Lord's Hottest Little Slut

to put it simply, you love the weekend. its the part of the week where you can turn your mind off and enjoy the things you love. saturdays smell like fresh linen and the early-morning scent of sweet jam settling into their jars, while sundays smell like honey, dirt, and something warm that you can't quite place.

the market on the edge of town is your second home and has been for the past three years. it's an escape from your busy life in the suburbs, a major investment you'd made after deciding you wanted to live your life the way you wanted to, so you knew that if you were going to do it, you'd do it right and you'd give it your all— from the very first jam jar you picked up to the last spoonful of a sample you'd handed a customer.

by 7am, your stall is already set up; a red gingham cloth draped across a table, jars containing all sorts of fruit preserves and buttery spreads are stacked in intricate pyramids, handwritten paper labels and price tags curling at the edges, and sunlight catches the jam in their containers like jewels. its a ritual now— a quiet worship for the little peace you get to claim as yours.

you dust your hands off on your apron, a small sigh of content leaving your lips. you can hear the hum of customers trailing in and their voices as they speak to the vendors. the market is slowly waking, and with it, your favourite part of the week commences.

you straighten your stock one last time, straightening labels and fiddling with the jar of sample spoons, and then there's that familiar thump of a crate against a table.

bucky barnes, the town baker, has arrived. he doesnt say good morning. he rarely does. he just shoulders his way through the growing crowd, lugging one crate after the other from his truck towards his stall. the crates clatter onto the table, fresh bread leaving a trail of steam in the air— rosemary sourdough, pumpernickel, olive loaf, sun-dried tomato focaccia, and so much more. the smell is intoxicating, warm and homey enough to make any stranger stop in their tracks; and that includes you.

every movement he makes is precise and a little intimidating. his sharp movements shake the tent, one that matches yours. you should be used to it by now— and you are— but it never fails to make your chest flutter a little bit.

"morning, bucky." you chirp anyway, hands folding behind your back with a casual smile. "smells extra good today. what is that? rosemary?"

bucky pauses what he's doing. he drops the crate with a thud and leans back up with a small huff, his hands resting firmly on his hips. he gives you a quick once over, eyes glazing over you like you're the first real person he's seen all day. his tongue swipes over his bottom lip, a hand coming up to rub at the stubble on his jaw before he looks away and continues his work.

"it is." he grunts as leans down to grab a loaf or two from a crate, back turned like the conversation is finished; but knowing you, it never is.

you pretend you don't notice how his gaze lingered longer than necessary. you're used to this game with him by now; him looking, then not looking. him almost saying something, then shutting his mouth.

you lean against your table, a toothy grin settling onto your face before you can stop it. "might have to snag a loaf if you aren't sold out by the end of the day."

he glances at you over his shoulder— just barely— before turning back to his odd arrangement of breads. "you say that every week, sunshine."

sunshine. that heart melting nickname that should not do to you what it does. at first it had been a tease— a jab at your relentlessly bright attitude— but over the years, it had sunk its teeth into your weekly routine, and you weren't going to jeopardise this one small, sacred pleasure by mentioning it now.

"well, maybe i mean it this time." you shrug, fiddling with a pen just to give your hands something to do, otherwise you'd probably stare holes into his back. "i mean... i told you that rosemary was my favourite herb last week, so either it's just a coincidence that you show up with three rosemary sourdough loafs this week or you actually pay attention to me."

it's an accusation disguised as a harmless joke, but the way he stiffens mid-arrangement tells you exactly how guilty he is.

"you've been inhaling too much of those fruit fumes." he mutters, his his tone is dry enough to rival a desert. he's trying hide the false amusement in his words, but you can read him like a book.

you grin, "uh-huh. sure... that’s what it is."

"whatever." he murmurs. his eyes float somewhere over your shoulder, nodding just slightly. "you got company."

you turn, and sure enough, there's a pair of older women ogling your stall, all bright smiles and embroidered tote bags slung over their shoulders, brimming with the energy of two people who definitely plan to chat up a storm— your type of people.

you put on your biggest smile, standing straight and tall. "good morning ladies! how can i—"

"oh, just look at these, margaret." the taller one cuts in, eyes going wide at the table lined in copious amounts of spreads. "aren't they gorgeous?"

the other— margaret— leans in close to the display, squinting to read a label. "ooo, homemade? my goodness, you must have a gift."

your chest warms. you never get sick of hearing that. "thank you! everything is made fresh every week with produce sourced from local farmers and a few of the vendors at this market. if you'd like to try a sample, i'd be happy to—"

"let's get a marmalade set, darla. this one has lime, grapefruit, and kumquats. my, i dont think i've ever had kumquat marmalade before." margaret says, "could i sample that?"

"of course!" you quickly nod, reaching over to grab a sampling spoon. you dip it into the kumquat marmalade and hand it over to margaret.

"ooo, pepper jam? i dont think i've ever tried that before." darla marvels, handing the jar towards you with a grin. "i'll throw this one in there as well, sweetheart. ooo, and this garlic butter! i love butter and i love garlic, so this will be wonderful."

margaret licks the sample spoon. "and this kumquat marmalade is amazing. i might have to get two jars of that!"

"let's get three!"

it's pure and utter chaos— a familiar moment full of talking and sampling and customers debating on which flavour they want to take home— and you don't even have to glance over to know that bucky is watching it all happen.

you can feel it in the way he goes quiet, in the pauses between the sound of bread being moved and the rustle of paper bags. he always pretends he isn't paying attention, but you've learned the rhythm of him— the way he slows down when someone stops at your stall, the way he speeds up when the guy in the next stall over selling fresh produce is flirting with you, the way he stiffens whenever the nickname 'sweetheart' is sent your way.

so you keep smiling and chatting and handing out samples like party favours, a smile plastered on your face like you're not acutely aware of the fact that bucky's zeroing in on every single word you say and every little movement you make.

by the time margaret and darla come to a conclusion, your trash can is stuffed full of used sampling spoons and a good chunk of each sampler jar is gone.

"i think..." darla pauses with pursed lips, squinting at the jars like she's negotiating world peace. "we'll take all of these."

the ladies place a handful of items in front of you, and you instantly perk up like you'd just won the lottery.

you nod, "of course! so the marmalade set, the kumquat marmalades, the pepper jam, and the garlic butter all together will be $60. will that be cash or card?"

"card please dear."

you pause mid reach for your card reader, only to find that it's not in its usual spot on the table. you pay your apron pockets, but all you can feel is a pen, some spare change, and a candy wrapper.

"oh shoot." you blink. "i think i left my card machine in the car."

the ladies blink at you, surprised, while you try to scramble for a solution. leaving "i'm... i can run and grab it really quick, but—"

bucky's low, dry voice cuts through your sentence.

"i'll take care of them." he says as he steps out from behind his stall, making his way to the divide that separates the two of you. "you go and get your reader."

"you sure?" you ask, hesitant.

you'd never asked him to look after your stall or your customers— because frankly, this has never happened to you before— and asking something like this of him would be bold... risky... slightly terrifying.

his eyes flick up at you, sharp and unamused. he gestures with his head for you to leave, "yes. go before the ladies' butter melts."

but of course, as usual, the baker never lets you down.

"thanks bucky. i owe you." you can't help the grin that tugs at your lips as your pull your apron off, already halfway out of your stall. "i'll be two seconds, ladies! try not to eat anymore samples!"

you turn on your heel and dash towards the parking lot where your beloved card reader sits. bucky and the women watch as you dart off, a blur of sunshine weaving through the early morning crowds.

"that one's a real keeper. its like speaking to sunshine in a human body." darla says with a light laugh as she turns back to bucky. "you must be real proud."

bucky raises his brows, the smallest hint of a smile on his lips. "it's hard not to be."

"what a beautiful pair. you two are so sweet together." margaret swoons, "honestly, the way you two look at each other— it's something out of a movie."

the women practically vibrate with excitement, fully convinced the two of you are dating, and he shifts from one foot to the other, jaw ticking slightly. bucky— the infuriatingly grumpy baker— does absolutely nothing to correct them. he just stands there, arms crossed, expression perpetually gruff.

because he loves it. he loves watching you smile so big when customers compliment you. he loves when customers gush about you to him. he loves when they assume that he's yours. every time someone treats you like you two belong together because of the perfect pairing of jam and bread, his heart swells.

and although he never actually claims that he's yours, he never ever denies it whenever someone brings it up.

darla presses a hand to her chest, "so bright and so sweet. just being around that kind of presence makes you feel... lighter."

"mhm." bucky's jaw clenches when he catches sight of you wandering your way back towards them, eyes softening almost imperceptibly. "spending a lot of time around that one'll do that to you."

margaret and darla follow his gaze, watching the way it locks onto you— how he tracks every small move you make like looking at anything else just isn't an option for him.

"he's gone." darla whispers to margaret with utter delight.

"oh, stop it, you're making me emotional." margaret swats her hand at bucky like they're old friends, her eyes tearing up. "you two are perfect. don't you dare let that one go."

bucky barely has to think of a reply. it's one that feels natural and complete, like it's been sitting on his tongue for years just waiting for someone to tell him; "wasn't plannin' on it."

the three of them watch as you make your way back, footsteps eager against the gravel.

"got it!" you announce triumphantly as you shake the card reader around in the air like a trophy. you slide back into the stall with a breathless sigh, glancing between the women and bucky. "he didn't say anything bad about me, did he?"

darla shakes her head, "trust me, darling, that man thinks the world of you."

"is that so?" you tease, glancing towards bucky.

bucky rolls his eyes, a little too fast and a little too defensive, he grumbles something low under his breath that nobody can quite make out as he turns to tend to a customer at his own stall. the women share a knowing look and you pretend not to notice that faint pink blush that coats the tips of his ears.

ever the professional, you start up the card reader and bag their purchases. while you work, you lean in just a touch and whisper to the ladies in a conspiratorial tone—

"if you want something to go with those spreads, he sells any type of bread you can think of. his bread is really good, but don't tell him i said that."

you dont even have to look over to know that bucky heard you, because he always hears you. and right on cue, there’s a soft scoff behind you. he acts annoyed, but you see it in the reflection of a mason jar— the tiniest, stupidest, most hopeless smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

the day goes by before your eyes, and soon enough it’s the late afternoon. the sun is on its way out, low and golden and hazy, and you can sense the market energy draining out of both you and all of the other vendors.

your sample jars are half empty, which is usually a good sign, and about three quarters of your products have been sold. you make a mental note to visit the donation centre later. whatever doesn’t sell always ends up there— it’s become a tradition for many of the vendors at the market.

across the small gap between your stalls, bucky stands with his back turned towards his stock. you notice how empty it is— almost completely picked apart besides for a few loaves of the more sophisticated breads. you’ve sold a lot; he’s sold more. its a good day for the both of you, and now that you’re getting hungry, you decide to start packing up.

and just as always, the noise of glass jars clinking together catches bucky’s attention. he never seems to ignore the sound that signals your inevitable departure.

“leavin’ so soon?” he asks, not looking at you. he continues wiping bread crumbs off his table, glancing up only when you reply.

you nod as you stuff your products into a box. “if i don’t eat soon, i might pass out, and then you’d feel obligated to resuscitate me.”

he huffs out a laugh— a small, barely audible laugh— and shakes his head. “don’t be dramatic. if you needed something, you coulda just asked.”

you scoff, “what, and eat up all of your stock? you’d have nothing to sell and i’d never hear the end of it.”

bucky raises his brows like you’ve just said nonsense. “you think i’d complain about someone eatin’ bread i already made?”

“yes.” you answer almost immediately.

his mouth falls open like he’s about to say something, but then, just as quick, he snaps it shut. “whatever.” he grumbles, picking up a crate like it’d personally offended him.

you laugh to yourself as you wipe your hands on your apron. you’re about to turn around when bucky’s voice cuts through the rough crunch of cardboard and box buffer.

“actually, i was wondering if—“

and just as bucky had started speaking and you’d barely had enough time to face him, a customer strolls up to his stall like it’s still noon. both of you turn to face a woman with a floral dress and a wide brimmed hat. the universe has such great timing.

“excuse me! hi, sorry.” she calls with a smile, “i hope i’m not too late. you’re still open, right?”

bucky’s mouth shuts so fast that you can hear the click of his teeth. disappointment flickers through his eyes before he kills it, a customer-ready expression replacing it. he clears his throat, the muscle working around a lump as he straightens his back and wipes his hands together.

“lucky. i was just about to close up shop.” bucky says, voice flat but forced into something vaguely polite. “what can i getcha?”

"well, i was speaking to a couple of ladies just before and they mentioned that you had some rosemary sourdough." the lady says, hands clasped together like she's waiting for a miracle.

bucky does the theatrical act of pretending to look around his stall for the loaf, even leaning to the left a little and lifting a box on his right like maybe an entire loaf of sourdough might appear out of thin air, but you both know that there’s nothing left.

"seems like i’ve sold out." his voice is friendly enough, but you can hear the disappointment in it— disappointment that has nothing to do with bread. "but i've got this sourdough with caramelised onions and another with olives and sun dried tomatoes. how do those sound?"

the lady’s eyes widen like she’s just been offered the key to the fountain of eternal youth. "ooo, that onion one sounds great! i think i'll take a loaf of that.“

“great choice.” bucky grabs the last caramelised onion loaf and wraps it up, handing it to the lady with practiced ease.

even after paying, the lady stays to talk bucky’s ear off. she goes on about how her in-laws are visiting for the weekend and they’re both bread fanatics and blah blah blah. bucky’s customer service attitude is in full effect, but every time her head is turned, you catch little glimpses of him trying to get back to you, eyes flicking your way like he’s trying to keep your attention in the midst of your packing up.

by the time the lady pays and walks away with the loaf tucked under her arm and bucky turns back to you, you’re already tugging your bag over your shoulder and hauling your leftover stock onto the table in two big boxes. you’re done, packed and ready to head back into town for another week of gruelling responsibility.

it’s only then that you realise that the moment you had briefly shared was gone. you force out a breath and give him a small smile— gentle, polite, safe.

“i’m heading off. long drive ahead of me.” you gesture to the parking lot with a tight lipped smile. “i’ll see you next week, barnes.”

you start to turn— slow, almost hesitant— waiting for either a hand on your shoulder or for nothing at all. after a few steps, you accept defeat. bucky isn’t going to call you. you’re just friends; if you can even call yourself that.

“wait.”

bucky calls. it’s not dramatic or overwhelming. its a quiet step forwards and a slip of the tongue, the kind that someone makes when they’d been holding something back for too long, and you stop and turn like you’d been waiting for it.

he clears his throat once and holds something out for you. "here."

in his hand sits a brown paper bag, a twine bow wrapped around it with a small tag hidden underneath the knot, ‘rosemary sourdough’ scribbled in messy handwriting that that you recognise as his. he must’ve written it in a rush, maybe even before the market started, maybe even with you in mind.

you pauses for a moment, blinking like your mind needs to catch up to what he’s offering you. you take it with care, your fingers brushing his— entirely accidental but enough to make your pulse spike. the scent of rosemary filling your nose.

"i thought you sold out of the rosemary sourdough." you murmur as you stare down at the packaged loaf, sounding a little breathless.

bucky shrugs a shoulder, gaze dropping to the ground for a second before returning to you. "i did.” he says simply. “i saved this one for you. figured you might want it.”

the words linger as the paper crinkles in your hands. you’re sure your heart might explode at any moment, so instead of bursting out into tears like you feel like you might do, you give him a smile.

“thank you, bucky. this is really nice.”

for a split second, it looks like he doesn’t know what to do with it. he looks like he didn’t expect a smile or gratitude or the way you’re looking at him now. his jaw clenches once, throat bobbing like he’s fighting the urge to look away— but he doesn’t.

“d’you have dinner plans?” he rushes out in a single breath, like if he didn’t say it fast enough he wouldn’t have said it at all.

“dinner?” you blink, “i mean… i have leftovers that need to be eaten by tonight or they’re getting thrown out… but otherwise, no, i don’t. why?”

“you said earlier that you were hungry, so i figured that we could… y’know…” bucky trails off, awkwardly gesturing between the two of you in the most endearing way you’ve ever witnessed. “maybe we could fix that.”

you stare at him for a moment, the gears turning in your brain. you give him a cheeky smile. “what are you asking me, bucky?”

he rolls his eyes, but there’s no real bite to it. he knows that you know what he’s asking, and he knows that you’re teasing him and he can’t do a damn thing about it. that familiar grumpy edge in his face melts away and he gives you a deep breathy laugh.

“you know what i’m asking.” he says, and you can’t ignore the way you hear his voice waver just slightly. "you also said you owe me, so how about i take you up on that offer and take you out tonight? my treat."

oh my god, you want to jump his bones right now.

you grin big enough to make your face hurt. "it sounds like you've been looking for an excuse to ask me out, bucky. you could’ve done it forever ago.”

“i couldve—“ he says quietly. “but the last thing i wanted to do was rush you, sunshine.”

your heart stutters embarrassingly loud in your chest. you dont hesitate, nor do you play coy. you dont have to anymore now that you know he’s just as enamoured with you as you are with him.

you nod. “i’d love to have dinner with you, bucky.”

and for a moment, he just stands there— like maybe his brain has to catch up to what you’ve just said, like maybe he didn’t hear you quite right— but the way you’re standing in front of him, practically beaming, settles warmly in his chest.

“okay.” he clears his throat, trying to play cool but he fails spectacularly. “good. uh… that’s good.”

and then, because playing cool isn’t working;

“‘m starving too, so…” he adds with a nonchalant shrug.

you don’t laugh, but your eager smile gives you away. god, he’s so big and gruff and hopeless and idiotic that it just makes you wanna throw yourself at him.

and bucky notices— because he always does— his eyes flickering down to your lips for a fraction of a second before he clears his throat and forces himself to look somewhere else. he grabs a crate even though it’s empty like he needs to do something with his hands before he says something he regrets.

“let me just—“ he gestures vaguely at the table still scattered with his things, “finish up here.”

“i’ll help.” you’re already reaching for a crate, placing his display items into them. “that way we can get to dinner earlier.”

you finish packing together in a rhythm you’ve never experienced before. your hand brushes his every so often and his shoulder brushed yours whenever he passes you, both of you acting like it’s an accident when you know damn well that it isn’t.

as the sun sets and the two of you help each other pack your stalls into your cars, you cant help but smile. weekends have always been your favourite, and now you finally know why.

Somehow, and for reasons that were almost certainly not your fault, your day-off mimosa had turned into three cosmopolitans (if you could call vodka with a whisper of whatever pink mix you had in your pantry a cosmo) and two shots of whiskey. You think they were roughly shot-sized. Close enough, at least.

You tipped the bottle back again, amber liquor sloshing into your mouth, and you grimaced as you swallowed. It wasn't yours. It was Dylan's—gag—, but you weren't about to let perfectly good liquor go to waste. Not when you could put it to use, blunting the sharp edges of your broken heart.

Six months, including a whole holiday season, you'd sunk into that capricious fucker, and he'd dumped you via text en route to the Valentine's Day dinner you'd planned.

You took another swig of whiskey, glaring at the offending device on your coffee table. Full of nothing but fuck boys and fuck heads and fucking limp-dick bitch boys—and him.

The bottle hit the table with a clatter as you set it down. Nope nope noooope. You weren't supposed to think about him, especially not after a few drinks. You'd built a firewall between that year, those memories, and yourself.

Do not pass go. Do not think about B—

You snatched up the bottle again, poured the lukewarm dregs of it into your mouth. Letting the liquor burn away the forbidden thoughts. Fuck, you needed an omelette and a nap.

And therapy, probably.

Omelette first.

You pushed to your feet and the room twisted, your body floaty and a little numb as you picked across your apartment to the kitchen. Reached for the pan, missed, decided on popcorn instead. Grabbed the bottle of strawberry vodka still in your freezer from Galentine's while the kernels popped. Checked the oven clock, 10:44 a.m., and you pretended you hadn't seen it.

Popcorn bowl in hand, you landed safely on the couch once again. The strawberry vodka went down too easily, viscous and syrupy on your tongue.

A memory slipped free, lubricated by the liquor. A date night at his apartment in Upper Manhattan. Billie Holiday playing on the record player in the corner. He cooked for you, despite still relearning how, and spun you around the kitchen like the lead in those black-and-white films he made you watch. For dessert, you'd had strawberries, whipped cream, and his mouth between your legs on the kitchen counter.

The liquor turned bitter on your tongue, but you still drank it.

You didn't remember picking up your phone, but the LED screen was bright in the dark hole of your apartment, thumb scrolling through your contact list.

Shawn? No.

Jake? Married now.

Harry? Hell no.

Dylan? Too soon.

Bucky? Your thumb hovered over his contact. His picture was still the selfie he'd taken of the two of you snuggled up in your bed, your hair half-covering his face, but his grin was palpable as he gazed down at you. It still sent your heartbeat galloping away every time you saw it, but you couldn't bring yourself to change it.

You'd met not long after the Blip, when the world was trying to reorient itself after half the population suddenly returned. You and Bucky had created a safe-haven of sorts, a solid place to land while you both healed.

It had been almost three years since he'd broken things off without warning. All but ghosting you not long after the night with the strawberries. Just days after that photo was taken.

It was never official, you reminded yourself. Just a situationship. A months-long situationship in which you felt more for him than anyone else you'd ever been with combined—but a situationship nonetheless.

The liquor had hold of you now, thick and pounding through your bloodstream, phone screen pulsing, then splitting as your eyes began to cross. Double vision, like the relationship you thought you'd had with him, and the reality of it.

Your thumb was moving before your brain could catch up, and his voice suddenly filled your apartment. Gruff and impersonal, but it still made your heart flutter.

“You’ve reached Bucky Barnes. If it's important, leave a message. If not…don't.”

Beeeeeeep.

—

Bucky’s fist connected with the punching bag, the thwack echoing loudly through the empty gym. He’d lost track of time in the concrete, windowless space, and that's exactly how he liked it. Buoyed by the quiet, the shelter from reality.

Therapy this morning had gone poorly. His therapist wanted to talk about his relationships, his emotional connections that went beyond obligation, and Bucky hadn't been able to provide a satisfactory answer, apparently. Mostly because he refused to talk about you.

Thwack. The energy from the hit reverberated up his metal arm, buzzing across his shoulders and down his spine.

He never let himself think about you, never let himself wonder if he'd made the right decision, never let himself imagine what things would be like if he had stayed. If he had been honest with you.

Thwack.

It didn't matter, anyway. He was certain you'd moved on, had seen the photos of that weasel on your social media pages. And he genuinely hoped you were happy with him, even if you were lightyears out of his league.

Thwack.

That's all Bucky ever wanted—for you to be happy and safe.

It's the reason why he did what he did, even though it felt like taking a lamb out into the yard and shooting it at the time.

Thwack, thwack, thwack—SNAP.

The chain holding the bag snapped, sending the bag flying across the space and slamming into a rack of dumbbells with a deafening crash.

Bucky shook out his fist. That was probably enough exercise for today.

He took a few gulps of water from the bottle and gathered his things. Pulled out his phone to check the time.

1 missed call from DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT.

1 new voice message from DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT.

He froze, staring down at his phone screen. You hadn't called him since the week after the breakup, when you'd left him a message to tell him you'd left some of his things outside his apartment. Nearly three years ago.

His thumb hovered over the message. It could be nothing, he told himself. Or, you might be in trouble.

“Fuck it," he muttered to himself, and hit play.

“Heeey, Bucky, it’s—hyuk—meee.” God, you sounded drunk. “I, umm, just wanted to see how you were d-doing. Maybe we could—hyuk—hooks up, er, no—hang out sometime?” you trailed off, faux-cheeriness slipping away. He could practically hear the sadness in your voice, and it made his chest ache. “Actually, f-forget I said anything—I’m just, fuck, ignore me. Sorry, I—I hope you're doing good, B.”

The call ended with an abrupt click.

Oh, you poor thing.

Wasted and crying at 11 a.m. on a Tuesday. So very unlike you, which meant something must have gone very wrong.

He showered quickly, racing the voices in his head telling him this was a mistake, and set off in the direction of your apartment before he could talk himself out of it.

You answered the door after about a dozen increasingly frantic knocks. He'd been pulling his phone out to call you when he heard the dead bolt slide into the wood.

It took you a second to adjust to the bright light of the hallway, lashes fluttering over red-rimmed eyes. You were still dressed in your pajamas, a tiny tank top, and shorts with delicate scalloped edges. Even in this state, you were more beautiful than the rose-colored lens of his memory.

With some effort, he glued his eyes to your face as you finally processed who was standing in front of you.

“Your hair is longer," you said finally, the words a little gooey, syllables sticking to the roof of your mouth.

God, he'd missed you so much. “It is," he replied, and you said nothing, doe-eyed and blinking. "Not a fan?” he pressed, running his fingers through it to smooth it back, still damp from his hurried shower.

He could practically see the gears turning in your head. You opened your mouth, closed it, then sighed. “Bucky, what’re you doin’ here?"

“You called," he shrugged. Trying to play it cool, like his insides weren't a tangled mess of worry.

You looked exhausted, bleary-eyed, and unsteady on your feet. He wanted to scoop you up and carry you to your bed right then and there. He maybe would have if he thought you wouldn't kick and bite like a feral cat. No one was safe when you were a little bit drunk.

“Sounded like you could use some company," he continued.

“Didn't think that you'd pick up. I’m f-fine," you lied, picking at the chipping paint on the door.

“Can I come in anyway?"

You contemplated this, gaze sweeping over him, and he resisted the urge to puff up his chest.

“Don't you have like, hero shit to do?"

“Nah, it's quiet today," he lied. The Thunderbolts were actually scattered across the city right that moment, gathering intel. But they could handle it. Right now, the only person he was concerned about saving was you, even if it was just from a nasty hangover.

He saw the moment you relented flicker across your eyes, and you turned your back on him, disappearing into the cave of your apartment. He followed closely behind, closing and locking the door behind him.

It was unusually dark in there, the only light coming from the edges of the curtains and the glowing TV. You were watching some 90’s sitcom he vaguely recognized, and returned to your nest on the couch, drawing the blanket around your body.

The apartment was mostly how he remembered it, with some new art and a larger bookcase. It was definitely messier, though, with empty cups and bowls on the coffee table, dishes piled up in the sink, and a small mountain of laundry in your reading chair by the window.

“You're judging me," you accused, that drunken lilt tripping over the g’s.

“I am not." And he wasn’t, though he could tell you were a little embarrassed, even when thoroughly intoxicated. "I'm the last person to be dispensing judgment.”

“Please, your place was always immaculate." You rolled your eyes and reached for a bottle of something pink on the coffee table.

“Yeah, because I knew you were going to be there." He snatched it out of your hand before you could neck it.

“Hey—excuse you," you bit, trying to grab at it.

He held it high, suppressing a smile while he read the label. “Frisky Vodka?" he raised an eyebrow. “Salacious Strawberry—" he took a few steps towards the kitchen as you jumped to your feet, lunging at him, clumsy and slow from the alcohol.

“Bucky! Stop it—"

“—serve alongside a summer salad, vanilla cake, or at the beach with a handsome lifeguard—”

“Can you not—"

“140 proof!" he gasped, pausing by the sink. “Doll, this will strip paint."

“I swear to fuck—" You threw yourself at him, grabby hands batting at his chest and shoulders. You always were a spirited little thing.

He adored you so much it made his ribs ache.

Bucky tsked. “Language." He tipped the bottle over and poured it into the sink.

“Who the hell do you think you are barging in here—"

“You let me in," he countered, washing the liquor down the sink. The smell alone made his teeth ache. "You called me, sweetheart. You knew how this was going to go. I’m not one of the little party boys in your phone.”

You sucked your teeth, glaring daggers at him. You knew he was right. If you wanted a random hook-up or meaningless attention, you would have called any of the other drooling dogs on your phone. The thought alone made his stomach twist, his vision fill with blood. But instead, you'd called him.

There was a reason, whether or not you'd even admitted it to yourself.

“So, are you going to let me take care of you, or are you going to keep being a brat?"

“I hate you.”

“You can hate me while walking. Go take a shower, and I'll make you something real to eat.” Yes, he'd noticed the half-eaten bowl of popcorn. You’d need a lot more than that to soak up the strawberry-flavored lighter fluid you were drinking.

“You can't tell me what to do in my own apartment!"

“I believe I just did." He started collecting things to make brunch, surprising even himself with how well he remembered the layout of your kitchen.

Your eyes narrowed, arms crossed over your stomach. “You're different."

He paused his rummaging through your alarmingly empty refrigerator. “Good different?" he asked, glancing at you over his shoulder.

“I haven't decided."

“Well, I always do my best thinkin’ in the shower. So get to it." He retrieved the carton of eggs at the very back, and by the time he straightened up, you'd stalked down the hallway. A door slammed shut a moment later.

Twenty minutes later, he plated a cheesy omelette and some tater tots—they were basically hashbrowns, right? Along with a few orange slices and the largest bottle he could find, filled with ice water. He’d also taken the liberty of starting a load of dishes and cleaning out the old food from your fridge.

He'd been about to run the trash when you came padding down the hall, dressed in a new set of pajamas, your hair tied up in a towel. The smell of your body wash caught him across the chin like a sucker punch, and he had to grip the edge of the counter so he didn't fall to the ground and start panting.

He was here to take care of you, nothing else.

You looked decidedly less hostile as you sat on one of the stools, even offering him a timid, melty smile when you took in the cleaner kitchen and steaming food. “Thanks, B," you mumbled while you tried to stab a tater tot. You missed, trying twice more before giving up and grabbing it with your fingers, popping it into your mouth.

Bucky didn't trust himself to speak around the heart-sized lump in his throat, so he nodded and nudged the water towards you.

“I promise I'm not an alcoholic," you said, and he snorted a laugh. “It's just been…" You trailed off, pushing eggs around your plate.

Bucky leaned on his elbows across from you, getting down to your eye level. “You don't have to explain anythin’ to me. Not ever," he said, and you nodded, swallowing hard. “Eat up."

But before he could turn back to the dishes, you spoke up again, all in a slurring rush. “He ghosted me on Valentine's Day. Used the reservation I made to take another girl. I should have known he just wanted to fuck me, he was always so weird and flakey and god—it was so fucking stupid. I just never thought he'd do something that shitty, y’know?"

Bucky contemplated this, untangling your scrambled words. “You dumped him?"

You nodded, unable to meet his eyes.

“You want me to kill him?"

The corner of your mouth tilted up a tiny bit.

“I've got the clearance. I can make it look like an accident—”

“No, no," you giggled, shaking your head. "No murder.”

“That's what the clearance is for. It's not technically murder," he corrected, unable to stop himself from smiling back at you.

“No assassinations, then." You pronounced the word with about a dozen extra s’s, and he felt like he might keel over if his heart didn't return to a normal rhythm soon.

“Fine, no assassinations," he said. "I’m sorry he treated you like that. You aren't stupid, and it wasn't your fault. You don't deserve to be left hanging.”

Your smile faltered, gaze dropping back down to your plate. “And yet, it keeps happening,“ you muttered.

He realized his mistake, then. “Doll—"

“I know, Bucky, I know," you cut him off, waving your fork in the air. “You’ve got more important shit to do, like saving the world from purple aliens and, like, Russians or something. It's fine. We don't have to talk about it."

It felt like you stabbed the fork between his ribs, twisting the tines through the fragile skin of his lungs.

“Just—just forget it. It's fine. Thank you for breakfast.” You pushed the plate away, jumped to your feet too fast. Your balance failed, legs moving too slowly to catch you, but luckily, Bucky was quicker, and he caught you around the middle before you cracked your head on the counter.

“Easy now, I gotcha’." He shifted you back onto your feet, grip tight around your body to ensure you didn't fall again. You were trembling and hot to the touch, hands clammy against his arms. Your hair towel had fallen off, cold strands tumbling over your shoulders. You seemed very pale all of a sudden. " Let me get you into bed, yeah? C’mere, honey—”

“No—" you tried to protest, but he was already scooping you beneath your knees, lifting you carefully into a bridal hold. Trying his very best not to jostle or move you too quickly.

“You look like death warmed over, doll. Pipe down and let me help you." He started moving towards your bedroom, the path so familiar he could chart it with his eyes closed.

You swatted weakly at his chest, but didn't protest, head lolling against his shoulder. You were so limp in his arms, so trusting, and he was deeply grateful you'd had the foresight to call him, and not one of those other dipshits who might have taken advantage of you. It healed something in him to know how much you trusted him, even after everything he'd done. Maybe he really wasn't the monster he saw in the mirror.

“Just wanted to fuck you," you mumbled into the hollow of his throat, lips brushing his skin.

He barely stifled a laugh at your bluntness. “Did you?" he asked, stepping over a pile of clothes and into your bedroom. “That's why you called, huh?"

You nodded. “But you're being mean." Your voice was barely above a whisper, fading as you drifted closer to sleep.

“I know, doll," he hummed, unable to resist placing a kiss on the furrow between your brows. You wouldn't remember it anyway; he was being selfish. “And you can curse me out all you like tomorrow."

“Bet your ass I will…”

“Oh, I'm counting on it." But his words hung empty in the air. By the time he got to your bedside, you were fast asleep, tiny snores tickling the hair around his throat. Careful not to wake you, he tucked you beneath the covers, arranged your hair so it wouldn't soak your pillowcase.

He retrieved a wastebasket, your water, and a few Advil, setting them all within arm's reach on your nightstand. Then he plugged in your phone, turned on all your little ambient lamps around your room to make it cozy, and put your comfort show back on, volume all the way down.

Satisfied that you were settled and safe, he debated whether he should stay. What if you woke up and needed him? What if you really were ill?

He decided to stay just a little longer, to finish cleaning up the kitchen and take the trash. That's the last thing anyone wants to do when they're hungover.

But when that was done, he decided to tidy up the living room, just a little bit. Throw away the old flowers and dust the shelves, straighten your desk, and put any stray items where they belong.

But then he might as well fold the pile of laundry. It was taking over your favorite chair after all, and you'd probably want to sit there later. So he folded your laundry, pretending not see the more delicate items in the pile that made his blood pressure rise, or the old t-shirt he'd been missing, the fabric significantly more worn than the last time he saw it.

And then the chair was bare, so he put a blanket over it and a favorite stuffed animal. Sure, it just so happened to be a bear he'd won you on Coney Island, but that wasn't the point.

And if you were going to enjoy your reading chair, you'd need a few snacks. Plus, your fridge was mostly condiments and beverages, so you needed groceries, too. He ordered some on Instacart, only needing mild assistance from Yelena, and waited around for the delivery to put them away.

By then, it was nearly six o’clock, so he might as well prep you some dinner.

It occurred to him that he was being a little bit insane, maybe a lot a bit, but he missed you so much, and just wanted to make sure you were okay. He had to know if you were okay.

And being back in your apartment, surrounded by your favorite colors and little trinkets and hobbies, it felt like coming home. A home he hadn't been to in a long, long time. It was like double vision, seeing the place he'd once loved, knowing it didn't really belong to him anymore.

With every hour that passed, the gravity of his mistake grew heavier, harder to ignore. He should never have let you go, should never have thought you'd be better off without him. That was your choice to make, not his, and all he'd done was hurt you both by making it instead.

He’d been a coward, and now he wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to make it right. Not when you were clearly still hurting, still angry with him.

But, he thought with rare optimism while he dumped the pasta into the boiling water, maybe this could be a first step.

—

You woke up to a familiar laugh track and a kick-drum pounding behind your eyelids. Spotting the water on the table, you guzzled it, along with the painkillers sitting beside it—wait, you didn't remember setting that glass there, or the pills, or the wastebasket. And you definitely didn't turn on all of your ambient lights, or... was your hair wet?

Okay, you did remember taking a shower, and eating the best omelette you'd had since—

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Bucky had made the omelette for you. Bucky had been here, in your mess of an apartment. Made you take a shower, eat, and dumped out your booze.

Then, the smell of frying garlic reached your nose, and your stomach gave a fierce growl.

Someone was cooking in your apartment.

Moving slowly to not irritate your head any further, you pulled on a hoodie and exited the dark safety of your bedroom.

You couldn't believe what awaited you.

Apartment? Spotless. Laundry? Folded. Lights? Dimmed. Candles? Lit. Bucky? Dressed in a too-tight t-shirt, chopping zucchini at your kitchen island.

“Thought the garlic might summon you," he said, his voice a low baritone alongside the thunkthunkthunk of the knife that soothed the ache between your eyes. "Hungry?”

“Did you…” You looked around, struggling to comprehend what you were seeing. Bucky had cleaned your entire apartment while you slept and was making you dinner, acting like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like he didn't stomp on your heart and blow you off three years ago with no explanation. “Why did you do all of this?”

He finished chopping and scraped the vegetables into the pan. “You called me," he said, as if that explained anything.

“Yeah, for a hook up, not—" you gestured around the apartment, "—not for you to babysit me.”

“Don't act like a baby then." He turned back around, setting the cutting board on the counter. Those blue eyes were like fucking arrows, piercing straight through the soft parts of you.

“I am not—" you caught yourself. "You didn't have to do this.”

“Obviously." He braced his hands on the counter, his metal arm whirring faintly at the pressure. Fuck, how had he gotten even more buff than before? And you felt personally attacked by his newly long hair. You'd pestered him to grow it back out for months.

“So why did you?"

“How about a ‘thank you’?" He was deflecting.

You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. Too hungover to filter yourself anymore. “Are you ever going to be honest with me?"

The question shattered like glass on the floor between you.

His jaw flexed, gaze lowering to the counter.

You waited for his response, the vegetables undoubtedly burning behind him. Your head was still pounding, stomach gone sour, and your tongue felt like it had a sock wrapped around it.

“Just go, Bucky. You've done enough. “ You turned on your heel to hide in the dark of your room, when he finally spoke.

“I’m sorry."

“What?" You turned back towards him.

“I’m sorry," he repeated, lifting his head to look at you. The hurt in his gaze was unmistakable. A bone-deep pain you'd only witnessed when he talked about losing the one person that meant everything to him. "It was a mistake, I made a mistake, and I—” his metal hand combed through his hair, scrubbed over his face. “I just wanted to help you, to do something for you. I know it doesn't change or erase what I did, but—fuck, I’ve missed you so much, and even just being in your home, around you was so...” he fell silent, letting his confession hang in the air between you.

Maybe you were still a little drunk—okay, definitely still a little drunk—but that look in his eyes was all the confession you ever needed. And deep down, you knew that you called him because you needed someone to take care of you, someone to love you, and Bucky was the only person you trusted to do so without taking more than they gave.

You hadn't called for a hook-up; you called because you missed him. Because you needed him. And he'd come because he missed you, too. He stayed because he needed you too.

With hurried steps, you crossed the apartment. Your arms found their way around his waist, tucking your head under his chin. Immediately, his arms encircled you, holding you tightly against his chest, his nose buried into your hair. The connection between you thrummed to life, sparks jumping every place your skin brushed his. The years fell away like autumn leaves, leaving just the two of you, and the love you both had tried so hard to bury.

“Thank you, B," you murmured.

“Anytime, doll," he hummed, the words resonating in the drum of his chest.

The two of you stayed quiet for a few minutes, unwilling to relinquish the fragile moment, but an acrid smell started to make your nostrils itch.

“Your veggies are burning.”

“Fuck ‘em," he said. “You just want the pasta anyway."

You giggled, nuzzling even closer, the smell of his skin turning your thoughts to static. “Yeah, I do."

His metal hand skimmed up your spine, sliding into the hair at the nape of your neck. The coolness of his touch made you shiver, and he started gently pressing into the knots in your neck, loosening the tension that was like a vice around your skull.

“How's your head?" He asked.

You let your head fall into his palm, unraveling under his touch as your pain melted away. A moan slipped out when he dug into an especially tender spot, and you felt his breath hitch.

“Poor thing," he cooed. “You really did a number on yourself, didn't you?"

“I was stupid," you muttered, petulant.

His fingers tightened in your hair, craning your head back. “You were reckless, not stupid. Stupid would have been calling one of those other losers on your phone."

“Wouldn't have all those losers in my phone if you—”

“I know, I know,“ he pouted, loosening his hold. “Don't have to rub my nose in it."

“James Buchanan Barnes, are you jealous?" You teased, tugging at his pursed lower lip with your thumb.

He nipped at your fingers, his flesh hand wrapping your wrist to immobilize you.

“Maybe I'll call one of them right now, since you seem more interested in being my personal butler than hooking up—"

He pressed his mouth to your captive wrist, a hot, hungry kiss that shot up your arm and through your body, making your toes curl in your slippers. “Hooking up doesn't even begin to cover what I want to do to you," he gruffed, trailing his lips down your forearm while his metal hand fell to your lower back, pressing your body closer to his.

“So what are you waiting for?" you asked, a little breathless.

His lips moved to your throat, feather-soft against your hammering pulse, up towards the shell of your ear. “First, you're going to eat and hydrate. Then we're going to watch a movie, something mushy and romantic, and you're going to fall asleep in my lap,” his voice was slow and sinful, stoking the fire in your belly to an inferno.

You clung to him, head bobbing. Yes, yes, yes.

But he wasn't finished. “And when you wake up in the morning, bright-eyed and clear-headed, I'll seek my penance between those perfect thighs.” He leaned back to look into your eyes. “Sound good?"

You nodded, jaw a little slack. It was like he tipped your head over and all your thoughts came pouring out of your ears. “S-sounds great."

He pecked your lips, which was practically a crime against humanity after winding you up so much. “Now, go sit your butt on the couch. I got frozen pizzas as a backup."

You perked up at that, pout falling away. “Did you get my—"

“Your favorite? Of course I did. Go on and pick your movie." He turned you loose with a pat on the butt, and you scampered off to the living room.

“Hey, B, did you get any wine?—"

“No."

“Fiiiiiiiine.”