watchtower is an enormous building, even for the amount of people who occupy it, and some of the rooms furthest from the common area are gathering dust from lack of use.

You're willing to bet that's where Bob's hidden himself away.

You leave under the pretence of wanting to spend some time alone in your room. Whether anyone believes you or not remains to be seen, but depending on Bob's current state, you know that he likely won't appreciate the entire team descending on him like a flock of mother hens. Even just one of you is probably pushing it. But you need to know if he's okay. Call it selfish, but you really miss his company.

You keep as quiet as possible as you make your way across the building. Bob's hearing is sensitive at the best of times, and you don't want to alert him to your presence too early. You can't let him run away before you've even found him.

When you reach the end of the hall, you expect to find the door locked, but you're grateful to find that it opens easily. The room is dark, which doesn't come as a surprise. It's easier for him to hide this way.

Slowly, you close the door behind you, conscious of making any sudden sounds. You close your eyes, letting the silence wash over you. This is the last room. He has to be in here.

There. A sniffle, from the far corner of the room.

"Bob?" you call in a hushed voice.

Muted shuffling against the wooden floorboards. A stifled whimper.

Your stomach drops. Is he hurt?

"Bob?" you call again, soft and low. "Can you make another sound for me? So I know where you are."

You hold yourself still, poised for any minute sound. The silence is unnerving.

"Go away." His voice is hoarse, as if he's been crying.

The room is fairly small and sparsely decorated, and with some concentration, you're able to make your way around the furniture without too much of an issue. Faint lines of evening light fall through the cracks in the curtains, dimly illuminating your way.

Another muffled sniffle, and you've found him. A hunched silhouette on the floor, huddled against the wall.

"Bob?" You carefully crouch down in front of him. Not so close that you might startle him. "Are you hurt?"

A shuffling sound. Shaking his head, perhaps. If he's hurt, you need an answer. You try again.

"No- No, you need to leave. I need you to leave," he begs. "Please."

You squint in the low light, and as your eyes adjust, you begin to make out the shape of him. His head's lowered, chin tucked behind his knees as he hugs them tight to his chest.

Like a frightened child.

"Bob, I'm worried about you," you say gently. "We all are. I know you need your space, and that's okay. But this isn't healthy, you're isolating yourself."

You stretch your hand out to him, to comfort him in some small way.

"I'm not going anywhere, okay? I'm going to stay right here with you, for as long as you need me to. Will you let me?"

He flinches as you touch his arm. His head snaps up suddenly, and in one swift movement, your back collides with the floor. The air's forced from you in one quick breath. Bob leans over you, heavy hands pressed to your shoulders. His eyes are wild. You've never seen him like this before. He's scaring you.

As quickly as that, he's gone. Retreats back into his corner liked an animal that's been spooked. He clutches tightly at his hair, whispered sorries tumbling from his trembling lips.

Carefully, so as not to startle him again, you pull yourself upright.

"Bob?" You keep your hands to yourself this time. "Bob."

Over and over, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

"Bob," you say again, firmly. Willing your voice to remain steady. "Listen to me. Please?"

His grip tightens. If you don't stop him, he's going to hurt himself.

"I know you didn't mean what just happened." Every word is chosen carefully. "You're scared. I know. But it's okay. I'm here with you."

His head shakes. You're not sure if he can even hear you.

"You- You have to leave," he mumbles. "Before he- Before I-"

There are parts of Bob that you still don't fully understand. Parts that he does his best to keep hidden. Everyone has secrets. But his can turn people into shadows with barely a thought.

The Void. All of Bob's pain - his rage, his sadness, his despair - brought to life by the Sentry serum. Sometimes it's it, sometimes he. But never I.

"You're not going to hurt me," you tell him. Fear still runs like a current through you, but you believe what you say. "I know you won't. Because you're strong."

A barely stifled sob slips from him, and you press on.

"You are. You're so strong. You don't want to hurt me, and you won't. And I won't leave you."

"But what if I do?" he whispers. "What if I hurt you? What if I lose control and- and-"

He shakes his head again.

"Please. Just- Just go."

Pushing through the thrumming anxiety, you reach for Bob's hands. He clutches harder at himself, reluctant to let go. So you stop trying, lightly running your thumbs back and forth across his skin instead.

"It's okay," you murmur, in an attempt to soothe him. "It's okay."

It takes some coaxing, but gradually, his grip loosens, and his hands slip from his hair. You gently guide them down so he doesn't hurt himself.

"If anything happened to you and it was my fault…"

He stops, swallowing another lump in his throat.

"I- I can't let that happen. You…You mean too much to me."

It's the first time he's ever said anything like this. Bob's always been more of a listener than a talker, and it can be hard to tell what he's really thinking. But this…

This feels like an admission. A confession.

Something you've been wanting to hear for a long time. What you've been desperately hoping for.

You take a breath, hoping that you can keep yourself together for a little while longer. For his sake.

"And you mean too much to me to let you fight through this alone," you tell him. "So let me help you. And it's not because I feel like I have to. It's because I want to."

You pause, giving your words the time to sink in. Hoping that Bob's letting them.

"I want to help you, Bob."

You want to keep talking, keep pushing, anything to make him give in and let you care for him. But you know that'll only scare him away. So you wait, sitting quietly in the dark with him for as long as he needs.

It's some time before Bob finally moves, and when he does, he all but collapses into your arms, clinging to you as if he's worried you'll disappear. He's heavy, and the angle is awkward and painful, but none of that matters right now. All you care about is that he's letting you in.

The light outside is gone completely by the time you and Bob leave. He trails after you in the dark, neither of you saying a word. He's exhausted after what he's been through, and you're not faring much better.

Bob's room is your first stop. Even if he knows the Watchtower as well as you - better, perhaps - you wouldn't feel right leaving him to find his way alone.

You're about to say goodnight when Bob reaches for you, a trembling hand clutching at your sleeve.

"I- I can't," is all he manages.

I can't be alone.

You place your hand over his, gentle and reassuring. "Can I stay with you tonight?" you ask softly.

You've learned from experience that wording what Bob wants as something you want makes it far easier to get a straight answer from him.

He quickly nods in reply. You give him a little squeeze, not letting go as you lead him into his room. He follows you readily without a word. You're already in your pajamas, and Bob doesn't even stop to undress - he just climbs right into bed with you.

Normally, he's hesitant around other people touching him, but he falls easily in your arms. Maybe he's too tired to care, or maybe you've finally proven yourself trustworthy enough. Either way, you're not about to question it.

"Promise you'll still be here in the morning?"

His voice is so small that you find yourself suddenly fighting the urge to cry.

"I promise," you murmur.

His hold on you tightens for a moment, before slowly, it begins to relax.

"Try and get some rest, okay? You're safe here. I'm not going anywhere."

It takes Bob a while before he settles - you can feel every minute twitch and warm sigh - but eventually, fatigue overwhelms him, and his breathing gradually starts to even out into quiet snores.

Your mind is still racing, and you let yourself breathe properly for what feels like the first time tonight - in slowly, out slowly. There's nothing to do right now except sleep. You rest your cheek against the top of Bob's head, trying not to think about soft his hair is.

Whatever's waiting for you can be dealt with in the morning. Right now, the only thing that matters is that Bob's safe. That's all you can ask for.

Taglist: @getaapologist @entoxicant @vigilanteenjoyer @inafieldoflilies @nomajdetective @pullmanstankeoghanbailey

Now here he was. Watching. Eyes following you as you walked into the ED beside Shen, both of you carrying trays piled high with various hot and iced drinks. He can’t imagine how much even one of those things cost. 

Within moments most of the drinks are gone, taken by Ellis and Lena and whoever else had placed their order with the two of you the night before. Jack, for just a moment, regrets not having done so. Not that he even likes the sugary sweet monstrosities you always chug your way through before midnight, always somehow armed with another one to get you through your second half of the night. 

He’d pretend though. Especially if it meant you’d stop and smile at him and maybe even talk to him for just a couple seconds about something not medicine related before diving into the mayhem. 

“Hey!” Your voice isn’t a hallucination, Jack determines when he sees you walking up to him with a smile. 

He tries not to look too surprised. Or flustered. Or excited. “Hi.”

Nailed it.

“I brought you something.”

Jack thinks he might melt into the floor. 

You hold out a drink, one clearly meant for him. It’s green on top and pink on bottom with strawberry slices floating above the ice. 

“You didn’t have to.” He takes it from you and relishes in the brief moment that his hand touches yours. You need to calm down, he thinks to himself. 

“I know, I wanted to. It’s on me.” You say it so easily and Jack thinks now might be a good time to excuse himself and go jump off the roof because he can feel his whole body warming in a way it shouldn’t be at the sentiment. 

You’d thought of him. Part of him wonders how long you’d been doing that for and if it was for as long as he’d been thinking of you. Day and night. Hour after hour. In ways he definitely shouldn’t be.

“I just figured you could use a little caffeine that wasn’t the stale black coffee in the break room for once,” You shrug like it’s nothing but it means everything to him. “As a certified drink specialist I thought you might like this one. Shen said I was crazy for picking it but I spent every minute I was awake looking through the cafe's menu debating and I think I finally narrowed down something to live up to your incredibly high standards.”

Jack had stopped listening as soon as you looked up at him. Wide eyed and a little nervous but with that sweet smile he was maybe just a little bit obsessed with already. “What is it?” 

Frankly, he didn’t really care. He’d love it no matter what because you’d been the one to hand it to him. You’d put effort into finding something you thought he’d like and that was more than enough for him.

“An iced strawberry oat milk matcha. It’s not too sweet but definitely a step up from a black coffee. I,” You stop yourself for a second, hesitating a little. One look from him though, one that practically begged you to continue, and you kept going. “I see the face you make when you drink it even when it’s fresh so I thought we’d switch it up a little.”

You’d noticed him. He was one more observation away from imploding. He swirled the drink around to distract himself from the fact and then took a huge gulp. 

“Holy shit,” His eyes went wide as he took a second to savor the drink. It was good. Really good. He had no clue how you’d figured him out so perfectly. Part of him was hopeful enough to think that you just knew him. Saw him. He took another sip. 

“You like it?” You were beaming at him now, satisfied and proud of yourself. 

He couldn’t be more obsessed with you if he tried. He was tempted to propose marriage right then and there. Instead all he said was, “This is phenomenal.” 

Jack couldn’t help himself. He looked directly at you and hoped that maybe these abilities of yours to read him perfectly well extended past the drinks and you’d be able to look into his head to see what he really wanted to say. You’re phenomenal. I like you. Probably more than is healthy. Never leave me, actually.

“Oh you’re kidding,” Jack had almost forgotten where he was until Shen walked over, handing you a half drunk iced coffee along with a fresh one for later, just like usual. “He liked it?” 

“Just like I said,” You held up your hand for a high five, which Shen gave you despite dropping his head and groaning. “Which means you’re buying for me tomorrow.”

Jack rolled his eyes at the sight of the two of you. His smile pushed through the serious facade he was trying to put on. Nothing could ruin his mood right now he was positive of it.

“Is it that surprising?” Jack held his drink a little tighter and held back the urge to take another sip of it. He was seriously already starting to understand your guys' shared obsession with always having some kind of drink on you.

“No, it’s just,” Shen paused for a moment and it hit him all at once. Abbot was in a good mood. And all it’d taken was a personal delivery straight from you. He was wearing a smile, a genuine one. Best of all, his eyes kept straying back to you. Like you were some kind of magnet pulling him in against his will. Oh yeah, he’s obsessed. “I’m glad you found something you like.”

Jack heard it. The tone. His eyes snapped back to Shen and narrowed the slightest bit. All he did in response was wink at him and take a sip of his first coffee of the night. 

He could see right through him.

2. The Confession

It had been three days of this and every time Jack saw you he felt the question at the tip of his tongue. And every time something else came out instead. So here he was. Two weeks into your time here and he was obsessed with you. That much he could admit. 

If he wasn’t he wouldn’t be lingering by the nurses desk, pretending to look at a stack of papers he was pretty sure were blank. Every few seconds he glances up to where you were deep in a conversation with Ellis and Walsh. The three of you had gotten yourself partnered on the same case and were taking advantage of the fact that your patient was doing perfectly after surgery to actually talk about something normal while you could since you found yourselves with a little downtime.

“You don’t have to hover, you know.”

Jack freezes. 

He thinks he might’ve actually stopped breathing. He knows exactly what Lena’s talking about though and he’s determined to lie his way through it.

“What?”

Okay, maybe not the best start. He doesn’t look up from where he’s pretending to flip through whatever papers were in front of him. Definitely not eavesdropping. 

“Oh, please,” Lena rolls her eyes and leans back in her chair. “She’s not gonna disappear into thin air. You can get work done and I promise she’ll be there after.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Jack betrays himself when he glances back over in your direction. He smiles to himself when he sees you laugh, a beaming grin on your face. When he looks back towards Lena she’s already staring at him with her arms crossed.

“I think you just might be the world's worst liar,” Lena leans forward conspiratorially. Her voice drops when she asks, “So when are you gonna ask her on a date instead of moping around?”

Jack freezes again, “What are you talking about?”

“Seriously?” She lets out a disbelieving laugh at his bad attempt at faking innocence. “You’re worse than a kid with their first crush, it’s a miracle she hasn’t noticed yet.”

Okay so maybe she had a point, Jack could admit that much. He remembers the first time he’d seen you here clearly. He’d felt some kind of pull towards you the moment you entered the PTMC just over a year ago. It’d been easy to ignore then, though. You’d just graduated and had been doing an emergency medicine residency program under Dana during the day shift and it was only every now and then he’d be there at the same time too. Yet every time he did happen to work with you, even for a fleeting moment, it was like the entire place shifted a little bit.

Dana had even stopped him one time, so casually that he hadn’t even questioned why she was calling him. “You better watch yourself, Abbot. That’s my girl, best one to come through here in ages. Last thing she needs is you distracting her.”

He’d scoffed at the statement at the time, claiming that it wasn’t like that. It had been exactly like that, though. He knew that now. You’d been easy to avoid when you were on day shift but now you were here all the time and he couldn’t imagine not finding every reason he could to stick to your side. 

“She’s not one of yours, you know. She’s one of mine,” Lena’s voice brings him out of it. There’s an I told you so look on her face that he rolls his eyes at. “I’m just saying, the paperwork will be a lot easier to fill out.”

“Aren’t you a romantic,” He knows he can trust Lena, though. If it was really a bad idea she’d tell him so with zero hesitation. So finally, hesitantly, he says, “I’ll think about it.”

***

Jack barely needed time to think about it. He had made his choice quickly and it was eating him up inside. It was just past 7 AM and he could hear the day shift and night shift looking for you both. His time with you was running out and fast. It was just the two of you alone in the room, your patient had just miraculously gotten a bed upstairs and you’d been there to ensure a smooth transition. Maybe that was his sign that you’d say yes. 

He stops you before you can pull the curtain open to let them know the room was now open. He reaches for your hand, grabs your waist, and spins you around to look at him in a single swift move. “When can I see you again?” 

The question doesn’t phase you.

“In about twelve hours.” You answer him with a teasing smile, choosing to stay just a little bit too close to him instead of stepping back. 

“You know what I mean, honey.”

And then you look at him in a way that’s new. Your smile turns less teasing and falls a bit. It makes you look a little more vulnerable. He watches your eyes flicker across his face and he knows you’re trying to see what he’s really made of. If he really means it. He wants to shout the truth to you in that moment. That he can’t get enough of you.

“Say it,” Your voice comes out soft and he wonders briefly if you can read his mind. You step a little bit closer to him. “Tell me what you really want from me.”

Jack is painfully aware of the voices and footsteps coming closer. They’ll walk in any moment now, he knows it. He glances towards the door and when he looks back he can see you about to step away, thinking he wasn’t going to tell you the truth. He blurts it out before you can. 

“Everything.” He says it so easily that it makes your breath hitch a little bit, he can see it happen. “I want to take you on a real date again and then take you home with me because you will not believe how hard it is to sleep without you next to me. When I wake up I want to just lay there looking at you for a little bit wondering how the hell you agreed to all of that. And then I want to do that over and over again until you get sick of me.”

You don’t say anything after his confession. A few seconds pass where you just let the words sink in and then, “Only if your plan includes taking me to that cute little cafe down the street too.” 

“Whenever you want.” Jack’s never agreed to anything so fast in his life.

“Right answer,” You finally will yourself to step away and swing the curtain open. Before you walk away you look at him again and the teasing smile is back. “I’ll meet you outside in a bit?” 

He walks towards you again and he’s really pushing it when he stands so close you can feel the heat of him. “Odds we can sneak out of here before they can stop us?” 

“Abbot!” Dana's voice.

You laugh at the way he groans as his head falls onto your shoulder briefly. “Not likely.”

3. The Kiss

It’d only taken a month for everything the night shift knew about Jack to change. It had also been a month since you’d joined them. The two things had to be related. They just couldn’t prove it yet. 

“Hey,” Ellis whispered as she practically ran to where Shen and Lena were deep in a conversation. There was an uneasy look in her eyes as she looked around, as if she was expecting someone to overhear what she was about to say. “Is he being weird?” 

They look towards where she had subtly nodded and found Jack. He was in an exam room laughing with a patient as he finished stitching him up. Laughing. 

Night shift chief attending Dr. Jack Abbot was in a good mood. For the first time maybe ever, as far as they knew. At least publicly in a good mood. He was never like this at work, always opting for serious and stoic with his patients because he needed to be at a job like this. 

But this was his third patient in a row now that he made easy conversation with. It was a lot more than pleasantries and small talk, it was real conversations. Questions about themselves and their lives and jokes traded back and forth. It was unsettling, frankly. 

“Thank you! I told you something was up with him,” Shen slams a hand down on the counter before looking at Lena and leaning forward the same way Ellis was, mocking concern. “ Have we tested him for any substance use lately?” 

“Alright drama queens,” Lena rolls her eyes at them and leans back in her chair. “Why can’t he just be having a good night?” 

Ellis shakes her head at that, nose scrunching as she disagrees, “No, I think he might actually be physically incapable of that.” 

“Well what do you think it is then?” 

“I think he got laid,” She says it confidently and with zero hesitation at all. Shen chokes on his drink and Lena’s eyes go wide as saucers. “What? He’s all glowy and shit, there is literally no other explanation?”

“Explanation for what?” Your voice comes out of nowhere and Ellis and Shen nearly jump out of their skin. 

“For,” Ellis recovers faster and quickly glances at Lena and Shen, neither of which provide any help. “For why Shen’s guy in south 18 is really concussed.”

“Oh he’s having an affair with his neighbor for sure,” You set your tablet down and swipe your badge along the card reader at one of the computers. “This guy shows up with his pants backwards, shirt inside out, and his left shoe missing and he expects us to believe he just tripped while on a late night walk?”

It’s at that moment that Shen notices it. There’s no iced coffee in your usual place. It’s always right there, tucked in the corner of the desk Lena sits behind. You always reach for it every time you’re nearby, it’s how you make your way through it faster than almost anyone else. He watches carefully as you reach in that exact direction subconsciously before pulling your hand back. Empty.

“Where’s your drink?” He blurts the question out suddenly and you glance up at him.

“What?”

“Your drink,” He glances at Ellis and Lena and they can see the real question in his eyes. “You always leave it right there. It’s barely nine, there’s no way you’ve had enough downtime to finish it already.”

“Oh,” You go back to the computer screen and shrug. “I just woke up late, didn’t have time to stop.”

“Right,” Shen’s eyes narrow at you but he doesn’t say anything else. That’s when he notices Jack leave his patient's room and walk in the direction of the break room. “Hey, my second one is in the fridge if you want it?”

You sit up instantly and immediately a little bit of life fills you again. So maybe you both had a little bit of an addiction. “Seriously?” 

“Yeah, don’t worry about it.” And that’s all he has to say before you’re making a beeline to the break room, steps faltering just the slightest bit when you see Jack disappear through the door. Then you glance back at them, smile, and disappear in the same direction.

“Hang on,” Ellis immediately leans forward again. “You don’t think -”

“No,” Shen shakes his head immediately. “It's a coincidence. There’s no way.”

“And what makes you so sure?” Lena, admittedly, is invested now. 

“Uh, because Sweets is my best friend in the whole wide world and would have told me obviously,” He rolls his eyes like it's obvious. “Plus there’s no way Abbot would admit how deep he is in his feelings already. He’s due for at least another couple weeks of yearning from afar.”

“I don’t know, he might’ve,” Lena shrugs as she recalls all the little things she’s witnessed the last few weeks. “This is intense, even for him.”

“Besides, look who we’re talking about,” Ellis points out the fact that they all know is right. You were sunshine personified. The piece they didn’t even realise the night shift was missing. And it was just like Jack Abbot to want you all to himself. “He’d be crazy if he didn’t.”

“Wait,” Lena pieces it together first. The missing coffee. The good moods. The hesitation before your smile, the one that was just a little bit different than usual. Softer. “Didn’t they walk in together today?”

There’s a moment of silence as they all realize the same thing at the same time.

“First one to find out pays for the others drinks for the next two weeks?”

“Deal.”

“You’re on.”

***

“You’re insane.” 

Jack only grins at you as he locks the door of the supply closet behind him. He wastes no time at all and immediately wraps you up in his arms, skipping all formalities and letting his mouth fall to your neck. “I thought that’s why you liked me” 

He knows now how easy you are to distract. One glance at you and how your eyes have fluttered shut already confirms that. You let out a content little sigh as you pull him closer to you, “Among other reasons.”

The noise that fills the pitt disappears and suddenly all you know is Jack. His hands wandering underneath your shirt. His mouth on every bit of skin he can reach. The way he cages you in between his body and the shelf behind you and holds you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“Jack seriously,” It takes every bit of your self control to pull yourself back and attempt to look at him for real. “We can’t do this here.”

“We're alone, honey. No one has to know,” He doesn’t even look at you, eyes trained on your lips instead. He slips your scrub top over your head leaving you in just the thin, see-through, white undershirt. You're both quickly losing all sense of rationality. 

“Someone’s gonna come looking for us”

“I'm their boss, I'll make them go away,” One of his hands tangles in your hair this time and he pulls your head back so he can look into your eyes. Blown out pupils, breaths falling heavy, lips swollen from how you’d been biting them in an effort to keep quiet. He groans a little bit at the sight. “Just this once, baby, I swear,” He kisses you. Really kisses you. Long and slow and deep. Enough to make your thoughts go blurry and your knees weak. He pulls away the slightest bit and smirks when you chase the feeling of him. “Promise.”

“You know, somehow I don’t believe you.” He laughs then, pretending he doesn’t notice you start to push his own shirt up little by little. Your hands are cold on the warm, bare skin of his chest and he shivers a little bit, smiling even wider. He's addicted to you, he thinks.

“Can you blame me?” Another kiss, this time picking up where he left off before. “You’re perfect.”

Someone pulls on the door seconds later, just as his hands start wandering lower. 

“Why is this door locked!” 

You slip your scrub shirt back on in record time and Jack pushes you behind him when he goes to open the door as Ellis starts pounding on it. “I swear to god I -”

She doesn’t see you when he opens it. Not at first. 

“Can I help you?” Jack asks the question like nothing is wrong in the slightest. 

Ellis looks around for a second, trying to determine if anyone else was seeing this or if she had finally entered a state of hallucination. “I just need -”

That’s when she sees you. Tucked behind Jack, clothes a little crooked on your body and a little more disheveled than before. You’re smiling at her, only the slightest bit shy but mostly looking a little pleased. “I - hi?” 

She doesn’t know what else to say to you. 

“Hi,” You smile at her and step around Jack. “What did you need to grab?”

“I just - I just need a suture kit.”

You grab one off the shelf next to you and step around Jack, stopping for just a second to shoot him a smile. She watches him return the smile, absolutely noticing the way he reaches for you. His fingers barely skim against you when you step just a little too close to him, like even that feather light touch will get him through the rest of the night. You turn back towards her like nothing happened. “Do you want any help?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.” Ellis tries not to stare when Jack grabs your hand for real, pulling you back and kissing you again, modestly this time. On your forehead as he whispers something to you that she can’t hear. 

It’s not until you’ve walked further away from the storage closet that she leans a little closer to you. “Hey, are you two…you know?” 

You laugh a little bit at the question. “Dating? I thought it was kinda obvious after that.” 

“I didn’t want to assume.” Ellis laughs along with you and shakes her head, leading you in the direction of one of the rooms. Then she notices Shen and Lena out of the corner of her eye again and stops. “Hey, can you get started? I need to check with Lena about some lab results real quick.” 

“Yeah, go for it! Take your time.”

Ellis watches you pull the curtain of the room closed. Then she waits until Jack has disappeared into another room on the other side of the ED, the most smug looking grin on his face, before she practically runs to the nurses desk. “They’re dating, I told you so.” 

“What?” 

“And we’re just supposed to believe you? How do you know?” 

“I asked,” She pauses for a moment before leaning closer. “And I found them both in the supply closet with the door locked, you connect the dots.” 

Shen’s face scrunches in disgust. “Ew.” 

Lena on the other hand only lets out a sigh. “We’re gonna have to keep an eye on them aren't we?” 

“Probably.” Ellis looks incredibly pleased as she starts walking back to the room you’d gone into. “I’ll send you guys my drink order before next shift.”

4. The Reveal

The day shift doesn’t usually notice when the night shift starts to trickle in. You remember it clearly, the way it feels like every single person with every single ailment known to mankind seems to congregate in the pitt all at once right before it’s time for shift change. That’s something you don’t miss. By the time you guys come in it feels settled. Or maybe you all just like to think so. 

Either way, they definitely don’t notice when you and Jack walk in together, your bag slung over his shoulder. They’re too distracted by the drinks Shen and Lena walked in with, relegated to delivery service after losing some bet to Ellis. 

All the noise is forgotten quickly. This, the rare quiet moment in the staff locker room where it feels like the whole world comes to a stand still, is Jack’s time to breathe. He watches you throw all your things into his locker, somehow getting to the point of sharing custody of one now in the last couple of weeks. 

He knows you’re saying something. He can hear the sound of your voice but you’re also tying your hair up so it’s out of your way for the night and he loses all ability to think straight. Some kind of pavlovian response overtakes him and this feeling fills him up inside and suddenly he can’t help himself. 

He stands up and it's like his hands move on their own without him meaning for them to. They set themselves firmly on your hips and pull them back, completely flush against him. He bunches the scrub top up and settles his hands underneath the long sleeve shirt you’re wearing under it. Your skin is warm under them and the little noise he lets out is perfectly content. 

“Can I help you?” He can hear the smile you’re wearing when you ask the question and he can picture it perfectly. 

“No,” Jack shakes his head a little and kisses your cheek. It lingers for a second before he starts moving down the expanse of your neck. “I’m fine. What were you saying?” 

“You're so needy, you know that?” 

“Are you complaining?” He doesn’t get a response from you. Instead your arms settle over his and you relax into his hold. He smirks. “That’s what I thought.” 

You don’t get very long to escape into the moment. 

“There you are. Robby’s looking for - woah,” The exhausted look on Santos' face turns into a shit-eating grin in a fraction of a second. “What’s going on here?”

Jack frowns when you wiggle out of his hold to turn to look at her. 

“Hey,” You smile at her like she hadn’t just seen what she clearly just did. She shares a look with both Javadi and Whitaker who’d walked in with her. “How was your shift?”

“Uh, I'm sorry,” Javadi laughs in disbelief a little as she looks between the two of you. You, smiling brightly at her in the way she misses seeing so much on the day shift, and Jack, who looks like he’s never hated three people more. She’s pretty sure he’s committing their murders in his head. “What is this? When did this happen?”

Jack all of a sudden feels protective in that moment. Over your relationship that very much fuels his will to live and over you. Part of him is surprised you hadn’t told them yet. The first friends you’d made here, probably some of your closest, clearly had no idea about you and him. Then he remembers your opposite schedules and the constant cycle of work and being completely enveloped by the so-called honeymoon phase of your relationship he thinks might actually never end.

“Wait, did I not tell you guys?” You’re trying your hardest to trace back every moment of the last few weeks. Jack takes it upon himself to hand you your drink and grab his before shutting his locker, taking a second to just listen. One of his arms wraps around your waist again.

“You did not, sweets,” Santos shakes her head and speaks slowly, trying to push through her absolute shock at this revelation. And trying very hard not to stare at the casual display of affection from Jack Abbot of all people.

Whitaker is the one who recalls the last real interaction you’d had with them fastest. Somehow he’s the least surprised. “You spent all of breakfast the other day telling us about that kid you patched up with Ellis. The one who slipped off the fire escape trying to sneak into his girlfriend's room."

“You told Mel, Samira, and Langdon," Jack says it in between sips of his matcha like it’s nothing. “When you had them over for dinner at yours your last night off. You sent me a picture of their reactions.”

“Right!” You try your hardest to hold in a laugh at the recollection. Samira had shouted into a pillow. Mel had asked a lot of questions, incredibly excitedly. Frank had decided he needed to take a walk to process and stood on your balcony for ten minutes. “I guess I forgot, everything kinda blurs together. They didn’t tell you?” 

“Sweets, I think you told the three least nosy people in the ED,” Santos makes a mental note to yell at all of them for keeping this from everyone else. “Of course they didn’t.”

Then your attention slips from Jack completely when Javadi prompts Whitaker to tell you about something that happened earlier. He stops listening completely, now perfectly distracted by the excited look in your eyes and the way you smile at them. And okay so maybe he’s a little bit clingy. 

Jack wraps himself around you from behind again, arms now fully circling your waist. He does not hesitate in the slightest to pull you flush against him again either. He does exercise a little bit of self control though. There’s no kiss this time. Instead he let out a soft sigh and let his head fall onto your shoulder, chin resting against it silently as you talk.

He doesn’t notice the way Javadi covers her mouth with one hand to hold back the comment she wants to make out loud. Instead she points at the sight as subtly as she can and mouths “oh my god!” you only grin at her. You roll your eyes, pretending to be annoyed at Jack’s display, but you settle back into him anyway.

He also doesn’t notice the way Whitaker stares at him, eyes narrowed in his direction and head tipped to the side curiously, debating to himself whether or not Jack was actually in the room with them. Physically or mentally.

Santos, ever curious, is the one who finally cracks and breaks him out of his self induced trance. “Okay, I have to know. How did this even -”

“Hey!” Ellis cuts in before she can even ask the question all the way. She pops her head in the door, eyes skipping past everyone until they land on you and Jack. She doesn’t look phased by the sight in the slightest. She nods at you with a smile in greeting before looking at Jack. “If you don’t get out there in the next five seconds for hand-offs, Robby might just track down a guillotine and use it on you.”

“Alright, alright,” Jack rolls his eyes and takes his time standing up straight again. He lingers for as long as humanly possible. Another kiss, to your forehead this time, before he very begrudgingly lets you go one arm at a time. “I’ll see you out there.”

Jack keeps holding your hand as he walks out of the room, not letting a single second go to waste. He holds on until he takes a step too far and lets it fall out of his own. An absolutely devastating moment in his eyes. 

“Later, kids.” He just barely glances at Whitaker, Javadi, and Santos, saluting them with two fingers before taking another sip of his drink and walking out of the locker room with Ellis, who hands him a tablet.

The silence sinks in around you. In those few moments your friends realize that Abbot’s whole little display is evidently very much normal for the night shift. And then -  

“Since when does Abbot drink matcha?”

5. The Declaration

It was bordering on 2 AM when the trauma came in. A young girl, who’d just wanted some pancakes and coffee while pulling an all nighter studying for her upcoming SAT exam. She’d been hit by a drunk driver on her way home from the diner and was in rough shape.

The room was already tense. She’d coded in the ambulance and they’d only just managed to get her stable. Every single one of you held your breath as you all did everything in your power to try to save her. 

It was really with no hesitation that everyone else took a backseat to you and Jack moving easily around each other. The two of you were the girls best bet at surviving, a well oiled machine at this point. In every sense of the phrase. You could anticipate what he was about to do before he even said it. All he’d have to do is give you a look and you just knew, you’d hand him whatever he needed, or ask someone else if your hands were full, and you were right every single time. 

“Honestly I think the rest of us can go home,” Walsh, who’d been paged to consult and make sure the girl was stable enough for surgery, said from where she stood on the other side of the hospital bed from you and Jack. She was watching closely and honestly, was more than a little impressed. Especially when you pointed something out to Jack that he’d missed right before she could. “Our sweet little angel face over there has this whole place locked down.”

“Including Abbot,” Shen watches from beside Walsh, looking on curiously at the silent understanding between the two of you. “It’s like they have some freaky mind meld thing going on.”

“You think its contagious?” Walsh puts up her side of the bed railing, seeing that Jack was just about done. 

“Hopefully not,” Shen makes a face at the thought. “I'm more than happy letting her be the one to keep him too busy to yell at the rest of us.” 

Neither one of you notice their conversation in the slightest, too involved in each other even in a trauma room. It’s almost unsettling. The small little smiles and the bedroom eyes and whispered comments passed between the two of you. The way Jack pauses for just the briefest moment mid procedure to turn and send you a wink that makes you roll your eyes and grin back at him. 

Walsh watches the whole interaction, positive the two of you have forgotten everyone else is the room. “This can't possibly be normal. Are they like this their whole shifts?” 

Shen thinks for a moment before shaking his head, “It’s usually worse. Boarding on an HR violation is their normal.” 

A moment passes where Walsh realizes that yeah, that kinda tracks considering the moments she’s been witness to up until this point. Then, to Shen’s horror, she smiles. “Hey, do you wanna see something funny?” 

His eyes narrow at her but ultimately his curiosity gets the better of him. “I’m not taking responsibility for your funeral expenses if this goes badly.” 

That only makes her smile wider.

Walsh maneuvers her way to your other side, taking the place of one of the other nurses that was there. Shen’s eyes go wide when she looks at him again. She speaks before he can shake his head to stop her, breaking you and Jack out of the little bubble you’d put yourselves in.

“You know you’re really good at this, Sweets,” Walsh grins when you look over at her instead and Jack hesitates for just a second. “When can I steal you to help me in the OR? You’d be amazing in there.”

“Anytime,” You meet her smile easily. “I’m always down for a change in scenery.” 

“Perfect,” She smirks a little at your answer. “Name a day and time and I'll steal you all for myself.”

“Done,” The other side of the railing snaps up, maybe a little more harsh than it needs to be. Jack looks up, not a hint of the smile he’d been using with you left when he looks at Walsh. “You can go now.”

Walsh looks more than pleased by his reaction. She looks at Shen who’s trying his absolute hardest not to laugh giddily at what he just witnessed. 

“Down, boy,” She unlocks the wheels of the hospital bed and smirks even wider when Jack removes his gloves and loops his fingers into the hem of your scrub top, pulling you back into his side. It’s completely subconscious, she realizes, when neither one of you seems to even notice it happens. “Even when I steal her from you for my OR you’ll still get to take her home at the end of the night.”

“Wait, hang on, that’s where I draw the line,” Shen unlocks the wheels on the other side and starts wheeling the bed out with her. “You are not taking our best nurse all for yourself. Especially not when she’s the one who also brings us our caffeine every shift.” 

“You know, you’re only giving me more reasons to steal her.” 

Neither one of them notices that you don’t follow. Instead, the room empties out and then it’s just you and Jack. The silence settles between you as Jack unties the back of your surgical gown. When you turn to face him again he speaks softly.

“You could go, you know. To the OR. If you wanted to.” Jack says it before you can say anything about it. “Walsh is right, you’d be a natural up there.” 

“Jack -” 

“You don’t have to stay here forever. I mean, Shen is also right. We’d miss you down here. It hasn’t even been a couple months yet and it feels like you were made to be here with m- with everyone -” 

“Jack -” 

“Even if you just wanted to try it out. I think you should. I mean it’s-”

You kiss him. Not in the storage closet or the locker room or in an on call room or behind a curtain like usual. Right there in the middle of a trauma room, windows wide open and the ED buzzing all around you. 

Jack melts into you immediately. Hands moving to your hips to pull you closer before one moves to the back of your neck to deepen the kiss. A small groan leaves him when you pull away, the sweetest, most innocent smile on your lips.

“You talk too much,” A moment passes where you just stare at him, making sure he’s really listening to what you’re saying. “I’m not leaving the ED,” and then you add a little quieter, a little more shy, “You’re here.”

“I love you.”

Jack doesn’t know what possesses him to say it out loud here and now of all places for the very first time. But he feels it and he acknowledges it and there’s no way he can hold it in after that. There’s a need that settles deep in his bones and he knows he’s never going to want anything less than you right there with him always. Forever. He doesn’t know how he’d survive otherwise. 

It takes a moment for what he said to sink in. You can see the intensity in his eyes, how much he feels it and means it. You really wish you were anywhere but the ED right now. Maybe if you wished really really hard you could somehow will everyone and everything to slow down long enough for you to sneak away with Jack for just a little bit. 

Jack Abbot who loves you. The knowledge of that fact makes you feel warm all over. 

“I love you too.” 

+1. The Move

Jack is obsessed. He knows that for sure now. 

With the way you kiss him and how you look at him after. With the way you let him be as attached to you as he needs to be at any given moment and you don’t mind at all. With the way you hold his hand and pretend not to notice when he moves his fingers to rest on your pulse point out of instinct. And especially with moments like these. 

It’s pushing ten am and the two of you have only just left the hospital. A morning rush hour pileup meant that not only was there an influx of trauma’s coming in right before 7 but also that a good chunk of the staff were stuck behind the backed up traffic. 

Despite the fifteen hour shift, you’re still happily nodding your head along to the soft music that fills Jack’s car. He watches you out of the corner of his eye. You’re mumbling the words to the song playing and taking sips out of the drink he’d just bought you, your third one of the day. His drink is sitting the cup holder. His second one, your habits had rubbed off on him.

The song switches once and then twice. By the time it switches a third time he’s watching you frown as you reach the bottom of your drink. 

“Honey, don’t take this the wrong way,” He looks at you for a moment before looking back at the road. “But I think you might have a problem.” 

“I do not!” You feign offense and turn towards him in your seat. “God forbid I treat myself to something nice after a long day.” 

“What were the other two for then?” 

“A treat for going to work and a pick me up for halfway, clearly.”

“Clearly.” Jack shakes his head as stops at a light. Silently, he drops one hand from the wheel and sets it palm side up on the center console. Almost immediately you’re placing your hand in his, the exact way he was craving. 

The light turns green and he makes the split second decision then. He turns right, the direction that’ll let him turn around to head towards his place, instead of continuing straight, the direction that would take him to yours. 

You watch as he does so, driving further and further away from your apartment. “Jack, what are you doing?” 

He kisses the back of your hand. “Taking you back to mine since you’re clearly not planning on sleeping after all that caffeine.” 

“Okay, one,” You turn to face him again, even while he’s driving. “I’ve built up a tolerance. This is nothing. And two, I've been out of clean clothes for like a week. I can only wash the ones I have there so many times.”

“So steal some of mine.” Jack shrugs and maybe the thought of you in his clothes is a little bit for him too.

“Bad idea, cause then neither of us will ever have clean clothes again.”

“I’ll buy you new ones then.”

“Not if I don’t let you.”

“Good luck stopping me.” 

He’s winning and you both know it. So instead you say, “I have to stay at my place sometimes, what’s the point of even having it if I give in and always let you win these fun little arguments.”

The stop is sudden. Jack pulls over into the first empty spot he sees on the side of the road and turns to face you fully before you can ask him what he’s doing.

“You know what, honey? You’re right,” He leans towards you, fully leaning on the center console until he’s close enough to kiss you if he really wanted to. “There’s really no point in you paying for an apartment you’re barely ever in so I think it’s the perfect time for you to let me move you in with me.”

For a second you’re not sure if you heard him right. Maybe he was right and the cocktail of caffeine and sleep deprivation was finally making you imagine things. “What?” 

“Move in with me.” 

So you definitely heard him right. 

“You’re not serious.”

“What makes you think I’m not?”

“It’s barely been three months,” You shake your head as if that should explain everything. “And we haven’t even technically been dating for that entire time.”

“What can I say, I know what I want,” You’re still looking at him in disbelief so Jack takes your hand again and he sounds more serious when he says it plainly. “What I want is you. Every morning, every night, every shift, every minute you’ll let me. If you’ll have me.”

“It’s too fast.” You’re only trying to convince yourself at this point.

Jack smiles at you, softer than before. “You’re forgetting I’ve been pining over you for more than a year now.” 

You catch the implication immediately. It went way further back than just three months. All the way back to the day you walked through the doors of the PTMC halfway through him going through shift change. He’d lingered a lot longer than necessary and you had thought it was just normal for him. 

“You’re crazy.” 

“That’s why you love me.”

And he’s right. It’s the reason why you finally give in. “Will you at least let me split the rent with you?”

“I own the place.” Jack shrugs and you know for a fact that he’s not sorry in the slightest. 

“Mortgage then.”

“Already paid off.”

“Bills?”

“Paid in advance for the next three months.”

“Groceries?”

“Not a chance.”

“50 50?”

“90 10.”

You huff a little and pout at him. He doesn’t fall for it, only pausing for a second to kiss the look off your face. “Are you ever going to let me win one of these arguments?”

“Not unless it’s in your best interest.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you love me for that too.” 

Jack finally thinks for a moment and that’s when his eyes land on the drinks in the cupholder between the two of you, his half full one and your empty one. “How about I let you pay for my drink every time we stop for one?”

You light up at his proposition. “Will you let me pay for mine?”

“Only after the first one. First one I’m paying for,” He leans in a little bit closer, knowing he’s got you on his side now. “Consider it a compromise.”

“Works for me.”

“You can pay for Shen’s too,” He adds quickly before you can agree. “I refuse to fund his addiction, he’s worse than you.”

“Deal.” That makes you laugh and you finally lean in and kiss him, sealing everything in place. 

He can taste the sugary vanilla drink that still lingers on your tongue and it makes him smile against your lips. “Will you let me take you to our home now?”

So you found instant coffee in the back of the cupboard and made it too strong because you were already running late. You burned your tongue, while the clasp on your necklace got caught in your hair. Your tights had a ladder in them, a thin line running up the back of your calf that no one else would probably notice but that you could feel all day like a crack in glass.

You changed twice and hated both outfits.

The third one was acceptable until you got outside and realized the waistband sat weird when you walked. It pinched at one side and shifted at the other. You kept trying to fix it discreetly beneath your coat while waiting for the train, which only made it twist more.

Then the train was delayed.

You kinda wished it would’ve been canceled; it would at least have given you something to be angry about. It was delayed by six minutes, then nine, then twelve, with the announcement changing every time you looked up. The platform filled around you as a lady stood close enough behind you that her bag pressed against your back every time they moved. A man near the stairs was watching videos without headphones, and two women beside you were having an argument in furious whispers.

Your phone buzzed in your hand.

Dex. Coffee machine dead?

You stared at the message for too long.

Normally, you would have answered with something dry and funny immediately. Instead, you typed three different replies and deleted all of them because every version sounded irritated, and you were irritated, but not with him.

You sent a heart.

He replied with three.

That nearly made you cry again.

Work was not terrible enough to justify how terrible it felt.

Nobody screamed at you and nothing caught fire. You didn’t get fired or humiliated, but it was just a constant fucking drag.

An intern, a fresh graduate called Grace, stopped you before you had taken off your coat because they needed help with something they had known about since yesterday. Your computer decided to update while going to the double-booked meeting room, so everyone stood in the corridor pretending not to be annoyed while Brad from HR insisted he had reserved it first. When you finally got inside, the projector would not connect.

Then your manager, Amy said, “This should only take five minutes,” and it took forty-three.

At some point, your coworker Jack, put a hand on your shoulder from behind to get your attention.

You nearly snapped. They apologized. You apologized for reacting. Then you spent the next ten minutes thinking about whether your apology had sounded strange.

That was when you had to go to the bathroom and cry.

You sat in the last stall with the lid down, both feet planted on the floor, trying to breathe quietly so that no one would hear you. You hated crying at work and the bathroom lighting and the thin toilet paper scraping under your eyes. You hated that there was no single problem you could point to and say, there, that’s why I can’t do this today!

Your phone buzzed again.

Dex had sent you a message about going out because task force was spotted in droves on the other side of the city, and that he was going out to get them. 

Then cried harder because you missed him, even though he lived with you and you had technically seen him that morning. 

You washed your face, went back to your desk, and tried to finish the day.

At four, Dex texted that he would probably be home late.

You stared at that one until the words blurred.

It was reasonable and normal, by your standards. He worked strange hours and disappeared with even stranger explanations. You were used to eating without him. You were used to waking up with him suddenly in bed beside you, one hand finding your waist beneath the blanket.

But you had spent the whole day thinking about going home to him.

You didn’t even want to talk to him. You wanted to walk through the door and see him standing in the kitchen. You wanted him to take your bag without asking and tell you to change into a soft cotton shirt so as not to trigger your sensory issues. You wanted to sit between his knees on the sofa while he rubbed slow circles into your thighs.

Instead, you sent. Okay. Be safe.

He reacted with a heart.

You put your phone facedown and finished the last hour.

The train home was worse than the train in.

You had to stand while a wet umbrella kept brushing your ankle, even though you didn’t realise it had been raining. A man across the carriage kept coughing into his fist and then touching the pole. Every time the train stopped, more people got on and nobody got off.

By the time you reached your building, your shoulders ached from holding them up around your ears. You dropped your keys in the hallway, and the sound of them hitting the floor was so annoying that you just stood there staring at them for several seconds before bending down.

The apartment was dark when you opened the door.

You turned on the lamp instead of the main light and you took off your coat and immediately felt colder. You put it back on. Took it off again because the lining felt horrible against your skin. You stood in the living room holding it, suddenly unable to decide what to do with it even though there was a hook three feet away.

You dropped it on the floor.

Then you felt guilty because Dex liked things clean and in their place.

Fuck. 

You sat down beside it and cried with one shoe still on and one shoe off, louder than you cried in the office bathroom. You cried because the apartment smelled faintly like Dex, but he wasn’t there. You cried because you had spent the whole day being reasonable, and now there was nobody in front of you to be reasonable for.

Afterward, you felt stupid and sticky-faced, which just made the sensations worse.

You picked up the coat and put your shoes away. You sent Dex a message asking when he would be home, then deleted it before sending because you didn’t want him distracted while he was out doing very dangerous Bullseye things.

You showered instead, and the water was too hot at first, but you didn’t fix it quickly enough, so your skin felt like it was boiling across your chest and shoulders. You washed your hair. Then the wet texture clung to your back and made you angry, so you wrapped them in one of Dex’s old shirts instead of a towel because it was softer.

You put on your sleep shorts and the gray shirt of his you always stole.

It smelled like the detergent you both used now, not specifically like him, which made you strangely sad.

You tried to eat.

There were pasta leftovers in the fridge. Dex had labelled the container DO NOT EAT in black marker, then added unless you are my girlfriend beneath it in smaller writing because you had told him one you liked one of those cheesy jokes, and Dex being Dex, listened and manufactured it into his life even though he got no real enjoyment out of it. You heated it up, took three bites, and put them back because the tomato sauce was chunky, and it felt weird on your tongue even though technically, there was nothing wrong with it. .

So you made tea and forgot the bag until it went bitter.

You turned on the television, then muted it because the voice of the newscaster irritated you. The silence irritated you too, so you turned it back on quietly with subtitles.

At some point, you checked the locks twice.

You knew Dex would not use the door when he came back. He would use the fire escape.

On most nights, the thought made you smile. Tonight, you wanted him to use his key like a normal person.

You wanted to hear it turn in the lock like a warning. You wanted him to call your name from the entrance so you had time to prepare for being touched.

But whatever. He probably didn't even bring his keys.

You climbed into bed with the lamp on.

Usually, you liked Dex coming home with that focus still in his eyes. You even loved the way he sometimes stood at the foot of the bed and looked at you as if he had followed you there. You liked the games he played to rile you up, because Dex knew exactly how to frighten you without making you unsafe. You liked restraints because he checked every knot, every buckle, every inch of space between your skin and whatever held you down.

You liked being helpless when it was Dex.

Usually.

But tonight, you just wanted him.

You wanted to press your face into his chest and let him complain that your wet hair was soaking his shirt. You wanted him to ask what happened, accept “nothing” as the answer, and hold you still.

The fire escape groaned outside the window.

Then the living room window slid open, and Dex climbed in with blood on his sleeve, still.

You were in that half-sleep state where your body had gone heavy but your mind was still floating somewhere above it, listening to the hum of the television you had left on in the living room and the old pipe knocking faintly in the wall. You were even still aware of your breathing, too shallow to be restful.

You knew what Dex was like after a long night. You knew the way adrenaline ran in his body like a live wire, making him hungry and a little fucking insane. Usually, you were more than happy to let him spend the rest of it on you.

That was the arrangement, after all.

The free use thing had happened over weeks of conversations, some serious, some filthy, some with you sitting cross-legged on the bed while Dex sat on the floor taking it all in like he was memorising a mission brief. What was okay, what was not. It was discussed and re-discussed, picked apart in daylight until even Dex’s paranoid brain had nothing left to gnaw on.

You had said it first half as a joke, grinning over your mug while Dex sat opposite you at the kitchen table looking like you had just handed him a loaded gun.

“What, you don’t like the idea?” you had teased.

His eyes had gone dark in a way that made your thighs press together beneath the table. “I like it too much.”

That had been the problem, Dex had always liked you too much, wanted you too much, so you made rules.

You told him what he could do if you were half-asleep, and what he could do if you were pretending to be asleep, which was different, because sometimes you liked lying there smug while Dex tried to kiss you patiently. You knew what he could do if he came home needy. 

Most days, you loved Dex coming into the bedroom while you were still sleepy, his hands sliding under your shirt like he owned every inch of skin he found there. You loved the first drag of his mouth against your shoulder and the rough sound he made when you pressed back into him without opening your eyes. You loved pretending to be annoyed while he kissed down your spine and told you that he knew you were awake because your thighs were already sticky for him.

You loved being wanted like that, loved Dex murmuring filthy nonsense against your skin about how pretty you were, how good you were for him even when you were barely awake. You loved the way he could make free use feel less like being used and more like being worshipped.

Sometimes he was sweet about it, climbing into the bed clean and careful, gathering you back against his chest, and kissing you awake inch by inch like he had all the time in the world. He would slide one hand over your stomach and whisper your name until you made that cute complaining sound he loved, and then he would laugh like you were the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Sometimes he was not sweet, still shaking with adrenaline and put a hand over your mouth before you could say something naughty, only to kiss your temple immediately. Sometimes he pinned your wrists because you liked to fight him for show, and he liked pretending not to know you were letting him win. Sometimes he found you half-asleep and still managed to fuck you awake so thoroughly that by the time you could think again, your face was hot, your hair was a mess, and Dex was in your ear telling you how good you were for letting him have you.

You liked that.

But tonight, your body had already been handled by the entire fucking day. Your nerves had been touched and touched and touched until touch did not feel like touch anymore. It felt more like threat.

You knew that, but then Dex came home and your first thought was still I want him.

You then heard the movement of him walking around the apartment, and not like a direct line to the bathroom, or the kitchen. Not even to check the lock, which he always did even when he had just broken into his own home like a lunatic.

Instead, he was coming to you.

The bedroom door was half-open, and you kept your eyes closed.

You told yourself it was because you were too tired to move, but part of you liked the game. Part of you wanted to be found like this, buried in the middle of the bed in his shirt and your sleep shorts, pretending you hadn’t been waiting all night, helping you forget the day, forget the job, forget everything except getting his hands on the one thing in the world that belonged to him.

He stopped in the doorway, and before you knew it, the mattress dipped.

Dex was always careful at first, even when he was feral. He put a hand beside your hip, not touching yet. His breathing was slow, but not steady. You could hear the way he held himself back for the sake of a rule he wanted to break only because you had once told him breaking it in the right way turned you into putty.

His fingers touched your ankle beneath the blanket, almost testing.

Your body gave a tiny shiver.

Dex went still, before his hand slid higher, possessive enough to make heat flicker through the exhaustion. His palm travelled up the back of your calf, over the bend of your knee, over your thigh. You heard him exhale, and the sound was so hungry it made your stomach flip despite everything.

“Pretty girl,” he whispered.

Your face warmed.

Stupid body. Stupid, fucking traitorous body.

He leaned over you, and his mouth brushed the back of your shoulder where his shirt had slipped wide at the collar. He started with one kiss, quickly followed by another. It became open-mouthed and filthy, like he was trying to be gentle and got overwhelmed. His hand found your waist beneath the shirt, fingers spreading against your skin.

For one second, it worked.

Your violent, devoted, half-mad Dex came home through windows and touched you like you were the only object of desire in the universe, who could make you feel filthy and adored at the same time, who could make being half-asleep feel like the dirtiest kind of safety.

His mouth moved to your neck, hand tightened at your waist.

“Missed you,” he breathed, rough against your skin. “Been thinking about you all night.”

Your thighs pressed together beneath the blanket before you could stop them.

Dex noticed and made a small sound against your throat, almost broken with relief, and shifted closer until his body was against your back. His hand slid over your hip, tugging you back into him.

For one second, you really wanted it.

Your body remembered him before it remembered itself. It remembered all the other nights he had come home ruined and desperate and crawled into bed like your body was the only place he knew where to put the violence. It remembered waking up already breathless to his greedy hands, his mouth saying filthy, adoring things against your skin until you went undone beneath him.

For one second, you wanted to be that girl again.

Dex’s hand tightened on your hip, and your breath broke in a way that sounded enough like pleasure to confuse both of you. He pressed his face into your neck and inhaled like he was trying to crawl inside your veins.

“Color?” he asked, it was rough, but still good of him.

You meant to say yellow.

The word was right there, sitting behind your tongue. Yellow meant slow down, meant you wanted him, but you needed him kinder. It would mean this was good, but also too much. But Dex’s mouth was on your throat, and his hand was warm under your shirt, and you had missed him so badly all day that admitting you needed less felt like losing him for a stupid reason.

So you said, “Green.”

Dex exhaled against your skin. “Yeah?” he murmured.

You nodded, eyes still closed.

You should have said yellow again then. You should have corrected yourself because there was still a good amount of space to do it, while his hand was only at your waist and his mouth was only at your neck, but your mind was gone and your body had betrayed you with that little shiver, and Dex had never been the best at reading the small things. He was more a flashing lights kinda guy.

Feelings had to be handed to him with both hands. It had had to be said plainly, right in front of his face, with no riddles and no hoping he would guess. Dex, through no fault of his own other than his upbringing, didn’t always know the difference between you trembling because you were turned on and you trembling because your nerves were fraying apart unless you told him.

He caught your hip and flipped you onto your back in one rough movement, fast enough that the mattress jolted under you and your breath left in a startled little sound. Dex was above you immediately, one knee between your thighs, one hand braced beside your head, his eyes blown wide with whatever the night had left in him. There was blood at the edge of his collar, and a smear of it near his wrist. His hair was damp from the rain, falling over his forehead in a way that made him look more unhinged at the same time.

“Missed you,” he said, voice wrecked.

Your stomach flipped.

Fuck, he was beautiful like this. Even terrifying,  he was beautiful, and you had built so much of your wanting around those two things. Dex looked down at you like he wanted to ruin you and worship whatever was left. 

His hand slid to your chin, possessive.

Your thighs pressed together on instincts held apart by his leg between them.

“Mmm ,” he whispered. “My pretty girl.”

Heat curled in you, slick and stupid, even as your skin prickled at the edges. Your bad day had not killed the part of you that loved being grabbed by him, turned by him, handled by him. You loved Dex rough because Dex rough still meant Dex focused, Dex obsessed, Dex so fucking hungry for you that the rest of the world could plunge itself into a void and he wouldn’t give two shits.

His mouth was on yours before you could think. The kiss was hard enough to make your head press back into the pillow. His hand stayed at your chin, holding you there while he took your mouth in a way that made your body go loose for him out of habit. You kissed him back, finger catching the front of his shirt, and when you pulled, Dex made a groan against your lips Then his hand went to the hem of your shirt.

His shirt, technically. He dragged it up your body impatiently, and the cool air hit your skin. You lifted your arms for him before you remembered you were tired. 

“Fuck,” he breathed.

Your face went hot.

He threw the shirt behind him.

Usually, you would have laughed and he would have said something deadpan and filthy enough to shut you up. Tonight, the loss of the shirt made you feel exposed too quickly, like your body had not agreed to be perceived that much even if your mind wanted to. 

But then Dex kissed down your throat, and you forgot for a second.

His hands were everywhere, greedy at your waist, your ribs, your thighs, reminding himself you were real, coaxing himself out of whatever horror he had done.

You arched under him, and that was honest too.

Your back lifted as your hands found his shoulders. He caught both your wrists in one hand and pressed them above your head, pinning them there against the pillow.

His eyes lifted to yours, fever-bright. “Yeah?”

You swallowed, and this time, no color came out.

Dex took it for yes because it did feel like a yes to you. Usually, you liked being held down. Tonight, you were too tired to know the difference.

Dex reached for the drawer beside the bed.

Your heart jumped, not in fear at first, but in anticipation.

You knew that drawer and what was in it. The rope came out in his hand.

Your breath caught.

“Still green?” he asked.

Say yellow.

Say yellow.

Say yellow.

You looked up at him, at the way his chest rose and fell. You thought about the whole day: the train, office, light, the way you had cried on the hallway floor because your coat had fallen.

You thought, I can take it.

So you said, “Green.”

Dex looked relieved and hungry and dangerously grateful, like he had been waiting all night for permission to stop being human in exactly the way you usually loved.

He tied your wrists to the headboard, roughly, because he was Dex.

He checked the space between rope and skin automatically, two fingers, always. Your wrists went up as the expensive silken rope was bound to the bedframe. 

Your body went liquid for one dizzy second.

You loved the helplessness that made your brain melt in a good way. It was a dirty drop of the heart, knowing you couldn’t reach for him now unless he let you. You loved how Dex looked at you when you were restrained, like your trust was the most intimate thing you had ever given him. 

“Look at you,” he whispered.

You looked at him looking at you, and for a moment, it was perfect.

Then the rope shifted just slightly. The knot didn’t tighten or hurt. Still, it felt wrong.

The texture scraped your skin in a way it never had before. You could feel every fiber, every point of contact. Your skin pressing against the rope seemed to get louder than everything else in the room somehow, louder than Dex’s breathing, louder than your own heartbeat. 

Your fingers flexed, and the rope moved again.

Your stomach dropped.

No.

You tried to breathe through it.

You tried to get the good feeling back. You tried to look at Dex, at his face, at the hunger you usually loved so much. You tried to remind your body that this was chosen and safe and that Dex had checked. That you had said green twice. That you loved this. You loved this. You loved this!

But the rope kept touching you and it felt like pure, crawling wrongness. The feeling started at your wrists and travelled up your arms until your shoulders froze and your chest went tight. The knot might as well have been around your throat for how quickly your breathing changed.

Dex lowered his mouth to your chest, still murmuring something against your skin,filthy and half-mad.

You barely heard it as your eyes filled.

At first, you did not even know you were crying. Then a tear slipped sideways into your hair, then another.

Dex felt you go still, and this time, he noticed immediately.

His head lifted. “Hey,” he said.

You blinked hard, but the tears came faster.

Dex froze above you, that predatory stance gone now. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, panic filling the back of his eyes, unable to read your thoughts.

You couldn’t answer.

His eyes moved over your face, your mouth, your chest, your wrists. He looked almost frantic trying to identify the injury. Was it blood? Bruises, pulled shoulder? Dex was good at identifying wounds. 

Emotions made him useless unless you labelled them for him, but this was blatant enough that even Dex understood something was wrong.

“Baby,” he said, voice suddenly stripped bare. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

Your breath caught as the rope brushed your wrist again when you moved.

You made a horrible little sound, unable to speak.

Dex’s eyes snapped to your hands.

“What?” he said, reaching up but not touching yet. “The rope?”

You nodded once, almost ashamed.

He nodded grimly. “What about the rope?”

“I-It feels wrong,” you choked.

Dex went white.

Your fingers flexed again, and the texture dragged at your skin, and suddenly you couldn't bear it for one more second. Not even half of one. Your whole body reacted around the rejection, and the word  whispered out of you before you had decided to say it. “Red.”

Dex moved instantly.

His hand went to his belt and to his weapons, and for one horrifying second your body thought knife and almost spiralled further under, but Dex was not looking at you like that anymore. 

He pulled the blade free with the same face he wore disarming a bomb.

“Don’t move,” he said, practical.

He didn’t untie the rope, because untying took time.

Dex cut it, a clean slice through the first binding, then the second. The rope fell away from your wrists in loose pieces, useless on the pillow, and Dex threw the knife across the room like he couldn’t stand to have it near you a second longer.

Your arms dropped free, and he was already backing away.

Dex had stopped being a man and become an emergency response. His shoulder hit the dresser, hands lifted, palms open.

You were crying, that was all he saw.

Because of me, he thought.

“I’m away,” he said, a little too loudly and too quickly. “I’m away. I’m not touching you.”

His voice was flat. Dex had never been truly calm a day in his life, so was just forcing panic into a box in his mind that was labeled “procedure.”

You tried to say his name, but it came out broken, and it made him worse.

“I’ll go,” he said. “I can go. I should go. You need space. You need me out. I’ll go to the living room. No, not the living room, that’s not far enough. I’ll go downstairs. Outside. I can wait outside. I won’t come back until you tell me. I won’t touch you, I won’t—”

“Dex—”

“I hurt you.”

You wiped at the tears from your eyes now. “Y-you didn’t.”

He wasn’t listening.

His eyes kept dropping to your wrists. His mouth had gone pale and his hands were still up, still shaking slightly like he didn’t trust them anywhere near you.

You said red and you’re crying, was all he could think of.

“I hurt you.” he said, words coming faster now. “I scared you. I tied you down and you cried. I had a knife in my hand. I shouldn’t have had the knife, I knew I was—”

“Dex.”

“I’ll go.”

You tried to get back up, but even the sheets were starting to crawl as you were getting more and more overwhelmed. “N-No.”

“I need to go.”

“Dex,” it came out breathy.

“I need to not be near you right now.”

“Nuh-uh. Dex—”

“I can’t be the reason you’re looking at me like that.”

You were crying harder now because he was spiralling, and you were spiralling, and the two of you were dragging each other down in opposite directions. Dex kept retreating. You kept trying to pull him back with a voice that was too fragile to reach him.

He turned toward the door, and you finally snapped.

“I need you!”

He froze.

The shout tore out of you raw, loud enough to hurt your throat. Dex stopped like you had fired a warning shot.

You shoved yourself upright, blanket slipping around your waist, cheeks wet, chest heaving.

“Stop,” you sobbed. “Don’t you dare fucking leave while I’m-I’m l-like this.”

His face fell, panic still prevalent. “I’m trying not to make it worse.”

You choked on a breath. “You are making it worse!”

Dex went still.

You pointed at the floor like you could physically pin him there with the gesture. “You are standing over there looking at me like you’re a monster and you keep talking about leaving and I can’t— I can’t do this too, okay? I can’t comfort you while you’re trying to punish yourself. I need you.”

He looked devastated, and maybe that meant he was finally listening.

“I just—” Your voice broke, and the next words came out almost screamed, because gentleness wasn’t cutting it anymore. “I just need you to hold me, you fucking idiot!”

Dex stared at you, looking completely lost.

Every terrible conclusion he had been building in his head had slammed into that sentence like a shield and shattered at his feet.

“You want me to hold you?” he asked, barely audible.

“Yes,” you cried. “Jesus Christ, yes.”

His hands lowered by an inch.

“But I scared you.”

“Because I was already scared of everything,” you managed through gritted teeth. 

“You said red.”

“And you stopped!”

You could see it finally go through to him. His eyes flicked to the cut rope, then to your wrists, then back to your face. He was still terrified of himself, but he stopped backing away.

“I need you clean,” you said, voice shaking. “Then I need you here.”

He moved immediately.

Thank God.

Giving him an instruction helped him. Dex disappeared into the bathroom with stiff purpose, and you heard water slam on. As he scrubbed his hands too hard. You heard him almost losing it over the sink and forcing himself not to because you had not asked for that.

When he came back, the blood was gone.

His shirt was gone too, replaced with the white sleeveless one you liked, because it made him look less like he had crawled out of an alley and more like the man who lived here. Your man, who slept with one hand searching for you.

He stopped by the bed, still afraid to presume after what happened.

You opened your arms.

He climbed onto the bed slowly, gave you every second to change your mind, and only closed his arms around you when you grabbed the front of his shirt and dragged him in.

Then he was truly in, and you folded into him.